30 Pieces of a Novel (25 page)

They walked and talked. She took his hand, he let her for a minute and then pulled it away, patted the hand that had held his, and said, “I might meet someone—this is home territory, the whole Upper West Side is—or you might. They won't know what to think. That concerns me; what can I tell you? They'll maybe think you're with your grandfather. And if they see us crossing the street, that you're helping him across, and if they do think that, we'll be lucky,” and she said, “Don't be maudlin. And how can anyone think I'm helping you across if I'm not holding on to you?” “I see you, I see my daughter, what can I tell you?” and she said, “And I see you and I don't see my father.” “You have to.” “Don't tell me what I have to see. And you don't see your daughter in me either. Besides, you need as much help getting across the street, and look it, as I do. Please, don't be such a schmuck. You're too old for it; it's unbecoming and to me unattractive,” and he said, “Listen, I can't take a girl forty-plus years younger than I, a young woman—a woman, all right, a woman—calling me a schmuck. ‘Unattractive,' fine. When I was your age or ten years older that might have hit me, but not now.” “I meant in an ugly way, that ‘unattractive,'” and he said, “Still, I don't care. But you don't know what that ‘schmuck' does to me.” “Then what should I call you, ‘my darling'?” “Of course not; it wouldn't be true.” “I know. That's why I said it,” and he said, “Good, then you also know now I'm slow.” “Really, Gould, we should talk some more about this and your perspective on it, but not while we're walking. Would you care to go in someplace quieter and less crowded this time for another wine and beer?” “Coffee,” and she said, “I could make us coffee at my place.” “Oh, jeez, I don't know. Haven't I turned you off sufficiently where you'd rather have seen the last of me?” “You're doing your darnedest but it hasn't reached the point where I see anything too difficult to overcome.” “Nicely and graciously put, but I don't deserve it. Okay, your place, so long as you know there'll be no commitment from me to go further. ‘Urgency … push.' I'm not saying it right—I'm doddering—but you must know what I'm getting at.” “Just coffee. If it only comes to that. Because I don't like any prearranged restriction if there really seems no call for one.” “Listen. Suppose it went further—I'm definitely not saying for today—and you hated it, were even repulsed by it because you suddenly saw how old and doddery I was, and then we'd have to walk around each other on the street after that when we met, not wanting to say anything to the other or even approach him—” and she said, “So? First of all, we wouldn't stalk around, or what you said. What does it mean anyway? You make it look like two snarling panthers—lions, cheetahs, one of the feral cat families—because one's in the other's territory, by gosh—or maybe cheetahs and panthers only go roaming—but the other doesn't want him there.” “That's not what I meant. I was talking about potential embarrassment, uncomfortableness.” “So I got it wrong. My turn to be incoherent. Sorry. But we'd just—and my ‘sorry' was for insinuating you were being incoherent; you weren't, or not much. But if I now have it right, we'd just say hello, talk politely a little, ask after the other's family—I feel I know enough about yours to do that, or would by then, and I also know how much you love talking about them—and then go our two ways, something that shouldn't be new in relationships to either of us. We all come across people we don't particularly want to meet, but we deal with them civilly, don't we?—no inclination
to
hurt or get revenge? But tell me
why we're
talking like this. It's ridiculously premature. For now, let's just have coffee. Or if you want—I feel I'm pushing you too much on this, as you said, or did I get that wrong too?—maybe we should go home, you to yours, me to mine, so long till the next time, if we meet on the street or in the market or one of us wants to call and the other doesn't object to receiving.” “No, coffee and dessert, on me and at a coffee bar, please.” “You paid for the movie tickets and drinks.” “I like to pay; I do it without argument or for reward,” and she said, “If we've settled on coffee and dessert, I have some Mondel's chocolate lace cookies in a tin, just a few days old … well, I've given myself away: but at my apartment? I also have a new espresso machine never used: cappuccino, espresso, the works. And brandy, which I use for cooking, but it's good stuff, if you want to cap the night,” and he said, “Do you have a roommate? Only because I don't want to converse with anyone else tonight under forty,” and she shook her head. “I live alone. I thought I told you that,” and he said, “Not that I remember, but we're both pretty aware by now of my deficiency that way,” and she said, “Well I do, my big luxury; the espresso machine was a housewarming gift from my folks, along with a Bokhara rug.”

