Portrait of the French Author as a Young Man - Guy De Maupassant, 1850-1893
I must admit that I'm perplexed, completely at a loss. I need help. Please, someone tell me why Barry Yourgrau gave the title De Maupassant to his below flash fiction. All suggestions, no matter how outlandish, are most appreciated.
DE MAUPASSANT
A man wakes up and yawns and gets out of bed. He feels for his slippers with is feet. His right slipper won't fit. The man looks down and sees the reason: his right foot has grown to monstrous proportions. It must have happened in his sleep. He sits on the side of the bed with his mouth hanging open.
Nothing helps to modify this gigantic appendage's unbelievable dimensions. The man takes half a dozen icy showers, and then sits on the pot frantically kneading his hands while his foot wallows ina tub of ice water. The huge toes stick up above the surface like forms of sea life. Shivering, the man begins to realize that this is the way it's going to be, he'll just have to get used to living on these new terms. But how, with such a grotesque-looking foot! The vistas of shame, of self-loathing, make his head swim.
He hauls the foot back into the bedroom and starts dressing around it. He has a special date for this afternoon - of all afternoons! With great care he at last confronts the wrapping of the foot, trying to camouflage it as best he can as something socially acceptable. Socks won't work; he ends up using a T-shirt and then a scarf. The results look wretchedly absurd and alarming. In disgust the man hobbles to the phone to call up the girl and cancel. There's no dial tone. the phone is out of order. The man hurls the receiver at the wall. He looks at his watch. She'll just be leaving now. He lets out a moan of anguish and sinks onto the bed and covers his face in his hands. The foot protrudes from the heavily scissored bottom of its trouser leg like something ugly from the zoo lashed in place there.
Half an hour later the man plods awkwardly through the doors of the bar. Luckily, it's raining and the bar is dark. He wears his great-skirted overcoat. His heart rises into his mouth as he sees her at a table. But lucky again, her back is towards him. He forces a brave, almost livid grin and goes up behind her and then launches himself rapidly into the seat opposite her, so she doesn't have time to see all of him. She gasps. His grin freezes. She wears a black, impenetrable veil over the major portion of her face. Neither of them speaks. The man stares. The veil is so large. So wide. He realizes she is sobbing; tears hang from her chin. "I tried to call you . . . I tried to call you . . ." she is blurting softly. A horrible fear builds in the man, like a flame catching. "Let me . . . please . . ." he murmurs. He reaches across the table, to lift aside the veil. But with a dreadful sob she grabs his wrist and holds it away, tossing her huge head clumsily from side to side.
Photo of author as a young man - Barry Yourgrau, born 1949
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