Page 139 - And the Mountains Echoed (novel)

“About what?” Collette’s tone was sly, excited. “That he’s with her to get to

you. That it’s you he wants.”
“That is disgusting,” Pari said with a flutter.
“Or maybe he wants you both. Maybe he likes a crowd in bed. In which case,
I might ask you to put in a good word for me.”
“You’re repulsive, Collette.”
Sometimes when Maman and Julien were out, Pari would undress in the

hallway and look at herself in the long mirror. She would find faults with her
body. It was too tall, she would think, too unshapely, too … utilitarian. She had
inherited none of her mother’s bewitching curves. Sometimes she walked like
this, undressed, to her mother’s room and lay on the bed where she knew Maman
and Julien made love. Pari lay there stark-naked with her eyes closed, heart
battering, basking in heedlessness, something like a hum spreading across her
chest, her belly, and lower still.
It ended, of course. They ended, Maman and Julien. Pari was relieved but not
surprised. Men always failed Maman in the end. They forever fell disastrously
short of whatever ideal she held them up to. What began with exuberance and

passion always ended with terse accusations and hateful words, with rage and
weeping fits and the flinging of cooking utensils and collapse. High drama.
Maman was incapable of either starting or ending a relationship without excess.
Then the predictable period when Maman would find a sudden taste for
solitude. She would stay in bed, wearing an old winter coat over her pajamas, a
weary, doleful, unsmiling presence in the apartment. Pari knew to leave her
alone. Her attempts at consoling and companionship were not welcome. It lasted
weeks, the sullen mood. With Julien, it went on considerably longer.
“Ah, merde!” Maman says now.

She is sitting up in bed, still in the hospital gown. Dr. Delaunay has given
Pari the discharge papers, and the nurse is unhooking the intravenous from
Maman’s arm.
“What is it?”
“I just remembered. I have an interview in a couple of days.”

“An interview?”
“A feature for a poetry magazine.”
“That’s fantastic, Maman.”
“They’re accompanying the piece with a photo.” She points to the sutures on
her forehead.

“I’m sure you’ll find some elegant way to hide it,” Pari says.