Love, in Theory: Ten Stories

Theory of the Leisure Class

173 I. Conspicuous Leisur e The Scottish Brewer and his wife have not joined us this afternoon for our trek through the forest of Tapantí. They are protesting the mud. Boycotting the birds. Outraged by the sloppiness, the untidiness of nature. How they conceived of an ornithological tour that did not require hiking through muck, I cannot conceive, but the Scottish Brewer seems to have imagined that the birds would come to us. Regrettably, the Duck Man and his wife are undeterred; they come up the path behind us, talking loudly. Manuel, our guide, has shushed them repeatedly but to no effect. Our only hope now is to outdistance them, but every so often, through the canopy of green, from amidst the vines and leaves, I hear a distant quack and know that they are out there still, the Duck Man and his wife, somewhere in the jungle, gaining on us. T H E O R Y O F T H E L E I S U R E C L A S S ˛ T H E O R Y O F T H E L E I S U R E C L A S S 174 We are fourteen: six married couples, the General, who has come alone, and Manuel. There are the wealthy Scottish Brewer and his wife, serious birders who seem to feel they are lowering themselves to be traveling in the company of Americans. There are the Sandersons, the very nice couple from Illinois (he was a state legislator for many years and a professor of political science; his wife, Geneen, heads up her local League). There is the Duck Man and his young wife. I call him the Duck Man because he quacks when he wants to screw (pardon my French). These are the things you learn about people on a tour such as this: all the phobias and quirks come out, as if inhibition were taking a vacation too. In the course of our ten-day tour, we have slogged through mud, mosquitoes, wet, and rain; where possible we have stayed in good hotels. Ours is a domesticated adventure, organized by the American Museum of Natural History. Our guides have been very knowledgeable , very good, and we’ve traveled a great deal to remote wildlife preserves for which Costa Rica is known. Most days I’ve made it a policy to walk at the front of the group with Manuel, where the bird watching is best, but on this, our last day, my husband, Milt, and I have remained back with the General, who lags behind, watching the path for snakes and roots. I point out liana and bromeliads for him to see, but he is too upset to notice. He’s been sullen ever since we saw the spiders copulating. The General was the first to spot them on the philodendron leaf, a mile or so back. He has keen eyes—he was a pilot in the war— and he enjoys holding forth on entomology. He takes pleasure in pointing out a butterfly or spider that the rest of us have missed. He seemed particularly excited by his discovery today. He pulled out his thick British pocket guide to identify the pair. Then he called me over to watch, and then the others came, and together we watched as the male courted then mounted the female. We were all quite moved by the tiny drama—the miracle of creation taking place before our T H E O R Y O F T H E L E I S U R E C L A S S 175 eyes—right up until the moment the female turned and began to eat her mate. His tiny legs quivered, kicking air. It was not a surprise, of course. We all know about the birds and the bees and that spiders devour their mates. But we are aging— most of us are in our seventies, the General must be eighty, at least— and we are a little sentimental about sex. Only the Duck Man—who is in his forties (his wife is younger still)—seemed unperturbed. He leaned over the quivering pair on the leaf, shook his head, and said, “Dying for a fuck. Now that’s the way to go.” Then he laughed and clapped the General on the back. The General was quiet for a long time after that. He is recently...