Naked Men

by Alicia Giménez-Bartlett

  The bookstore gift certificate idea is the best option—I’m sure he’ll like it. The teacher really loves reading. He picks up his book, hunkers down somewhere where there’s not too much going on, and forgets the world. The rest of us can get stuffed. He’s lucky. I may spend hours on Twitter, Facebook, and all that crap, but it’s not the same, damn it. He gains culture with those books, while I just interact with a bunch of dipshits and assholes I actually can’t stand. But reading bores me. I couldn’t keep it up with that Raskolnikov pain in the ass. If the policeman doesn’t stop coming after him and hassling him, I say he should get pissed off and beat the crap out of him, or maybe even bump him off, shit, put an end to the whole business. But no, Raskolnikov just broods and doesn’t do anything. It’s goddamn boring, man—I can’t help it.

  The teacher’s lucky despite everything he’s gone through lately. For example, it’s a goddamn lucky break his parents kicked the bucket in a car wreck when they were young. And that’s not me being delusional. This way he can remember them as being great parents and make up whatever story he wants: they bought him toys, tucked him in, kissed him goodnight . . . That’s the way it works: you might not buy into your own lies at first, but after a while you get sucked in and end up believing they’re the God’s honest truth.

  I’d have done anything never to have met the folks I scored in the parent lottery. At least my asshole father kicked it early on, but my mother . . . I’ve lived my whole life knowing she was out there, a fucking mess, out on the street with nobody giving a shit about her. Not to mention the last few years. The last few years I’ve had her camped out in a corner of my head, constantly busting my chops: “I’m in a crackbrain warehouse at a prison.” Shit, man, what more can you ask for? She hit absolute rock bottom, down in the goddamn basement. And me there, gritting my teeth knowing she was still alive. I fucked up, really. I should have just gone ahead one day and shot her in the face. But I held back, even invited her to my house on Christmas. The hell with it! That’s why I say the teacher’s had it easier—and he likes to read too.

  * * *

  It’s a pretty confusing situation—ambiguous at the very least. I really wanted to call her to set up a date, but in theory she’s the one who should be requesting my professional services. But the other night she didn’t pay me, and we had a wonderful dinner. She was relaxed, cheerful . . . you might even say she seemed loving. Though she did end up deciding to go home in the middle of the night. But apart from that, our relationship took a big step forward. Toward what, though? I’m not sure. Irene’s unfriendly, contemptuous, contradictory, with one of the strangest personalities I’ve ever encountered. Trying to understand her has become a sort of challenge for me, but it’s a nearly impossible task because she never tells me anything. How can I even guess what she’s thinking or feeling if she refuses to talk about herself? And I’m not supposed to ask her questions. I’m convinced any curiosity on my part might scare her off. She’s like one of those thoroughbred mares, high-strung and wary; you can’t make any sudden moves around her. But I’m certain she’s got a tender core, a treasure that can’t find its way out.

  In the end, I called her.

  “I can’t today. I have to work. Maybe tomorrow.”

  “But tomorrow’s Friday and I’m performing at the club. I have to be there early.”

  “We can see each other after your performance.”

  “I’d thought maybe we could do daytime activities.”

  “Daytime activities?” She laughs, and I still like the way it sounds.

  “You know, take a walk, get coffee.”

  Her silence stretches out for a moment, but she accepts my proposition and we agree to meet at a café. Apparently, her work can wait.

  She looks carefully made up, very elegant. One day I’d like to see her dressed in jeans and a simple T-shirt, like me. We kiss each other on the cheek, almost timidly. She sits down and remains quiet. Those moments when nobody’s talking don’t make her uncomfortable, but they do me. We order coffee.

  “You thought ‘daytime activities’ was funny.”

  “Yes.” She smiles vaguely.

  “I didn’t know quite how to say it. The thing is, I like it when we get together and do things that people normally do. Do you know what I mean?”

  “Yes, take a walk or get coffee.”

