Beautiful Inez

by Bart Schneider

  Toby nods. “Tell Hyman. Personally, I don’t go in for this Scandinavian look. It’s too austere for my taste. But you know Hy, he likes everything to be modern. Have you met my daughter? Nina, come over here.”

  Nina, a small, dark-haired woman about Sylvia’s age, comes over to greet Sylvia. The poor woman, who’d been sitting quietly in a teak chair, looks like she’s been crying for seven days straight.

  Sylvia takes her hand. “I’m so pleased to meet you.”

  Nina watches her mother move away with the tray of hors d’oeuvres. “Dad has told me a lot about you.”

  “He told me that you were the brightest person under the sun, Nina.”

  “So he’d like to believe.”

  “Hey, hey,” Hy calls in a frail voice, “there’s . . . a little problem here, you’ve all . . . forgotten about me.”

  “What do you mean?” Toby says. “You’re the reason everybody’s here!”

  “Don’t we . . . don’t we have a couple more eulogies?”

  “The man’s a glutton for punishment,” Sylvia says.

  “That’s all you have . . . to say for yourself?”

  “You want more from me, Mr. Myerson?”

  “You have more?”

  Sylvia walks over to the blond piano, which turns out to be a special edition Steinway, then glances at Toby. “May I?”

  “By all means.”

  Sylvia chords a jaunty intro to “I’ve Grown Accustomed to Her Face.” Although the piano might be ugly, its responsiveness is extraordinary. She tries to play the song with a light, even comic touch, fearful that if she plays it soulfully, she’ll make it sound mournful. Everybody, save Hy, who’s tethered to his oxygen, gathers around the piano.

  “Wait . . . wait,” Hyman calls. “You all left me again. Listen, I’ll be gone . . . soon enough.”

  Sylvia rises from the piano bench and leads the little group back to Hy on his teak sofa.

  “You’re certainly impatient tonight, Hy.”

  “I’m . . . running out of air.”

  “I don’t believe you.”

  “She doesn’t believe me,” Hy says, clearly getting a kick out of Sylvia.

  “What do you want me to do, say something nice about you? Is that the idea here? Butter you up, so you give me a raise?”

  “Exactly. All the nice things . . . you can think of.”

  Sylvia puts a finger on her chin, thinking. “Somebody else is going to have to step in, I’m drawing a blank. How about you, Miller?”

  “What?” Hy says, with a laugh. “You expect Miller . . . Miller Beem to make a speech?”

  “I can talk,” Miller says. He stands and takes off his suit coat, folding it over his arm. “Gosh, it’s warm in here. Hello, Mr. Myerson,” Miller says, standing across the coffee table from his boss.

  “Miller, you can call me . . . call me Hyman.”

  “Hyman. Hyman, I was talking to my mother the other day. I called to tell her that I sold two pianos. ‘This is a miracle,’ she said.”

  “It is a miracle,” Hyman says.

  “I’m just getting the hang of it, Mr. Myerson. I told my mother, ‘These pianos I sold were small ones, Ma.’

  “ ‘How big do they have to be?’ she said.

  “ ‘That’s not the right question,’ I told her. ‘The right question is How big can they be? Mr. Myerson taught me to think like that. He told me it would take time. He believed in me. He told me that I was much bigger than I thought. He said, Miller, Miller, Miller, do you think the Pacific Ocean knows how big it is? Then he taught me about the mind lasso.’ ”

  Miller Beam steps into the center of the room, a man playing his audience expertly. He unfolds his sport coat and pushes his thumb through one of the buttonholes. “For me, the mind part was easier to understand than the lasso. Then, a couple of weeks ago, I went to a rodeo at the Cow Palace. Let me tell you, those guys are good with the lariat. We could all learn something from them. I practiced the lasso in my apartment. Locked my fat thumb in the buttonhole of my suit coat and swung it around like a lasso. Once I mastered the physical part, I began to integrate my prowess with the mind. Any of you care to come down to the showroom, I’m sure I could help you find just the instrument you’re looking for. I’d consider it a real pleasure.”

  A cheer goes up in the room, and Miller Beem lifts his suit coat in a series of rising swirls until it is above his head and he is hooting like a cowboy.

