“You mean you don’t know what will happen?” asked Mack.
“I know in general what will happen. However, until I have written it out in words it is not easy to talk about. What do you think, Mack, is it enough for editors to give me some money? I was actually hoping that when I have enough pages to present, you will advise me how. What to ask for, you know. I fear I am not very good at business.”
“Gladly, gladly,” said Mack, swelling with magnanimity. “But I might be able to advise you better if you tell us the rest. Come on.”
Mack was like a bulldog with a bone, thought Zoltan. “All right. But remember this is merely for a proposal. As they say in Hollywood, a treatment.”
“Of course,” said Mack, settling back, while the fire burned down to ash.
“THAT’S IT,” SAID ZOLTAN. “What do you think?”
For a long moment there was only silence. For once, Mack was at a loss. Zoltan’s exposition, however fascinating to hear, had left him in the dark, though without a doubt in the world that it was brilliant. He walked over to Zoltan to shake his hand and lacking anything else said, “Extraordinary!”
A gratified smile dispelled the anxiety on Zoltan’s face.
“Honestly, Z,” said Mack, sitting down again, “I’m surprised at how well you have it all planned out, and in such detail. I always thought you folks just make it up as you go along.”
“But that is precisely what I do, make up as I go along.” He looked at Heather.
Heather didn’t know what to say either. She was certain that Zoltan’s story contained a hidden message to her, though she could not yet discern its meaning. She picked up a tangerine from the bowl and began to peel it.
“Heather is awfully quiet,” said Zoltan.
Heather passed around the sectioned tangerine. Finally she said, “I’m overwhelmed. I don’t know what else to say. But I’m not sure I understand the ending—is it complete?”
Leaning against the mantel Zoltan ignored the fruit to pierce Heather with his eyes. “Exactly how it will end is one thing I try not to know in advance.” Then he cracked half a smile and added ironically, “This may be my first lesson for you: endings leave to chance.”
Was he trying to tell her that everything was still open between them, that she hadn’t misread his desire that morning after all? His secret meanings seemed easier to decipher when his eyes were locked on hers.
“For my money,” said Mack, “the less one leaves to chance, the better. I’d prefer a sound investment to speculation any time. Though I’ll grant you, you can never know for sure what’s chancy until the venture is complete or you’ve gotten out. I’ll bet those editors agree with me. Let me know when you’ve got something down on paper, Z, and we’ll plan a strategy.”
But Zoltan, playing eyesies with the lovely Heather, was unaware that Mack’s talk of investments and speculations might in any way apply to him.
13 SO THE FIRST ABSORBING weeks went by. Zoltan cast his spell each night after dinner, when the three gathered around the hearth with their brandy or wine to improvise upon their roles in their odd ménage à trois: Mack the impresario directing Zoltan the guru playing to Heather’s acolyte. Maja Stern was never mentioned.
In the evenings, with the McKays seated on the sofa side by side, the flirtation between Zoltan and Heather seemed innocent enough, despite its occasional hot eruptions like the sparks exploding in the fireplace. But in the daytime, when Mack was away, Zoltan was forced to hide behind the closed door of his sanctuary until the children, those perfect chaperones, came shouting and tumbling home. As he paced before the window waiting for words and images that wouldn’t come, acutely aware that his host was waiting too, his sanctuary sometimes felt like a cage, and he an animal doomed to sicken and die if he remained inside but be shot if he tried to escape. Two equally depressing prospects: the agonies of writer’s block or the dangers of adultery. The tortures he suffered with the former made the distractions of the latter more enticing—and more necessary to resist. For both, the temptress Heather was to blame.
Heather, whose solitary morning hours had so recently been tranquil working interludes in her child-ruffled days, also found it impossible to concentrate, knowing Zoltan was ensconced upstairs. The sting of his kiss remained on her hand, each double meaning rang in her ears, as she was repeatedly jolted off balance by his alternate giving and withholding, his sybaritic nights and celibate days.