  “It’s more than that. What I’m trying to say here is I like being with you, Irene, night or day.”

  I expect her to react badly or change the subject without responding, but she looks down and says, “I like it too.”

  It’s a pretty vague statement, but it’s heartening enough to encourage me to continue:

  “I can’t stand being an escort. I just can’t get used to it. Everything feels cheap and sordid. Maybe I’m just a dinosaur, but I miss other kinds of relationships: being in a couple, the intimacy that develops between two people, the sharing of lives, mutual support . . . Do you know what I mean?”

  “Yes.”

  “Do you ever miss those things?”

  “No. I’m good the way I am.”

  “You’re stronger than I am.”

  “I don’t know.”

  “You know something? I’ve started looking for a job again, and not just as a teacher. I think I could do well working in a bookstore, as a librarian’s assistant . . . I don’t know, I’ve been sending out my CV. It’s hard, but it’s not impossible. I stopped trying a while back, but now I have new incentives; I feel more motivated.”

  “Are you tired of us?”

  “Us?”

  “Your customers.”

  She knows how to get to you—she throws that dart at just the right moment and with perfect aim. But I’m not going to lash out. Maybe I’ve been too pushy, tried to go too fast. That’s enough for today.

  “What do you think we should do, Irene? Take a walk?”

  “I’d like to go to your house.”

  I smile and nod. She smiles too. I keep going.

  “On one condition.”

  “I can guess what it is. But if I don’t pay you, what are you going to live on?”

  “I have other income. You’re the only one I don’t want to charge.”

  Surreptitiously, I watch her face settle into a stubborn micro-pout. If she asked me why, I’d seize on it as an invitation to express greater commitment, take a giant step forward. But she doesn’t ask. She stands up and searches for her sunglasses in her purse.

  * * *

  The closing scene with the factory manager at the notary’s office was quite unpleasant. We’d already talked many times, gone over the numbers, signed a million documents. So why does he have to go and kick up a stink in front of the notary and the buyer?

  “I’d like to speak to you in private for a moment,” he tells me.

  We go out into the hallway. He looks at me intently.

  “Irene, are you positive you want to sell?”

  “Where is this coming from? You know I do.”

  “I’m obligated to tell you how bad things are, and I did that—but there’s still a chance, with a little effort on your part . . .

  “Let’s go back in, please.”

  “Irene, it’s your father’s company. This work has meant everything to you, and when we leave here it will disappear from your life forever.”

  “You know what I think? My father’s company has been responsible for every bad thing that’s happened to me since the day I was born. Let’s go back in, please.”

  Given the look on his face, I might as well have plunged a dagger into his heart. Very melodramatic. He wants to make it very clear that he tried to change my mind. He wants to point out my mistakes, my lack of courage to keep running the company, my inability to fight.

  As we left the building, he suggested we get lunch together. I took great pleasure in blowing him off. It
’s over.

  I considered calling Javier. A surprise. An impromptu meal as a “daytime activity.” Was it enough? For once I didn’t care. I needed company.

  “I can’t today, Irene. Iván and I are performing at noon.”

  “Noon?”

  “A cosmetics corporation is having its annual convention. Since almost all of the executives are women, they decided on a striptease as the final event. It pays really well. I can’t leave Iván in the lurch.”

  “It’s OK. Another time.”

  “Tomorrow, if you want.”

  “I can’t tomorrow. I’ll call you.”

  I met up with Genoveva instead. I didn’t feel like eating alone today. We drank champagne and toasted the sale of the company. When we were done, I was pretty tipsy, and I was tempted to call Javier again. But he wasn’t available, of course—he was stripping naked and acting like an idiot in front of a bunch of shrieking girls. Actually, I didn’t want to have sex with him either. The only thing I wanted was for him to silently stroke my back the way he does sometimes. In those moments, my mind goes blank and I rest, finally free of thoughts.

