Grace (11 page)

“Do you know her?”

“I will in a second.”

Nell was already in motion, homing in on the other edge of the sofa, where she struck up a conversation. Nell was like the pope's confessor, people divulged their secrets to her in order to protect larger secrets, until she was one of the few people who knew how the city—and the people who ran it—truly operated, and could draw the hidden, unlikely connections between all its self-contained worlds. Whether through charm or guile or toughness, she was impossible to resist.

“Fats,” she exclaimed, when she had penetrated to the center of the group. At the far corner of the sofa, sitting like a pharaoh, was Clinton Stone, a record producer, who had once been a musician, then president of a label, where he invented a whole new sound. It had made his stars famous, and given him what stars never get to possess, which is power. Nor did he get it by mistake. He knew what a throne was for, and when the suits finally examined the books and realized they had put an artist in charge of the business, it was too late. By the time they separated him from his chair he no longer needed it.

In the years since, he had become impresario to half the town. He knew all the gods, and all the demigods, and all the beautiful, young ones who burned to be gods and demigods. He could tell at a glance who had it to make it, and who did not. Those who had it, he taught to manage it. Those who did not, he taught how to manage that too, until he had aided so many people on their paths he was known around town as Yoda—though never to his face. He was sensitive about his looks.

Nell introduced us, and he asked what I did. I told him I had written the film with Davidson, and he nodded his approval. “He used to sleep on my sofa in Alphabet City, back when we were young and New York was cool. What are you doing next?”

Most conversations about work in the city were a side-winding way to talk about money, but Yoda had the supernal curiosity of the brilliant, and was as fascinated as a child new to the world, which drew me out, until I had told him everything about my worries, and after that how I'd quit my old life.

He nodded inscrutably, asking what had led me to quit, which was simply that I had learned there was nothing unique about suffering, and nothing I could do to stop it, and nothing more I had to say about it. I had asked myself how my life connected to all those others, and the theoretical questions evaporated, and the truth was too much to speak, until I was back at the place I'd started, which was simply: who are you and what do you know?

“It's not just black people they give black lives,” he deadpanned, after my brain had flooded through my mouth. He put a hand on my shoulder to shut me up, and told me not to get so weighed down—half my fear was projection, and the other half I created as well.

I asked what he was working on, to change the subject.

“Same as always,” he said coolly. “Getting back for what they took from the Africans.”

He sent Davidson a text message, telling him to come join us, and ordered another round for the table.

“I bet you date a lot of complicated women,” he said when the drinks arrived. “You should meet Estella.”

“Because you think I need complications?”

“Because I know you need fewer.” He whispered close to my ear. The one you think you like is a hot mess. Estella is grounded. Maybe not a supermodel, and maybe not a supergenius, just real good people, which is its own special thing. If I were you, I would take her out and get to know her.”

I was horny and did not want to be alone, but I did not want a relationship and had my eye on the long-legged one who looked like fun. He was talking loudly enough that they both pricked up their ears, laughed, and flowed over to where we were seated. Yoda made introductions, and soon after slipped away and began politicking with Nell about something in next week's newspaper.

The one I liked was called Anna. She was originally from Texas, had studied psychology, and had just moved East for a new job in branding. She had the wholesome, fresh-faced look of people new to the city, and seemed like a nice girl to know.

“I'd love to see you again sometime,” I said to Anna, after we had been talking awhile.

“Next week,” she answered, over the noise of the club. I promised to call, and looked at my watch, and cheeked her goodbye.

“Or tonight,” she said, wrapping an arm around my neck, and pulling me in to kiss me on the mouth. “You're not leaving, are you?”

“I have an early morning,” I wavered over whether to close the deal.

She leaned in seductively. “Are you certain?”

“Do you want me to take you seriously, or take you home tonight?”

“Why can't we do both?”

I debated with myself between how much to trust affection that sprang so spontaneously into existence and my desire not to go home alone. I agreed to stay a while longer.

