You read about her wedding in the papers.  The New York Times Style Pages, no doubt.  Lydia Seiber.  My niece.  Well, not exactly my niece.  It’s more complicated than that.  Lydia and I are actually old antagonists, as she liked to say.  The truth is, I provoked her, fired her up, and yes, annoyed her and she once appreciated this about me.  I knew her far too well, and this made Lydia uncomfortable around me, which I think she actually enjoyed in some perverse way.

Yes, Lydia is my niece.  I am, in fact, her father’s half brother.  When I was growing up in Zurich, I was the favorite.  I’m the only child from our father’s marriage to his first wife.  My mother died at thirty-three in a skiing accident in Staad.  She had broken her neck.  It’s all very grisly stuff, but I was seven years old and didn’t learn of the details until many years later.  At the time, my mother’s unexpected end simply elevated me to a kind of icon in the family, supposedly embodying all her mystery and glamour, beauty and allure.

Here’s Lydia as a young girl in a bouncy satin party dress.  Listen to her:    

“It’s spoiled!” she screams.  “No, I don’t want another one.  You’ve ruined it.  It’ll never be the same.  I hate you!”

That’s exactly what she said.  It was her birthday party.  Lydia was turning ten--an interesting age----not so old that she couldn’t throw a temper tantrum--but old enough for one to sit up and take notice.  Maybe even call her a brat.  Yes, a spoiled brat.

This was back when the family was still in Switzerland.  We were at her parent’s home in Freiburg when she threw the fit.  Her younger sister, Martinique did not think that each scoop of vanilla ice cream required chocolate sprinkles and she had heaped the second scoop on the cone and then, well, of course, it was too late.

“I hate you!” she told Martinique.  “With all my heart and soul, I hate you!”

Martinique had turned a spotty red.  She squeezed her tiny eyes closed.  Poor Martinique.  She was not an attractive child and she had a habit of stammering, even in the calmest moments and so she tried to stay silent.  Then, finally, she looked at Lydia and blurted out,  “T-t-t-t-take it b-back.”

“No, I won’t.”  Lydia told her sister, and then she turned to me, flashing her eyes.  “I take nothing back,” she told me, with all the seriousness that a preternatural ten-year-old can muster.

I’ve thought often about this incident ever since and whenever I see Lydia I can’t help but be reminded of it.  I believe it’s indicative of her true nature, and it’s the key to our relationship. 

Here we are at Christmas. 

Lydia was fourteen and more beautiful than ever--her green eyes greener, her black hair blacker, her white skin even more translucent. We had waited to open the presents until morning, just like the Americans.  Lydia had just received her first formal dress, which she immediately changed into.  She was a young temptress, dancing before the family and friends, the cousins, her father’s cohorts from Credit Suisse.  She held the crinoline and chiffon, pink and plum, up against her face, under her chin.  She stopped her little dance.  “I will die in this dress,” she announced.

Her mother--an unremarkable woman, with none of Lydia’s exotic beauty--looked at her daughter and turned pale.  “Don’t ever say such a thing,” she told her.

“No, I want to be buried in it.  It’s perfect,” Lydia insisted.

“But you don’t intend to die for quite a while?” her father asked.

“Well, not for five or six years--after I’m fully developed,” Lydia said.

This is where I interrupted.  “But surely by then, it’ll no longer fit.”

She glared at me.  And so did the mother and the father.

I touched her lightly under her chin.  “What I mean to say is--surely if you develop any more--the dress will be too tight and that would be a pity.  Lydia, perhaps you should die right now when everything fits perfectly.”

Lydia jumped up, a cloud of crinoline and crepe.  “You are an evil beast!” she screamed.

I simply smiled.

“I hate you!  I hate you!  I hate you!” she continued.

“And I hate you too,” I said and I laughed, which made things even worse.  Lydia’s cheeks flushed red, and I couldn’t help but think how attractive she was in the midst of her rage.

Her father glared at me, but did nothing. 

Perhaps our father had once told him be nice to your half brother.  After all, his mother is dead.  It’s true—one day your mother breaks her neck in an unfortunate skiing accident in Staad and after that, people are very nice to you.  And of course, I like to take full advantage of it.  In fact, my mother’s early demise has benefited me in many ways.  I was long ago put in charge of her family’s estate.  And I  have always lived off the trust’s proceeds, fending off any inclinations to actually work for a living.

