“God, was coming up here ever the mistake. What’s next on your list, rape? Get off me?”
“After I leave you downstairs,” letting me go, “I’m going to whack off. Put vaseline on it, which I do only in extreme cases when I need a walloping release,” and he grabs his penis through the pants, “and jerk the thing till it hurts,” and demonstrates.
“Why do you have to elaborate so much? Don’t answer.”
“I don’t have to elaborate. I do have to answer. I’m disappointed, so I’m trying to be nasty as shit to you, which includes being graphic. But in the end, to myself, well—”
“Let’s go.” I unlock the door and leave.
“Don’t forget the bag of Japanese.” He gives it to me, “No, it’s too heavy,” takes it back, and we wait for the elevator, standing several feet apart, and take it down, two of us against opposite walls watching the floor numbers light up. I say goodnight to Russell, who says “Don’t be a stranger.” Peter whistles for a cab and says “You have enough money?”
“You don’t think it’s a little late to whistle so loudly for a cab?”
“Don’t worry, they’re my neighbors. And listen, Helene. Maybe in a few weeks—”
“Got ya.”
“Lunch I’m talking about. Only lunch. It’s clear to me now that anything but that would never work.”
“We’ll see.” He opens the door, leans forward to kiss my cheek and I pull back my head. “As I said, let me check with my doctor first to see if it’s safe,” and I get in the cab.
He puts the bag of books on my lap. “You cunt.”
“Bull. You brought it on and have always brought it on and will continue to bring it on yourself,” and I slam the door.
“What?” he says through the window, and raps on it. “I didn’t quite hear that. What, you cunt?”
The cabby’s laughing.
“Don’t you laugh, you moron,” Peter yells, and slams the cab roof with his hand.
“Hey,” the cabby says. “Hey! Hey!”
“Hundred-tenth off Riverside,” I say, “and don’t get out, don’t fight—please.”
“Okay,” and he drives away.
“I’m sorry about what happened back there. Any damage done to your cab, not that much could have been—”
“Is nothing. Not my cab. Forget, forget,” still angry.
He has an accent, kind of a high Russian voice, I look at his hack license: Jascha Papinsky. “Vy—excuse me—vy Russki, da?”
“Da,” smiling, “you speak?”
“Just those few words I learned at a party tonight, which I think are the same few words I learned at this same person’s party last year. There were a number of novy Amerikanets there. You the same? New?”
“No understand.”
“The Soviet Union. Have you recently come from there?”
“Novy. Here. Yes. One year. Engineer. Too bad you not speak. I want to speak Russian for hours, but all Russian émigrés in New York is drivers of taxi, no riders. And old Russians many years here no more take taxi or look my name and to me not speak. Ah, my English very bad. A big problem. Adres. Take.”
He drives me to my building. For the whole ride from a tape deck beside him is some slow old jazz which I sit back and listen to and get to like. “Please wait till I’m in my building,” I say, paying him. “And if you could also be so nice. Since this neighborhood sometimes isn’t safe. Wait till I wave to you from inside my building before you go? Understand?”
“Sure thing. Glad to.”
I have my keys out and leave the cab, unlock the lobby door, go in, look around, let the door close, ring for the elevator, and when it comes, look at the convex mirror on its wall to make sure no one’s hiding inside. I wave to the driver, who beeps once, and take the elevator to my floor.
