“I’m going to take a shower,” said Heath, ignoring Gerard’s remark. He had gotten sweaty on the subway.
“What’s the Yukon Time Zone,” Gerard said to the TV.
Heath went into the bathroom and took his second shower of the morning, shaved the patches under his jaw he had missed earlier, and put aftershave on his face and chest. He thought he smelled too strongly of Aramis so he got back in the shower. Then he dressed as groovily as he knew how.
Gerard had moved from the couch to the floor. He was still smoking, but he had begun stretching. “Jeopardy” had been replaced by “Charlie’s Angels.” Kate Jackson was holding a gun on a fat man in a walk-in freezer. “Your lunch date called,” he said.
“She did?” asked Heath. “Amanda Paine?”
“That’s the one,” said Gerard.
“What did she say?”
“She said it was an April Fool’s joke and that you should give it up and move back to Charlottesville.”
For a second Heath believed him. He sat down because he felt faint. He could feel the life drop out of his head, swoosh. For a second he hated Gerard with a pureness that amazed him, and this hatred help bring him back to his senses.
“I’m kidding,” said Gerard. “Talk about Mr. Gullible. She just changed the place. You’re supposed to meet her at Shawangunk’s apartment. Seven twenty-one Fifth Avenue.”
“Where’s that?” asked Heath.
“It’s the Trump Tower, baby,” said Gerard. “The big TT.”
CHAPTER 4
SINCE IT WAS SUCH A gorgeous spring day Judith decided to sit in the park for a while. She wasn’t due at the clinic until one o’clock. She found a sunny bench and sat reading The Odd Women by George Gissing. Presently she looked up to find a man sitting on the opposite bench, gazing at her through binoculars. She gave him what she hoped was a discouraging frown and returned to her book.
But the man persisted. She looked up again. He was slight, middle-aged, and Asian. This time she scowled in a way that could not be misinterpreted, but of course it was. It seemed to attract rather than repel him, for suddenly he was sitting beside her on the bench.
“I am sorry,” he said. “I see I have annoyed you. But it was the birds, not you, at which I was looking.”
Judith nodded and continued reading.
“And now I have insulted you, I fear,” he continued. “I did not wish to imply that you are less attractive than the birds.”
Judith gave him a weak smile.
“It is a beautiful day,” he said.
She knew better than to respond.
“Would you like to see?” he asked, offering his binoculars.
“No thank you,” Judith said. She stood up, with the purpose of looking for another, quieter locale.
“Don’t go,” the man said. “I will go if I am bothering you. I am so very sorry. This is your bench, and you must stay.”
“Oh, no,” said Judith. “I’m leaving. I deed the bench to you.”
The man smiled. He had extraordinarily white teeth. They were the whitest thing around for miles. Judith stood for a moment, hoping he would smile again.
“It is a beautiful day,” she said. You should leave, she thought. But she knew suddenly that she would not: It was the day. It was the sunlight in the air, the trees full of blossoms and birds. It was all so benevolent. No harm can come of this, Judith thought, not today.
“May I have a look?” she asked.
She was rewarded with another smile and the binoculars. She held them to her eyes. She was not sure what she was seeing: It was all out of focus. But she was sure it was beautiful, this mess of sky and leaves and windows glittering in the sun.
The lobby of the Trump Tower was all marble and mirror, and Heath had to concentrate hard not to walk into any walls. He had a phobia concerning mirrored walls ever since he had walked into one at Bendel’s and broken his nose.
He maneuvered his way safely across the dim lobby and announced himself at the desk. He was told he was expected and directed to an elevator that rose with NASA-like speed. Amanda Paine was waiting for him in the corridor, smoking a cigarette.
“Ah, so you got my message,” she said.
“Yes,” said Heath. “Hello.” He tried to shake her hand but she had extended it for another purpose—to give her cigarette to the elevator attendant.