  * * *

  We’ve seen each other with increasing frequency over the past few days. Sometimes she pays me and sometimes she doesn’t. It’s good to have her pay every once in a while—I need to cover the expenses of daily life. My job search hasn’t led to anything—and it’s not going to. Who needs a college graduate during a recession? I could try getting a job in a factory or warehouse. But do I really see myself unloading boxes from a truck eight hours a day? No. I don’t see myself doing anything eight hours a day. I need time to read, to think. My grandmother supported me while I was a student, and after that Sandra did some too. I’m not used to working full-time. I’m not brave, not a fighter. Being an escort has allowed me to have free time, to maintain the lifestyle I’ve always had. The world’s a complicated place—more so all the time. You can’t have everything, though sometimes I’m convinced that with a bit of luck I could have a lot more.

  Irene called one morning and we arranged to meet up for dinner. We went to a Japanese restaurant and then to my apartment. We had another glorious round of sex, intense and wild. Afterward, almost without thinking, I asked if she wanted to spend the night. She never does, but that day she said yes. I was astounded. A giant step forward.

  I lend her a nightshirt that’s so huge on her it makes both of us laugh. She lies down beside me. I turn out the light. I don’t even touch her—I’m scared of her. I’m always afraid she’s going to take off running. After a while, I hear her steady breathing. She’s asleep. I’m filled with a sense of well-being I haven’t felt for a long time. I’m sleeping next to somebody again. A woman. Hardly any light is coming in through the window, and I can’t make her out in the dark, but I hear her, calm, peaceful. I feel like sobbing with emotion. I’ve been so alone the past few months, but today I have a priceless treasure: the gentle, almost childlike breathing of a companion slumbering beside me.

  The next day I open my eyes and she’s gone. Nothing’s wrong: she awoke early and left for work, trying not to disturb me. I smell the pillow, which is infused with her scent. I toss and turn in the bed, stretch my limbs . . . I feel good. Suddenly I’m filled with doubt about a potentially meaningful detail. I look on the nightstand. I go out to the living room and search everywhere. No, she hasn’t left me any money. Good! She must have debated what to do and made this decision—she’s not the kind of woman who acts without considering things carefully.

  I hum as I make breakfast and eat it in the kitchen, filled with calm and a growing sense that my life is falling into place. Who knows! Maybe a parenthesis is closing and from here on out everything can go back to the way it was, or even better. All at once, without logical cause, I am gripped by unease: what if all those tender moments from last night were a way of saying goodbye? It’s not impossible—after all, I barely know this woman. Foolishly, I pick up the phone and call her. She doesn’t answer. I leave a message: “I’m not calling for any particular reason—I just wanted to hear your voice. I’ll call you later.”

  I shower. I go out. I buy a newspaper and sit down to read it in a bar with a good cup of coffee. The absurd anxieties I was feeling just a moment ago evaporate. Even so, when the phone rings and I see that it’s her, I swell with joy.

  “Sorry. I didn’t call because I was in a meeting. Will I see you later?”

  Impulsively, I say yes, then immediately realize I can’t. I’ve got a rehearsal at the club, and it’s going to last longer than usual because we’re changing a few things in our number. We agree to meet the next day, though there’s some disappointment in her voice.

  Incredibly, she’s smiling when she appears, and, also incredibly, I greet her with a hug without worrying that she’ll reject me. We’re at a high-end Italian place she picked. We study the menu, but then both of us look up at the same time. Neither of us looks away. I’d swear she seems more frank, more direct, almost conspiratorial. Maybe I’m about to discover the real woman who’s hiding behind the mask I’ve seen so far. It’s a critical moment. I don’t think I’m wrong about her: she’s got a “tender treasure at her core” that sooner or later—or right now, maybe—will blossom.

  We have a quiet dinner. I tell her about the changes we’ve made to the performance: the spear is too long, and Iván’s gotten a little scratched up . . . Silly details that I relate in a comical tone. I watch her laugh. The woman who never even used to smile is finally laughing. Suddenly she says:

  “Maybe there’s a way we can fix your job problem.”