The next time I saw Lydia, she was nineteen and in the middle of a terrible depression.  Her words.  Some boy who had promised her his undying love, and probably his entire trust fund had just jilted her, but then--as boys are wont to do--he had taken off for parts unknown.  Barcelona, most likely.  That’s where all the young cads like to go, I believe. 

However, Lydia was convinced he had left for Siberia.  But this was not the point--the point was--Lydia was suffering unendurable pain.  Her words, not mine--written to me in a letter on pink stationary, addressed to the Cinq Georges Hotel in Paris, where I was living at the time.  Oh, Uncle!  Come quickly! it read in curly over-wrought handwriting.

And so I came quickly.  When I arrived at the family house, her mother ran up to me.  “I don’t think she’s going to live.  I think she’s going to die.  She’s so unhappy.  I’m afraid she’s going to die!”

For a moment, I stopped.  I must admit, I was surprised, thinking perhaps this is where Lydia got her gift for drama.  And then I looked at the mother closely, searching for any signs of beauty or intelligence or charisma.  But I could find none.  She had the flat face of a peasant, despite the fact that her genealogy included more than a few aristocrats. 

I took off my coat and pulled out the gift I brought for Lydia out of my pocket.  It was pair of small emerald earrings I had bought for her months before in New York.  I imagined they would match her eyes.

“She’s not going to die,” I told the mother.

“But she could--she’s capable of it.”  The mother twisted a handkerchief between her fingers.  She moved nervously about the room--to the staircase, then to the window, to the staircase again, and then back to me.  “She could will herself to die.” she said.

I saw that she was actually afraid of her own daughter.  Afraid that Lydia had some power over her, I suppose, because the thought must have entered her mind that if Lydia had the power to will her own death then surely, Lydia had the power to will her mother’s death. 

“Don’t worry,” I told her.  “I’ll talk to her.”  I walked slowly up the stairs, my gift now tucked in my breast pocket.

I opened the door to Lydia’s bedroom, and I must admit I was taken aback.  I’m not sure what I had expected--but I suppose something in the way of how one thinks a young woman in distress should behave.  I suppose I expected to see a pile of tear-stained love letters spread out across her bed, a book of poetry.  Or perhaps, the girl with her long hair set loose down her back, looking wistfully out the window, tears in her eyes, waiting for her lover’s return with trembling hands.  That sort of thing.

Instead, I saw Lydia standing before the mirror, completely made up with rouge and red lipstick, dressed in a long red gown, hair tied back in a severe twist.  She was completely still.  Expressionless, except for the small smile blooming on her lips.

“Hello, Lydia,” I said, walking into the room.

“I think I shall kill him,” she said, without turning around.  “I think I shall take a knife and drive it through his heart.”

“A knife?” I said, and I took the liberty of sitting on her bed.  “I think you mean a stake, don’t you?”

“What did you say?”  She turned and looked at me.  She was annoyed to find me on her bed.

I crossed my legs and lit a cigarette.  “You don’t use a knife to drive through someone’s heart,” I said.  “You use a stake.  That way you’ve got a nice blunt surface to hammer on.”  I blew out the match and dropped it on her dresser, then exhaled a large puff of blue smoke.

“You are disgusting,” she told me.  “Why did you come here?”

“You begged me to come here, remember?  Oh Uncle, I’m desperate!  I believe those were your words exactly.”  I reached into my pocket for the letter.  “Let’s see--”

“Get off my bed and get out of here!” she screamed at me.

“Thank you, Lydia and I think you’re lovely too,” I said, because I did--think she was lovely.

“Get out of here!” she screamed again.

“I can’t do that,” I told her.  “I promised your mother to talk some sense into you.  She thinks you’re going to die.”

“You’re the one who’s going to die, if you don’t get out of here this minute!”  She lunged herself at me, arms flailing, face flushed pink with anger.  Mouth pursed.  Breathless.  It was quite a display.

