Blind Date

Blind Date

BOOKS BY JERZY KOSINSKI

NOVELS

The Painted Bird

Steps

Being There

The Devil Tree

Cockpit

Passion Play

Pinball

The Hermit of 69th Street

ESSAYS

Passing By

Notes of the Author

The Art of the Self

NONFICTION

(
Under the pen name Joseph Novak
)

The Future Is Ours, Comrade

No Third Path

JERZY KOSINSKI

Copyright © 1977 by Jerzy Kosinski

All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any electronic or mechanical means, including information storage and retrieval systems, without permission in writing from the publisher, except by a reviewer, who may quote brief passages in a review. Scanning, uploading, and electronic distribution of this book or the facilitation of such without the permission of the publisher is prohibited. Please purchase only authorized electronic editions, and do not participate in or encourage electronic piracy of copyrighted materials. Your support of the author's rights is appreciated. Any member of educational institutions wishing to photocopy part or all of the work for classroom use, or anthology, should send inquiries to Grove/Atlantic, Inc., 841 Broadway, New York, NY 10003 or [email protected].

Published simultaneously in Canada Printed in the United States of America

Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data
Kosinski, Jerzy N., 1933–1991

Blind Date / Jerzy Kosinski.

p. cm.

eBook ISBN-13: 978-0-8021-9580-7

I. Title.

PS356.O8B57      1997

813′.54—dc2l                                     97-35018

Grove Press

an imprint of Grove/Atlantic, Inc.

841 Broadway

New York, NY 10003

Distributed by Publishers Group West

www.groveatlantic.com

FOR KATHERINA

“Remove me from this land of slaves,
Where all are fools, and all are knaves,
Where every knave and fool is bought,
Yet kindly sells himself for nought; —”

J
ONATHAN
S
WIFT

“But henceforth who is to define crime?
Who shall decide what is good and what
is evil? All the traditional systems have
placed ethics and values beyond man's reach.
Values did not belong to him; he belonged to
them. He now knows that they are his and
his alone …”

J
ACQUES
M
ONOD

Blind Date

When he was a schoolboy, George Levanter had learned a convenient routine: a four-hour sleep in the afternoon enabled him to remain mentally and physically active until the early dawn, when he would again go to sleep for four hours and wake ready for the day.

Now, years later, this pattern helped him maintain the energy he needed for his business activities in the city; in the mountains, it allowed him to pursue his strenuous skiing without giving up the equally strenuous resort night life.

The restaurant owner came out onto the terrace, asking in French for someone who could understand English. Behind him, dressed in the latest ski gear, trotted a chubby young Arab who was clearly ill at ease.

Levanter considered volunteering his services, but he realized that in ValPina, as in most Swiss resorts, there were undoubtedly numerous bilingual guests who could do better.

One of a group of Americans got up and offered to assist. The owner gestured toward the Arab, saying in French, “Please tell him I can't cash his check.”

The American spoke to the Arab, who handed him the check. The American gasped.

“It's for twenty-seven thousand,” he mumbled to his companions. He looked at the Arab, then at the owner, then once more at the check. “Twenty-seven thousand dollars!” he said again.

“I just received it this morning from Barclays Bank in London. It is my weekly allowance from my uncle, Sheik Zaid. It is good, I vouch for it!” the Arab insisted in his high-pitched, British-accented voice.

“That's a lot of money for a weekly allowance,” remarked the American, handling the check with obvious reverence.

The young Arab glanced at him defensively. “That's after taxes,” he said. “My allowance changes every week, depending on the price of oil.”

The American looked puzzled. “What do you have to do for it?” he asked.

“Do?” said the Arab. “There is nothing to do. Oil keeps gushing up from under the sand, whether or not my family wants it to.” He giggled nervously. “You are from the U.S.?” he asked.

The American nodded.

The Arab reflected for a moment. “My country has a population of seven million,” he said. “Yours has two hundred and twenty million. Yet my country has more money in U.S. banks alone than all of America's own monetary deposits! That's oil! Think what we could do to any bank in America that refused to cash our checks!” He smiled. “Now, what about my check here?”

“You really want him to cash it?” the American asked.

“How else can I pay for my lunch?” asked the Arab, who still seemed not to comprehend the astonishment of the others. “I left all my cash at the hotel. This check is the only money I have with me.”

The American relayed the message to the owner.

“This is a mountain restaurant, not a bank!” the owner exclaimed. “All he had was a regular skier's lunch. Tell him I can't accept his check. And we don't give credit here!”

It was afternoon and Levanter was getting drowsy as he sat on the terrace: it was nearly time for him to ski down to the hotel for his
afternoon sleep. He dozed off for a moment and when he awoke he saw a little girl, about four or five years old, playing with a doll next to his chair. A woman reclined on a deck chair, basking in the sun with her eyes closed.

“What's your name?” Levanter asked the girl.

“Olivia,” she answered guardedly.

“Olivia? But that's a girl's name, and you're a boy. Your name must be Oliver,” Levanter said.