It wasn’t simply his distracting presence that interfered with her work. A writer of his renown creating literature overhead made her own ambitions seem foolish. Admittedly, sometimes his writing left her puzzled (which might be attributable to bad translation), but his celebrity was indisputable. His work was invariably mentioned in articles about dissident or persecuted writers living in the States, and his name appeared on announcements of prestigious conferences. After two readings of his last novel published in English, with its intrigue and multilayered convolutions, she suspected that his accomplishment was well beyond anything she could aspire to.
At first she had been baffled, even secretly hurt, that he never, not once, inquired about her work, despite Mack’s embarrassing hints. But now she wondered if his disregard was perhaps a kindness, intended to spare her the humiliation of his judgment, rather than indifference or, worse, contempt. That talented subclass of women writers whose husbands and lovers were said to have sucked them dry or patronized them into madness—the Zeldas and Plaths and Rhyses—had no bearing on her case: Zoltan, though driving her to distraction, was not her lover, and her husband actively supported her writing. Didn’t Mack claim that it was for her sake he’d invited Zoltan to live with them, to be her literary mentor and companion? By now it was obvious that Zoltan had no such intentions, and she wished Mack would drop it.
How confusing the whole question had become! Earning power aside, she’d never thought her work less valuable than Mack’s until Zoltan moved in. Her columns, besides shielding her from the dubious status of a privileged stay-at-home mom, at least helped the environment, which could hardly be said of most of Mack’s projects (don’t even mention the Porsche or the Piper). Yet with Zoltan writing upstairs, whatever pride she’d once taken in her work quickly disappeared. If he were suddenly to read something of hers, she’d be mortified. She was grateful for his apparent ignorance of the Internet, where her columns were posted for all to see.
WHEN FRANÇOISE ANNOUNCED THAT she was returning to Belgium to help her mother care for her father, who had suddenly fallen gravely ill, Heather struggled to hide her relief. She had already decided to ease her out. Not that Zoltan had responded to Françoise’s delicate beauty or was even, as far as Heather knew, aware of it. His avoidance of the children entailed avoidance of Françoise. But Heather was aware of it—and wary. Graciously she promised to pay the girl’s airfare and wait a decent interval before replacing her, in case Françoise wanted to return. In fact, however, she had already decided that instead of hiring another mother’s helper, she would find an appropriate all-day program for the children, preferably one that offered a segment of French conversation. As it was, Carmela’s presence in the house three days a week was quite enough restriction on her freedom.
AFTER THE PRESSURE OF life with Zoltan had been building up for several weeks, Heather decided to call up her old publishing buddy Barbara Rabin, the one friend who might understand what she was going through, and invite her and her husband, Abe (“Rabin” to their friends), to meet them for dinner in the city at their favorite Mexican restaurant from back in her working days. It would be the McKays’ first social outing since Zoltan’s arrival and might restore some much-needed reality.
“I can’t wait to see you,” said Barbara. “I want to hear all about your houseguest. I’m halfway through Fire Watch. Wow!”
“He’s just impossible!” wailed Heather, surprising herself.
“Really? How? Let me guess: he’s hitting on Françoise?”
“Don’t be silly. He barely ev
er saw her since she was always with the children. Anyway, she’s gone back to Belgium.”
“Smart move, Heather, what with Schwarzenegger and the rest of them.”
“It wasn’t my idea. Her father got sick.”
“Then what’s the matter?” said Barbara. “Tell me.”
She hardly knew where to begin. “First of all, he keeps us up till all hours, then he sleeps his mornings away while we wind up tortured by sleep deprivation. Sometimes I think he’s deliberately trying to drive me crazy.”
To Barbara, who felt more than a touch of envy, Heather sounded less distressed than exhilarated. “Then why do you let him stay?” she challenged.
“He has nowhere else to go. Besides, he’s exciting to have around. And lovable, in his own peculiar way.”
“Will we get to meet him on Friday? Or is he going to stay home and babysit for you?”
