Francis & Zelda: A Story by Karen A. Elizes

Francis came home from abroad in Paris and the homecoming was silent. Not the apartment, though quiet and vast, he thought about how nice it would have been to arrive home with Zelda opening her arms to him. Instead she was back in Tuscany, shopping around for nonsense and doing lord knows what with an airplane pilot.

Ernest had advised him to take a break from shooting the last few scenes they had in Paris, and although relieved to be back in New York, his mind remained in crowded hotels and whiskey bottles.

“Everything will take care of itself, Francis.” Ernest had told him the night before he left.

“Don’t drink too much either. I mean it.” Francis had been drinking heavily, always constantly drunk, passing out at late hours, crying into the phantom shoulder of what he thought was Zelda, but what always turned out to be a pillow. The childish way he had been acting lately almost astounded him, repelled at the thought of being so unlike himself over the course of the year. He and Zelda had been fighting, especially after her infidelity last summer in the French Riviera with that Brazilian-bronze airplane pilot. Growing ever distant as time went by, it was difficult to stay civil with her when she too would come home drunk and strike him, provoking a fight that he knew better then to get involved in. He was at a lost.

He threw his baggage on the cold hard wood floor, loosened his tie and slumped in his chair, pouring a vat of scotch into a dirtied glass. Lighting a cigarette, the pressure began to weigh down on him again, like in the plane coming home. The uneasiness that came slowly, draped over him like the clouds over the city. Several things juggled through his mind as he sat there, worried about the editing he had to finish, how much money that was going to cost production with the delay of him coming back to New York for the week. The story line was out of whack and writing as the shooting of the film went on only made things worse for him. Ernest who was playing the lead role, wasn’t making things any better, though he was always sincere and brotherly-like to Francis, Ernest’s quarreling with the assistant director, Ezra Cummings was what almost caused the entire production to fall. Literally.

He needed air. Getting up to step into the balcony, he realized that he was quiet tipsy. Five glasses had already done him in and yet his resistance against the wind was strong. He leaned in over the railing of the balcony and gazing down before him, he became dizzy, forgetting his fear of heights, breathing heavily he lifted himself up and coughed; the cigarette dangled from his lips, drunk from the loss of ash. He walked back inside the apartment, running his free hand through his wavy auburn hair then swiping his lips with his thumb, the cigarette that was dying was put out, thrown into an ashtray. Francis’s eyes started to drop as he sat in the love seat, and then the doorbell rang.

He hated visitors. Period. He hated how they’d ring the doorbell more then twice and then rap annoyingly at the door when there wasn’t an answer. The persistence of the knocking that began reminded him of Zelda. And oddly enough when he came to the door and opened it, he saw her standing there with a tired bemused look on her face. She wasn’t due for another two weeks, or at least till the movie was done.

“Surprised, Francis? I lost my key somewhere, sorry.” Her lips were pink and her complexion was different, not pale like before, almost as if someone had injected her with vitality.

“Yes, of course” The look on his face was that of an intimidated boxer, scared to get back into the fight.

“Your drunk, aren’t you? I can smell it”

“Yes, yes I am, and you my dear Zelda are sober as a Protestant pastor . . . yes you are” His words were slurring.

Zelda was taken aback by this.

“Why do you look so fuckin’ hurt?” His tone was grave but an obvious trace of resentment was in his voice and his stare was quiet maddening.

Thus began the fighting: And after thirty minutes of hated words it stopped when he finally sat in his love seat again.

“C’mere” he said. Smiling lazily.

She stood in front of him with one hand on her hip and leaning slightly to the right.

“Kneel between my legs, Zelda, I want you to kneel.”

She knelt. She knelt with the willingness to amuse herself, Francis spread his knees apart, her hands landing on the top of his thighs.

“Smoke me.”

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