Sammy is speaking to me from behind the door second I step off the elevator. Sue had to be put to sleep because the pain from her terminal cancer was getting too great. I didn’t tell Peter because he knew how close I was to my cats and how close they were to each other and by that time I didn’t want his sympathy, genuine or false. “Okay, Sams, I’m coming—don’t fly out the door.” Elevator closes, so even if he does run past me he can’t get into the elevator, which he did once and it took me a while to find what floor he ended up on. I open the door, he’s scratching the floor that he wants to jump up. I put down the bags, wiggle my fingers for him to come and he stares at my stomach while he hums and then jumps at the spot he stared at and making squealing sounds runs up my chest till he’s lying across my shoulder, purring, head against my cheek. I walk into the kitchen with him, set him down, he’s finished his food and is pushing the plate with his forehead for more. I open a jar of strained-veal baby food and spoon two globs of it onto his plate, leave the spoon on the plate because he likes to lick it, drink a glass of seltzer, undress, shower, take two aspirins, brush my teeth and floss them and massage the gums with the brush’s rubber tip and get into bed. That’s it with parties for me, at least for a month, even if it is the season. Write that down. I jump out of bed—Sammy, sleeping next to me, gets startled and jumps off the bed and runs out of the room—get my appointment calendar and write on December’s four pages a letter a day with “onth” on the 31st: “No more parties for me at least for a month.” And at the bottom of the last page: “Meet people instead for breakfast or lunch, read for and outline spring term, finish 30pp of the book, just finish the book! try not to even see a man after 5 except maybe new year’s eve, and even there, but who’ll that be?—Oh, no woes if you stay home alone that night and on great wine and black forest ham and poached salmon fillets get high.”
I’m reading a student’s paper on “Postconstructionism and Morphology in the Postmodern American Novel”—I’m sure he has the first term wrong, if he’s not sending up that critical school, and even if he is, the entire department by now, students and teachers both, has to know how I hate those words and themes, even parodies of them, since there’s rarely anything in them for me except material and writing to help put me to sleep when I can’t sleep—when the phone rings. Answering service closed more than two hours ago. I don’t like answering it, as at this hour there’s a good chance it’s a crank. “Yes?”
“Then you got home okay. Good. I was worrying.”
“Who is this?”
“Excuse me, because why should I have thought you’d recognize my voice? Arthur Rosenthal. And excuse me too for calling so late.”
“Thanks for your concern, Arthur, but it’s too late to even talk about it being too late.”
“Now I’m very sorry I called. I didn’t think it’d be that late—late italicized I mean. Because I called only fifteen minutes ago—”
“You couldn’t have. I’ve been home more than half an hour.”
“I did. And a half-hour before that, and a half-hour before that too. Maybe I just missed you the second half-hour ago and you were someplace else the last half-hour—in another room, am I wrong?”
“It’s possible I was in the shower then and didn’t hear it, so all right. Still—”
“Anyway, I certainly called, but that’s not to say I couldn’t have dialed the wrong number and that number didn’t answer. But I don’t often dial the wrong number no matter how late at night. Maybe five hundred to one. I can’t even recall the last time. A year ago—two.”
“But you do often call late at night.”
“No. I only called you to see if you got home okay, and when you didn’t answer, half-hour after that and then this call. When you didn’t answer the first two times I called, I assumed you weren’t home yet and that it’d be safe to call now.”
“Did you ever assume I might not have answered deliberately and that each time you rang you were disturbing me more and more, waking me up each time?”
“I should have assumed that. But it wasn’t what happened, was it? Because you said that a half-hour ago—”
“No, it wasn’t, but still. To me any call after
eleven at night and before seven A.M., and maybe even eight, except between very close people—forget the early morning calls, let’s concentrate on the late. But people very close to one another—lovers if you may. And even there the caller should think ‘Do I know, if I know this person is up, if he or she would be disturbed by my rings or is too tired to answer the phone?’—should be for emergencies only—for physical or emotional help or something like that. And after midnight even lovers should hold off their calls unless it’s an extreme personal emergency, between them or very deeply affecting them and where the caller is sure the called lover would at least tolerate the call. I didn’t put that well—and I didn’t mean to exclude calls from immediate family, since my thoughts about those calls are about the same for nonfamily—but it’s one of my rules.”
“You put it well. And I’m sorry I didn’t know your rules, even if I suppose every intelligent person should have the same rule. And no question it was wrong of me to call. Even if I was only concerned about you, and more concerned each time you didn’t answer, which was presumptuous of me. But also because—what the heck; I’ve come this far I might as well say the rest—I didn’t especially like this fellow Peter—may I speak openly?”
