The Collected Stories of Deborah Eisenberg: Stories by Eisenberg Deborah

Author:Eisenberg, Deborah [Eisenberg, Deborah]
Language: eng
Format: mobi
Publisher: Picador
Published: 2010-08-30T16:00:00+00:00

Márta had met Carl some weeks earlier at a party she’d attended with István and Judit. István was being suspiciously attentive and delightful; many attractive women were present. István loved parties. He rose to the occasion of being admired, and his paintings were beginning to sell.

Márta had been talking to István when a woman of fifty or so approached. She wore large pieces of ocher-smeared abalone on a thong around her neck and was known to collect paintings. “I don’t believe we’ve met,” she said to Márta in a voice like an electric drill, and turned her back.

Her adornments, she was explaining to István, had once served as the currency of some now-impoverished coastal tribe. Márta began to drift away. István plucked at her sleeve, smiling merrily. She looked at him. He shrugged, and turned back to the woman.

In the hot, lively room, Carl was conspicuous for his satiny blond melancholy. Márta placed herself on the arm of a sofa not far from him and gazed out the window at the brooding houses across the street.

Carl drifted next to her and spoke easily, as though they shared some delicate and slightly sorrowful information. Was István watching? If so, certainly he would be jealous. Márta concentrated on sparkling empathetically up at Carl, but then understood that Carl was expecting her to respond to something. To what? she wondered. She made a modestly self-disparaging gesture. It served; Carl began to talk again.

He was truly handsome, she realized. Her sparkle lapsed as she stared. Carl lowered his eyes; his smile was clearly involuntary.

“Do you know many people here?” Márta asked stubbornly through her blush. Over Carl’s shoulder, she saw István talking to a girl. The girl was as fragile and responsive-looking as a fawn. She had lovely, trustful eyes, and István was talking to her with the earnest concern that Márta recognized as the hallmark of his most gluttonous moments. Poison squirted into her veins. “Excuse me,” she said to Carl. “I have a simply splitting migraine.”

Carl brought her to her flat. She was pale and silent. She had let István treat her too badly for too long; he expected her to put up with anything. And tonight, as she had peeked back into the party on her way out with Carl, István had glanced at her with cold dismissal.

Carl settled her on the sofa. He wrapped a blanket around her feet, found aspirin and a glass of water, and stood back uncomfortably. How cramped and shabby the flat looked! In Carl’s impeccable Occidental presence Márta saw it clearly. When she looked up at Carl he brushed away the tiny tears that hung ornamentally from her lashes. “You must rest,” he said.

Could she have bored him? “No, no,” she complained. “Sit and talk to me.” And he settled gingerly in a straight-backed chair. She hoped Judit would come in.

But by the time Judit returned, Márta was alone, still curled up on the sofa with the blanket around her feet, reading a novel to nurse a frail feeling of well-being.

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