Funny girl, sounded mad, can’t wait, just to get inside some place, what’ll he say? aiee, aiee, at this hour the apartment can’t have much heat, only don’t get playful, just Hello, thanks—play it straight—Don’t want to trouble you any farther—further—So just…eighth…seventh…show me the rug or couch or whatever it is I’m to rest on, and if it’s still okay a shower first if you don’t mind, as you can see I really need it, and a towel in any state of dampness or decay would be much appreciated, so you just go to sleep, night-night, don’t worry about me, and much more than my thanks, you’ve been, what can I say? divine…second…first…
Bathrobe, something for underneath, just a pair of panties from here or there, like to put up her hair but hasn’t time, tie the belt tight, tuck the top in, nothing needed for her feet.
Door opens as he has his finger—“Hi, heard the elevator door open,” closes.
“Hello, thank you, you startled me,” holds out his hand, “—forgot my key. I—”
“Shhh—neighbors.”
“Sorry, and no dumb, and besides, confusing that dumb remark when you also consider that I lost my own housekeys. But anyway, seriously”—her hair down, more blonde than orange now, how’s that? could be the ceiling light—smooth, shiny—“I don’t think I should leave my shoes here, do you? They’re not wet and I wouldn’t want to lose them.”
“Why, is it raining?”
Big breasts, thick thighs, small waist, under the robe, what he can detect—“No, why? Don’t know why I even said it, I mean,” cute little feet. “I’ll leave them on. They might be dirty, I guess that’s why. Said it, I—”
“It’s all right, this isn’t a Japanese household. Come in.”
“Thanks.” She steps aside, he shuts the door, she locks, her back, large buttocks. “Nice place.”
“You haven’t seen it.”
“The lobby downstairs, the vestibule. Which is it? The second entrance room, with all the marble. Oh, befores I forgets,” gives her the cab money in his hand.
“No, I don’t want—” trying to give it back.
“Please, it’s not mine—Then a dollar for the subway tomorrow, which I’ll mail back,” takes a dollar bill. “But I always get those two rooms mixed up or never had them straight.” Face, smile, teeth, height, high cheeks, those sweet feet, almost oriental eyes, simple powder-blue bathrobe, paint, print, light fixture in this small room, all in good taste, tons of books shelved, don’t let it get to…turn your…make you…something, what? No time.
“Lobby,” she already said. Also: “Vestibule’s the first one with the nailed-down floor runner and bells.” Now: “At least I think—”
“So the door from the outside’s the vestibule door and one to the lobby’s the lobby door. That hold true for going out? Lobby door leading to the vestibule still the—well, not important, except for a translator’s zealotism, zealotry—zeal for the exact word. I bet you thought with that last one I wasn’t serious.”
“I didn’t think. Anyhow—”
“Sure: no talk; sleep. I’m sorry, and by nice place downstairs—just to finish this up, so you don’t think I’m altogether bats—I meant old New World New York or something or another. Handsome. Hatful. Tactful. Those aren’t it, blubber blubber, so whatever words I mean.”
“You’re tired.”
“Us both. I’ve kept you up and up. Lucky you’re still talking to me.”
“I don’t know how much longer I can.” Yawns. “There”—another—“see? I’m catching a yawn, and for all I know I’m dreaming in my sleep.”
“If you are, where’s that leave me? Where would I be if—”
“No taxing thoughts. And maybe you should take off your shoes. How’d they get so muddy?”
“And my hands,” untying the shoelaces. “I should also probably leave them in the anteroom do you call this room? The shoe room? You have a newspaper I can put these under?”
“Leave them. I’m doing a big clean-up tomorrow. And this room is my apartment’s equivalent to the downstairs lobby. Or foyer. That’s what this and that one downstairs is. Foyer. No, bring your hands with you. You’ll need them to pull out the couch bed. I haven’t the strength for it anymore.”
Goes, follows. “Hmm, nice room. And nice couch. Don’t worry about sheets or anything. All I need’s a blanket or heavy coat.”
“The bed is already made. And I’d say ‘Let me take your coat,’ or would have in the foyer, but you really don’t have one. You didn’t when you came to Diana’s?”
“It was stolen. I didn’t tell you about the newsstand?”
“You did. I’d ask to hear the whole story”—yawns—“as you can see,” pointing to her yawning mouth. “Mine always seem to come in twos.”
“Makes no diffieren—” Shudders.
“Ooh, you’re really chilled. I can make you tea. Or a drink of something. Scotch, vodka? Somehow Zubrovka sounds medicinal—know what it is?”