“Would you dispose of this for me?” she asked him. He nodded and disappeared behind the closing doors. Amanda turned to Heath. “Anton doesn’t allow smoking in his apartment,” she explained. She looked different to Heath—taller and more imperial. The dress she was wearing seemed to have been pasted to her body in many little scraps, and her hair was piled high on her head in a manner that suggested the casual but upon closer inspection proved quite intricate. Heath followed her down the corridor.
“I’m sorry we had to change the plan, but at the last minute Anton decided he didn’t want to venture downtown. People who live uptown think downtown is so hopelessly far away, I’ve realized. Do you live downtown?”
“I live in Brooklyn,” said Heath.
Amanda laughed, as if this were a joke. “That’s right,” she said. “I had to dial seven-one-eight. Don’t you just hate seven-one-eight? It was much nicer when we were all two-one-two, don’t you think? One big happy family.”
She opened the door and they entered the apartment. It was smaller than Heath had imagined. Two walls were floor-to-ceiling smoked glass. Heath felt as if he were suddenly wearing sunglasses.
“Anton’s showering,” said Amanda. “Could I get you a drink?”
“Maybe just some water,” said Heath.
“Still or gazeuse?”
“Whatever,” Heath said.
Amanda disappeared into a galley-sized kitchen. Heath looked around. He was afraid to get too close to the glass walls for fear of tripping and crashing out. There was no art in the apartment. The floors were pickled wood, and the furniture seemed to be an eclectic mix of Louis XIV and Native American. The walls that weren’t glass were hand-painted with very small mauve- and raspberry-colored freckles.
Amanda reappeared carrying a large tray, which she set down on an Indian ceremonial knife-sharpening rock that apparently doubled as a coffee table. On the tray was a bottle of champagne, a bottle of Badoit water, three glasses, and a large silver tureen filled with ice, oysters, and violets. Heath assumed the violets were decorative.
“I should tell you something about Anton before he makes his appearance,” Amanda said, pouring the Badoit water into two glasses. She handed one to Heath. The air around it was alive with spritz.
“Thank you,” said Heath.
“Anton is many things to many people,” Amanda said. “The gallery is just one of his divertissements. He is actually quite a naif when it comes to art. However, you may be catching him at a bad time. His wife has recently bolted—she’s in Europe—and, unfortunately for us, it’s mostly her money he’s playing with.”
If there was something else Amanda meant to tell him about Anton Shawangunk, Heath would never know, for at that moment the man himself entered the room. He was a large, handsome man, younger than Heath had imagined: He couldn’t have been much more than fifty. His complexion, neither red nor brown, reminded Heath of polished maple furniture, and his long hair, wet from the shower, was combed back from his face in a dark, slick mane. He was wearing a celery-colored linen suit over an open-collared shirt. He was barefoot.
“Hi,” he said. He picked up an oyster and slurped the bivalve from its shell. A bit of seaweed clung to the cleft in his chin.
“Good afternoon, Anton,” said Amanda. “This is Heath Jackson, the photographer I told you about. He’s come to show us his portfolio.”
“I’m all eyes,” said Anton.
“Well, then, let’s not delay,” said Amanda. “Let’s look at your art, Mr. Jackson.”
Heath unzipped his portfolio and handed it to Amanda. She began to flip through the photographs. “Come look,”
she said to Anton, who was pacing around the room.
“I will when you’re done,” said Anton. “Do you want an oyster?” he asked Heath.
“Sure,” said Heath. He selected an oyster and ate it a la Anton Shawangunk.
“Have you exhibited before?” asked Amanda.
“In New York?” asked Heath.
“New York or Europe. You’ve shown abroad?”
“No,” said Heath. “Just in New York.”
“Where?”
“At the New Prospect.” The New Prospect Cafe was a restaurant in his neighborhood that had let him hang some of his photographs in the restrooms.
“I’ve not heard of the New Prospect,” said Amanda.
“It’s in Brooklyn,” said Heath.