  Once everybody has settled down and congratulated Miller Beem, Sylvia lets it be known that she has no intention of following Miller’s performance with one of her own.

  “Only on the piano,” she says.

  “Fine,” Hy says. “Somebody help me over . . . there with my juice.” He flicks the oxygen canister with a fingernail. In a moment, Rudy is helping his father make his way slowly across the room with his oxygen. It’s only then that Sylvia allows herself to feel her deep sadness again.

  Hy, settled in a teak chair with armrests, says, “Play me . . . play me a song . . . Sylvia. Not one for the customers . . . one for me.”

  the right of first refusal

  IT’S been more than a week since their dinner at the Feed Bag, far longer than Inez expected to be around. As yet, there’s been no action taken on the dog. Inez, however, has done a good job looking after her worldly business. Her Landolfi is appraised at $27,000, and her bows add a few thousand more. Given that she’d bought the instrument, not that many years ago, for $4,500, the news of its present value makes her blush with pride.

  Her violin dealer, Jan Smetna, a Czechoslovakian flirt, is very fond of the instrument and offers to provide free maintenance for the right of first refusal should she ever choose to sell the violin.

  “But I’m not looking to sell the fiddle, Jan.”

  “Someday you might be. Nobody’s interested in trading until they see an instrument they like better. It’s the same thing with marriage. My wife, she was perfectly happy with me until she saw a man six inches taller with a smaller nose and a Jaguar.”

  “Poor Jan,” she says, even though she’s heard about the wife and the phantom gentleman a dozen times. She doesn’t believe any of it. Smetna is a Czech joker. He’s made a small fortune trading violins. She’s seen him pull up near the Opera House in a very nice Mercedes, accompanied by a big European girl who adores him.

  “How about you and your Jake? He must be getting a little tired by now. You just let me know, anytime. I have the perfect instrument for you, Inez,” he says, winking.

  “I’m too old for you, Jan.”

  “Old? In this business, age is an advantage. Age is not an impediment, but a virtue.”

  “I’ll bear that in mind.”

  “Please.”

  “So you’re willing to maintain the Landolfi indefinitely, Jan?”

  “For life.”

  “What if I live longer than you, Jan?” Inez says, looking directly into the eyes of the pudgy Czech. The man is a good five years her junior.

  “I’ll take my chances,” he says.

  Wise fellow, she thinks.

  Inez signs a paper for Smetna granting him the right of first refusal, and he types up a formal appraisal of the Landolfi, which he signs with a flourish.

  ARNOLD BURLINGAME, a buttoned-down fellow who likes to pretend he’s above the nasty business of managing a symphony orchestra, is all sympathy when Inez expresses her need for a leave, yet, given half a chance, he’d do whatever he could to screw her out of any money or benefits coming to her.

  Bent over his little desk, Arn Burlingame peers up at her. “Inez, I’ve been meaning to let you know how much I admired your solo performance. We all did.”

  “Thank you.”

  “What can I say? We are all very proud of you.”

  “Thanks, Arn.”

  “Are you okay, Inez?”

  “Tired.”

  “Yes, this work can make you tired.”

  “I’ve hardly missed a concert or rehearsal in twenty
years, Arn.”

  “Remarkable. Now, you’ve thought this over, and you want the rest of the season, starting immediately?”

  “Yes.”

  “You understand that this sort of thing is frowned upon in the middle of a season, especially without giving the proper notice? You understand, and this is in your contract, that without giving proper notice, you forfeit a year of pension, and if the governing board chooses, for whatever reason, not to reinstate, you have no rights of grievance?”

  Inez nods her head soberly. The man wants to shame her, but she is invulnerable. It is a lovely feeling.

  “Look here,” Arn Burlingame says, raising his finger in the air.

  “Yes,” she says, admiring the absurdity of the situation: her thoughtfulness in requesting a formal leave before taking her life.

  “If you have a change of heart, my door is always open.” Arn inhales deeply through his nose. Inez watches his chest swell and his pale, lined face brighten slightly. Inez thinks of the ashy light of a lantern.

  hang up already

  INEZ is so pleased to have her business affairs behind her that she walks into a bar called Emperor Norton’s, on Van Ness, and orders a martini. The middle of a Friday afternoon and she sits alone at the bar, an attractive, well-dressed woman, toasting herself in the filmy mirror.

