Nine Months of Servitude: Chapter One
I watched The Diary of a Chambermaid last week and found myself drifting into historic files on my own domestic service. Apparently the word ‘servitude’ is legally just for slaves. I was a servant, not a slave, but since ‘servantude’ doesn’t exist, I shall use ‘servitude’.
Obviously the chambermaid in the film is no slave, either, but I am not sure why she is a chamber maid; seems like she is just a maid, to me. Maybe it’s a Frenchy thing that means she can go into the employers’ bedroom or something. She kept getting hit on by her male employers, anyway, and the bedroom thing might explain such a tendency, in part. Not surprising that sexual attraction is a big theme, since she is pretty and the film is written by the director, Benoit Jacquot. By that I mean, written by a man, who might have a thing for domestic servants, however fantastic. He does claim writing assistance from a woman named Zimmer, which could be a spoof, since Zimmer means “room” or “chamber” in German. It’s a good production, weird ending.
Enough with the wandering film-review-cum-diction-protest. I do that sort of thing a lot when I start a story; it’s like a dog circling before they lie down.
As for me, I was metaphorically pressed into servitude, but the press gang consisted of my boyfriend, who punched me in the face for looking good, basically. The latter of course was usually fine, except that I was about to go out drinking with my girlfriend, not him. He split my lip open pretty good, and after waiting in the emergency room most of the night and getting it stitched up, a few things dawned on me, ha ha. For the first thing, I had been living with him. I needed a new place to live, and one that included a salary was obviously ideal. A sort of two for one situation.
I called listings for mother’s helpers in the want ads, and Dori’s was certainly intriguing, promising a European tour at the end of a year’s employment. Sitting in her kitchen, sipping juice through a straw (I was eating through straws stuck into the uninjured side of my face for a few days, natch), I was frank with her about why I had the ugly stitches in my face. It was a risk; I sort of hoped she would consider hiring me out of pity, or womanly solidarity, instead of judging me as a low-life slut. And as I hoped, she was distinctly compassionate about my suffering.
Not that I am without domestic skills; she would discover that soon enough. But at the time, she had to trust the word of a seemingly desperate woman. She herself was also pressed, because she needed someone to accompany her to Hong Kong in like two weeks. So, both of us impersonating crispy little waffles in a steaming hot iron, I was hired on the spot.
Dori and I turned out to get along wonderfully; she bore an uncanny resemblance to my mother, who had died a few years before. Dark-haired, petite, and Roman-nosed, she contrasted beautifully with her big, freckle-faced, red-headed husband. Mark was on probation, I would find out, for spending time and money on a coke addiction, and I think getting caught schtupping the secretary on his office couch. He worked with his father, who ran a successful travel agency in Boston.
The couple were such dear hearts, really; I was so lucky to find this haven. Their lives were in a constant twist, though, between a Bohemian penchant and the demands of a very materialistic lifestyle. Their home was in an affluent part of Brookline, Massachusetts, Chestnut Hill I think, home of the oldest country club in the U.S.. The property included features like a little stable with neglected, crabby brown pony for their daughter’s riding lessons, and tree-shaded tennis court where Dori regularly wacked balls with lady friends before lunch cocktails, her neat dark braid simple on her back.
There was an outdoor swimming pool, and an epic window-walled dining room housing a mirror-bright mahogany (Chippendale?) dining set for twelve. Which I, of course, polished. Ditto the chest high oak wainscoting that lined all the downstairs rooms except the kitchen. And the brass wall sconces. I waxed and polished and dusted most days, yes indeed. Since there was no so-called chamber maid there; I, my friends, was the only resident servant. Dori would end up hiring me to paint a mural on one of the dining room walls- proving her hipness, no doubt. As well as my consummate ability to interest people in hiring me to create art for a pittance.
The feature most descriptive of their lifestyle conflict was Mark’s relationship with his Rolls Royce. He had a Silver Shadow that he often kept parked in front of the sizable foyer entrance on a circular driveway. He wore sweats a lot, even to work, in case anyone thought he was going to act the perfect business man’s son. He cut quite a figure; this bear-like, bushy red-bearded man in grey velour satin-striped sweat pants, proudly dusting fingerprints from his beloved Rolls Royce. Which was, of course, silver. Or grey, really.