Heather snorted. She was not about to invite him to join them, knowing he’d turn her down. Even less could she ask him to babysit. He barely acknowledged the children’s existence. No, she would call one of her regular sitters—passing over the high school nymphets on her list in favor of a widow from the village.
Mack, however, oblivious to the possibility of rejection, invited Zoltan to join them on Friday, suggesting that a break from work would do him good. But after a flurry of phone calls, Zoltan told Heather that on Friday, thanks anyway, he’d be dining with friends in Soho. He asked if he could hitch a ride into the city with her and find his own way back on Sunday.
“On Sunday! You’re spending the whole weekend in New York? Where will you stay?”
He instantly regretted having spoken. He was spending the weekend at the home of Rebecca Shaffer and her husband. Though they had stayed in touch ever since MacDowell, he had not seen Rebecca since moving east. He was indebted to her for the boost in his standing that came with her essay and the reissue of his first book. But he certainly did not have to explain himself to Heather, who would probably burn with jealousy. His left eyebrow shot up. “I’m not sure you’re permitted to ask me that.”
His reprimand was in jest, delivered in his usual flirtatious style; all the same, Heather felt rebuffed. Sometimes he spoke to her as an intimate, inviting every confidence, but the next moment he could assume an icy hauteur, treating her like an inferior. Was that what he’d done to Maja? In absentia Maja was rapidly gaining Heather’s sympathy. Between Zoltan’s volatility and Mack’s disappearances what chance at dignity had the poor woman had?
On Friday, after eagerly anticipating their long drive alone into the city together, Heather was disappointed to find Zoltan in his overcourteous, icy mode, beginning the moment he entered the car. All across New Jersey their conversation was strained, with long patches of silence replacing their habitual playful banter. They spoke briefly about the color of the leaves along the highway, the environmental virtues of her hybrid car, the weather, but not a word about his weekend plans, which loudly lay between them unmentioned and unmentionable. Finally, as they were about to enter the Lincoln Tunnel, Heather couldn’t take any more. “You’ve been awfully quiet today. Is something wrong, Zoltan?”
“No, no, it is nothing. I am most grateful that you are driving me in your Toyota Prius. It’s New Jersey traffic—too crowded and slow.”
Heather rolled her eyes. The traffic was as impersonal a topic as the weather.
When he asked her to drop him off at the Times Square subway station, she said, “That’s not necessary. I’ll take you wherever you want to go.” But he insisted that Times Square was “exactly where I want to go.”
“But Zoltan, you don’t know the subways and I’m willing to drive you.”
“No thank you. I do know the subways. I taught one semester at the New School, remember? Yes I need you, my darling, but not for everything.”
“Fine! Our restaurant is in Hell’s Kitchen. I’ll park the car and you can go wherever you please.”
As they left the garage, she had the feeling that he thought she planned to spy on him. Unfair! He was the one deceiving her and she was catching the blame. No kiss on the hand tonight, not even a wave, just a short, curt bow and good-bye. By the time they parted she was close to tears.
14 MACK, BARBARA, AND ABE Rabin were already seated at a table in the colorful main dining room, drinking mojitos, when Heather arrived. Rabin, a hefty man with a dense mane of prematurely gray hair, large moist hazel eyes magnified by thick glasses, and a muscular neck and double chin, stood up while cheek pecks and air kisses were exchanged all around.
“Where’s the houseguest?” Barbara asked. “Mack said he was driving in with you.”
“I dropped him at Times Square.”
“Then he’s not joining us?”
“He had another date,” chirped Heather, trying to sound unperturbed.
“Too bad!” Barbara’s disappointment was visible in the droop of her narrow shoulders and downturn of her full pretty lips, belying her usual offhand cool.
“He’s spending the weekend in the city,” offered Mack.
“Oh, really? With a woman?” asked Barbara.
“No. With friends of his, a couple named Shaffer,” said Mack.
“I didn’t know that,” said Heather. Relieved, she hailed a passing waiter and ordered a margarita, then picked up the menu. “Does everybody know what they’re having?”
For a while they concentrated on the menu, but once they’d placed their orders, the conversation returned to Zoltan.
