Beautiful Inez

by Bart Schneider

  Sylvia shakes her head. “Of all the things I could have stolen. When I got home I was ashamed of myself. Not for stealing the thing, but for stealing something so paltry. I stuck the dickey in the pocket of an old coat and hung it in the darkest corner of my closet.”

  “And that’s where the story ends?” Hy asks, wiping his brow.

  “Nope. I had a moment of inspiration.” Sylvia modulates down to “I Could Have Danced All Night.” She smiles at Hy, who is leaning on an elbow. “I don’t want to shock you.”

  “It’s too late for that.”

  “Well, I decided my fascination with Toole-James was a sign.”

  “Of what?”

  “That I should dress myself as a man.”

  “You want to dress . . . like a man?”

  “I was curious. I picked up a blue oxford-cloth shirt and fleshed out my ensemble at a thrift shop on Divisidero. I chose a pair of ash-gray gabardine trousers and a young man’s herringbone sport coat that draped beautifully over my shoulders. It’s true, Hy. I spent hours admiring myself in front of the mirror. I want you to know, that when I choose to, I make a beautiful man.”

  “That’s not how I see you.”

  “I’m sorry, Hy.”

  Hy shrugs.

  Sylvia looks across the showroom floor, then whispers, “We have a customer.”

  Hy boosts himself up off the piano bench, then slides the silver medallion down the cords of his string tie and lifts the tie over his head. “Here, Sylvia, this is for you.”

  “I can’t take that.”

  “What are you talking about? Try it . . . with your sport coat when you’re not . . . wearing your dickey.”

  “Oh, Hy.”

  “Come on, don’t get all gushy . . . on me. We’ve got a customer.”

  SYLVIA is amazed at the way Hy snaps to. Up on his feet with a little bounce, he says to Sylvia, “I know this woman doesn’t look . . . like the type, but she wants to hear West Side Story. Trust me.”

  “Mood?” Sylvia asks.

  “Mild schmaltz. Just like you did before—start with . . . ‘I Feel Pretty,’ go on to ‘Tonight,’ then . . . then juice it up a little with . . . ‘Somewhere.’ This is going to be a quick one.”

  Sylvia watches as Hyman steps toward the slim, graying woman, weaving his way through a row of uprights. Despite his condition, he negotiates the narrow spaces as if he were Cary Grant, a bit debauched, maybe, a trifle rumpled. A minute later he is offering the woman, who appears to be a witty but viceless aging maiden devoted to her nieces and nephews, a mentholated Newport, a gesture that pleases her even though she declines the offer.

  Sylvia attacks the piano with as light a touch as she can manage. Does the gracefully aging customer, who’s always been considered attractive despite never marrying, feel pretty as dapper Hyman follows her through the showroom? Sylvia can see that the customer is more interested in Hy’s proximity than in the roomful of pianos in front of her. At a certain point, midway through “Tonight,” Hy stops on a spot and allows his charge to wander alone among the larger instruments. “The trick,” Sylvia once overheard Hy telling Miller Beem, “is to get them to miss you, to miss your presence, to have them feel like they’re lost without you. This is where the art comes in. This is when you choose the piano that seems appropriate for them to buy. And when you get good, really good, you toss your mind lasso around the piano you want them to buy and pull it toward them.” Of course, Miller Beem has yet to master the mind lasso. In his first six months at Myerson’s, he’s sold nary a piano. But that isn’t Miller’s purpose. He’d been hired, as had his predecessors, to stand in his gray suit and greet customers. Nothing particularly effusive is expected of him, simply the unassuming smile of a human welcome mat. But as his illness has progressed, Hy has felt a necessity to pass on the tricks of his trade to all his employees.

  When the slim, gray-haired maiden approaches the blond spinet, Sylvia plays the chords to “Somewhere” and notices Hyman wink at Miller Beem. The mind lasso has clearly been set. All three of them know it. Even the aging lass must know that she has little chance of leaving without the title to the ugly spinet. Why, Sylvia wonders, did Hy choose this instrument for the lassoing? Because it is homely? Or was Hyman forestalling his death by unloading the piano in whose shadow he’d just survived a near-death repose?

