“Hi, Jacob,” intoned the four other drunks in the disco.
“I chose a reading today about control, because I’m still trying to control everything,” said Jacob. “I meaneverything. Like should my wife order pork chops? And should we stay on the Colosseum tour there in Rome…or just stop when we’re tired? And should we have sex? Does she want to? Do I want to?” He shook his head. “I’m so tired, and it’s supposed to be my vacation. This sucks,” he said. “I want a drink, but I’m not going to have a drink. I just wish my brain would slow down. It’s…it’s just exhausting. Thanks. Thanks for being here, guys. Thanks for listening. I love you all.”
“My name is Gerrie,” said a beautiful young woman in a red dress. “Geraldine. I’m an alcoholic.”
“Hi, Geraldine.”
“I’m on my honeymoon,” said Gerrie. “Yeah, and I’m terrified. I can’t stop thinking about, like, what if my husband leaves me? What if we have kids and they…I don’t know, they’re sick or something? I’m trying to stop the ‘stinking thinking,’ I try to hug myself, you know? But for one thing, I don’t want Ben to think I’m crazy. Anyway, I get it. I’m trying to give up control, too. But seriously, how beautiful are all those bottles of booze everywhere?”
They all laughed.
“I know what it would lead to if I had a cocktail,” she said. “I get it. I’ve been there, puking in my mom’s bathroom, blacking out…I know. But it’s hard.”
Cord nodded. It was hard. But sitting in this room, this nightclub still littered with empty drink cups, the sun streaming through the windows, he looked at the faces of strangers who understood. And the day seemed a tiny bit easier.
—
BEFORE HE WAS DUEto meet his family for their day tour, Cord called Giovanni again, but the phone just rang and rang. Cord left a message, maybe his thirtieth. He wrote another lengthy text. He was sorry, he was sorry, he was sorry.
—
CHARLOTTE SEEMED INFUSED WITHhappiness. She stepped across the gangway into France wearing a fuchsia silk dress with matching kitten heels. Lipstick, gold jewelry: Cord and Lee had jokingly labeled looks like this the “full Charlotte Perkins.”
“Oh, darling,” said Charlotte, stopping to pose with Cord for the ship photographer.
“Now put your arm around your wife,” said the young man, snapping away. His accent wasn’t quite British—maybe South African? Cord had seen him running the limbo contest in the Aqua Zone the day before.
“Oh!” cried Charlotte. “Youdevil.He’s myson.”
“I would never have guessed,” said the guy.
“Okay,” said Cord, stepping away from the fake life preserver emblazoned withFUN IN MARSEILLES! “Let’s move on. Where are my sisters? Where’s Matt?”
“I don’t know,” said Charlotte.
Cord was irked. He’d figured everyone had been worried sick about him. He thought he would have been all they’d be talking about. But it seemed no one in his family had even noticed he was missing.
—
IN ARLES, THEIR GUIDE,an older woman in a white hat that seemed too small for her head, made them get off the bus to stand next to a low concrete wall and a muddy river. There was a bridge in the distance. There was trash at Cord’s feet, an empty packet of French cigarettes and a squished French beer can. When the guide spoke, she paused constantly for dramatic effect.
“Gaze at the Rhône,” commanded their guide. “Right very here—this—is the exact spot…where Vincent van Gogh painted…Starry Night over the Rhône. Marvel! Marvel!”
Cord could vaguely remember the painting, lush with a turquoise sky and silver-yellow stars. “I guess it’s moremarvelousat night,” said Charlotte sotto voce, her tone jubilant. She seemed awfully cheery for a woman whose children were hurting. Or maybe she didn’t know they were hurting. Maybe she didn’t even see them.
Inwardly, Cord began to feel sorry for himself. But he halted his thoughts. He was thirty-six years old. Maybe it was time to stop blaming his mother for his troubles. Cord remembered the Serenity Prayer. It didn’t say anything about pouting, wishing someone were different than they were. This sense that he was wronged was part of his problem, part of the way he justified drinking. Cord looked at Charlotte, who met his gaze and winked. It was what it was. He winked back.
“He was staying,” said the guide, “at the place you know. It’s called the Yellow House…on…la Place Lamartine. He was very sad. Despairing. And…he would come here, right here, and he would…paint the night sky.”
Some loudmouth in a University of Texas cap asked the exact year.
“Eighteen eighty-eight,” the guide responded. “Marvel. Marvel!”
It was hard to marvel, as Cord breathed bus exhaust and squinted, but he dutifully tried. Van Gogh! It was pretty amazing. Cord liked the French lilt of their guide’s voice, too. She paused and then hit English words with high notes. Maybe he should find a Frenchman, thought Cord, since Gio was never coming back to him.
Martyrdom was a hard habit to break.
As they toured Arles, peering at ivy-covered buildings with pastel wooden shutters, Cord felt like he was wandering through a movie set. He half expected Audrey Tautou to peek out one of the windows wearing a kerchief and a flimsy blouse. Something about the cobblestone streets, the window boxes filled with flowers, the metal tables and chalkboard signs with specials written in script—Plat du Jour Courgettes!—well, it made him want to smoke.