“Yoda was right,” I said, getting up to go to the bar to freshen our drinks. “You're trouble.”

“Did he say we should be lovers?” she asked.

“I did not ask him.”

“What do you think?” she reached up and pulled me to her again. I had not dated anyone since Genevieve, and had not been looking for anyone—but the feel of her taut body was undeniable. It felt good to have anybody in my arms.

“Maybe.” I wanted to be careful with myself. “I'll call you.”

She turned her head and smiled as she walked back to her friends, and I returned to the bar.

“That was hot. Did you get her number?” Nell asked, coming over as I waited for the bartender.

“I'll go out with her next week,” I answered.

“Next week? Honey, that's a lifetime. Take her home with you. What's the harm?”

I was fairly lit by then, and as Nell voiced her approval I knew she was just trying to cheer me up, but I was still thinking about what I could not hold, and did not wish to be with someone I did not know. Still I did not want to be alone.

“She is still trying to figure out what the world is about. I do not know if I feel like playing.”

“Got it,” Nell said, turning her alert attention to a commotion that had broken out below.

“Look at that. So typical. So sad.” She pointed down to a pair of suits at one of the tables near the stage, each vying to take the singer home.

“Why?”

“Two bankers fighting over a blonde.”

The bouncers stepped in to break them apart, but the violence spoiled my high, and I slipped out a side door into the fresh night air to smoke a cigarette.

Outside I took out my phone, fingering it like a worry stone, as I thought of texting Devi, until I remembered she had deleted her number. That should have been enough to stop me, but it was not. I sent her an e-mail as I finished my smoke, before slipping the phone back in my pocket. As the phone reached the bottom of my pocket, it pulsed with what turned out to be a message from Nell.

“Where did you go?” she wrote.

“Having a smoke. May go home.”

“Come back upstairs,” she insisted. “The party's just getting started.” She told me Davidson had finally arrived, along with some others I knew.

I stubbed out my cigarette, and gathered myself to go back inside, as the phone glowed brightly again in the shadow of the street. Devi had sent an e-mail, which I opened, drunkenly hoping she might be willing to come out. “I'm in Jersey,” she wrote. “Painting the house with my new fiancé.”

I headed back inside for what I still hoped to be a jubilant night.

Upstairs I found Nell and the others engaged in deep conversation. She sensed my approach, however, and took me by the elbow, leading me into the circle, where Davidson was holding court. As we all stood there laughing I felt a hand brush against mine, I took it with firm confidence of what I was doing.

“Anna,” I said, “I was afraid you'd gone.”

“I'm right here.” She laced her fingers through mine, moving closer, so I could hear her over the pulsating music. “Let's go,” she whispered.

I saw Nell smile knowingly, as she repositioned herself in the circle so that I had to move closer toward Anna. I was struck again by the sweet brightness of her face, brimming with an easy American confidence. Even as she told of how frantic her first weeks in the city had been, it was with an upbeat demeanor that seemed honest and light and made me take to her.

The balcony was packed, and as our group continued to expand we were pushed near the wall, where we pressed against each other, and her body felt full in my arms, and her eyes twinkled mischievously with possibility that told me to take her home and feel someone's arms around me.

Her bare leg brushed against mine as a voluptuous breeze streamed through the taxi window, suffusing us with expectation as we sped along the West Side Highway.

Someone had invited her to an after party in Harlem, which she insisted we go to before calling it a night. It seemed too far away to be worthwhile, but our flirtation had advanced far enough that I went along with her.

We exited the cab and walked up five flights to a rooftop, where all the lights of Manhattan fanned out before us, like a deck of illuminated playing cards. The person who had invited her was not there, and the party was uninteresting, but she seemed to enjoy herself, so I bided my time and took in the view, as she sang along with a rap song I had never heard before.