“I'm a girl, not a boy.” She giggled and moved closer to him.

Levanter leaned forward and drew the child gently toward him. “You're a boy. Don't be ashamed — you're Oliver, a handsome boy.”

“I am not a boy. I never was a boy. I'm a girl.” She was upset and was almost shouting. “You can ask my mother.”

The woman in the deck chair opened one eye, smiled at Levanter, then spoke to the child. “You must convince this gentleman yourself,” she said. “If I tell him you're a girl, the gentleman might not believe me either.” She shut her eyes once more.

“You see, Oliver,” Levanter lectured, “even though you think you're a girl, you're really a boy. Ask anyone.”

The girl looked over at a nearby table, where a group of young men and women sat drinking wine and beer. Some of them had turned to watch Levanter and the child. They smiled but no one said anything. For a moment the girl looked uncertain, then she became playful.

“All right, I'm Oliver. So what?” Now she was challenging Levanter, letting him know she was ready to pursue their game.

At that moment a couple came out onto the terrace from the restaurant. The man, heavy and balding, appeared to be in his late fifties. Clinging to his arm was a platinum blonde, half his age, wearing a blouse which revealed her plump breasts. One of the young men rose respectfully.

“How are you, Professor?” he said, extending his hand to the man.

Levanter's attention was distracted from Olivia as he watched the professor and the young people.

The little girl was obviously annoyed that her game had been interrupted. She accosted the professor, saying in a loud voice, “How are you, Madame?”

He looked down at her. “I am Professor or Mister,” he said, “not Madame.”

The girl smiled precociously. “You're not Mister. You're Madame,” she said. “Even if you think you're a man, you're really a woman. Ask anyone, ask this gentleman,” she urged, pointing to Levanter.

Levanter closed his eyes, to appear to be napping.

“You're wrong, my child,” the man insisted, his lips tightening. “You've made a mistake. Now be a good girl and run along.”

Undeterred, the girl patted his hand. “You know you're Madame, even if you don't want to admit it. There is nothing to be ashamed of, Madame!”

The girl sat down primly next to Levanter. Everyone at the neighboring tables laughed.

Levanter woke from his afternoon nap. He bathed, dressed, and went down to the hotel dining room. After dinner, he wandered into the hotel bar for a drink. Sitting alone in the bustling cocktail lounge, he watched as a woman entered with two small girls; all three had thick blond hair and pale green eyes. The woman scanned the room for an empty table, and quickly navigated a path through the crowd to the vacant table on Levanter's left. Once she was seated, she began to inspect the room. She glanced briefly at Levanter, but when she saw that he was looking at her, her gaze quickly shifted.

In a few minutes, the girls left the cocktail lounge, and their mother was alone at the table.

Levanter felt awed by the woman, but his feelings seemed to be triggered by something he could not define. He and the woman did not look at each other, yet he knew she was aware of his attention to her. They both kept their eyes fixed on the pianist, a man with the resigned air of a musician who has been playing popular songs for forty years. When he took a break, the woman got up and walked
through the crowded room to the piano. She sat down and began to play an intricate Chopin nocturne.

Within seconds, her professional style had captured the attention of everyone in the lounge. As her fingers moved over the keyboard, she looked around at her audience, occasionally meeting Levanter's gaze. Levanter studied the shadows her lashes cast on her cheeks and stared at her lips, parted slightly as she concentrated on her music. He tried to imagine her face contorted in a spasm of pleasure or of pain, but he could not. As unobtrusively as possible, he made his way out of the lounge.

In the lobby, Levanter saw the woman's daughters playing. He went over to them and asked their ages.

“I'm eight,” the older girl said, “and my sister is six.”

“What are you going to be when you grow up?” Levanter asked her.

She looked closely at him and, without hesitation, said she wanted to be an actress.

“An actress? I know many actresses,” said Levanter. “Do you want me to audition you for a role?”

The girl nodded, a serious look on her face.

“Let's pretend I am your husband,” said Levanter, “and this hotel is our home. I have just returned from a trip abroad. While I was away, our dog died. His name was Frecky, and we loved him very much. You didn't write me that Frecky had died because you didn't want to upset me. Now you have to break the news to me. Ready?”

As her sister watched with envy, the girl assumed the pose of an anxious wife. Levanter stepped away, then came back, his arms outstretched in greeting.

“Darling, how I've missed you,” he said, embracing the girl. “I'm so glad to be back with you and Frecky.” He paused, looking around. “But where is Frecky? Frecky, Frecky!” Levanter managed to give the impression of shouting without raising his voice. “Where is my sweet little dog, Frecky? Come here, your master is home!”

The girl was flushed and perspiring. She took Levanter's hand
and patted it. “Sit down, my love,” she said quite firmly. “Sit down. I have something to tell you.”

Levanter pushed her aside. “In a minute, darling. Let me find Frecky. Frecky!” he shouted.

“Sit down,” the girl insisted. “It's about Frecky. You see” — tears welled up in her eyes — “Frecky is not here.”