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Me Times Three

Page 18

by Alex Witchel


  “Great, Irving, thanks. Nice to see you.” Mark turned to sit down, but Irving Aronburg was persistent. “You were in to see the new work, I hear,” he said, and Mark nodded. “Fascinating talent, you know, really something special.” Mark nodded again. I could see he was an expert at letting people hang themselves, giving away nothing, no matter how long they talked. Irving Aronburg babbled a moment or two more until I said, “Nice to meet you,” and turned my back, signaling the end of the interlude. Mark shot me a grateful glance as we sat back down.

  “Let me guess,” I said. “You hated it.”

  He started to laugh.

  “I’ll never tell,” I said, laughing, too.

  He looked at me with admiration, a look I returned. He was ballsy without being bratty, an interesting guy who was also a grown-up. He had an ease with himself I hadn’t seen in anyone I had dated, including Bucky. No cheap bravado (Roy Toner), no arrogance (Dr. Barad), no flop sweat (Michael Victor). Just those huge eyes, that expectant look, and unabashed curiosity. About everything. Including me, I noticed.

  “Okay, back to the serious business of Jolie!” I said briskly. “If we can’t send you to Chicago, is there somewhere else you’re passionate about? A city, an island, a house, a street, someplace that has special meaning for you?”

  He looked off, considering. Finally, his eyes lit. “Well, you know, when I was a kid and came to New York with my parents, there were some days that my mother would take me on the train to Philadelphia for a side trip, which I loved—the train and the town. I haven’t been there in a while, but the Museum of Art has a nice collection, and there’s the Barnes.”

  “Yes,” I said. “But I got the impression from your agent that you don’t want to write too much about art so that you won’t make Art and Our Times angry.”

  He nodded. “Um, that’s true. But there’s so much else going on in that town. Philly cheese steaks on South Street, and those great shops on Walnut Street.”

  I could see from his enthusiasm that it would be a perfect story. To hell with Susie Schein.

  After I promised to call Victoria Segal to work out all the details, he handed me his wineglass for a taste. I took a sip and nodded. “Great,” I said. Handing it back, I saw I’d left a lipstick print. “Oh, sorry,” I muttered, rubbing it with my thumb and leaving a cloudy blotch instead.

  “It’s fine, it doesn’t matter,” he insisted, taking a sip from my glass. “Mm, wonderful, that’s wonderful,” he murmured. “Wow.” I waited for the berry undertone sermon, but instead, he pulled a pad and pen from his jacket pocket. “I’m just going to write it down, to remind myself to try and get some.”

  The waiter returned. Mark said, “I’d like to look at the menu again, so we can taste some more.” He hesitated, then looked at me. “Unless you’d like to stay with what you have.”

  “No,” I agreed, shaking my head, practically giving myself whiplash. “Let’s try more.”

  Another thing I liked was that even though people feared Mark because of his power and opinions, he was the only man I had ever met who wasn’t pretending he knew everything. He was coming right out and saying, “I don’t know everything, so teach me.” It was entirely unmale, and entirely appealing.

  We moved on to a pair of California Zinfandels, and Mark talked about how terrific American wines were becoming, and how much fun it used to be to drive through France and Italy to eat and to drink wine, but France had changed and was too commercialized, and so many of the great old places were gone now. I nodded, in a way I hoped was knowingly, because I had never been to France or Italy and had no idea what he was talking about. But I sure wanted to.

  When he began discussing the Louvre, though, I had to admit I had never been. He didn’t seem horrified in the least, but suddenly I felt the need to explain my lack of art education.

  “This probably sounds dumb,” I said haltingly, “but in second grade I read this story about a master artist and his apprentice. And the master knew that the apprentice would be a great artist one day because he could draw a perfect circle, and that was the only way anyone could be a great artist. So, for years after that, I would try to draw a perfect circle—which, needless to say, I never could do. And I figured that if I couldn’t do the most basic thing to become an artist, that art just wasn’t for me.”

