How To Judge A Book By Its Lover

by Jessica Jiji

  I reminded myself that in serious circles she’d be laughed at, and she’d never get a boyfriend like Lucien. Refreshed, I joined the line for the digital catalog. Unfortunately, the library closed before my number ever came up on the big board.

  - 13 -

  The tediousness of the research was offset by the excitement of the publicity plans. At my photo shoot I was treated like a model, and since I was all dolled up when it was through, I called Lucien for lunch.

  As we sat in the Central Park boathouse looking out on the lake, I pulled out my travel schedule. “Look at all these bookings!” I said with awe. “I’ll be doing eighteen major media markets in the U.S. and Canada, and once the book is translated, I’ll be traveling all across Europe.” I had been elated when they told me they’d already started penciling in dates in anticipation of the major interest that would be generated by the ad campaign.

  Looking up, expecting his smile, I was disappointed to see that Lucien was pouting instead, but I felt better when I realized it was only because he would miss me. “Oh, honey, you can visit me any time, you can come on the whole tour. I don’t want to be away from you.”

  “Thanks, but I’ll skip the Laurel Linden show,” he said bitterly.

  “What’s that supposed to mean?”

  “Look at you. You’re becoming just like any pampered little star! Photo shoots, publicity tours. I liked you better when you were a nobody.”

  “You liked me better when I was struggling and depressed and frustrated and ready to give up?” I asked, feeling the blood rush to my face.

  “No, it’s not a question of your feelings,” he said. Tears began rolling down my cheeks. “It’s just that in the old days, you used to look at me with this deep admiration that’s gone now. When was the last time you spent hours listening to me explain something you never knew existed? That’s when I really connected with you.”

  When he said it, it dawned on me that I didn’t miss those old days. Not because they’d been replaced by photo shoots but because I’d grown tired of his lectures. It had gotten to the point where I thought that if I heard another lengthy exposition on the roots of neo-realist textile patterns I would scream.

  “Maybe that’s because I want a boyfriend, not a teacher,” I said, realizing it for the first time. “Someone who can be happy for me when I’m successful.”

  “Well, your success comes at my expense,” he said.

  “What?” I was furious. “Success hasn’t stopped me from taking care of you, cooking you dinner, pouring your drinks, running around looking for your stupid arthritis medicine.”

  “Laurel, I could hire an assistant for all of that. What I need is a girlfriend who shines the spotlight on me, not someone who hogs it.”

  The food came, and we spent the rest of lunch in silence.

  With the clock ticking before I was to move in with Lucien, and our relationship at its lowest point ever, I knew it was time to check in with Vanessa. She insisted on treating me to a spa manicure/pedicure at Ilona of Hungary on Madison Avenue. As we sat side by side sipping iced herbal tea and enjoying foot massages, I relayed the details of my fight with Lucien.

  “So why do you think you’re sabotaging your relationship now?” she asked.

  “Because I’m about to move in with him, and I’m afraid of commitment?” I guessed.

  “It’s bigger than that,” Vanessa said, her hands dipped in soapy water. “Do you realize that in the six months we’ve known each other you have achieved each and every one of your biggest dreams? That’s remarkable, Laurel. You are one remarkable woman.”

  I felt my chest swell with pride. Vanessa always managed to lift me above the muck and mire so I could see the panoramic view.

  “But six months is a very short time for such a drastic change, and it’s no wonder you’re so scared with everything going so fast. Unconsciously, you’re trying to put the brakes on for fear that you’ll lose control and crash.”

  “Poor Lucien! He’s the victim of my insecurity,” I said.

  “Sweetheart, you have come so far, I’m sure you can think of a way to make up with him.”

  There was very little left in my apartment that hadn’t been boxed, and I was about to unplug the landline and put it away as well when it rang.

  “Hey there!”

  “Trishalicious!” I was delighted to hear my best friend’s voice.

  “We’re coming into the city on Saturday night—a bunch of us,” she explained. “San Gennaro Festival. You and Lucien want to come catch some zeppoles?”