  A little later, after Hyman closes on the mahogany baby grand, a $3,500 instrument, with a couple who’s never played a lick of piano, he strolls over to Sylvia and compliments her on her playing. He’d requested something flashy for the couple, and she’d obliged with the overture to Rhapsody in Blue.

  “Your instincts are glorious, Sylvia,” he says, and signals for Miller Beem to come over. “See how it’s done, Miller? The next one is yours.” With this, Hyman excuses himself and goes off to rest on the long, padded bench of a Steinway grand.

  WHEN Sylvia returns from the ladies’ room, where she’s washed her face and done her best to brighten herself, Inez Roseman, sumptuous in

  a rose-colored cashmere sweater and a long black skirt, is backed against the keyboard of the ebonized Baldwin. Miller Beem is standing thirty feet from Inez, performing the mind lasso. A proper voyant would hide herself behind a pillar and watch this curious game play itself out. But Sylvia is afraid that if she stands watching for too long she’ll begin to cry again. She takes a deep breath and steps promptly out of the shadows.

  “Sylvia, Sylvia,” Inez calls sotto voce. “Thank God.”

  “What are you doing here, Inez?”

  “I needed to talk with you. Who is that man?”

  “That’s Miller. He’s trying to sell you a piano.”

  “He hasn’t even spoken to me. Would you please tell him that I don’t want a piano, that I already have a piano. It’s like he has a grip on me.”

  Sylvia gazes at Inez. If the mind lasso is this effective, she wonders if it could be employed to tie a person to their life? And yet, what’s the sense of holding someone against their will? She walks over and stands beside Miller for a moment. “Good work with the lasso.”

  “Thank you.”

  “I think you’ve got her where you want her. Only thing, she’s a friend of mine. She’s not interested in buying a piano. She came to see me.”

  Miller Beem exhales a long, ragged stream of breath, and then slowly turns his back on Inez.

  Inez sighs and her body quivers for a moment. She seems hesitant, like an animal who’s just discovered its liberty. Sylvia tries to watch the violinist dispassionately. It is a difficult task. Inez starts at the sight of Hy Myerson, sleeping on the Steinway bench. “Who’s that?”

  Rather than classical snoring, Hy emits a series of high-pitched sighs.

  “That’s my boss,” Sylvia says.

  “Mr. Myerson? Shouldn’t we do something?”

  “There’s nothing to do. Hyman should stay home, but he insists on coming to work. He has trouble breathing, the medication wears him out, but the only thing he cares about is selling pianos. He’s already sold two this morning. He thinks today’s going to be a banner day.”

  “And Miller? Is that his son?”

  “His protégé.”

  “Sylvia, I need to speak with you.”

  “Not here.”

  “Can we go somewhere? The ladies’ room?”

  “I only have a moment.”

  I T is a humble bathroom with a single stall and a porcelain sink, etched with cracks.

  “The other night,” Inez says, “was an aberration. My suicide chatter. It won’t happen again. As I said, it’s old news.”

  “Whatever you say.”

  “Don’t be like that.”

  “Like what?”

  “So cool.”

  “You shouldn’t have kept it from me.” Sylvia doesn’t want to be pulled back in. Which of them is operating the lasso?

  “Don’t worry.” Inez reaches up and traces the bones of Sylvia’s cheek.

  Sylvia closes her eyes. She ca
n’t resist the smooth tips of Inez’s bow fingers as they glide over her left cheek, leaving a mark of desire, a lush vibrato, rippling in their wake. Sylvia kisses the violinist’s left hand and opens her eyes. “I need to go, Inez.”

  “Wait.” Inez reaches inside the neck of her sweater and pulls out the strand of African trade beads that were tucked under. “I’ve had them restrung and knotted on silk. Don’t they fall nicely?”

  Sylvia nods. The markings of each bead appear remarkably distinct against the rose-colored sweater. It’s all Sylvia can do not to reach out to the beads or run her hands over the cashmere.

  “I love them,” Inez says. “They’re one of the nicest gifts I’ve ever gotten.”

  Sylvia pushes open the bathroom door. “I have to go,” she whispers.

  “You’re all right with the other night?”

  “No, I’m not all right.”

  “What can I do?”

  Sylvia shakes her head.

  Inez takes Sylvia’s face in her hands, kissing each eyelid sweetly. “Can we keep it between us?”