  “But the most basic is almost always what’s the most difficult,” Mark said. “You have to draw before you can do abstraction. Still, you don’t have to do either to feel what an artist is trying to say and be moved by it.”

  “I guess so. It’s always been easier for me to stick to words.”

  So we talked about books and magazines and writers we liked and why, and it began to feel that we had started this conversation years ago, fallen out of touch, and were eager to resume. He was a natural teacher, sharing information without the slightest condescension, yet the pace and range of subjects came fast and furious, and I could see he was capable of losing all patience if someone committed the mortal sin of missing a beat.

  The waiter brought more wine, and we traded more tastes, and Mark talked about Philadelphia and his mother, who was a painter, and about growing up in Chicago and how much he loved the architecture there, but also how he could never live anywhere but New York because it was always changing and so much was going on. “There’s always sumpin’ happening,” he said, and I started to smile.

  “What?” he asked.

  “You said ‘sumpin’ instead of ‘something,’ ” I said.

  “I did?” he asked. “I guess it’s a Midwesternism.”

  “No, it’s not,” I replied. “It’s a Zinfandelism.” He laughed, and so did I.

  “Listen, I’m starving,” he said. “Do you want to go somewhere and get some dinner?”

  I looked at my watch. It was nine o’clock. We had been there for almost three hours.

  “Sure,” I said. “We could just eat here, though.”

  “No.” He stood up. “I’d like to get some air, walk a little.”

  We strolled through Times Square. At a red light, Mark stepped close to me to let another couple pass. He smelled good, like clean laundry. He wasn’t much taller than me, and with his tie off and his collar unbuttoned, I could see the base of his throat just above the collarbone. It seemed kissable, suddenly.

  Forget it, Sandra, I thought as we crossed the street. He had put his hand near my elbow to guide me, a slightly protective, almost Old World gesture, which only made me want to lean in farther.

  Not tonight, I told myself, shifting my bag to the shoulder between us, reestablishing my distance. This is the Big Writer you are going to snare for Jolie! and cover yourself with glory. But just the proximity to this interesting, good-smelling, attractive man—who, by the way, was not even my type because he wasn’t tall enough and wasn’t muscly enough and (mercy!) seemed actually smarter than me—was making me reel. Too bad, I told myself sternly. You are not on a date. No matter how much you want to be.

  Well, that was something, wasn’t it? All these months of involuntary dating, and when I actually wanted to be on one, I couldn’t be. Talk about karma.

  He pointed out building after building, describing the way things used to look and what had changed. “When I was a kid, I only wanted to come to Times Square,” he said. “I used to see pictures of it in books and read about it in stories and it seemed so romantic to me. On one trip, we stayed at the old Astor Hotel. It was right over there.” He gestured toward Shubert Alley, deserted now, during showtime. It looked like a stage set, empty and shining with light, the dark sky hanging above. The neighborhood seemed suspended, waiting for its next wave of people. Soon it would be intermission, but at that moment, it felt as if we were in New York alone.

  “Do you like Orso?” he asked, and, Roy Toner flashbacks aside, I said yes. We walked into an almost empty restaurant that wouldn’t fill until the curtain came down, and we drank more wine, this time from carafes, and ate spaghetti. I found myself telling him abo
ut Green Hills and Bucky. I wondered if I should get so personal, but he was so easy to talk to. He listened carefully, and his big eyes got even bigger at certain parts (“That’s awful!” he exclaimed about the moment at the museum), and even though I knew that his response was sincere, I could also see that he appreciated the elements of the story itself, just the way I would. So I got caught up in all the details, watching him anticipate each new twist and turn until I had wrung every bit for all it was worth.

  As I talked, I realized that the words were no longer painful. I had repeated them so often, they had taken on the patina of prayer, almost comforting in their drone. And as I listened to myself now, I heard that this story was only a story—with a beginning, a middle, and an end. I felt a twinge at that. An end. My life with Bucky was over.

  “Can I drop you off?” Mark asked when we left the restaurant, near midnight. “Where do you live?”