“Who cares if he’s shown before?” said Anton. “We want to discover talent, not prostitute it.” He was looking out the window, down toward Fifth Avenue and the park. All the trees in the park were surrounded by hazy nimbuses of green or white or pink, and even the hermetically sealed smoked glass could not obscure the fact that spring was rubbing itself against everything in the city, which seemed to be bathed in a post-coital glow.
“I know,” said Amanda. “That’s why I was asking. I wanted to make sure he wasn’t overexposed. You should look at these, Anton. They’re really very interesting.”
“I don’t want to look at them,” said Anton. “Not now. I want to go outside. I want to go to Paris. It’s April, for Chrissakes. Let’s all go to Paris.”
“I can’t go to Paris,” said Amanda. “I have a gallery to run.”
Anton turned away from the window. “What about you, Mr. Jackson?” he asked. “Can you come to Paris?”
Heath didn’t know what to say, because he didn’t know what was going on. “What about my photographs?” he finally managed to ask.
“I’m sure they’re wonderful,” said Anton. “Amanda, tell me, are they wonderful?”
“I already told you what I think,” said Amanda. “I think they’re very interesting.”
“Well, that settles it,” said Anton. “Except for what will we call it? What do you want to call it, Mr. Jackson?”
“What?” asked Heath. “Call what?”
“Your show,” said Anton.
Amanda spoke up. “I know what we’ll call it,” she said. “We’ll call it ‘Simultaneous Organisms: The Photographs of Heath Jackson.’ Do you have a middle name?”
“Edward,” said Heath.
“So much the better,” said Anton, opening the bottle of champagne.
CHAPTER 5
LOREN WAS LOOKING AT an ant that was crawling across her desk. It walked as if it knew where it was going.
Stacey, her assistant, appeared at the door. “Gregory’s on one,” she said.
“Okay,” Loren said. “Look.” She pointed to the ant.
“What is it?” asked Stacey.
“It’s an ant. How do you think it got up here?”
“It probably came in on your person,” Stacey said. “Oh, FYI: Hannelore wants to put a scratch and sniff thing on the money market brochures. I heard her talking to Maureen in the bathroom.”
“That’s really tacky,” Loren said. “What would it smell like?”
“I don’t know,” said Stacey. “Money, I presume.”
Loren picked up the phone. “Hello,” she said.
“Finally,” said Gregory. “Listen, this has got to be quick. Do you want to have dinner out tonight? I thought it might be nice.”
“Sure,” said Loren.
“What about Provence? At seven?”
“Okay,” said Loren.
“Great. Can you make a reservation? I’m going into a meeting.”
“Sure,” said Loren. “I’ll see you later. Bye.” She hung up. The ant was gone, but Stacey was still standing in the doorway. “Could you call Provence and make a reservation for two at seven?” Loren asked her.
Fuck you, thought Stacey. Make your own dinner reservation. “Sure,” she said.
David and Lillian were walking around the Central Park Reservoir, trying to stay out of the way of the people running around it. This early evening promenade had become a weekly tradition since the arrival of spring.
“You wouldn’t believe what I did today,” said Lillian.
“What?” asked David.
“We’re doing this promotion thing for the Canadian Tourist Board, so we rented this horse and hired a model to dress up as a Canadian Mountie. He was going to ride it around the park at lunchtime and hand out maple leaves. Great, right? So the horse arrives and we immediately get a ticket from the police because you can’t have a horse in the street without a permit. Apparently you can ride a horse in the park but you can’t ride a horse to the park. It has to be born there or something. Anyway, we get the friggin’ horse to the park and the model shows up, but of course he can’t ride. He swore he could but he fell off twice. So that kind of spoiled the Mountie effect. It was pretty pathetic.”
“It sounds funny,” said David.
“Only in retrospect,” said Lillian.
“Most of life is like that.”
“Do you think so? I think just the opposite: I think stuff is funny while it’s happening and then in retrospect I see how pathetic it is. At least that’s how I see my life. How’s your life these days?”
“I don’t know,” said David. “Funny and pathetic, I guess.”
“How’s Heath?” Lillian asked.