  “Yes,” says Sylvia, panting slightly from the violinist’s kisses.

  “There’s something else,” Inez says.

  Sylvia faces Inez’s serious eyes.

  “I had a letter from my sister at the state hospital. The missile thing frightened her. I need to visit her.”

  Sylvia nods.

  “Will you come with me?”

  “Why would you want me?” Sylvia says, coolly.

  “Do I have to explain why I want you? All the reasons I want you? Will you come, Sylvia? I need you.”

  “I’ll have to think about it.”

  “Don’t punish me, Sylvia. May I give you something?”

  “What’s that?”

  “This.”

  Sylvia tastes Inez’s sweet tongue.

  BACK on the floor, Sylvia is surprised to see Hy smoking beside a tall, loose-limbed gentleman with a trim mustache. Hy has shed his camel coat and opened the collar of his coral shirt. How empty his neck looks without the string tie and its silver medallion, now coiled in her purse. Hyman seems to be chewing on the smoke as he sucks it down into his spoiled lungs. His last cigarette?

  “Sylvia, we were won . . . wondering where you’d gone. Mr. Mathews would like to hear . . . the ebony Steinway.”

  “Of course.” Sylvia walks to the piano, glancing over her shoulder toward the ladies’ room just as Inez emerges, the African trade beads visible now, framed by the rose-hued sweater. Sylvia looks away as Inez turns and walks head down toward the street door.

  Sylvia must put the violinist out of her head. She smiles up at the tall man. “Anything in particular you’d like to hear, Mr. Mathews?”

  The man shakes his head. “Anything is fine. You choose.” He takes a long draw off his Newport and blows the smoke out of his nose.

  He must be the idealized customer Hy always talks about. Sylvia peeks at Hy, who, leaning against the far end of the Steinway, is blowing smoke rings. Sylvia can see Miller Beem creeping forward.

  Sylvia sits at the stately piano. There is a determined shine to its ebony surface, which makes playing it an occasion. Sylvia spends a moment silently pumping the sustaining pedals, as if she were pumping life into the instrument. The two men stand close to the piano. What are they expecting?

  As Sylvia opens into the lilting theme of “Surrey with the Fringe on Top,” Hy holds his hand out toward the piano, as if to say, Behold this, my friend; there may never be more grace exhibited on this planet. Hy reaches up to pull the strings of his tie and realizes that it’s no longer there. He trains his eyes on Sylvia and they quickly become moist. Hy offers Mr. Mathews a fresh Salem. “Isn’t she won . . . wonderful?” Hy says. “A proper salesman would tell . . . you that it’s all the piano. That you . . . could go home . . . in an hour and play like that. Not true. Sylvia here is some . . . something special. Now, I don’t mean to imply . . . that there’s any . . . anything wrong . . . with the piano. It’s the finest piano we have at Myerson’s, the finest available on the West Coast. Can you hear . . . the richness of its sound? How crisp its re . . . response? The way the act . . . the action, un . . . unparalleled in my judgment, con . . . contributes to the clean . . . to the clean artic . . . articulation? This is a piano to die for. I’d . . . I’d wager . . . wager my life on that.”

  night picnic

  THE kids and the old man are asleep tonight when Inez returns from the monthly jaunt down the peninsula with the symphony. The Saturday night concert and the round-trip bus ride always leave her a little spent.

  Jake is smoking in the dimly lit living room, a whiskey sour in his hands. “You must be beat. Come have a drink with me in the backyard.”

  “The backyard?”

  “Yeah, it’s nice out. There’s stars.”

  “Nature boy,” she says.

  “That’s me.

  The day after his father came to roost with them, Jake went out and bought lawn furniture. “The old man hates the outdoors,” he said, by way of explanation.

  Inez excuses herself to change and, a few moments later, steps out to the backyard, in a cotton nightgown. Although it’s still warm enough, the air is like a damp tongue, reaching through the cotton to her skin. She sees a wisp of smoke rising from the corner of the yard. The magnificent blue and white globes of the hydrangeas are visible. Also, the perfect pink camellias, which in their setting of firm and shiny leaves remind her of corsages. The camellia is just as lovely floating in the water of a chipped bowl. Although she can’t see the roses, she can smell them. No matter that she rarely prunes them, they still grow, a bit choked, perhaps, into the light of day. Inez is grateful for the garden, something that thrives with so little attention from her. What else in her life has provided her with more than she’s given it? She thinks of her father and her sister. She thinks of her children, and stands a moment, sadly contrite.