  “Down in the Village,” I said. “And you?”

  “On the Upper West Side.”

  “Well, I guess not, then.”

  “It’s a nice night,” he said tentatively. “I think I’ll walk.”

  “I’ll walk with you.” I didn’t want the conversation to end.

  “Great.” He seemed glad. We started up Eighth Avenue.

  “How long were you married?” I asked.

  “Six years,” he said.

  “What does your ex-wife do?”

  “She’s a tax lawyer.”

  I laughed. “No, really.”

  He looked surprised. “She is.”

  “I thought you’d be married to an artist, or an architect, or someone who loves the things you love,” I said. I had thought that? When?

  He smiled sourly. “I thought I needed some balance in my life,” he explained. “I guess that wasn’t too smart.”

  “Even smart people aren’t smart about these things,” I said understandingly. I kept talking—chattering, really, as if I’d just been released from a vow of silence. “You know, when I was about eight years old, I would watch my mother cooking,” I said. “She would stand at the counter in the kitchen, making, say, hamburger patties, and she would smack them into shape in this rhythm she had and put them on the broiler pan and then she would wash her hands. And when she stood at the sink, she would look out the window and get this faraway expression and sigh, and I would say, ‘Mom, what’s wrong?’ And she would say, ‘Nothing.’ And I would say, ‘No, I can see there’s something wrong.’ And she would say, ‘You’re too young to understand.’ Well, I think I understand.”

  He nodded, and suddenly I felt a pang. What was I doing? Running off at the mouth about my mother’s hamburgers and the meaning of life to Mark Lewis, whom I was supposed to be convincing to work with me. And that was after telling him the tawdry tale of my romantic travails. I needed to shut up and preserve at least a shred of the illusion that I was a professional.

  “Listen,” I said, “I think I’m going to peel off now and get a cab. It’s pretty late.”

  “Oh.” He seemed disappointed. I wondered if he could tell that I was, too.

  “I am wearing heels, after all,” I pointed out. He looked at my legs, and I saw him have his own version of me appraising his throat.

  “I thought you might want to come up, for a cup of tea, maybe,” he said. What a lame line. Just because it worked—I was dying to—didn’t make it any better. But I was not going to jeopardize my career and sleep with this man, however much I was tempted.

  “Thank you,” I said. “I’d love to sometime, just not tonight. I’ll call Victoria, and when you figure out your schedule, let me know, and we’ll look forward to the piece whenever you can do it.” I extended my hand. “Thank you for dinner. It was wonderful meeting you.”

  “You, too,” he said, and shook my hand, engulfing it in a cushy sort of way.

  I waved down a cab. “Good night,” I called.

  “Good night,” he answered, and as the cab drove off, I turned and saw him alone on the corner, watching me go. His pants were too long. He had his newspaper tucked under one arm. He took off his glasses and rubbed his eyes with the hand that held them, and looked so sad standing there—forlorn, really—that I was surprised to realize, for the first time in such a very long time, I felt completely at peace.

  Susie Schein was in my doorway before I even took off my coat. “I have to talk to you,” she said, parking herself in the chair opposite my desk.

  “Good morning, Susie, lovely day,” I said, going around to the other side. “Can I get some coffee first?”

  “Mark Lewis’s agent was on the phone with me first thing this morning,” she said. Oh, no. My throat closed. He hated me. The hamburgers did me in.

  I took a breath. “What’s the matter?” I asked, as calmly as possible. “He doesn’t want to do the piece?”

  “Yes, he does want to do it, but he’s being a real prima donna about it, which is why Victoria Segal called me instead of you. The fee is high, which we expected, but he’s also decided he has to stay at the Rittenhouse, which I guess we can do on a corporate rate.”

  “So what’s the problem?”

  “Well, he seems very specific about what he wants to write, and I can just see us paying him a fortune for a piece that is so much about him that we can’t use it as a travel piece.” She paused, but I could tell there was more coming. “You know that our travel writers automatically do the information guide to go with their essay. Well, he refuses to do it. He’s much too important to be bothered, it seems, with having to compile a comprehensive list of addresses and phone numbers.”