They cabbed to her place. He looked at his building as he went into hers. He forgot to ask if it's a student building, lots of young students around, and if there's a Columbia University security guard at the door, but there wasn't, and nobody in the lobby or at the elevator, and what would he have done if there was? He'd have gone in with her. She was the one who wanted to cab. “But it's only ten blocks,” he'd said, “and I like walking and it's a nice night,” and she said, “I'm tired: my feet. I haven't been on them all day, but they hurt. I'm older than you think, physically; I also have a waitress job three days a week,” and he said, “Oh, you didn't say,” and wondered where it was and what would happen if he went into it by accident in the next few days and saw her there, or let's say if they said, later tonight, It isn't a good idea to see each other again, and then sometime in the next few days he went into the restaurant, sat at a table alone or at the counter—he prefers counters to tables when he eats alone: it's quicker and also easier to read a book on them—and she turned out to be his server. In the cab she'd asked if he had any siblings and he said, “One, a few years younger, but he died when I was a boy,” and she said, “So did mine, an older sister by two years, but she was killed by a hit-and-run when she was nineteen,” and he said, “I didn't know; I'm very sorry. I only remember one girl from my dinner at your house, and I'm almost sure it was only once, so maybe it wasn't even you I saw then,” and she said, “You forget it was I who first recognized you. It could be that Sue was sick that night and had to stay in her room or was on a sleep-over. Anyway, we've something very deep in common,” and he said, “But my loss was almost sixty years ago. It was in Central Park. We were standing by the bridle path. I was supposed to be looking after him, and a horse went nuts, tossed its rider, and kicked my brother in the head, and he suffered for a long time with a blood clot and seemed to recover, and then, like an old man shooting an embolism or whatever they shoot, died doing his rudimentary schoolwork at home. I think he was drawing the cover of his book report.” He thought, riding up the elevator and staring at the gash in the ceiling panel and cable moving above it, Why'd he lie about his brother, and what's going to happen now with her? He's not prepared for it. What does he do with a young woman? Not prepared with a bag either, but she probably has a packet of them in her night table or another kind of protection. If it comes to that, as she said, if that's what she meant. It's been so long with any woman. But a young one with such a young body, everything flat and firm, it seems. And he hasn't made love with anyone but his wife since he met her—has kissed a few but hasn't even touched one on the breast, and he thinks every kiss he did was when he was a little high and standing in someone's kitchen. All his hand and finger movements will be the ones he did with his wife thousands of times. He knew what she liked, how she wanted it done, and if he didn't, she told him, so he thinks he'll probably do things to this girl's body as if it were his wife's. If he ends up inside her, he'll come in a minute. No, he knows how to hold it back if he wants to, or for a few minutes after it seems he's going to come soon, but that was with his wife and after many years with her. It's going to happen though, sex, if not tonight then soon with her. If there's a chance for it tonight, will he do it? Yes, because when she decides to do it—his age and looks again—that might be the only time she does. She'll give him the smile, he'll kiss her this time, it could even start right after they close the door and hang up their jackets: she'll start rubbing his back, he'll rub hers, they'll be standing and embracing at the time—best it starts up after their jackets are off and maybe even their sweaters: more maneuverability, fewer layers to tug up and go under—then the legs, sides, behinds, they'll feel around and this piece of clothing will be off and that one and soon all of them, and it'll be many kisses later and he'll be worrying if his breath stinks to her, if she's imagining it stinks because he's old, if she isn't already turned off by him, his skin, wrinkles, and flab. But she'll still be kissing—lips and tongue don't change, he doesn't think—and maybe thinking she'll do it with him this once, what's the harm? a different kind of experience, et cetera, and she's already a little excited, see him on the street after that, say it just wasn't going to work, that's why she didn't call or answer his answering-machine messages, but no regrets—and they'll go to the bedroom and so on and then he'll have done it, first time with someone since his wife, if it, please God, comes to that.