  My heart pounds, and I wonder if she’s about to say the words I want to hear. She’s a little nervous, and she doesn’t meet my eyes as she speaks.

  “I know you’re not planning to give up performing at the club, but maybe you could stop going out with other women. I don’t know how much money you earn that way or how much you need for your living expenses, but we could come up with an estimate and . . . um, I could pay you a sort of salary. You’d be free of those obligations and be available to me at all times. Within limits, of course.”

  A bucket of cold water? I’m not sure. At any rate, now’s my chance, now or never. After all, she’s the one who broached the subject.

  “Irene, I’ve been thinking about this issue for a long time, though I’d never have dared bring it up. You own a company, right?”

  “Yes.”

  “Well, maybe it would be possible for . . . for you to find me a job there. I don’t know how to do much, but just a part-time job in the office would be enough. You know I’ve been looking for a while, but there’s nothing out there. If we follow your suggestion and pay me to . . . to go out with you, I’ll have to keep being what I am now. Plus, our relationship will never be able to evolve naturally. I don’t want to be your escort—yours or anybody else’s. It’s humiliating; I’ll never get used to it. If I worked for your company and things went well, I could even stop dancing at the club eventually. You and I could live a normal life like normal people. There’s something between us, Irene. I don’t know what it is exactly or where it’s going, but it won’t be anything at all if we don’t give it at least a chance.”

  I’ve spoken with restrained vehemence and complete honesty. Her expression hasn’t changed, which isn’t surprising. I’ve made an unexpected counterproposal, and she needs to think. Indeed, a moment later she says:

  “I’ll think about it.”

  “All right. Let’s drop the subject for today, if you don’t mind. Shall we go back to my place?”

  We go back to my place and make love. I don’t want to keep overanalyzing her behavior and getting myself worked up, so I focus on my own pleasure. I have a good time. The idea of finding a solution for my life relaxes me rather than sending me into a tizzy.

  At one in the morning, Irene says she’s leaving.

  “You’re not
going to spend the night?”

  “I have an important meeting first thing in the morning,” she says. “At the company,” she adds.

  Her scent floats in the air for a good while after she leaves, and I fall asleep.

  * * *

  I get home at one thirty. I take a shower and put on my pajamas. Instead of going to bed, I sit down on the sofa in the living room. I turn off the overhead light and leave on just a small lamp that glows only dimly. Semi-darkness, good. There’s a fifth of whiskey nearby. I don’t feel like going to fetch a glass, so I drink straight from the bottle. I start laughing. It’s really incredible—it must be fate, or karma, or my guardian angel, always steering me down the same paths. The guy doesn’t want a salary for his exclusive services; no, what he wants is to work for me in a respectable job. He wants to work at my company, the one I just sold. It’s a perfect setup for him. That way our relationship can evolve, an evolution not even Darwin himself could have conceived of. I’ll attempt to imagine it: he’d start out as a hotel porter and end up running the place. That’s how it always goes in old Hollywood movies. Old Hollywood movies also feature fortune-hunters pursuing the dull, ugly rich girl. Excellent. So I find him a part-time position that won’t wear him out, and he starts rising through the ranks of the organization chart. In the meantime, our relationship also develops toward its apex, and I keep giving him a boost up until he eventually triumphs. Once he’s reached the very top, we get married. Then my guy will have two coveted roles: manager and husband of the owner. It’s a great plan for him—and not just for him. Do I get any benefit from this arrangement? But of course! For starters, not only do I get to assuage the social sting of having been left by one husband, I also snag myself another one, brand-new and in mint condition. And as for the company, what more could we ask for? We gain an amazing literature scholar, such an invaluable skillset for financial dealings. And on top of that, he’s an unemployed teacher, striptease dancer, and professional prostitute. He really checks all the boxes! It’s a shame I sold the business. With a new employee like that, we might have been able to get things afloat again.