  I beat back the image of Lucien gagging on a greasy ball of fried dough. Definitely not his scene, but luckily I had a good excuse to bow out. “I would love to, Trish, but we have tickets that night. I’m treating him.”

  “Another one of those plays where nobody speaks?” she asked.

  “No, it’s Niklatumanda Inuit windchimes—a concert in Chinatown.”

  Trish was silent for a moment. “So meet us afterwards,” she suggested.

  “Can’t. It’s a six-hour interpretation of their exodus across the Bering Straits,” I said. “Lucien’s been going on about it for months.”

  “Oh, please,” Trish exploded. “Laurel, I may not be one of your fuzzy-brained, high-flown intellectual friends, but I do know you. You cannot tell me that a girl who cried through the last episode of ‘Gilmore Girls,’ who turned her whole room into a shrine for Drake, who used to regularly cut class to stream ‘The Bachelor’—with me—cares a shit about some exodus across the Bering Straits.”

  I would have been mad at Trish, but I was laughing too hard. Just to get her off my back, I asked where they’d be meeting. “We’re having dim sum first at Lucky Chen’s, so we’ll be there from seven to eight,” she said. “Stop by when you’ve had enough of those fascinating windchimes.”

  Trish was wrong; I was actually looking forward to the concert. It would be a break from the drudgery of the library and a chance to reignite the spark in my relationship. Lucien had been delighted when I surprised him with the tickets and had bought an Inuit–English dictionary for the occasion.

  In our seats before the show, after he’d finished translating the names of each song on the program, he asked if his issue of Granta had arrived. “Not yet,” I said, “but oh, I got the sweetest gift from my writers group! They all chipped in and bought me this goofy, fluorescent pink, personalized stationery with my name and a picture of Snoopy at his typewriter.” My heart had been warmed by the gesture, but those blue eyes of Lucien’s seemed icier than the Bering Straits.

  “I thought we talked about this,” he said, looking furious.

  “What?” I asked, trying to figure out my crime.

  “Snoopy? Personalized pink Laurel Linden stationery? Need I say more?”

  Just then, two men in fur walked out on the stage and placed three fans in front of a set of windchimes. The audience applauded, but I was too upset to join in. Lucien’s short comment had crystallized the problem exactly: From now on, I was not allowed to mention anything lowbrow or anything Laurel.

  There was nothing to do but think with the fans on and the chimes clinkling. It was like sitting on my parents’ back porch, but the scenery was worse. I saw a future with Lucien where my opinions, my tastes, my passions, my interests all but disappeared. Not to mention my sex life. Looking back, I realized that ever since that first time in bed, the lectures had grown longer and the fun shorter.

  I kept waiting for the concert to kick into gear, but by the second hour of watching windchimes barely stir, I couldn’t take it anymore. If Lucien wanted less Laurel Linden, he could have it. “I need some air,” I said, and stepped out.

  It was only three blocks to Lucky Chen’s, but that was a world away from the frozen Bering Straits I’d left behind. The traditional Italian Festival of San Gennaro was in full swing. A canopy of green and red lights was strung across Mott Street, and it seemed that all of Manhattan and most of Long Island was packed along its few short block
s.

  They weren’t at the restaurant, but miraculously I caught sight of Tom standing across the street.

  “Hey!” he said when I reached him. “You made it!”

  “What’s up?” I asked. “Where’s Trish?”

  “I’m meeting her down the block. Come on.”

  Just then, a familiar face turned from a pitch-ball booth toward Tom. “Hey, buddy! I just won a free game. Wanna play it?”

  He tossed the ball to Tom, who tossed it back. “I’ve got to meet Trish. Catch up with us.” Tom headed off.

  “Eddie!” I said, surprised to see my fellow Billy Joel fan, the dentist, looking cute in baggy chinos and Adidas sandals.

  “Oh, it’s you—Brenda,” he laughed.

  Irwin tossed me the ball. “How’s your arm?” he asked.

  “I used to be the pitcher for the South Shore Seashells,” I boasted.

  “Aw, you guys lost every year to North Woodmere,” he said. I was amazed he’d heard of my childhood softball team, but then again, something about Irwin seemed so familiar.