“Frankly, I didn’t really expect you to bring him,” said Barbara. “Abe believes you want to keep him to yourself.”
“No, you’re wrong there,” said Mack. “I invited him to come tonight. But Zoltan does whatever the hell he likes, regardless of what we might want. He’s actually quite mysterious about his comings and goings.”
“I’ll say,” said Heather, sipping her margarita. “I’ve never met anyone so secretive.”
“Heather says he’s difficult. What I want to know is how is he difficult?” asked Barbara, tapping a long silver fingernail against her glass.
“So many ways!” said Heather. “For one thing, he’s a master of double messages. And contradictions. Like, he’s stone broke but he brings us bottles of vintage wine. Or he needs every minute to work but he sleeps half the day. Or he longs to be part of a ‘real family’ but he can’t remember the children’s names. I think he snoops in our drawers when I’m out.”
“How interesting! I wonder why,” said Rabin, a psychiatrist, whose profession it was to wonder why.
“Oh, come now, Abe, you know why,” said Barbara. “Writers are born snoops. They’re always looking for material. They justify everything they do, no matter how bad, by telling themselves they’re doing it for art, and then they use it in their books. They’re shameless. Remember Henry James’s prescription for writers? Try to be one on whom nothing is lost. If it has to do with their intimates or their family, so much the better, they think it rightfully belongs to them. And who knows, maybe they have a point.”
“You two better watch yourselves or you’ll wind up in a book,” warned Rabin, wagging a plump finger. He picked up a chip, scooped up a large dollop of guacamole, and popped it in his mouth.
Unlike Heather, who sometimes feared being material for Zoltan, Mack harbored that very hope. “I’m not worried about it. He’s asked me to be his business manager, so I expect I’ll have a chance to vet his manuscript before anything damaging sees print.”
“You don’t get it,” said Barbara. “Not even their editors have veto rights, only the lawyers, who can stop publication if necessary to prevent a lawsuit. They know how dangerous writers can be, even if you don’t.”
“Hardly more dangerous than developers,” said Rabin, playfully punching Mack on the arm. “Look how many developers get indicted. Whereas the papers served to writers are mainly awards.”
“Aren’t you forgetting the libel suits?” said Barbara.
“And invasion of p
rivacy,” said Heather, licking salt from the rim of her glass.
“And plagiarism,” said Mack. “If you ask Zoltan, though, it’s not writers or developers, it’s women who are the dangerous ones. He sometimes refers to Heather as a ‘dangerous woman.’ Though I think he means it as a compliment.”
“He said that?” asked Heather brightly. “You never told me that.”
“What he actually says, I believe, is that when I let you out of the kitchen you’re dangerous.”
“Then he’s not worried that you’ll poison him,” said Rabin, filling another chip, this time with salsa.
Heather turned to Barbara for sympathy. “Once he said to me, ‘With a kitchen like that I would think you would spend more time there.’ Some of the things he says are unbelievable!”
“What a throwback! He’s not the only Eastern European writer with old-fashioned ideas about women. Think Kundera. Does he ever offer to help you?” asked Barbara.
“Are you kidding? I doubt he’d know how. He acts completely helpless.”
“Not when he’s alone, I’ll bet,” said Rabin. “He’s a bachelor isn’t he? Bachelors have to eat too, so they can usually find their way around a kitchen. Unless they can afford to eat out every night.”
“My impression,” said Mack, “is that this bachelor has always had women to do his cooking.”
“And he’s quite particular about the food he eats, too. You could even say finicky,” said Heather.
“Go on, babe,” said Mack, grinning, “tell them about the strawberries.”
“Ah yes, the strawberries.” Heather drained her margarita glass and licked the last bit of salt from the rim, while the waiter set their entrees before them: beef fajitas, enchiladas with ground pepita sauce, and the house specialty, duck breast with mole negro.
“Well, after Zoltan had been with us a few days, Mack suggested I take him food shopping with me so I could find out what he likes to eat.”
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