“Oh? Are you friendly with Caroline?” Matka asked, and there was a tinkling of wineglasses in the kitchen.
“No, I don’t know Caroline, and George barely knows Benjamin—I mean Bunny. They sort of invited themselves. You know how the Christmas party is our special occasion, but they approached it as though it were the ball drop. A sort of ‘come one, come all.’ I didn’t know how to say no. I didn’t want to be impolite. I fear it will be strange for everyone else, though. No one really knows them. No one in our circle, I mean.”
My mother said, “So many people are coming, though. It won’t make a difference.”
“Caroline basically insisted that her daughter sing at the party. She flat-out assumed that we would want to hear her sing. So now her daughter is going to sing ‘O Holy Night,’ I think.”
“I love that song.”
“I do, too. It’s my favorite carol. When done well, it makes me cry. I honestly shed tears, real ones. But you should have heard her, Francine. She said, ‘Well, Marianne is an excellent singer, and she’d be honored if you had her perform at your party.’ I was so shocked! Really—inviting yourself to a party, and then inviting your daughter to perform, too? It was like she’d heard about the party for years and finally decided that it was high time they make the list. Before I could figure out what to say, she said, ‘She does a truly beautiful “O Holy Night.” She’ll be so pleased.’ And by then it was too late, they were as good as invited by George himself.”
“Goodness.”
“Maybe they won’t show,” Mrs. Pawlowski said. “Maybe they’ll get in a horrible car accident. Did I just say that? I’ve been drinking wine all day, just sipping while cooking, and I don’t know what I’m saying anymore. But we’ve known each other forever, haven’t we? You won’t tell anyone?”
The doorbell sounded. “Oh,” Mrs. Pawlowski said, and went down the hall. She peered through the peephole, and then she opened the door for the Orlichs. Coming in was balding Mr. Orlich, who had absurdly round cheeks, and Mrs. Orlich, who held the wine. There was Marty, who was now taller than I was, although I would be quite lanky and nearing six feet by the end of senior year, and he had on a lumpy red-and-white-striped wool hat that I presumed a relative had knit for him.
But Marianne. That moment in the sitting room was the first time that I found myself paying any attention to a girl, let alone a girl slipping into the shape of a woman. If I was neurotic about stuffed animals as a child, as an adolescent I was even more neurotic about girls, who seemed not quite human to me. Yet here she was, a sylphlike fourteen-year-old, wearing a red angora sweater with a matching skirt and low heels with girlish white stockings, and there was her startlingly white-blond hair, which had a slight wave to it, and here was a broad smile that spanned her round face. I invented none of that; that is exactly how Marianne looked that day when she walked into the Pawlowskis’ house.
She followed her family into the sitting room, where they hovered over the canapés, and chose their cucumber sandwiches and treats, before settling together on a love seat kitty-corner to mine. Marty stuck his tongue out at me. I did not respond.
“Does anyone need anything?” Mrs. Pawlowski asked.
“No, no, everything looks fantastic,” said Mrs. Orlich, “this is quite the spread you’ve got here.” She looked at her daughter. “Marianne? Isn’t there something you wanted to ask Mrs. Pawlowski?”
Marianne stared at her mother for a moment, and then asked Mrs. Pawlowski if she could sing “W Zlobie Lezy” before dinner was served.
“Oh yes, of course—George and I are dying to hear it. I can even accompany you on our Nowak grand.” She looked around. “Please, everyone, enjoy the hors d’oeuvres. There are plenty more in the kitchen. Caroline? Benjamin? Something to drink?”
I kept watching Marianne, unaware of how strange I must have looked, but when Mrs. Pawlowski took everyone’s beverage requests and returned to the hallway, Marianne stood and followed her, saying, “Excuse me,” and I was alone again.
Soon the house was crawling with people. Most of them came from our church, St. Jadwiga, but many of them were neighbors who knew Mr. Pawlowski because he was an affable man and the sort who knew everyone. One of the Stopka children, a six-year-old named Emily, took it upon herself to attach herself to me, her pigtails whipping as she swung her head with her tongue out. My memory of six-year-old Gillian is so different from my memory of Emily Stopka, so much brighter. As I searched for Marianne I gave Emily a paluszki to eat, to keep her occupied, but she maintained her attachment as though she were in love, and the adults were too busy socializing to pry her from me. Emily followed me into the enormous piano room when it was time for Marianne to sing, and put her small hand in mine. I was irritated at the time, but now when I think about that little blond girl I feel the need to cry. I’ll lie down for a spell, while the feel of candy-floss hair lingers still in my hands, and I’ll say a few prayers, too. There is a bit of sun soaking the curtains, I’ve noticed. Marianne sang; I was enchanted. That’s all there is to say about that kind of beauty.
As soon as I could escape the postprandial hubbub I retreated to the library, which was Mr. Pawlowski’s great pride, and was floor to ceiling with books in musty jewel tones rubbed pale by many fingers. I was slipping Phaedrus back into its place when Marianne came up behind me. She tapped my shoulder, and when I turned she was crouching, eyes bright, looking as though she had happened upon a prize.
“Sneaky you,” she said. “But I won’t tell. I don’t like parties, either.”
“Why not?”
“They make people lose control of themselves. I like to know that everyone around me is in their right mind. Why are you hiding?”
I shrugged.
“Maybe we can find an atlas,” she said.
We searched for a while until I finally found one low enough for me to reach and heaved it onto the floor. She knelt and randomly opened it to the Orient. I showed her the Silk Road, tracing its route with a finger, and named as many spices as I could think of. I spoke of Magellan. I worried that she would leave if I failed to keep her attention, but I was wrong about Marianne’s capability for patience: her eyes never drifted, she didn’t interrupt.
When I stopped, she said, “Men are always exploring. Adventuring. I’ve been reading about the Gold Rush—it’s interesting how much men are willing to put themselves through when they think there’s something to gain.”
“‘That the trial of your faith, being much more precious than of gold that perisheth, though it be tried with fire,’” I said.
“California. The land of gold and fire,” she answered. And then she asked, “Have you been abroad?”
“No. I haven’t even left the state. Why, have you?”
“No. But I think about it.” She drew a circle on the page with her finger. “I wouldn’t go to Paris or London, though. Somewhere in Egypt, where they need missionaries and nuns. I’d like to do something useful like that. I’m not interested in going to some posh bistro and toothpicking snails out of their little shells.”
“Oh? Why not?”
“Glamour doesn’t interest me.”
“I’m not sure I really understand glamour, not being a woman and all,” and when I said this, I was thinking of my mother, who wore rouge and daubed carmine on her lips.
“Men can be glamorous, too,” Marianne said. “Look at this library! It’s all a show, a show of going beyond the ordinary—Mr. Pawlowski wants this house to be glamorous as much as his wife does, even if her view of it means ornaments and tinsel, and his is leather and wood. Do you see what I mean?”