“Buffalo grass. I’d love it, thanks. And look at the view. Mind if I look?” Goes to the window. “Incredible. I once knew an editor—he had me come to his endless apartment overlooking the East River in the Seventies. About a translation—first I ever published—around ten years ago—it was a literary magazine. Now he’s got to be the most successful writer of other people’s autobiographies in the country. Every book he ghosts he gets a quarter of a million for and he does them in a year. He also appears in an American Express Cheques ad, saying ‘You don’t know me and never will know the titles of the books I write, but four million of you bought my books this year,’ or that’s what someone told me, since I never saw it. But forgot what I was going to say about his apartment. What’s that? Looks like a floating lit Christmas tree.”
“In the water?”
“Moving very slowly.”
“Probably a tug.” Comes over. “A tug.”
“Why’s it alone? And where’s it going upriver this late?”
“They’re often alone. Picking up ships there—Yonkers, Albany—barges with concrete or coal on them, sometimes pushing eight at a time. I know that editor-writer. I’ve gone to his parties and seen him on TV.”
“Really. When I sold him the translation I was told—it was also in a New Yorker Profile about him and his distinguished family—that every contributor for the year was invited to his annual New Year’s Day party, but I wasn’t. I was disappointed. They’re known to be—were then—now he’s married, has children—”
“His parties still are. Elaborate smorgasbord. Bar with bartenders making real bar drinks. Servants scudding around with the most exotic finger foods and champagne. Lots of well-known or interesting or very smart people there or all three. Quartet playing Schubert or pianist playing Broadway medleys. It’s not what I like to do or have time to any other daytime day, but it is a great illusionary way to start the new year.”
“He never took anything of mine after that, though it’s true other people now edit most of the magazine for him. No big deal. I wanted to go to eat and drink well and, to be honest, to meet women—society girls involved in literature and literaturists, I understand, and just women writers and artists of every kind, and I’d probably want to go for the same reasons now. Maybe I would’ve met you there one of these last years if I’d sold one of the many translations I sent his magazine in that time and he had invited me, if he still invites contributors.”
“I don’t think that’s how most of his guests get there anymore. I went with a friend and Sanderson talked to me for an hour about post-World War Two alcoholic writing and has sent me an invitation for the last three years, but hasn’t invited my friend since the first time. I don’t know how it works. I think my friend and he pumped iron at the same health club. I’m not yawning anymore but I am as sleepy. I’ll get you that vodka now, if you’re still interested, and say goodnight.”
“Yes, of course, excuse me. And may I use your bathroom?”
Points, he goes, shuts the door. Won’t stay closed unless he
forces it into the frame and locks it, which he does. Smells flowery. Bloomingdale’s soap. Carnation. Knows without seeing it. Woman he knew used to buy them by the box and used a red one too. What scent? rose scent, both soaps too hard to lather his shavingbrush with. Polka-dot shower cap on the shower’s hot water valve, backbrush hanging handle-end up on the cold, series of enlarged framed photos along one wall of turned-over beached rowboats, photo of a cat strolling the coast of what seems to be the bouldery sea of the boats, Marin watercolor or oil of sea trees, rocks and island, thick deep blue bath and face towels and washcloth, three toothbrushes in the holder, bobby pins and antique ring in the cup stand. Washes his hands, face, hands again, then the soap under the faucet to get the grime off it. Water in his mouth, gargles, spits out, still tastes foul. Maybe she has a mouthwash he could swig from the bottle and spit out. Opens the medicine chest. Diaphragm case with jelly alongside but forget it. Mouthwash, but she’ll know if she smells his breath or follows him into the bathroom that he’s been inside the chest, and closes it. Water on his hair, wants to brush his hair with her brush on the sink. No, his gray hairs, but with all her blonde or orange or both, she’ll never know. Three strokes—sides and middle—checks, brush is clean but for one gray, long enough to be hers, which he pulls out and drops into the bag in the basket under the sink. Pee. Picks up the seat.
Knock knock.
“I’ll be right out.”
“Just thought, because of your chill, you might want the vodka now.”
“I do, thank you. I still feel chilled. But I’ll be right out. Then I’ll take it and go right to sleep.”
“You don’t want to shower? On the phone I thought—”
“I do but didn’t want to put you through—”
“Now that you’re here, shower if it’ll make you feel better. I’ll get you a washrag and a fresh towel.”
“If you don’t mind, one of these will do, and no washrag. Excuse me, Helene, but I have to urinate badly. So I’m going to break off this conversation for the moment.”
“No, use it. And sorry.”
Looks at the commode as he pees. Clean, outside and in. Hopes she isn’t still there listening. Finished, flushes, seat down—should he?—cover too. She keeps the cover up when she’s alone, just as he does, or is that assuming too much? Rinses his hands, then washes them—clean as the commode was he might’ve touched feces on the seat’s underside—feels his fly, it’s up, last glance in the mirror, unlocks the door. She’s standing in the living room, stemmed shotglass on the table beside her. Wants him to go, doesn’t care if he stays, what’s her face say? No smile, quite blank, all in, that could be all. “Didn’t mean to take so long or cut you off like that.”