“He’s great. This gallery in SoHo is going to show his photographs.”
“Really? That is great.”
They walked down an incline to check out the people on the tennis courts. Everyone was playing seriously and joylessly, like prisoners who were forced to recreate at gunpoint. David and Lillian continued their stroll. The sun had set behind the castles of Central Park West, and the water had turned dark and choppy. Lillian put her hand through David’s arm. Every time someone ran by they could hear Walkman refuse: snatches of tinny music, hovering in the air, then evaporating.
They walked for a while without talking, watching the light drain from the sky, the birds skim low over the water.
“I love the park. It’s all so pretty,” said Lillian.
“It’s a nice night,” said David.
“I’m glad spring is here. I really needed a change. I was going crazy. Sometimes I think it’s all a trick, though. God makes the weather change, and we feel like we’ve changed. Doesn’t it feel like things have changed?”
David looked up at the sky. It was smudged around the edges with clouds. “Kind of,” he said. “I know what you mean.”
“But nothing’s really changed,” said Lillian. “It’s just a trick.”
“What do you want to change?”
“I want my whole life to change,” said Lillian.
“So change it,” said David.
Lillian looked at David. He was looking away from her, up at the trees. The very top branches were waving in a high wind. She wondered what he was thinking. She held tighter to his arm. “The changes I want…I don’t know. I mean, sometimes, you need help, you need someone else.”
David looked at her and smiled, but he didn’t say anything. As they emerged from the park the streetlights flickered on, and they found themselves in a pool of amber light.
“What are you doing tonight?” Lillian asked. “Would you like to get a drink? Or some dinner?”
“I don’t think so,” said David, extricating his arm from Lillian’s. “I think I’ll head home.” Actually, he was meeting Heath at the Japan Society to see a movie. He knew if he mentioned it to Lillian he would have to invite her, and he didn’t want to. He wanted to be alone with Heath. That’s fair, he told himself, but he still felt a little guilty.
“Well, good night then,” said Lillian. “It was good to see you. Maybe we can do something this weekend.”
“Call me,” said David. He leaned over and kissed Lillian’s cheek. “Good night,” he said. He began walking dow
n Fifth Avenue, along the cobblestone sidewalk, beneath the canopy of trees. When he looked back, Lillian was still standing where he had left her. Although he was too far away to see her face clearly, something in the way she stood alarmed him. She looked as if she were lost—or lost at least in thought—and he stood for a moment and watched the people hurry around her, everyone either going home or going out, everyone walking quickly and purposefully to their singular destinations.
Gregory ordered a bottle of champagne.
“What’s the occasion?” Loren asked.
“Actually, I do have some news,” Gregory said. “But first I want to ask you something.” He buttered a piece of bread. Loren was looking particularly beautiful tonight, and her beauty unnerved him. I don’t want to blow this, he thought.
“What?” Loren repeated. She took a piece of bread but didn’t eat it. She tore it into little pieces.
“Do you always want to live in New York?” Gregory asked.
“That’s an odd question,” Loren said. “What do you mean?”
“Have you ever thought about moving away?”
“Of course,” said Loren. “I’ve thought about it.”
“And what did you decide?”
“Nothing. I mean, obviously I’m still here. But I’ve never had a real reason to think about it very seriously.”
“Now you do,” Gregory said.
The waiter appeared with their champagne. He opened it deftly and poured two glasses. Gregory picked his up. “Cheers,” he said. “To us.”
“Wait a minute,” said Loren. “What’s going on?”
Gregory put his glass down. “I’ve been offered a new job,” he said, smiling. “Producing at Lorimar.”
“In LA?”
“Yes,” Gregory said.
Loren sipped her champagne. “Oh, I’m sorry,” she said, holding up her glass. “Congratulations. That’s great—cheers.”
Gregory touched his glass to hers. “Cheers,” he said.
“And you’re going to take it?” Loren asked.
“I don’t know. It depends.”
“On what?”
“On you.”
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