“I don’t want to hear about him now. And Peter is or was a friend of mine, so it’s not right, at any time of the day or night, for you to—”
“I disliked him thoroughly. I’ve never seen anyone so caught-up with himself—so, so…who gave the impression of—he’s a born bastard and good-for-naught, that’s what. I was almost afraid for you with him, and that if he were there with you when I called, which would be your own affair, but if someone called he’d know that someone else knew he was there and that if he was planning any harm—”
“You don’t know how wrong you are. You’re going on like this only because of some resentment you must have towards him because of me. But you’re blowing this thing way—”
“I know, but that was my fear. Not out of jealousy. He looked capable of doing anything heinous. I don’t care what kind of sophisticated work he does and how brilliant and dynamic everyone says he is, he’s a goddamn snob and peacock and I bet even a chiseler and heel of the highest order—not a chiseler, I’ve no basis for that—but that’s what I believe. I’ve never believed anything so much and so fast as that without utterly knowing that person or the facts, but you just tell me he’s not. Of course you’ll say he’s not, and why shouldn’t you? That would be the loyal and right thing to do.”
“Please stop about him.”
“Of course. But if you can believe it, except for that I wanted to make sure you got home safe, all that’s not even why I called. I won’t keep you another minute. I only wanted to say that tomorrow’s Saturday, neither of us has to go to work, so how about lunch, say one o’clock at The Library, which is on Broadway and Ninety-second, halfway between your apartment and mine. It’s even less than halfway for you, and no splitting the check. After opening my trap the way I did, I should stand you to two straight lunches and at a place a lot better than The Library, which for what it is is very good of its kind.”
“Thanks, Arthur, but I just made a vow—”
“Is it because of what I said about him? Even if I shouldn’t have said anything, I wasn’t too far off in my assessment of him, was I? Excuse me, but what about your vow? It can be broken for an hour or two, can’t it?”
“You’re not taking me seriously. What I vowed was not to see anyone for an outing for the next month, since what I have to do first is crank away at finishing something and also prepare for the spring term. I’m carrying two lit courses and a composition, which can’t sound arduous to anyone not in university teaching—”
“It does, I know what it is. But the next month you said, which is December. It’s still November. Five whole days left. So you’ve five more days to have lunch with someone, so how about it? Lunch—an hour or less—no more.”
“Tomorrow at one? No, I can’t.”
“Yes you can. I’m sorry, I know how valuable your time is—but an hour, sixty minutes to the dot. And The Balcony, not The Library, which is a five-minute walk for you—you must know where it is. Next door to the Olympia, which is a lot less than less than halfway down and sometimes live chamber music there and always a decent lunch. I’ll even pick you up by cab—you can be waiting downstairs at twelve fifty-five.”
“Don’t pick me up, and can we make it at two? That way I might be able to get some work done, since I know I’ll sleep late tomorrow and maybe even wake up with a slight hangover.”
“What’s sleeping-late for you?”
“Just answer; I have to go.”
“Two it is, you kidding? Anything, even two-fifteen. And I’m glad you got home safe—you did, didn’t you? You’re not going to tell me tomorrow about any of tonight’s hand-to-hand skirmishes and battle wounds?”
“I’m safe. Don’t pry. Goodnight.”
Didn’t want to but how else? Not true, because—Damn, just should have said “Listen to me, it’s not only audacious of you to”—Not “audacious,” but—Oh, no big deal, and he’s looking out for me, isn’t that a laugh? No, it was stupid of me. Should have said “Call me another time, I’m bushed, goodnight,” and hung up. But it’s just lunch, falls in with my new directives, and though nosy and a bit nutty he’s a sweet enough guy and was he ever on-target about Peter. But I’ll establish right off with him—Already have a dozen more friends than I can hardly see even now and then—But come December—Clever—five days left in November—he caught me on that one—guy’s fast. Wait, do I have a luncheon date tomorrow? I look at my appointment book. No, and it’s only tomorrow, so I should be able to remember without writing it down. But I don’t know how groggy I’ll be in the morning or how much drink makes you forget overnight, so I write “Arthur Rosenthal, 2, The Balcony,” in tomorrow’s box. But come December I’m putting the kibosh to any frivolous social-going. Get a special phone-gadget installed so when I press a button it’ll keep the phone from ringing when I’m busy or sleeping and the service is closed. Heard of those.
