The Fitzgeralds Argue
Anita Pan
The light was fading away, far and deep into the earth. What remaining glimmers of the red-hot sun reached weakly, rimming the horizon with a thin, white line.
Nestled deep within a crude, grey commercial center sputtering with auto engines and hedonistic roars stood a proud, white hotel. Its windows were thick and glossy, with stained glass features and thick pillar supports. A jazz quartet was playing in the lobby tonight, and to that, all guests flocked downstairs, their boyish silhouettes and bob cuts illuminating the floor so that it seemed to glow.
Far above the crowd and the intoxicating music, Room Twenty-Seven was in trouble. Perfume bottles and half-corked whiskeys lay strewn about on the floor, amidst a clearing of silk evening gowns and pearl necklaces. The smell of alcohol and last night’s activities rose and curdled from the damp floors and walls. A woman was lying on the wide sofa and filing her nails, glossy and red. Her low-cut dress, a shade of deep, ivory black, drew attention to her and made her the room’s centerpiece. The contrast from her former Southern debutante self was striking.
A door stood behind the sofa. Presently, a tall, blonde man strode through it.
“Zelda, I told you—” His hair was frazzled, and he smelled rotten. “Not to leave the windows open. They’ll hear us.”
Zelda couldn’t be bothered to lift her eyes above her little nails. “Can’t you close them yourself?” She heaved and stood up, staring straight at him. “Are you blind? Deaf? Senile? A mix of three, perhaps?”
Her eyes were clear and hard. They matched his, making him feel small and foolish. At times like these F. Scott Fitzgerald found he couldn’t recognize his wife.
“Now look here, be reasonable.”
“I marry you and we come out here. Haven’t we had the most fun? The shows? The taxicabs? The music, the wine, the food, the clothes, the people?” Fitzgerald gesticulated wildly, making desperate appeals. “Everything is an improvement from your dreary little Southern mansion. So please, be reasonable and close the windows.”
Zelda didn’t move, nor did she speak. She simply stared at him for several seconds, her face growing white-hot. The upper eyelid, painted dark from yesterday, bulged ever so slightly. Her lips tightened.
“No. I won’t be made to.”
Seeing her resist like a suffragette made his blood pressure rise.
“Oh, you will.” Fitzgerald strode over and grabbed her by the wrist, dark hands clawing into pale flesh. He twisted savagely.
“Let me go, you—” Zelda yelled, “Who do you think—”
Sounds of tussle echoed from the floor. Fitzgerald wanted to strike her properly. Zelda, the One, the Only, standing, standing and resisting, standing and resisting like she owned the rooms, the rugs, the vases, all the furniture, the whole lot of it.
She wrenched her arm back and collapsed onto the sofa, sobbing.
“Zelda”, he said, choosing words slowly and carefully, “If you do not cooperate with me, and do this very small, very easy task, the following will happen.”
She glanced at him, the rims of her dark eyes a wet shade of red.
“I will write about you in my next book, The Beautiful and Damned. You’ll be a horrible, no-good, worthless, empty little woman incurring the wrath of all the readers.”
She scoffed and stared at him.
“The world will know you as a hedonistic, shallow, thoughtless bitch.”
“I’m not like that. People know.”
Fitzgerald took no notice. “If that’s not enough, you’ll reappear in the book after that. I’ll quote things you said in The Great Gatsby.”
“No, you won’t, and—”
“And, I won’t let you go with my last book. No, Tender is the Night will detail your little episodes and spasms for all the world to see.”
Zelda’s chest oscillated up and down. She grasped the degree of her situation now.
“You wouldn’t do that. Not to me.”
Her eyes searched his for a sign of recognition. The furious air was gone, mixed with a combination of fear and disbelief. Fitzgerald could only respond with a laugh. As his marriage dissipated, the world would come to know his private affairs—the hotel arguments, the brawls, those bitter words. True to his word, he’d write about it all.
He’d write, and he’d win. With her scrap of a novel, Save Me the Waltz, Zelda couldn’t compete. She was on her knees now, grasping his pant legs. Fitzgerald looked at her coldly. He’d won, and he’d win tomorrow. No, he’d win for the next hundred years.