I stood up and stopped her--with one hand, I might add.  I grabbed her by the waist and stayed her, while she continued to struggle.  It was quite a show--her flailing helplessly about.  I had to laugh.  She was so beautiful and fearsome with her arms reaching to grab my neck and knock the cigarette from my mouth.  I suppose she thought she could set me fire with it and laugh as her uncle burst into flames. 

I will tell you the truth--at that moment I wanted her very much.  Right there on the bed with the cream-colored ruffles and the tiny silk cushions.

“Let me go,” she breathed, suddenly quiet, staring into my eyes, probably willing me to die.

I smiled at her, but I did not let her go for some seconds.  I wanted her to feel her own hatred, to own it, to embrace the coldness of it.  And finally, when I saw her eyes soften with just a hint of weakness in her, and her wrists go limp, I let her go, because I was growing bored.  I crushed my cigarette into a dish, left the gift on her dresser, and I walked out the door without saying another word.

               Two years after this incident, she called me from university.  She was studying international politics at the American University in Rome.  A waste of time for women, if you ask me--not because they don’t have the head for it, but because they do.  Women are innately political--internationally and domestically, so why study something they already know everything there is to know?

Lydia met me in the common room, and believe me, it was common, this room.  She was wearing the standard student get-up.  Jeans and a tee shirt with some kind of message on it.  I didn’t bother to read it, because the message was really look at my breasts, Uncle.  Haven’t they grown full and womanly? 

She pulled me down onto the sofa next to her and immediately began sobbing.  I was annoyed.  She was pale and soft and a bit puffy and I felt suffocated by her.  I wanted to leave immediately, but I didn’t.  She had begged me to come, told me it was quite urgent.  An emergency. 

“I’m pregnant,” she blurted out. 

“Who’s the lucky man?” I asked, relaxing then, because this was somehow amusing to me.  I lit up a cigarette.

“An exchange student.  Hungarian.  And he’s gone.”  Lydia sat up then, and looked at me.  “What am I going to do?”

“Get rid of it.”

“It’s not that simple,” she pleaded.  She pulled away from me and I noticed how her jeans fit her quite nicely.  Rather tight around the thighs and buttocks. 

“It’s very simple, Lydia, dear,” I said, getting out my checkbook.  “I’ll give you the money.”

“For what?” she said, wide-eyed, completely stupid.  It was if the pregnancy had swallowed up the girl’s brain cells.

“For an abortion, dear.  My treat.”

“But I want the baby.”

“Lydia,” I said softly.  “Don’t be ridiculous.  You’re a child.  And not a very bright one at that.”

“I hate you, Uncle,” she hissed suddenly standing up, her hands on her hips.  That’s when I noticed the message on her tee shirt.  Make   love, not war it read.

“How droll,” I told her, but I don’t think she knew what I was referring to—maybe the idea of pregnancy, maybe the idea of making love, and not war.

In the end, she took the money—begrudgingly.

During the years that followed, I did not see Lydia.  I imagined that she would probably end up marrying a count and moving to Spain, where she would be gradually worn down into some semblance of humility.  The Spanish have a way of doing that to their women.

I myself, moved to America shortly after this and I kept in vague contact with the family.  Each year Lydia sent a card, saying she had dropped out of university or gone back to university or taken a job or got married and had a baby or lost a baby.  And another five years went by.

Then, I received a letter saying she was divorced and that she was here in New York City and would like to see me.  I agreed to meet her in the hotel lobby at the Plaza, where I had been living for the last six months.  I am not exactly sure why I did not invite her to my suite, except that I felt my life to be in a state of shambles, and my home as well.

Lydia was radiant.  And for some reason this threw me off guard.  I had expected to see an “older woman.”  A femme de certain age--slightly thick around the waist, a bit faded, maybe a strand of grey here and there, a hint of sadness--of ruin, of better days gone past.

Instead, she ran to my table in the Oak Room, blowing kisses, chattering, laughing, smiling, and offering me her hand and without a word from me, she sat down close beside me.  She was wearing a lemon-yellow dress that shimmered and clung to her curves.  Her hair was cut in a stylish bob and still as black as ever.  She was a glittering confection next to me--all sparkles and light--and I wanted to kill her.

“I love America!” she breathed.