  I almost laughed. “Did you really expect Mark Lewis to go tracking down the addresses of local lamp stores?” I asked. “I mean, really, Susie, anyone can do that.”

  She looked at me. “That’s what I said. And he asked if you could do it.”

  I sat down—or, more precisely, thudded down. “What?” I suddenly understood why he was taking the assignment.

  “I think it’s not a bad idea, actually,” she continued. “You can go down there and check out some places that the girls in fashion and home design know about. But more important, I want you to keep an eye on Lewis. I get the idea that he’s going to take our money to write a quickie story while he’s really doing research on something more important for Art and Our Times.”

  I tried to catch my breath. Sending assistants along on photo shoots was regularly done because most of the major photographers demanded them, the way rock stars did; apparently they were unable to do their job without an audience. In features, though, things didn’t work that way. And besides, I was an editor now. Or at least I liked to pretend I was.

  I considered suggesting that a real assistant go—we had plenty—but none had been working more than a few months. Also, I knew that Susie was suspicious enough of Mark that she wanted to send someone who had something to lose if she neglected to discover him sneaking in bootleg research on Jolie!’s dime. There was also the Miss Belladonna factor. Our editor in chief would seem to forget all about something like this, and then just when you thought you were safe, she’d corner you in the elevator, asking, “Why isn’t Mark Lewis in the magazine yet?”

  Susie felt my hesitation. “I know that you can do most of this by phone,” she said. “But I also thought we should do something extra, like a shopping guide to South Street and the Reading Terminal Market. The more we have, the better—especially if Lewis’s piece is so cerebral that we have to rescue it with service elements. You don’t have to stay the whole weekend, obviously, though you will have to at least give up a Saturday.” She tightened her mouth. “Is that a problem for you?”

  I tried not to break into a big, goofy smile. A sleep-over date in Philadelphia with a guy who liked me so much he asked for me to come? To hell with the cup of tea. This was living.

  I shook my head. “No, that’s fine, actually. As long as you can do something for me.”

  “What?” she asked peevishly. This part of the dialogue
had not been in her copy of the script.

  “My best friend from school has been diagnosed with AIDS,” I said. Her eyebrows shot up. “He lives in L.A., and I want to see him. Can I assume that the working weekend entitles me to a day off?”

  For the first time ever, the flush passed her jawline. “Is he hospitalized?” she asked.

  “No,” I said. “But I want to be there before he is.”

  She glared at me. I had her, and she knew it. “Sure,” she said, between clenched teeth, getting up to leave. “But by the way,” she added, “You don’t have to stay at the Rittenhouse. You can stay someplace a little less cher, if you stay at all.”

  “Fine, Susie, great,” I said. I didn’t care if I stayed in a broom closet. She was pissed, I was going to L.A. and I was going to Philadelphia with a good-smelling man and his kissable throat.

  11

  As it happened, I cashed in on Susie’s favor before Mark’s trip could be scheduled. Between his work and his son, he was booked for another six weeks, and I didn’t want to wait that long to see Paul. I picked the first Friday in March and flew to L.A. Paul promised to meet me, but when I landed, he wasn’t there. I called his house from a pay phone. No answer. I went to baggage claim and got my suitcase, then returned to the gate. He was standing with his back to me. I charged.

  “You’re late,” I announced.

  He turned. His skin had a greenish cast, and he seemed dazed. I caught myself. He’s sick, Sandra, I told myself sternly. Go easy.

  “What’s the matter?” I asked softly.

  “I’m not sure where I parked,” he said.

  I put down my bag. “Paul, are you all right?” He looked at me as if seeing me for the first time. “Sandy.” He looked frightened. “I’m not sure where I parked.”

  “That’s okay,” I said. “We’ll find it.” I took his arm. “Do you want to sit a minute first, and think?”

  He pulled his arm away and started walking. “I need to find the car,” he said.

 

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