I am having guests tonight. Not close friends, just acquaintances: a social obligation.
The rooms look pretty with floral arrangements and dimmed lights. My best hand-embroidered tablecloth that my mother gave me, matches the dishes, the silverware, and the crystal. Creating a beautiful environment is a joy, even when I am not certain that it will be appreciated. I smile, knowing my guests are going to watch everything closely and criticize later. To me, everything looks "comme il faut," in perfect order.
Guests are arriving, dressed for the occasion. Zora is in her Oriental mood. She is wearing a green brocade gown with little black pagodas, a geisha hairstyle, and a sweet and heavy Oriental perfume. Her husband, Darko, is in an expensive raw-silk suit, the shade of the Sahara sand, with a matching tie. Now, he is sitting quietly, from time to time wiping his face and hands with a white satin handkerchief.
Dana and Marko arrive next, wearing subdued, matching colors. That brings in a promise of harmony. After the aperitifs and conversation on the world politics, the dinner is served. The usual a-a-hs, and o-o-hs mark the arrival of each dish, like the announcements of the noble guests at the Russian Court.
Then, all is quiet. An occasional slurp, muffled into a cough, and jingling of the silverware is all one can hear apart from the soft Chopin's music coming discreetly from the other room. Everybody is busy eating. Next, the dinner is finished and the dessert served. The conversation is growing more animated after a white Riesling is replaced with a bottle of red Merlot. The topics now skip from politics to power, from economics to money, and finally settle with the intrigue.
"Oh, he is a brute, if there is one," Zora is saying about somebody whose name I missed while bringing an ashtray from the other room. "His wife is dense: she cannot dress with taste. Wake up, woman, I feel like telling her: this is the seventies. She still lives in the fifties or...whatever."
"She may be dense, if you will," Dana joins in, "but she enjoys life to its fullest, and that's more than some of us can say. Have you seen her lately with that huge diplomat in a white Cadillac? If she doesn't excel in dressing, maybe she is better in undressing?"
"You mean the ambassador of Panama? One can't miss to see him, gargantuan as he is. I don't see how he can fit into any car. Oh...just imagine him in bed. So now those two are having a fling? I didn't know that," Dana's voice raises almost to a scream. After all, she is usually the first to know.
"It has to be a mistake," Darko tries, softly, to intervene, lighting a cigarette. "He has a girlfriend. You all know her: she is a very attractive model."
"That doesn't mean anything. He's had so many girlfriends, I cannot keep up anymore," retorts Zora readily, not at all disturbed in her omniscience. "He's announced his engagements to somebody lately, but I'm not paying attention anymore. He won't marry anyone, if you ask me. Why would he? He can have them all, anyway."
"Why? He is not attractive or anything, "Dana interrupts. "Oh, you mean money speaks. Of course. Do you think he does any serious work? What does Yugoslavia need from Panama? Hats? They are outmoded." She adds, shrugging and opening wide her angelic blue eyes.
"I've just remembered. I'll take my word back. Yes, he would marry one woman, I believe. In fact, I know for sure he would." Zora is meaningfully nodding her head, her thin, penciled eyebrows arching emphatically.
"Who is it? Who is it?" Dana jumps impatiently.
"Nina, of course. Not that I can see any valid reason for that." Zora volunteers, her mouth drooping downward like in children's drawing of a sad face. She seems tired and disgusted with the world when she adds: "I don't even want to talk about that slut... oh, pardon me, for calling her the only appropriate name. I'm so tired of her cheap, dirty tricks."
"Cheap or not, they seem to work. With men, at least. She gets promoted, you don't." And Dana smiles her brilliant movie-star smile, just to make sure it's clear: she is only kidding, not aiming to be offensive.
"It's because men are stupid. I would never do what she does." Zora slashes back, not quite sure whether Dana was being smart or stupid, sly or sincere. Then, deciding to play it cool, for now, she adds: "Everybody knows: that woman changes men more often than her underwear. Yet, they don't seem to mind that. She gets promotions quite regularly, I know. But, how do you call that? And, would you do what she does?" She speaks slowly and pointedly, explaining each word, waiting for it to sink in, in case poor Zora cannot comprehend, her IQ obviously lower than her income.
"I don't see anything in her, myself," Dana decides to be supportive. "Do you find her attractive? Smart? I don't. Then, there is only one explanation left for her success." And she leans back in her chair and looks around expecting affirmation of her logical thinking.
"Now wait a minute," Marko tries to smooth the edges. "Nina is both attractive and smart. She deserves all the popularity she has as a hard working professional. I don't know anything about those other things you are discussing here. How can you even know such intimate details or be sure that they are not just a bunch of gossip? Why, just the other day..." But his sentence was not destined to be completed.
"You are dropping the cigarette ashes on your trousers again," Dana announces loudly and immediately turns to me, "By the way, that is a lovely design of an ashtray. Where did you get it?" This, however, with a milder, quite sweet, intonation.
After that the conversation turns to concerts and art exhibits. Darko mentions the name of the prominent conductor, Djordje Mihailovich, and his last, brilliant performance at the Kolarchev University.
"Is it true he has cancer?" Zora wants to know. "Such an attractive man. Is he divorced yet?"
Yes, he has cancer. And no, he is not divorced yet. Instead of answering, I stop listening. My thoughts sink into a deeper, darker realm of quiet solitude, safely protected from the malicious curiosity of my guests. My heart joins the lonely man, known for creating beauty and sharing it with others, while discreetly going through a drama in his private life.
Silence. Deep silence in me. There, on the surface, they still talk about music and theater, sex and intrigues... talk... talk... talk... And after they have eaten all there is to eat, drunk all there is to drink, slandered all who are not here to hear and protect themselves, they realize how late it is, so they must go because I need to rest after all the work that I have done. They compliment me on everything and leave in a hurry.
Finally alone, I do not go to bed immediately. I wash the dishes and the ashtrays, open all the windows in need to clean everything: every little bit, including the air. After that, I take a long, thorough bath. I am going through the movements routinely, without thinking, my spirit absent from my body. When I finally go to bed, I do not think, as I usually do, whether the evening has been successful or not. In the dark bedroom, alone with my thoughts, I cannot fall asleep.
The night is beautiful and serene. Outside, the skies are vast and velvety. The stars whisper softly and the neighboring woods breathe a gentle scent of cool freshness. The city in the distance is asleep. Only the lights glitter.
I know, I am not alone and the evening is not a waste. In spite of some ugliness, in spite of pain, life is worth living.