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Authors: Scott Dominic Carpenter
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or rather, recognized. There were multiple generations of Auberts, ranging from an unsupervised pack of five-and-six-year-old marauders to a herd of ancient, sexless ruminants who sipped at digestifs and exchanged mutters in hushed tones. The entire extended family was present, with one important omission: Roger himself. Mr. Incorrigible hadn’t turned up yet.
He exchanged greetings with guests and strained to hear responses over the hubbub, nodding and smiling with special vigor whenever he had no idea what the other person had said. He was an expert at vague replies—one of the skills he sometimes practiced in sessions with patients.
Still, it wasn’t long before the novelty of the American had worn off, and soon he ended up alone in an armchair in a corner, listening to the clinks of glass and silverware, wondering how long it would be before he could legitimately depart. The box of chocolates he’d brought had been plundered by the children. He was pretty sure Yvonne had never even seen them.
Hervé came through the room, and by the time he’d recognized the tall stranger sitting in the shadows, it was too late for either of them to pretend he hadn’t. “You don’t have a glass,” he said with a pinched smile. “Can I fetch you something to drink? A Chardonnay? Something stronger?”
“No, thank you.”
“Are you sure? There’s an excellent Burgundy here.” He was rattling through the bottles on the table, tipping them back to decipher their labels. “I don’t know how familiar you are with fine wines . . .”
“I don’t need anything, really.”
“Nonsense. You really must try this Meursault.” He was already pouring a glass.
Back home people might have taken the hint, but here Philip was going to have to be direct. “I don’t drink,” he announced, and Hervé gave him a surprised look. “They say there’s a god who watches over drunkards,” Philip continued, “but he didn’t do such a good job with me. I have to look after myself.”
“Ha-ha! I see,” Hervé replied, overcoming the awkwardness of the confession. “Nicely put, I must say. Yvonne told me your French was pretty good, but still, I’m impressed. For an American.”
“When you live somewhere for fifteen years,” Philip replied, “you don’t have much choice but to pick up the language.”
“A bit of an accent, of course.”
There it was—the jab.
Hervé was already off on another topic. “So tell me, is psychiatry in your family? What are you—a nephew or grandson of the great Alfred Adler?”
“No relation.”
“I see.” He leaned against the table, crossing his ankles. “But that is a Jewish name, isn’t it?”
Such a question would never have been asked so baldly in the States. Philip responded in the affirmative and braced himself for more questions about his family’s background, but in fact Hervé was already moving on. He was more interested in conjuring up questions than in hearing the answers.
“And what do you consider yourself?” Hervé said. “A Freudian? A Jungian? A Lacanian?”
“A pragmatist.”
Already Philip was zeroing in on his diagnosis of Yvonne’s husband. Definite narcissistic tendencies. Not pathological, of course, but measurable.
“I see, I see,” Hervé was saying.
Philip tested his hypothesis by turning the conversation around and quizzing Hervé about his own work. Yes, he realized, this was the way for the conversation to flow. Hervé prattled on with no help, a conversational machine in perpetual motion. He had helped to found an infertility clinic in Rouen, and he had the entire history of that endeavor at the ready. “Seventeen years ago,” he began, “we were on the cutting edge. In France infertility was taboo. People wouldn’t talk about it with their doctors. Instead, they’d engage in all manner of hocus-pocus.” He laughed. “Maybe you know of the sculpture of Victor Noir, in Paris?”
Philip allowed how he did not.
“A handsome fellow, killed in a duel. The
He exchanged greetings with guests and strained to hear responses over the hubbub, nodding and smiling with special vigor whenever he had no idea what the other person had said. He was an expert at vague replies—one of the skills he sometimes practiced in sessions with patients.
Still, it wasn’t long before the novelty of the American had worn off, and soon he ended up alone in an armchair in a corner, listening to the clinks of glass and silverware, wondering how long it would be before he could legitimately depart. The box of chocolates he’d brought had been plundered by the children. He was pretty sure Yvonne had never even seen them.
Hervé came through the room, and by the time he’d recognized the tall stranger sitting in the shadows, it was too late for either of them to pretend he hadn’t. “You don’t have a glass,” he said with a pinched smile. “Can I fetch you something to drink? A Chardonnay? Something stronger?”
“No, thank you.”
“Are you sure? There’s an excellent Burgundy here.” He was rattling through the bottles on the table, tipping them back to decipher their labels. “I don’t know how familiar you are with fine wines . . .”
“I don’t need anything, really.”
“Nonsense. You really must try this Meursault.” He was already pouring a glass.
Back home people might have taken the hint, but here Philip was going to have to be direct. “I don’t drink,” he announced, and Hervé gave him a surprised look. “They say there’s a god who watches over drunkards,” Philip continued, “but he didn’t do such a good job with me. I have to look after myself.”
“Ha-ha! I see,” Hervé replied, overcoming the awkwardness of the confession. “Nicely put, I must say. Yvonne told me your French was pretty good, but still, I’m impressed. For an American.”
“When you live somewhere for fifteen years,” Philip replied, “you don’t have much choice but to pick up the language.”
“A bit of an accent, of course.”
There it was—the jab.
Hervé was already off on another topic. “So tell me, is psychiatry in your family? What are you—a nephew or grandson of the great Alfred Adler?”
“No relation.”
“I see.” He leaned against the table, crossing his ankles. “But that is a Jewish name, isn’t it?”
Such a question would never have been asked so baldly in the States. Philip responded in the affirmative and braced himself for more questions about his family’s background, but in fact Hervé was already moving on. He was more interested in conjuring up questions than in hearing the answers.
“And what do you consider yourself?” Hervé said. “A Freudian? A Jungian? A Lacanian?”
“A pragmatist.”
Already Philip was zeroing in on his diagnosis of Yvonne’s husband. Definite narcissistic tendencies. Not pathological, of course, but measurable.
“I see, I see,” Hervé was saying.
Philip tested his hypothesis by turning the conversation around and quizzing Hervé about his own work. Yes, he realized, this was the way for the conversation to flow. Hervé prattled on with no help, a conversational machine in perpetual motion. He had helped to found an infertility clinic in Rouen, and he had the entire history of that endeavor at the ready. “Seventeen years ago,” he began, “we were on the cutting edge. In France infertility was taboo. People wouldn’t talk about it with their doctors. Instead, they’d engage in all manner of hocus-pocus.” He laughed. “Maybe you know of the sculpture of Victor Noir, in Paris?”
Philip allowed how he did not.
“A handsome fellow, killed in a duel. The
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