So they went to her apartment. She asked for his jacket, hung it in the closet alongside hers, and went into the kitchen to make coffee; he stayed in the living room, flipping through some of the books on her end tables, cocktail and dining tables, and a few on the couch. “Would you like some of that brandy in your coffee?” she yelled out. “I see it's Spanish,” and he said, “On the side, why not, sure, thanks, if you'll join me, but even if you don't,” and she said, “Yeah, I could.” They both had brandy in a small glass that looked like half a shot glass with a stem. They had another. “Two of these is just one,” she said, “so don't think you're going to get sick by the morning.” She sipped from her espresso coffee—she wasn't able to figure out how to operate the steamed milk part of the machine and didn't want to disturb him to try and help her; he didn't touch his coffee, and she never referred to it till it was cold. “Want me to heat it up? Or better yet, make a fresh one for you?” and he said, “The brandy's all I need,” and then, “May I?” and poured himself another. They talked about a lot of things quickly. Does her waitressing job cover her rent and other expenses? No, not in this city, so her parents contribute about half. Does she get in some reading at work? A little, during customer lulls or when she escapes to the toilet, but there's this dismal recorded restaurant music that never stops and the readings she has to do are often unnecessarily complex or unpardonably impenetrable, so it's hard to concentrate. Next year she's supposed to be a teaching assistant, which will mean full tuition waiver and a stipend, so she can give up the waitressing job. “You're a teacher, so give me advice as to what to do when you know a student isn't doing the assignment. I've always wanted to know, and I think now I'll have to.” “You whip him or her,” and she said, “Be serious, this is important.” He told her his tricks how to make sure the students read everything he assigns them. She said, “I should get this down on paper, but I'll remember,” and he said, “Or you can ask me at the time, if you run into the problem,” and she said, “You may be too busy with your own work then,” and he said, “No, I'm always accessible, and to my friends even more so.” She asked if he liked teaching; he said, “Not especially.” She said, “Maybe because you've been doing it so long.” He said, “No, I've never liked it, and if your next question is why do I do it”—“It would've been”—“Well, to support myself and the things I like doing.” She asked what they were and he said, “Too few to enumerate,” and she said, “Come on, don't get highbrow and fussy; it's the one thing I've disliked most about academics,” and he said, “You're right. Reading, long-walking, my daughters, of course; my typewriter diddling most times, and for more than twenty years of our marriage, my marriage and my wife, who is still quite nice.” “What made you break up?” and he said, “I thought we talked about that. If we did, I shouldn't have, as I don't like discussing it, I'm sorry,” and she said, “Please, no excuses or apologies required. Have you seen any women since you separated?” and he said, “Dated?” and she said, “I guess you could use that term,” and he said, “No, what about you? When was the last time you were involved, or maybe you are even now with someone special,” and she said, “That's a funny question, and if you don't mind I'd rather not answer it, and not to get even with you, you understand.” “Why, did I say something inappropriate again? If so, I'm sorry, but I've been out of circulation for many years, and in ways I'm like a rustic,” and she said, “You were married, though,” and he said, “Yeah, but my wife acted as my social intermediary. I, for the most part, reclused myself except in school, though I'd flee from there the minute my work was finished, and could barely endure answering the phone at home. I've come out of that somewhat since I've been living alone; I mean, you gotta if you have a phone but no answering machine,” and she said,
“Good
, I'm glad, it's better for you not to be that way. As for me, let me explain that I don't like talking about someone I was involved with, at least not to someone I only recently met,” and he said, “You mean me?” and she said, “Who else? I don't even have a pet here,” and he said, “I see, and that was dumb of me to say, ‘You mean me?' Of course me. As you said, who else?” Then they were silent. Something about her face: he was saying the wrong things and she was looking away. It wasn't going well. It had become strained. She wanted him out of here, he was sure of it, and well she should. It's not that it's late. What time is it? He'd look at his watch but that might annoy her even more: He's that bored with me? she could think. Well, who the hell does he think he is? Or give her the impetus to