Free Trust by Cynthia Ozick Page B

fallen upon this questionable anguish—questionable because there was no way of telling on what it was founded; it might have been some small moroseness urged upon her by the solitude of her bed and the reminiscent music in her ears all that summer's night And yet it was not: clearly she was diseased with sorrow "Get away," she muttered, and resumed her wail, and next took up her innumerable complaints, alternating between inarticulate sobs and a rush of verbose invective—against her corsetiere the dubious Baroness, myself, the musicians who were now launched into the newest song of the season, the pervasive sanctimonious smell of beer; and none of it seemed relevant to the figure of my mother in her violent bed, greenish in the lamplight, none of it was connected, the words and moans ran everywhere and did not meet: she railed not against these designated offenses and offenders, but against some hard impassable wall behind and around them. "There's nothing for you in Europe," she cried, "and there won't be any Europe, it's all quite clear, no Europe any more. The thing to do is go down—go down, I'll tell you what to do, you know that banner hanging there, the one for bon voyage? tear it down, that's the thing to do, rip it right off if you please; your gown is ripped, then rip again! since there's no more bon voyage," she scowled, "it makes no difference," now whispering and now breaking into a harsh sore scream, glaring at me as though I had intruded at an ungainly hour, like some ill-trained maid, and had caught her in the act of love.
    And then, abruptly and noticeably, the sound of steadily running water stopped—a faucet turned with a tiny squeak behind the bathroom door, and I was all at once conscious of having heard, without really hearing it, the bounce of water all that while.
    Out stepped Enoch, gravely rubbing his face with a towel.
    We stood and took each other in—I in my long petticoat, Enoch in his undershirt, patting the back of his neck.
    "I had no idea you were having a party," he said.
    "It's for going abroad."
    My mother sent out a wrenched sob—half sigh, half whine.
    "I had no idea," he said again, aimlessly.
    I moved to switch on a second lamp, and there, on my mother's dresser, lay Enoch's attaché case, shut up, dangling its round combination lock thick with numbers. "Did you come straight from the airport?" I asked, reaching up to pull the chain—my elbow tapped the lock; it was open.
    "It's all right—it's absolutely empty," he assured me quickly. "There's nothing in it. —No, I've come from Washington."
    "It changes everything," my mother said briefly. She lowered herself to the pillow, blew her nose, and breathed as if to prevent another spasm.
    "Washington?" I said, puzzled by my mother's quick control.
    "Nothing will be the same," Enoch affirmed. "Did that doctor leave you any pills, Allegra?"
    "They're a sedative. I don't want a sedative. Go ahead and tell her."
    "Perhaps after the party," Enoch said. "When they all go home. How did you catch this cold?"
    "Tell her now," my mother said.
    "She stood out in the rain," I announced.
    "I think we had better get rid of the musicians," said Enoch.
    "They're contracted till one o'clock," I recalled. "Does it have anything to do with Geneva?"
    "Geneva," my mother echoed senselessly.
    "No, no, not with Geneva," he said, "Geneva was the last of that sort of thing. I've emptied my briefcase once and for all. I'm to have another job."
    My mother was now soundlessly crying; her hands held her throat. "It wasn't a Bulgarian," she murmured.
    "No," said Enoch, "it wasn't."
    "What kind of job?" I pressed.
    "Well, a bit better. Less exciting, but more standing to it."
    "You had better hurry up," my mother warned, snapping off the switches of her eyes—her lids fell to, her arms halted on the coverlet, her tears dripped as languidly as oil—"Tell her."
    "In a couple of weeks the committee hearings begin. There'll be plenty of opposition, you know,"