Invisible Boy by Cornelia Read Page A

hair had the sheen of french-polished mahogany, that her skin was
     heavy cream with a hint of coffee and her dark eyes compelling as a doe’s, that she possessed a heroic brow, a lush mouth,
     cheekbones to melt your heart—but it’s all beside the point.
    Here’s what people remember about Astrid: She was the single most exquisite human being they’d ever seen.
    I don’t mean merely beautiful, I mean that she was quite literally
stunning
, and that I’d watched strangers go pale and stumble in the street on catching sight of her.
    It was my friend’s tragedy that she was also brilliant.
    Had she been either plain or stupid, she might have had a chance of being happy.
    Astrid and spouse stood up as we reached their table. She was wearing a diamond-quilted black velvet jacket with a big hood.
     Very Chanel.
    She gave me a hug and said, “
Che bella
, Madeline, I thought you’d
never
fucking get here.”
    We shook hands all around and took our seats. The freshly minted husband pressed a cocktail menu on me and Dean, then miraculously
     caused a waitress to appear with our drinks.
    I leaned back in my chair and felt—for the first time in a very long while—that all was right with the world.
    A fist-sized cockroach climbed up over the baseboard, proceeding up onto the fuzzy red wallpaper.
    “Charming little place,” I said. “You guys come here often?”

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    C hristoph actually seemed like a decent guy, and interesting, both of which came as a surprise to me. He was probably twenty
     years older than us: slender, with the last of a summer tan warming his face and longish pale brown hair swept back to curl
     a bit just behind his ears.
    The waitress placed a couple of plates of summer rolls on the table, their thin rice-paper wrapping aglow with the hues of
     shrimp and cilantro and chopped peanuts inside, and we were well into our second round of drinks.
    “So we are importing these wonderful machines from Europe,” Christoph was saying to Dean, “but it is very difficult to teach
     the Americans to use them properly.”
    My husband nodded, putting a roll on his plate. The rest of the food just sat there, more set decoration than sustenance.
    Astrid, growing bored, laid a hand on her husband’s wrist.
    “Darling,” she said, “Maddie’s a
liberal
.”
    Christoph looked over at me with a wry smile, eyes crinkling up at the corners. “Really? How astonishing. You seem like such
     an
intelligent
woman.”
    “Astrid has always considered my political worldview a sad flaw of moral fiber,” I said.
    “I don’t think I’ve ever shared a meal with one of you before,” said Christoph. “Are you, in fact, one of these ‘Democrats’?”
    “Quite so,” I assured him.
    “This is remarkable! You must explain to me what this means. Do you, for instance, run about and plot to blow things up?”
    “Mostly the patriarchy,” I said.
    He nodded to Dean, grinning. “And you
allow
this?”
    My husband shrugged. “These days one finds it necessary to foster the illusion of free will in women.”
    Christoph laughed. “You Americans, really—such an
amusing
    people.”
    “And you Swiss,” I said, “so very…
Swiss
.”
    “Cuckoo clocks and chocolate?” he asked.
    “I was thinking more of the memorial in this little park in Saanen, near Gstaad—a cannon, with a plaque on it commemorating
     an uprising throughout the countryside in the thirteen hundreds protesting the fact that the government in Berne had grown
     too liberal.”
    “You know Saanen?” Christoph asked, surprised.
    “My sister and little brother went to school there,” I said. “Charming village.”
    Okay, so I wasn’t above trying to claim a bit of Euro cred as protective coloring. Pagan and Trace had gotten to ski the Alps
     daily; I figured I should end up with
something
as a consolation prize.
    Christoph turned to Astrid. “Really, my dear, you have the most
remarkable
friends.”
    She touched her throat. “Of course.”
    He