  I hurled the ball at the target but hit the booth’s proprietor instead. “Sorry!” I called out before making my excuses. “Guess I’ve been living in the city too long.”

  Irwin bought another try and wound his arm dramatically, as though it were the bottom of the ninth with bases loaded. I couldn’t help but notice his six-pack abs as his shirt momentarily rose off of his stomach. He easily won a pink dinosaur, which he presented to me. “Give it to your girlfriend,” I said. “Where is she, anyway?”

  “Ah, she hates the city,” he replied. “And I promise, she doesn’t miss me. She’s having too much fun rearranging her living room. Again. Take it.”

  Marisa Monahan hated Manhattan, I remembered. As I accepted the silly gift, which actually did make me smile, I wondered why someone who wanted to hook up with an artsy type, as Trish had said Irwin did, would end up with the girl voted Most Likely to Stay in Massapequa.

  We set off to find Trish and Tom, but they were lost in the churning crowds. “Well, I guess I’d better get going,” I said, noticing for the first time how sparkling Irwin’s dark eyes were. “Oh, come on, Brenda,” he said. I was starting to love the sound of that nickname. “At least one whirl on the Ferris wheel? My treat.”

  We handed in our tickets and boarded the ride. As we lifted up and Little Italy spun before us, I cast a sidelong glance at the tall man at my side, feeling sorry for treating him so badly the first time we’d met. Maybe if I hadn’t been in such a horrible mood that day, I would have realized that he was cute. No—more than cute; he was adorable. He had shaved what was left of his hair, which gave him a sort of street-boy look enhanced by his cut-up muscles, but any edge of toughness was offset by his easy laugh, revealing perfect white teeth.

  “My turn to treat,” I said, not ready to go back and face the windchimes. We made our way toward the Whip.

  “Don’t be scared,” he joked as the bar came down on the quaint old carnival ride, locking the two of us next to each other.

  “Are you kidding?” I asked. “I used to ride in the front car of Rolling Thunder at Great Adventure with my hands in the air.”

  “I love that one! But my real addiction was the Stuntman’s Freefall,” he said.

  “Oh my God, that feeling you get in your stomach when you’re looking down the precipice and you know you’re going to drop at a million miles an hour?”

  “So what other thrills do you love, city girl?” he asked, giving me a look of interest I was shocked to realize I hadn’t received in a long time.

  Just then, the ride kicked into gear, jerking us back and forth haphazardly before picking up serious speed. We burst out laughing as we were mashed up against each other on one side of our car and then the other. Feeling his body against me, I realized the electricity wasn’t only in the ride.

  He was holding my arm as I stepped out of the car when I heard my name through the crowd. “Laurel!” said a man’s voice. For a second I wondered if Lucien had followed me out of the concert, but when I turned I saw the smiling faces of Trish and Tom.

  “Hey, you guys!” I said, as we moved closer to each other.

  “So you managed to get away from your boyfriend, Laurel,” Trish said.

  A look of puzzlement clouded Irwin’s features before he said slowly, “Laurel?” Guilty and embarrassed, I realized he now knew I was the girl who had walked out on him at Spiro’s Diner so many months before. “So Brenda is actually Laurel,” he said.

  Confession time. “It was that Impala parked in the driveway. I swear it wasn’t you,” I said.

  “Impala? I went there on my Harley. Anyway, you’re looking a hell of a lot better without the helmet hair and ugly suit,” he said. “I didn’t realize you were so pretty.”

  His kindness only made me feel worse, and I beat a fast retreat. “I really have to go,” I said. It was time to leave the carnival.

  Needless to say, Lucien was furious when I showed up at the concert hall holding a two-foot-long pink dinosaur. “That’s why you had to leave and miss the entire movement on the attack of the giant walrus?” he scolded.

  As far as I could see, the fans were still blowing languidly on the same windchimes I had left three hours before. “Oh, woe is me,” I said sarcastically.

  “Well, I’ll try to download the music,” he grumbled.

  I should have been upset, but for some reason, I was hugging my brontosaurus and smiling from ear to ear.