say, “It's getting a little late, isn't it? and I'm also feeling tired, so perhaps we should call it a night.” He looked at his empty glass, wanted to pour another, but thought she might think he drank too much or had to drink to be with her and have things to say. “Would you mind if I have just one more of this?” tapping the brandy bottle. “It's very good stuff. I always thought Spain, brandy, it'd be harsh, but it's not. I was once there but I don't remember having brandy. I only drank beer then—lots of it; I had a terrible pot—and some wine: white, which wasn't produced much in Spain, while I now mainly drink red and hardly touch beer. So, I missed my big chance, with the brandy and red wine. Port I remember in Portugal—I was even in Oporto, where they made it; you took a tour of the porteries—what would they be called?” and she said, “I wouldn't know.” “Maybe just distilleries. And these glasses are pretty small, as you said, and I'm not used to drinking this much, so I'm curious—you're curious, I'm curious—the effect it'll have on me. What an awful thought, you taking care of me—awful for you—if I got really pissed. Only kidding about all that except the beer, red, and pot,” and she said, “Please, I'll join you in one more.” She seemed back in the mood from before and asked when was he in Spain. He said, “Several years before I met my wife. I went with a woman and her kid—I'd been living with them—and we mostly hitchhiked. The boy had blond hair, so it was easy,” and she said, “You know, the truth is—as you'll see, all this time you've been talking, I've been listening some but mostly thinking—why not talk about that subject from before?” and he said, “What do you mean?” and she said, “Why am I reluctant to talk about it: my last two involvements? And I couple them up like that because they were practically back to back—a mistake; I don't think I had a week's break between them—and equally intense and both men seemed so young for their age and they even looked alike. Very tall, gaunt, lots of shocks of dark head hair; even the bony noses and enormous feet and hands and same-shaped eyes. I know it wasn't unintentional on my part, choosing the second with the looks of the first. I mean, with the second one—but you know what I mean. And the hair matter—that's no reflection on you, you understand. Younger men just have more hair. You must have had it too,” and he said, “I actually began going bald when I was thirteen, I think, or started worrying about it. That I still have some hair on top and so high on the sides surprises me; I thought I'd be a billiard ball. But these two young men: you liked them both, equally, what?” and she said, “I loved them, one no more than the other and both a lot, but knew it wouldn't last with either for more than a few months, if that. Still, I fell for them because they were so attractive and congenial, and it quickly worked out well. The conversation wasn't that good, though did it have to be, right at the beginning? But the sex was, and that's something. So there,” and he said, “How long ago, the last?” and she said, “Not long, but maybe I've spoken enough about it, not so much confessed but gone on almost nonstop,” and he said, “And sex, now there's a subject,” and she said, “Why, do you have something to say regarding what I told you? It could be you found my quick activities with successive men repugnant, or something less severe, or my cavalier attitude to the whole thing,” and he said, “Not in the least, we're just talking. I only meant
sex
, the universal subject for adults, the Esperanto in body language of a different kind, we could say, or not only for adults. Kids are good at picking up languages easily, right? So whenever it starts. So much to talk about there, in so many aspects,” and she said, “I'm not sure I understand what you're saying,” and he said, “I wasn't being clear?” and she said, “Not really. What is it you're sort of circulating around, something again about those two men I mentioned?” and he said, “Well, if you've no objection to talking about it, yes, you and these two guys, back to back, front to front, but instead we can start at the start, since I assume the first wasn't the first and so the second not the second, were they?” and she said, “Oh, you're funny; of course not. I'm twenty-three,” and he said, “So how old were you when you had your first involvement?” and she said, “Do you mean sex or just liking a guy?” and he said, “I guess so: sex, involvement, one and the same, I suppose, today or for about the last twenty years—I'm not sure, out let me know if this is the wrong question—out of line—it I'm being that, and I'll immediately change the subject or shut up,” and she said, “Real sex? Being penetrated? Losing the locket? Fifteen. You?” and he said, “Closer to fifteen or to sixteen?” and she said, “I forget; what's the