The whole servant thing was wonderful in the sense that it taught me a few things I did not want. First, to be Jewish. Second, to have just enough money that you spend your days on a bourgeois treadmill, keeping up with the Joneses- or maybe the Goldblums, in this case. And, most importantly, I realized I did not want to spend most of my days and nights living someone else’s life, or lives. I was on call whenever I was there. Time for myself was so parceled that it took on a desperate cast, like having an illicit affair with myself.
The whole Jewish family aspect was wonderful diversity training in situ. I was lucky to be raised by a woman who was pretty obsessed with exploring every culture she could get her little hands on, but it’s always extra enlightening to be living in the middle of one. It’s not like Dori and Mark went to synagogue; not regularly, anyway. I don’t recall any mention at all of religion, though they had family over for Hanukkah and Passover seder, for which I did lots of cooking, cleaning, table setting and babysitting.
So Jewish religion wasn’t the happening thing; it wasn’t the important cultural take home for me. I would get some training in that later, when I hung out with a little Orthodox group in Albuquerque. Here’s what did happen, though; a constant overbearing monitoring of Mark and Dodi’s lives by Mark’s parents. Seems like very evening the parents did not visit, right around dinner time one or both of them would call, and get a report on what the family had done that day. It was sort of like mini but persistent reruns of People’s Court, enough to ruin one’s appetite and bring tears to Dori’s eyes on occasion.
Because not only were Dori and Mark grilled on the family’s activities, but chastisement and unasked for advice were occasionally proferred as well. Sometimes I answered the phone since it was in the kitchen, or I was asked to take the receiver, ostensibly because I was the babysitter for the three year old boy and eight year old girl. I had, hopefully, fun things to say about their grandchildren. Once I found out about Mark’s probation, though, I suspected that his parents were also hoping I might be useful as a spy. Or, since Dori had hired an attractive mother’s helper, they were insecure about Mark’s ability to behave himself.
Bless their hearts, and may they rest in peace; for they are probably in the next world. Mark’s parents were always kind and generous with me. They committed their duty as they saw fit, like we all do. Thank the stars also that I had no interest in schtupping anyone scandalous, though as we shall see, I did develop an interest in the handy man. Mark’s behavior with me was never in the slightest way dubious, unlike the dudes in the Chambermaid film. Just wanted to make that clear. I knew the difference, I might add. I was already somewhat experienced; like Celestine in Chambermaid I had not just crawled out from anything resembling a notably sheltered rock, though I was only twenty years old. Experience is always relative, of course, and nobody has it all.
I’m well aware that Mark’s parents’ daily monitoring of their 30-something children is not at all unique to Jewish culture, but I had never seen the like, and it horrified me. I was born into a very individualistic family. So yeah, that’s why I don’t want to be Jewish, or primarily tribal, or socialistic, or interdependent, or whatever. I did and do have loving relationships with folks who claim Jewish identity, though. So it’s not like I don’t dig Jews; I do. I just don’t want to be one. Not like I was ever invited. Though Dori did once set me up on a blind date, a sweet, kind young man with good prospects. In other words, not my type.
Aside from the 1975 satin-beribboned sweats and the blow, Mark’s favorite defense mechanism was to perennially fantasize about leaving it all behind, of fleeing his parents and his job, I suppose, a la Captain Ron (film 1992). He read sailing books and yachting magazines,circling ads in the classifieds. He would spread deck plans out on the kitchen table, enumerating details to the semi-attentive women folk, his cheeks and his big bear heart glowing like his fan of a red beard.
It was wonderful in an odd way to be in on this masculine dreamscape, though I was never a part of the plan. He didn’t want any old yacht; he wanted a sailing yacht, and a sizable one, a sea-going Rolls Royce. True sailing romance is, of course, a metaphor for perfect partnership, and so it is retrospectively intriguing that Mark was thus obsessed during his marriage probation. Sailing is masculine poles reaching to the stars, knotted carefully, so carefully with feminine weavings of white, which billow and bend in their flexible way, catching the wind for two discerning hearts.
Dori was less than enthusiastic about the escape plan, if I recall correctly, despite Mark’s glowing descriptions of nicely applianced galleys and handy closets and polished hardwood decks. I don’t think her coolness was all because of the probation thing. Being a gentle soul, as was he, she didn’t stomp his dreams, though. I’m pretty sure Mark’s father would have disowned him, had they sold the Brookline property and sailed away. Perhaps that was what made sailing such a wonderful place for dreaming. It was both a final release from HIS servitude, and, it would never happen.
