The Laments by George Hagen Page B

missed a line or two, so the poor fellow had a depraved leer instead. Moments after Julia appeared at the company party, a note of apology arrived from Howard’s office—he was too busy to leave, and would have to meet her at home. She took a brief tally and realized that she was the only wife present without a husband; it seemed to render her invisible to all (even to Mrs. McCross, which wasn’t such a bad thing). With faint envy, Julia watched the other couples arrive and merge with their national brethren: the Brits picked at the traditional Christmas suet pudding; the Americans crowded the bar, drinking eggnog and liquored punch; and the Indian executives—Hindu, and therefore unable to eat or drink anything served at this event—lingered with pained smiles, revolted by the suet, repelled by the alcohol, but bound out of politeness to remain.
    Julia noticed another figure standing alone, a brunette wearing a clingy electric-pink dress that displayed her long neck, formidable cleavage, and defiant smile. Her hair was teased to approximate a tidal wave. Matisse couldn’t have produced a paler, more arch composition for a face—chalky skin, rich red lips, Kabuki eyebrows. But there was nothing invisible about the woman in the pink dress. She was watched by all—by the wives with their pursed, aching smiles, and by their husbands, whose eyes rolled with carnal yearning. There was no mistaking it: she was a goddess.
    Julia introduced herself. “How do you do? I’m Julia Lament!”
    “Trixie,” came the reply in a low, whiskey rasp. “Howitzer.”
    Almost immediately, Julia was offered a glass of champagne by a waiter, and a platter of hors d’oeuvres hovered within reach for the first time. “What a wonderful dress,” said Julia, in gratitude for Trixie’s magnetic effect on the staff.
    “Thanks,” Trixie growled. “The way people are looking at me, I feel naked.”
    Noting the wishful expressions of some of the executives, Julia guessed Trixie’s comment wasn’t far from the truth. “Well,” Julia replied, “it’s nice not to be the only one here without a husband.”
    Trixie nodded. “I thought I’d just pop in for a bourbon, but there’s nothing but champagne and punch.” As if to console herself, Trixie downed her champagne in stiff gulps, as if it
were
a bourbon.
    Trixie was married to an American executive, Chip Howitzer, who had been running Dutch Oil’s holdings in Houston, Texas, until recently. She had a son about Will’s age. When Julia proposed a lunch to get to know each other, Trixie consented, but only after warning Julia that she rarely got up that early; indeed, some days she
never
got up. This reinforced Julia’s hunch that Trixie was not only a rebel but quite possibly the very sort of mistress of destruction that Mrs. Urquhart found wandering rampant through the plays of Mr. William Shakespeare.
    BY THREE, WILL HAD BECOME a gentle and observant child. His possessive fits and tantrums had faded, though he rarely smiled and never laughed. When Julia left to meet her new American friend, he didn’t whimper, but waved good-bye from the balcony of their apartment in the arms of Uda, who was determined to prove her worth to Julia by completing Will’s toilet training. Twenty minutes couldn’t pass without the woman pulling down his pants and sticking him on the plastic potty; he could only conclude that she needed his urine for some urgent purpose. Since Uda frequently augmented her own kitchen with items from Julia’s cupboards, Will supposed that the amber liquid in the vinegar bottle she slipped in her bag one afternoon contained his pee. When she left with other vessels—wine bottles, olive oil—he made the same assumption.
    Julia and Trixie met for a late tea at the Manhattan Club, an old restaurant of ornate plasterwork and aged green tile, American only in name. Chicken and goat meat sizzled on a blackened grill, but they did serve alcohol for the desperate Westerners.