A Portrait of a Pair

All the lights in the house were off, except the one dangling above the dining table. The table was rectangular and chestnut and long enough to have three people sit on each side. In the center was a vase of red and white poinsettias. At one end of the table sat Thomas, picking at his dinner, and at the other end sat Vivien, his wife, doing the same. The vase prevented them from seeing each other, and they liked it that way. It gave them an excuse not to speak. 

Thomas was staring at the display cabinet to his left, which he thought was placed too close to the table. He had always thought so and enjoyed complaining about it, but he was more upset by the reflection it created that enabled his wife to see him and him to see his wife. He was thankful that it was at least full of books, which he adored and his wife did not care for, rather than decorative pieces, as his wife would have preferred and he would have despised.

It was no secret: theirs was an unhappy marriage. He knew it and she knew it and everyone else knew it, but no one dared to say it out loud.

He was a painter and she was the daughter of a painter, and most of their friends were fellow artists. Thomas had one friend, however, who was so unlike those of his artistically-minded friends, so much of an anti-romantic, of a rationalist, materialist, and skeptic, that he decided to do the absurd thing of trying to help Thomas. This friend, an academic philosopher with a specialization in logic and mathematics, rang his doorbell that evening. Not realizing who it was, Thomas was delighted for an opportunity to excuse himself from the table and rose without acknowledging his wife.

He adjusted his tie—because he always wore a three-piece suit, especially when he had no one to impress—as he turned the corner to the foyer. With his hand, he brushed his hair to the right, produced his friendliest smile, and opened the door; and once he saw who was on the other side, his smile vanished.

Bertrand was an older man, old enough to be Thomas’ father, with white hair, thinned skin, and wrinkles. Not all of his wrinkles were from his age, however. Some of them were products of four marriages and three divorces—which is a way of saying he was well-versed in matters of failed relationships. He viewed Thomas as a son, and he treated him as a son, always ready with advice. Like Thomas, he wore a three-piece suit; unlike Thomas, he intended to impress.

“Thomas!” Bertrand exclaimed. “It’s so good to see you!”

“Bertrand!”

“Thomas!” And not waiting for another invocation, Bertrand allowed himself inside.

In defense of this apparent rudeness, Bertrand had notified Thomas that he intended to visit. He had notified him both in person and through email, and Thomas had ignored him both times.

“Is Vivien home?” asked Bertrand.

“Bertie?” Vivien shouted from the dining room. “Is that you?”

“It is!”

“Oh, fantastic! Come in. We were just having dinner.”

“I have already come in!”

Bertrand pushed past Thomas, patted him on the back, and marched straight for the dining room. Thomas trailed behind him like a self-conscious party guest.

It cannot be emphasized enough how different Bertrand was from the couple. They thought in terms of art—what tone would they wear today? What shadow would they cast? What god would they invoke? Bertrand thought in terms of mathematics—solve for X. According to his view, if one bothered to consider issues of emotion and psychology, one would be taking the longer, more difficult means of solution. Therefore, he did not hesitate, once he was in the snug dining room, standing in front of the vase so that Vivien was on one side and Thomas on the other, to make the following declaration:

“I pity you both, and I love you both, and thus I cannot bear to watch you ruin yourselves. I’ve come to save you from this accident you call a marriage, and I intend to begin promptly.”

“Excuse me?” choked Vivien.

“Oh, I know how it is. I’ve been through it myself. You’ve grown so accustomed to being married that separation doesn’t appear to be a real option. You’ve tolerated each other’s existence for so long that you imagine you can do it for a little longer. But there is no need! The facts are plain and the problem is plain and so is the solution. Vivien, I’ve arranged for you to come with me and live in my summer home down south. You’ve always loved it there, haven’t you?”

“Bertrand!” cried Thomas. “Bertrand, just hold on a minute!”

“No need. You will remain here, Thomas, and I intend to introduce you to some friends that I’m certain you’ll get along with and who will fill Vivien’s vacancy. In any case, the best thing to do is to peel the bandage quickly.”