  Later that week, as I finished packing up my apartment, the same silly stuffed animal became a surprising source of angst. It had already bothered Lucien once, and part of me thought it would only be a provocation in our new apartment, but at the same time, for some unexplained reason, I couldn’t bear to throw away the bright, cuddly toy.

  I sat on a box and stared at the bare walls and found myself feeling utterly, if inexplicably, depressed. Luckily, my torpor was interrupted by a rap on the door.

  “It’s me, rock star!”

  “Vanessa!” It was further evidence of how fine-tuned her nurturing radar was that she’d shown up just in my moment of need.

  “I came here to celebrate with you, but my God”—she took in my morose expression—“what’s wrong?”

  “It’s this little animal; I don’t know whether to pack it,” I began, suddenly starting to cry and continuing incoherently. “The dentist got it for me, and it was kind of sweet, but Lucien hates pink stuffed animals, and now I’m moving in with him, but I don’t want to do anything to make him angry, but I want to keep it, and what should I do? I’m so confused...”

  With a gentle arm around my shoulder, Vanessa slowed me down until I’d finally explained myself clearly. “Everybody goes through this when they’re about to move in with someone,” she reassured me. “And if you take a moment to analyze the situation, you’ll see that it is not about the dinosaur, it’s about your fear of commitment.”

  “What do you mean?” I sniffed.

  “You went out with Lucien, and you had a dull time. And then by chance you met this other person and had some fun. Now all of a sudden you’re having doubts. But wasn’t it all fun and games with Lucien in the beginning too? Relationships take work. There are going to be ups and downs, including boring nights now and then. If you’re not willing to get through the hard parts, you’ll always be thinking that every man who comes around the corner is better than the one you’re with.”

  She was right, I knew. “Yeah, I guess,” I said, my choppy breathing returning to normal.

  “The real problem, Laurel, is you’re afraid you’re not sophisticated enough for Lucien, so you’re tempted to sabotage this relationship. But I’m here to tell you that even though you come from a mediocre background, you’re easily his equal. Okay, honey?”

  I was clutching the dinosaur, still feeling uneasy, but I couldn’t deny her logic. “So do I throw this away?” I asked.

  “No, keep it,” she counseled warmly. “Just hide
it under the bed.”

  - 14 -

  After I’d worked my way through three pages out of Nona’s forty-five-page list, I got called in by the legal department at Gallant Publishing to initial two lines I had missed while signing my contract.

  I penned “LL” on the two blank spots of the document, which was thicker than a computer user’s manual and much more complicated. Only after I’d left the legal department and taken the elevator three floors down did I realize that I hadn’t a clue as to what any of it meant. What were the terms of the fabulous advance I was receiving? Before I started spending, I felt I should know.

  I raised the subject at my twelve o’clock meeting with the publicists. “Let’s say this book doesn’t sell,” I began. “Do I still get to keep the advance?”

  “That’s not going to be your problem,” one of them laughed. “Look at the venues we’ve penciled you in for.” She proudly handed me a long list.

  “Hardball, PBS Newshour, Rachel Maddow, Meet the Press?” Those were all dull news shows. “What happened to Oprah and Today?” I asked.

  “Remember, we’re positioning Napoleon’s Hairdresser as an allegory. It’s going to sell big, big, big among the news junkies,” said the husky-voiced woman.

  “All you have to do,” added the man, “is go on television and explain how your core thesis illuminates the power politics driving today’s clash of civilizations.”

  Oh, is that all? I thought, mentally canceling the shopping spree I had planned and dying inside at the thought of embarrassing myself on national television.

  Thanks to Vanessa’s words of wisdom, all the tension between Lucien and I had dissipated, and we focused on the task of moving. The day the truck pulled up to his apartment and I watched my stuff being transferred inside, I felt giddy with the change all around. We were combining all of our worldly possessions. Never again would I be a single girl all alone in the big city.

  Lucien seemed happy, too, and ordered us a celebratory takeout meal of Albanian food to go with a bottle of Patagonian chardonnay he’d been saving for a special occasion.