  The martini is not a good idea; it turns her weepy, and she begins to ache for Sylvia. She’d chosen to believe that she’s over Sylvia, that she’s over everything. Halfway through a second martini, as the bar starts to fill with girl Fridays and automobile salesmen just off for the weekend, Inez goes to the ladies’ room, taking her half-finished martini with her. On the way back, she drops a dime in the pay phone, balances the martini on top of the black phone box, and dials Sylvia.

  “Hello,” she says.

  “Inez?”

  “Yes.”

  “Why are you calling me?”

  “I’m not sure. I wanted to say I was sorry.”

  “Sorry for what?”

  “Well . . . I heard about Hyman Myerson.”

  “You saw the obituary?”

  Inez lifts her martini and sips at it. “Yes. I’m sorry. I know you were close to him.”

  “I was.”

  “Did you go to the funeral?”

  “Yes.”

  “It must have been a large affair.”

  “Why did you call?”

  Inez holds the phone for a minute and feels its weight. She hates how filthy the phone is, just like the hallway she’s standing in. “I called to say good-bye.”

  There is a pause. She can hear Sylvia’s breathing, her anger.

  “I really shouldn’t have called. It was just an idea I had without thinking. To say something to you, but I really don’t have anything to say.”

  “Where are you?”

  “Doesn’t matter.”

  Sylvia is growing anxious on the other end of the line. It’s as palpable as a static frequency, a note heard in the inner ear.

  “Do you want company, Inez?”

  “This is all I want . . . to talk with you a minute. I s’pose I have no right. To call.”

  “But that’s what you’ve done.”

  “I wanted to tell you . . . that everything is going to be all right. You have such a bright future, Sylvia.”

  “Don’t patronize me. You have a lot of nerve.”

  Inez pours down the rest of the martini as if it were medicine. She considers eating the olive. Her hands have grown sweaty holding the phone.

  “What is it you want, Inez?”

  “Just . . . to wish you well.”

  “You’ve already done that. Don’t leave your children without a mother, Inez.”

  “Supposing that was in my plans, and I’m not saying that it is, don’t you think they’d be better off in the long run?”

  “Who told you that?”

  “Oh, I know they would.”

  “Ask me if I’m better off.”

  “Sylvia, I only called to wish you well. And to tell you that I love you. Maybe you should hang up on me, Sylvia.”

  “You’re the one who’s going to have to hang up.”

  Inez looks at the filthy black phone. Who knows whose hands have been on it. “I wish you would.”

  “No chance.”

  “Good-bye,” Inez says, finally. “Good-bye, Sylvia.” She gently replaces the phone in its cradle.

  intervention

  AGAINST her better judgment, Sylvia calls Jake Roseman the next morning at his office, but his rude secretary, snapping gum into the receiver, claims that the attorney has no time available for the next month.

  “It’s an emergency,” Sylvia insists.

  “Check the yellow pages,” the secretary says. “They’re full of lawyers. Any kind you want. Divorce. Bankruptcy. Wrongful injury.”

  “It’s about his wife,” Sylvia says, playing her trump card. “I’m afraid she’s in danger.”

  “What kind of danger? Are you making a threat, ma’am?”

  “No, I’m not making a threat! I’d like to talk with Mr. Roseman about this.”

  After a short pause and a snap of gum, the secretary says, “He’s with a client now; he should have a few minutes at eleven o’clock. I’ll have him call you then. Name and number, please.”

  “I can be at his office by eleven.”

  “Name and number?”

  “Natalie . . . Natalie Bucheron,” she says.

  “Number?”

  “Graystone 4-2641.”

  SYLVIA dresses in a new pair of nylons and a navy blue thrift-shop suit, just back from the cleaners. She tops herself with a small, pointed hat in gray felt. The hat lends a sense of purpose, or so she thinks, when she sees her reflection in the window of the cab at Hyde and Washington.

  At a quarter to eleven, she introduces herself to the horror at the front desk, a heavyset blonde with a well-shellacked bouffant. “I’m Natalie Bucheron.”

  “I told you I’d have Mr. Roseman call you. He’s still in his conference.”

  “I’ll wait.”