“Do you think it's wrong,” she asked, seeing the look on my face as I registered the words of the song, “for white people to say ‘nigger'? Even when they're quoting black people saying nigger?”

“We can express whatever we wish,” I said, realizing I was wasting my time, “as long as we understand what we are expressing.”

“I agree,” she said, missing the nuance of what I had said, and continued singing.

I excused myself to go downstairs, telling her I was tired and ready to leave. “We can share a cab back downtown if you like. But why don't you stay if you're having fun?”

She nodded, her face finally registering the situation. Before I descended the stairs I saw her start to dance with a thugged-out guy, who looked like he had just been released from Rikers that morning. I sighed with relief to be free of her and headed downstairs, stopping in the bathroom before leaving.

When I came out of the bathroom she was standing near the door, waiting.

“I'm sorry.” Her pretty face looked up at me. “I hope I didn't upset you.”

“Everything is fine,” I told her. “It's late.”

“You're a real gentleman,” she said, “I like that.” She pressed her sweaty body against me and wrapped her arms around my neck. “I like you.”

Upstairs we could hear the thump of feet on the terrace, dancing to Biggie Smalls. Downstairs our mouths had closed upon each other's, and she trembled in my arms, letting loose a yelp of startling, primal ferocity, as the kiss grew in intensity.

We were both drunk by then and rode back to my place together, making out in the cab, where her cries of passion intensified, her entire body purring beneath me, like a crouching predator. She freed her breasts, which were full in the warm air, stoking the hunger that had throbbed between us all night.

“Take me,” she commanded, when we reached my apartment. “Do whatever you want.”

Seeing her in the context of my apartment made me realize what a mistake I had made. She was bland, with nothing special about her I could discern, because there was nothing special about her that she had discovered. She was simply part of a certain group at a certain moment, a way of speaking and dressing and looking at the world that was expensively purchased, but less than it wished to seem. Brands and references instead of personality. I did not want to be the kind of person who used other people for their bodies. Her skin crawled with sex, though, and the dull desire I'd felt when I first saw her renewed itself. I was not entirely reconciled to the idea of taking her to bed, and was even vaguely ashamed of knowing what I did and wanting to fuck her anyway. As I tried to decide what to do she coiled herself around me, and I smelled her truffled perfume and salted sweetness, my mind revving until I was sober again with the sudden thought that I did not want her. It was the bone of her hips that when I touched them flooded me with the overwhelming sense she was not my woman. My lust fled.

Her presence in my apartment began to fill me with sadness, and I could not adequately explain to myself how she had come to be there, as I searched for a decent way to bring the matter to a close.

“Take me,” she commanded again.

“We should not.”

“I thought you wanted me.”

“I did. I do.”

“Fuck me in the ass,” she breathed.

I had no rational objection to what any two consenting adults did with one another, and believed firmly in the universal right to introduce any direct object in any prepositional relation to whatever indirect object so desired. I simply did not want her, and cringed at myself for trying to steal a handful of passion with someone I did not love.
Take me. Do what you want. I do not care who you are, I just want to get off.
Not:
Take me. I am yours. Do what you want. Just be careful what you do to me. I am yours.

As she reached for me in the billowing darkness we started making out again, the booze and loneliness telling me to be satisfied with the woman in my bed. The voice inside telling me there is no broken blessing like when who is in your arms is not in your heart, and the better part of disgrace too.

“Let's stop.” I pulled away.

“Why not just enjoy ourselves?” she asked.

I did not know what to tell her without sounding like a prude. It felt foolish and awkward already, and I issued a limp apology. The bridge of want between us had drawn back completely, as I traced her hips and derrière wistfully beneath the thin fabric of her shorts, knowing what desire there was between us was only the pettiest of lusts; and not the self revealing its true hunger and true generosity that I craved. Not that I was above lust. It was only that if I was to have lust alone I wanted it at least to be the ungovernable lust that would plunge me to the bottom of all wanting.