I pick up the student’s paper. Why not put it off? Because I want to get all of them corrected so I can get to things I really want to do. “Morphology” again means what? It means morphine. It means latrine. I write on the paper with an arrow aimed at the word “Leonard, no more big words for me like this—I’m too lazy to look em up. And what’s with this postdeconunstru—? What about supercacographicexhibitionism? (Did I spel it rite?)” Phone rings. Now he’s blown it. Much too late to call twice the same night even if the last call was ten seconds ago and he was my husband-to-be and most loved lover. Whatever he has to say can hold till the morning and late into it. Stop on your own accord. Doesn’t. Shameless schmuck. I pick up the receiver. “Arthur, this better be good.”
“It isn’t Arthur, and I know it’s extremely late, but it’s Dan from tonight—Daniel Krin—is this Miss Winiker?”
“Who? Oh, I’m not going to pretend—I know who. Are you out of your mind? What could you want when it’s after two?”
“I’m sorry, but the clock, and this is no excuse, I’m looking at says it’s one—few minutes past—but it’s a bank clock, on a seedy street corner, and since I haven’t a watch or another clock to compare it with, it could well be wrong.”
“Whether it’s two or one—”
“You’re right—by all means—please believe I’m not disputing it. And you can’t know how sorry I am to call. Nor how I tried everything under the sun—sun’s hardly the word to use at this hour. Everything under the street light, perhaps, to resolve—and I shouldn’t make light of it—neither of those lights—beforehand the reason why I did call. But I couldn’t and it was an emergency which—”
“What kind of emergency, Mr. Krin? And let’s make this quick. So tell me, what kind? Because at this hour I don’t take emergency calls from people I’ve just met.”
“Please hear me out. You’re just about my last chance on th
is. The timing of my call’s all wrong but I don’t think the reason I called is. And by ‘last chance’ I meant, to help me out of a bad situation. And for the last fifteen minutes—you’re still there?”
“Make it quick.”
“For the last fifteen, because it was so late—and at the time I thought it was ten to one, so for a Friday not the latest of lates to call but still much too late—I debated with myself and thought ‘No, don’t call, too late, much too, I don’t know her, just met, etcet, spoke fifty words to her, hundred, tops, and maybe a hundred-fifty between us.’ But then, when I didn’t see any alternative, which I’ll get into, and I decided to call, but even then undecidedly, your phone was busy—a few minutes ago. So I thought ‘At least she’s up and at home, so if I call a minute from now and the line’s free, I won’t be waking her.’ Of course you’d be home if you were up.”
“Not necessarily. If someone dials a number the same time that phone’s ringing because someone else dialed it first—”
“That’d produce a busy signal for the person dialing a little behind? Didn’t think of that in relation to this. And ‘dialing a little behind.’ That could be misinterpreted, but please don’t. Should’ve kept it to myself. It was unintentional, but repeating it wasn’t. Though the repeat was just my surprise at my unintentional line, not said to be suggestive. And now I guess whenever I dial someone late—which I don’t normally do; I don’t like getting calls myself after eleven.”
“Same here.”
“Even after ten. I occasionally go to bed early just to get an early start the next day.”
“Between ten and eleven’s all right, even from someone I just met, but never a call around two. Or if your clock’s right and it wasn’t that it stopped—”
“It hasn’t.”
“—then five to ten minutes past one. Never. But where’s my watch? I’m looking at the alarm clock right now—hold on.” I go into the bathroom, get my watch off the shelf under the medicine chest, put one of the pearl ear-studs back into the cockleshell on the shelf from which it must have rolled out of but got stopped by my toothbrush, put the toothbrush back into the wall holder, go back. “Your bank clock runs slow or is still suffering from an outage of an hour and a quarter some time ago, because both my watch and clock says it’s twenty after two. And earlier tonight I set my watch by my clock and then checked my watch against the wall clock at that reception I told you I was going to.”
Fall and Rise Page 23