“But, Bertrand,” reattempted Thomas. Only then did Bertrand notice how wide and nervous Thomas’ eyes were. “I don’t want to be separated from my wife!”

“Of course you do. You hate her.” Bertrand smiled.

“No! I don’t hate her.”

“I,” interjected Vivien with unusual naturalness, “have no intention of leaving. Although, for justice’s sake, I must admit the untruthfulness of my husband’s claim. There’s no doubt that he hates me.”

“You think I hate you?” crescendoed Thomas, already forgetting his plea to Bertrand. “If anything, you hate me! You’re obviously the one who gave Bertrand the impression we hated each other, the way you so loosely make those sorts of accusations.”

“How dare you accuse me of making an accusation! I accuse you of being a liar.”

“How dare you accuse me of accusing you of accusing me! You’re the liar!”

A sudden bang cut short their seesaw of an argument. They turned to Bertrand, who had slammed his fist on the chestnut table. “I believe,” he said, “my point is clear. Your relationship is fragile enough to be upset by a four-letter word. You two are unhappy; the hatred is mutual. What more do I have to spell out?”

The room collapsed in silence. Thomas scratched his chin; Vivien examined her plate. Their line of thinking was identical: is Bertrand right? Bertrand seems to be right. Bertrand is right. Bertrand must be right.

Bertrand felt right, and he placed his hands on his hips as though he were posing after a victory. At the same time, the couple lifted their heads out of thought.

“It seems so,” whispered Vivien.

“What was that, dear?” asked Bertrand.

“You’re right. Of course you’re right. I knew that. I’ve always known that.”

“So have I,” added Thomas.

“Everyone has,” finished Bertrand. “So I hope you’ve given some thought to your luggage, Vivien. It’s best if we leave as early as possible. Peeling the bandage, and all that.”

“Oh no, I can’t leave,” said Vivien.

“You can’t?”

“Or rather I should say that I don’t want to.”

Bertrand held his tongue and tried his best to follow her logic. His efforts exhausted him, however, because there was no logic to be found, like an equation with no X to solve for. He shook his head in defeat.

Vivien shot up from her seat, startling both men. “Bertie, it is clear to me that you don’t know the first thing about us. In fact, your entire behavior this brief evening has disgusted me, and I demand you to leave our home immediately. I’m not interested in hearing your defense.” She did not blink once. There was no anger in her face, only determination.

“Pardon me? Where is this coming from, Vivien, dear?”

“I will not repeat myself.”

Stunned, Bertrand looked to Thomas for assistance, but Thomas was blushing and averting his eyes. Bertrand did his best to fake a smile. He did not know how to interpret her response.

“I see.” He waited for some elaboration. When none arrived, he stuttered, “Well, it seems I’m not welcome here, so I will—uh—go now. I didn’t mean to offend either of you, you know, and I—uh—am sorry. Very sorry!”

Without so much as meeting her eyes one last time, Bertrand darted out the front door and to his car. He drove off, still trying to follow her logic. He was not embarrassed, only confused.

A few minutes later, he arrived at his house, which was more of a mansion, seeing as it could fit Thomas’ house inside itself three times. With his head hanging down, lost in thought, he wandered through his labyrinthine halls until he discovered his wife sitting in the dining room. He could not remember whether she was his fourth or fifth marriage.

The dining table was oval and made of African blackwood and long enough to fit five people on either side. The wall was lined with wine racks that were well-spaced from the table. He took a seat beside his wife and loosened his tie.

“How did it go?” she asked him.

“I’m not sure. They’re a puzzling pair, but I think I failed.”

“Do you mean that they actually like each other?”

“Oh, no! There’s no doubt they can’t tolerate each other. And yet—I don’t know how to express it—I’m still figuring it out myself.” He let a few seconds of silence pass before concluding, “Those two enjoy being unhappy.”

Back at Thomas’ house, Thomas had retaken his seat at one end of the table. He was picking at his food, and at the other end was his wife, doing the same. They did not speak about Bertrand’s visit. They did not speak at all. They did not want to, and they did not need to.

The light dangled above them like the sun on a winter morning.

Spring 2022