  “Over here,” Jake says, from a corner of the garden.

  As Inez steps closer, she can make out Jake, sitting cross-legged on a blanket, clad only in his shorts. “What do you think this is,” she whispers, “a nudist colony?”

  “Hey, the neighbors can’t see back here. Sit down. Isn’t it a beautiful night? I’ll never understand why it’s warmer in October than it is in July.”

  “It’s called fog, Jake.”

  “Gosh, you smell wonderful,” he says, handing her a whiskey sour.

  Inez takes a short sip. She never cared for whiskey until Jake showed her that she could drink it like this.

  “Roasted almonds,” he says.

  “What?”

  “That’s how you smell.”

  She can make out his face, the sweet smile, in the glow of his cigarette. She sits down on the blanket beside him.

  “To beauty,” Jake says, clinking her glass with his.

  “You can’t even see me in the dark.”

  “I can see you.”

  She doesn’t say anything but catches another glimpse of him in the cigarette light, his eyes steady, a man planning his next move. She tells herself to give in, if not to the man, then at least to the damp night air. Why not?

  “You’re so beautiful, Inez. I can’t believe you ever married me.”

  “Maybe that was my first mistake.”

  “You think so?”

  “I don’t know.”

  He scoots closer to her and kisses her neck.

  His damp lips surprise her and she leans away.

  Jake tilts his head back, draws on his cigarette, and blows a stream of smoke toward the sky. He reaches out his hands. Inez sinks down toward him as he fondles her breasts, his thumbs going back and forth across the cotton fabric above her nipples, his cigarette still between two fingers.

  “What do you think you’re doing?” she says, feeling herself swoon under his touch.

  “What do you think I’m doing?”

  “Going after what you want,” she says, sitting up straight.

 
; “You don’t want it?” he murmurs, kissing her ear.

  “I didn’t say that.”

  Jake faces her directly. “Don’t you ever have any desire for me?”

  It’s a fair enough question and the answer is yes. “I do,” she says. She lifts her glass of whiskey sour and sips at it. Jake lights a new cigarette off his old one. In the flare of light, she catches his wistful look. He leans on an elbow to prop up his big, open face. What’s alarming is how much he is himself: a man in the middle of his life who’s traded so much on his charm.

  Some mornings, still in bed, she watches him dress by the bureau. He must think she’s sleeping. Noting his lips as they pucker into a soundless whistle, she marvels at how he wakes with such good cheer and bears so little resemblance to the man she’s made into the devil. Long-limbed and muscular, his body has kept its shape pretty well over the years—she used to love to sling an arm around his broad shoulders, to lay her head in the hollow of his belly. She sometimes wishes she could do it now. Is that desire? She’s wanted him to hold her countless times, to curl up beside him in bed, to have an entire day go by like that. She’s learned to keep it to herself. She can’t trust the man—she’s not even sure she has any respect for him—but that doesn’t stop her from wanting him.

  She sips her drink, holding her gaze on Jake. She can’t get over how large his features are. There is something outsized about them, like the hands and feet of a Rodin sculpture. Is it simply that she’s grown used to the intimacy of Sylvia’s little bird face with its long, pointy nose? Her husband of twenty years, whom she’s always considered as handsome a man as she’s ever known, appears grotesque with his sprawling nose and his large, open lips; his brown eyes, so full of meaning; the loose skin under his eyes, a pocket for all the woes he hasn’t shared with her. How maddening to have this man, whom she’d just as soon write off as a philandering clown, present himself as the aching face of humanity. She recognizes the ploy—sincerity as a marketable guise, yet another tool leaping from the counselor’s briefcase. Or is she simply demonizing him? She wants to be so angry at him. She wants to blame him for everything. Didn’t they once love each other? Didn’t he promise her a future? Hasn’t he taken it all away? Taken her for granted. Relied on his chippies. Driven her to what? A woman? A woman who reminds her of herself long ago. A daring young woman with an actual personality, whoever she is.