difference?” and he said, “For me, things were a lot different when I was a kid,” and she said, “So you were much older when you first did it?” and he said, “No, fourteen. I remember it was December, right after Christmas—I was on school vacation—but with a whore. Most girls I went out with didn't do anything but kiss and, if you were lucky, on the fourth or fifth date would let you touch a breast through the blouse and, after a dozen dates, through the brassiere. For more, you had to go steady with them for half a year to a year—and I'm not saying too much more—or go out with a particularly wild usually homely girl you didn't want to be seen on the street with, and with her on the first date you could sometimes get bare tit, as we called it—it really sounds stupid now, and the way we regarded these girls, repulsive,” and she said, “But a professional whore. What a depressing introduction, though I suppose how most adolescent boys lost their virginity then,” and he said, “That's right. Most of my friends first went to prostitutes. I don't like the idea of it now but didn't think it depressing then. In fact, I have to admit I found it very exciting—the prospect of going to one and seeing a woman for the first time totally naked. I was practically heady at the thought of it, though it wasn't a great experience when I actually did it: she was crude and smelly and smoked a cigarette during a little of it, and her apartment was ugly. And it isn't, as I said, that I didn't want it to be with one of the girls I liked and dated,” and she said, “And you continued going to prostitutes after that?” and he said, “With my friends, when I was a teenager, yes, sometimes five or six of us to the same one in the afternoon. She'd take us one at a time and the others would wait on the street telling infantile dirty jokes to one another or in a small waiting room she had, all of us crammed onto one couch. But not for almost forty years, I want you to know, which means as a man—twenty, twenty-one—a very young man, my first two times in Europe? … Yes, there more than anywhere else. The women in the Amsterdam windows, a London prostitute or two right out on a quiet side street, against a car fender—that's where and how you did it, standing up. I've never seen anything like it in New York, and it was much cheaper there too. And Paris,
rue du
or
de
something or other—it was famous as a hooker street, but all gone now, I hear—near Les Halles, which has been torn down too. But I didn't do much whoring here, and usually when a friend set something up and maybe—this is, I'm still in my early twenties, you realize—because he had the dough and didn't want to go alone, was afraid he'd get beaten up and robbed. I was a big guy; most of my friends then were rich little guys … anyway, where he paid for me.” “As far as my first, it wasn't that great either. I didn't want to but wasn't forced. I did it mostly because all the other girls my age did, or said they were doing it—wouldn't that be something if they were all lying? But why are we talking of this, or focusing on it rather, after all the other subjects we started to discuss?” and he said, “We just got into it; who knows why?” and she said, “No, I bet there's a more deliberate reason,” and he said, “What?”—thinking he knew what she was going to say, and she said, “Simply to get ourselves worked up. What do you think?” and he didn't want to say, I knew you'd say something like that, but said, “What do I think? Truth is, I am a little excited, genitally—so you think I started the conversation for that reason, both for you and me, or intentionally turned it around to it at a time when we really didn't know each other or much about the other?” and she said, “I'm not accusing you. I feel I'm just as much responsible for the conversation's sudden turn and focus and am a little excited by it myself and enjoying the feeling. Because what's wrong in it? Is there any danger, do you think?” and he said, “Why should there be? Or maybe I'm missing your meaning,” and she said, “I'll put it this way: what do we do next? What about that? What do you think we should pursue next?” and he said, “You mean, do something?” and she said, “Only if you want to; it has to be consensual; I'm not about to spring on you,” and he said, “Of course, I know, and I'm delighted, but where?” and she said, “Let's go to the bedroom. We don't have to do, unless you insist on it, the preliminaries out here, do we? We've done most of it with chatter, so we can skip the couch stuff and save the rest for inside after we've taken off our clothes,” and he said, “You don't like being undressed?” and she said, “Not especially; I can undress myself,” and he said, “My wife did, even long into our marriage, and rebuked me for not doing it more often with her, undressing,” and she said, “If you're asking me to undress you,