“What are you talking about?” Hands him the glass.
“Smells good.”
“Polish, supposed to be much better than the Russian. Also supposed to be ice-cold, but I thought with a chill you’d—”
“Any way is fine and probably room temperature’s better.” Holds up the glass. “Everybody’s got imported vodka today. Diana had Russian, I think; friend of mine has Finnish—”
“This was from my father.”
“Oh, very generous. My father never even offered me a drink. Didn’t like me to. Was afraid I’d become a rummy.”
“Rummy?”
“Expression of his for me. Guzzler and juicehead and lush were others, all exaggerated and inaccurate, and a little unfair since he drank his share way past my present age till he was ordered not to. And I didn’t mean that imported vodka has become a fad. If I had my choice, believe me…Is there an appropriate toast I should make before I drink this?”
“None I know in Polish. Prosit perhaps or down the hatch.”
“I almost feel I should make a blessing, not a toast. I’m thankful for being here. To you for being so hospitable and kind. I don’t know what I would’ve done, at the end of my end and so on, and as I said—” Tears come.
“You would have found something. Drink.”
Drinks. “Delicious.”
“If the Poles, my father says, advertised their vodkas as much as the Russians, they’d take the market away. Or maybe they think that taking business from them would only be one more reason for the tanks to roll in. Anyway, that’s countries.” Looks at the couch. “Towel, washrag, extra blanket…bathrobe.”
“Don’t need one.”
“It’s important. I don’t want you running around in a towel or your undershorts.”
“Ah, if you only knew.”
“What?”
“Nothing sinister—really, thank you. You have a robe that’ll fit and won’t itch?”
“And ambisexual. I’ll get it.” Starts for the bathroom, stops. “What were you saying ‘if I only knew’?”
“Nothing. Just something about underpants. That the robe was a good suggestion. But don’t worry, because nothing’s wrong with my underpants or their environs or any idea connected to them in any way.”
“It still doesn’t sound right.”
“I don’t have any on. There you go. I used them to wipe my behind earlier tonight because the john I was in—it was in a bar but I only went there for coffee, to sober up, to dry off—was all out of paper.”
“Are those pants in your pocket now?”
“I flushed them down—their toilet, not yours.”
“Okay.” Goes past the bathroom into another room. What’d she think when she saw the tears and he mentioned his environs and then his behind? That he never should’ve brought any of it up? That for the sake of good manners and taste, etcet. He didn’t see how she looked when he cried because at that moment he looked away, quickly got rid of the tears. He was being honestly emotional she could think—a virtue? fault? folly?—or dishonest, trying to suck her in with his tears, or trying to affect or impress with his directness and frankness about his environs and behind, or just still a little drunk, which might scare her. If he were she he’d think at least What is it with this guy? He shoots the rest of the drink down. But her concern, papa who compares Slavic vodkas, soap, clean commode, woman with a river view, bobby pins and simple ring, obvious smarts from the start, affectionate to revered way people spoke about her, spryness, hair, just this pretty glass, puts it on the table—why didn’t he ask how her evening went after Diana’s? He can be clever but never learned to hold back enough or know when soon is soon enough or—jumps. Something at his feet. Cat, same one it seems from the photograph, a light bluish white, yanking one of its front nails with its teeth, saying Who are you? in Siamese, settling down inches away, pulling all its paws in and staring at him.
“So, Sammy found you. He must have been under the couch. Are you allergic to cats?”
“Why, am I acting like it? I like them, but takes me a while to be over-friendly.” Bends down to pet it. Cat hisses, hand retracts.
“First put your finger out and let him smell it. They like to get to know you slowly, and one big hand coming down on them too fast can be hair-raising.”
Squats, puts out his finger. Cat sniffs it, licks it, sits up and bumps his head several times on Dan’s palm, he pets it and looks up.
“Now you’re pals.” Hands him a bathrobe. “Nothing else I can think of—you?” Shakes his head and stands. “You need another blanket or any toilet articles, in the linen closet opposite the bathroom. Feel free in the kitchen. Stove burners are automatic, if you want to use one, and oven you need a match, which are on top of the cupboard to the stove’s right. Are you a big drinker?”
“Not at all. Why, my remarks?”
“For a while I didn’t know what I was getting into with you, pre-and post-phone. Some of the things you said—they might be amusing or right for some people, and maybe any other time in my life or hour of the night I might respond more favorably to them, so what am I saying?”
“No, you’re right. Fact is I was thinking the same thing before you said it. That I might’ve sounded too fancifully bizarre—I’m being euphemistic here
so you don’t think too unfavorably of me. Or am I now doing the same thing?—but too soon saying these things and maybe for any time.”
Fall and Rise Page 30