  In a few moments, Jake Roseman appears in the lobby with a tall woman in a sable coat, whom he pats on the arm and dismisses with a few kind words.

  Once his client departs, his secretary says, “This is Miss Buscher.”

  “Bucheron,” Sylvia corrects, standing. “Natalie Bucheron; I’m sorry to impose.”

  “I told her that you didn’t have any time, Mr. Roseman.”

  “It’s rather urgent.”

  Jake Roseman, who’s dressed sportily in a pair of blue seersucker pants and a knit shirt, gives Sylvia a quick, friendly glance. “If you’re looking for an attorney, miss, I’m sorry to say that I’m not taking on any . . .”

  “I told her that on the phone, Mr. Roseman, but she insisted . . .”

  “It’s about your wife.”

  “My wife? Is she all right?”

  “Can we speak in your office?”

  “Of course.”

  The man holds the door and ushers Sylvia into his office. His face has changed hurriedly from easygoing charm to wrinkled-brow intensity. It’s clear that the man loves his wife or is, at least, deeply concerned about her. Sylvia sits in the worn leather chair across from Jake Roseman’s desk and is amused to see the disarray of books and file folders in his small office. The door of a small closet is open, and Sylvia notices more files, stacked haphazardly on a shelf beside an antique adding machine, a sack full of tennis balls, and a huge jar of pickles, worthy of a delicatessen. The pickles, she guesses, are the gift of a grateful client. A beautifully garish pair of purple shorts hang like an emblem from a hook on the closet door.

  Jake Roseman swivels back and forth a couple of times in his chair. “How do you know my wife?”

  “I’ve gotten to know her through the symphony.”

  “Are you a musician, Miss . . . ?”

  “Bucheron. Yes . . . yes, I am.” It’s a good name she’s given herself, but Sylvia is beginn
ing to get weary of all the invention. Enough is enough. The absurdity of it—changing herself into a woman named after a goat cheese—has begun to make her nauseous. Her mind is racing. She might as well run off and join the circus, turn herself into a contortionist. At what point does she start being herself? Could she possibly screw herself into so many fresh identities that she’d wear through the threading of her own soul? Natalie Bucheron. She’d rehearsed her story on the cab ride over, but Jake Roseman doesn’t seem a bit concerned with verifying who she is or isn’t. To what purpose, this masquerade? Does she actually believe that she can prevent a suicide by telling secrets to the philandering husband? Jake Roseman shakes a cigarette out of a pack on his desk and quickly lights it. Then, embarrassed by his manners, he offers a cigarette to Sylvia.

  “No, thank you.”

  “So what did you want to tell me about Inez?”

  The question is how much to reveal. She could tell the man his wife’s life story in such a manner that he’d not recognize her. “On second thought,” she says, “I will have a cigarette.” She hardly ever smokes, but she wants to stall a moment now and watch Jake Roseman go through the ritual of lighting her cigarette.

  He holds out a Pall Mall toward Sylvia but, before lighting it, says, “I’m worried about Inez.”

  The familiarity with which the attorney says his wife’s name is disconcerting. How odd to be sitting with a man who may love Inez as deeply as she does, and yet have no way to share the bond. What would she tell Jake Roseman about his wife, if she could share anything? That Inez actually likes to be kissed along the scars on her belly. That she can be persuaded to stand under the shower until all the hot water in the building runs out. That, despite her protests, food is important to her. That she likes to eat with her fingers and to have the nubs of her calloused digits sucked one by one. That sex makes her hungry. That if you are patient, you can help her have an orgasm. That she likes a good striptease. That she can be girlish and lewd. That she can walk around the bedroom naked under a man’s shirt, doing miserable impressions of James Cagney and Bette Davis. That she loves French music, the simpler the better. That she likes to curl up in a shell when she’s frightened, and she’s often frightened. That, believe it or not, she dearly loves him and their children. That the best way for him to win her back, to keep her alive, might be to rent a little apartment along the cable-car line and take her there in the afternoons. What a mass of rot! How desperate is she, to concoct this bit of Hollywood rubbish, to give herself one more role? As what? The grandiose savior? Is there anything at all she can tell Jake Roseman about his wife? That a woman like Inez needs to be attended, not waited on, but attended? That she could be lost so easily. That, just like that, she could be gone.