“It suits you,” I said.  I lit a cigarette.  I was biding my time, nursing my martini, waiting for this little show to end and the real drama to unfold.  Surely there would be some dark tale for her to reveal--a stormy marriage, secret lovers, hired detectives, and a scandalous divorce—more crimes revealed.  Perhaps her husband drank too much.  Perhaps he beat her.

“--Oh yes, we parted on excellent terms,” she was saying.  She ordered champagne.  She paid no attention to me.  “Why wouldn’t we?” she asked.

“Well, you haven’t been the most amicable person your entire career,” I told her.

She looked at me then.  “What’s the matter?” she asked suddenly.  “Why are you sad?”

“Don’t be ridiculous,” I told her.

“No, you’re sad, and I’m not being ridiculous.  Tell me what’s the matter, Uncle.  Hasn’t America been good to you?”

“Shut up,” I told her.

She was silent, then, and I looked at her pretty face. 

Her cheeks and neck were flushed red.  It was as if I had slapped her in the face.  The marks were as clear as if my hand had reached across and hit her full on the cheek.

“I’m sorry,” I told her.

“It’s all right.”  She lifted her head regally.  She was her old aristocratic self in that moment.  And she was so beautiful, so beautiful and so full of vitality, and America did agree with her and it did not agree with me at all.

“Come back to my room,” I told her, without looking up.  “Come back to my room, come back to my room.”  And then I said it more softly, almost in a whisper, almost so that she would not hear me, hoping she would not hear me.

I did not look at her.  I sat there, staring at my own reflection in the silverware.

And then she brushed her finger against mine.  I took her hand and without a word, she followed me through the Oak Room, past the Palm Court, the concierge, into the lobby and finally upstairs to my suite, where I made love to her among the shambles. 

That’s how I would like it to be remembered, but the truth is, before Lydia had even removed her undergarments, I was gone.  It wasn’t the first time and it definitely won’t be the last.  It’s a problem.  I blame it on my mother.  And oh yes, I blame it on her sister, my Aunt Lillian who brought me the news of my mother’s death, along with a cup of hot chocolate and a woolen blanket with pictures of children in woolen caps, on skis woven into the fabric in a pattern that repeated itself over and over and over again.

*                             *                             *

Lydia is thirty-three years old today and she is getting married here in Greenwich.  She has met a rich American businessman and they are going to live in France.  She is dressed in white and she glows.  There are candles on her wedding cake and we are singing “Happy Birthday” to her.  It seems like such an American thing to do--celebrate a wedding and have a birthday party on the same day.

Lydia makes a wish and blows out all her candles, except one, and this one her new husband leans over and blows out for her.  It seems he is a handy man to have around when one is making wishes.

It is almost midnight now and I have decided I should leave before my coach becomes a pumpkin and the creditors come calling.  But Lydia is accosting me, taking my arm, telling me not to go, to stay.  To stay.

“You can’t leave so early,” she says, smiling. 

“It’s not early,” I tell her.  “It’s late.  It’s very late.”

Despite my protestations, she has her way with me.  She encircles my arm and pulls me through the crowd.  I notice she is wearing the emerald earrings I gave her so long ago, and I realize that despite everything she does not wish me ill.  She leads me to a group of young friends and introduces me as her beloved uncle.

I imagine I am her circus horse and she will ride on me in front of an audience.  Everyone will laugh and applaud.  Tonight when we are alone, perhaps she will feed me sugar lumps, if I am good.

“Have a little champagne.”  She motions for the waiter to pour.  Without a word from me--do circus horses speak?--she takes the glass from the silver tray and hands it to me.

“No,” I say.  “No.”  I put my hands up.  And somehow it spills, all over her gown.  It is my fault.  I am a clumsy oaf.  I am a stupid horse. “Lydia, Lydia,” I say.  “I am so sorry.”

The waiter is back.  He comes to her aid.  She is given linen.  Her new husband rushes to her side.  They are looking at me.  All of them.  They are all looking at me.

“Lydia--” I say again.  “I am so sorry.  Forgive me.”

“Uncle.”  She smiles at me.  She laughs.  She puts her hand around my shoulder, brushing the back of my neck.  She is making fun of me.  I can see this now.  “It’s not ruined,” she says.  “It’s only champagne.”

And then all the Americans laugh.