It's Not About Sex

by David Kalergis

  This was a bold move on my part, but I’d taken bigger risks. You can’t succeed in this business without them, and, in any event, my strategy had a backstop. I knew Platz’s purchase would set a floor on the price of Ray’s work, most pieces of which were larger than the two under discussion. Once the ice had been broken by Platz’s purchase, I was confident I could sell more at a twenty-thousand-dollar minimum threshold. Watching his face, I could see “the bob go under,” to use an expression Lennie had picked up from his farmhand, Claude Rhodes, and I knew that our fish was on the line. Now my job was to set the hook and land him.

  Platz said, “I’ll give you my answer in two weeks. Meanwhile, call me if someone else makes an offer.”

  I walked from his office elated.

  It was five minutes before three when I got out of the cab outside my building, and Mary and Luzia were already waiting for me under the green canvas awning at the entrance. Luzia was talking with Carlos while Mary played with Carlos’s hat. She loved that hat, with its black shiny visor and gold braid, and she looked adorable when she put it on, tipping it back so she could see out from under it.

  Mary jumped into my arms and kissed my face repeatedly, and I hugged her while Luzia and Carlos beamed. I had a sudden impulse and asked Luzia to join us for our walk across the park to the carousel. Maybe I could find out from her what was going on in my household.

  “Could you, Luzia? You know how much Mary likes to have an audience while she’s riding.”

  Immediately I regretted the request, and when she solemnly declined I was grateful.

  “Oh, no, Mr. Bradley,” she responded. “I have to go home. You two have fun.”

  She was smart and knew that Mary wanted to be alone with me.

  “Of course,” I said back, feeling sheepish. More than anything right then, I knew I should spend time alone with Mary.

  Our walk together up Seventy-Third Street and across Central Park to the carousel was bliss. I resisted asking Mary anything about Linda, or about the ERB test she was supposed to have taken last Thursday. For once my urge to control the situation was put on hold, and I enjoyed our time together as we made our way to the carousel, holding hands. After she’d taken four rides on the white horse with the bright red saddle, we walked over to Central Park South and stopped at Café Rumplemayer’s in the St. Moritz for an ice cream cone. She had her favorite—strawberry. Our time was nearing its end, and we’d done a lot of walking, so I caught a cab to take us back to Seventy-Third Street.

  “I’m glad you’re home, Daddy,” she said as the cab made its turn north onto Park Avenue. She took my left hand in both of hers and began kissing it, making loud smacking noises. This was a game we played.

  “Are you going to stay home now?”

  “No, honey, I . . . uh . . . I can’t. I’m living up north a little, not so far, and I’ll be back soon.”

  When she heard that, the kissy game stopped. The joy of the afternoon ebbed, like a tide running out, as we both realized it was almost over.

  The hand-off was dreamlike, but it wasn’t a pleasant dream. Carlos was waiting and moved quickly to open the cab door for us. As we stepped into the lobby, he went ahead of us and buzzed up to the apartment on the house phone to let Linda know we were there.

  The three of us—Mary, Carlos, and I—stood in the familiar interior of the lobby while Mary told him about the white horse with the bright red saddle and the strawberry ice cream cone. When Linda emerged from the elevator I was glad to see that she had made an effort. Except for hints of dark circles under her eyes she looked terrific, with a bit of blush on her cheeks and a lipstick shade that made her lips look they belonged on a beautiful, mildly sunburned teenager. Her auburn hair was down, which I loved, and she was wearing pearl earrings, gray wool slacks, and her white silk blouse. I’d told her how much I appreciated the way that blouse hung on her body.

  She approached us with a studiously neutral expression and addressed both me and Carlos.

  “Hello.”

  Carlos’s smile remained, but now it was forced. I hugged Mary one more time, Linda took her by the hand, and in a moment they had vanished behind the closing door of the elevator.

  She certainly went to a lot of effort for a ten-second appearance, I thought.

  Carlos stood there, his smile still frozen on his face.

  Lennie, Ray, Noboro, and I fell into a new routine. We walked together three mornings a week and practiced kendo the other four, after which we’d spend the rest of the day in our own pursuits, mostly work. Lennie loved to talk about the theoretical aspects of kendo while we walked, and, with class not officially in session, Noboro would answer questions.

  One morning Lennie asked about two concepts mentioned during the last lesson—maai and zanshin.

  “From the moment two swordsmen become opponents, the physical distance between them is the maai,” Noboro said, looking at the three of us to ensure we were all paying attention. “And zanshin is total awareness. Both swordsmen must maintain zanshin, perhaps for hours, if they are to be worthy opponents. One of them, of course, must also close the maai, or the target will never be reached and the duel never finished. This is the great challenge of sword fighting, to maintain zanshin and to . . .” He struggled to find the right word. “. . . manipulate the maai so that the killing blow may be struck.”

  “How does the duel ever end?” I asked.

  The four of us had stopped walking and were standing, facing one another, in the middle of the drive. I noticed a structure—it was the roof of the Big House—through the trees behind Noboro’s back and glanced at it.

  “When your opponent’s zanshin is weaker, or when it is distracted, as yours just was, Bradley-san, the maai may be reduced and the killing blow struck. But one must beware. The skillful opponent may pretend a lapse in zanshin and strike unexpectedly.”

  Ray had been listening carefully and now he spoke up. “It’s like that in prison. You always have an enemy, and he’s always looking for you. You can’t ever relax. That’s the zanshin part.”

  I’d never before heard Ray talk about prison. “And he can come at you from anywhere—in the yard, in your cell. He’ll be waiting to close the maai. You can end up with a knife in your gut.”

  “Not exactly a fair fight,” I said.

  Ray didn’t reply as we started walking again.

  “The idea of fairness is meaningless between two opponents,” Noboro said. “If they are in a struggle to the death, their awareness must be engaged every moment, even while asleep. After all, they intend to exterminate each other.” Noticing my dubious expression he continued, “Consider this—in a duel to the death, the one who maintains zanshin and controls the maai will be the one to live. What can possibly be more fair?”

  While Lennie and I digested this piece of warrior wisdom, a smile flashed across Ray’s face.

  “You’d fit right in at Lorton, Noboro,” he said.

  Noboro measured us for protective gear and placed an order with a supplier. After our equipment had arrived (it was on a Tuesday, October 24) we practiced striking each other freely, without fear of serious injury. But though the shinai were flexible, Noboro warned us, an unprotected blow at full strength would raise a nasty welt.

  This first morning with our new gear, Noboro told us the Japanese name and explained the purpose of our new equipment, piece by piece, and showed us how to put it on. The lacquered breastplate, or do, and the canvas apron-like waist protector, or tara, weren’t difficult, but I couldn’t decipher the complicated lacing that fastened the heavy canvas men helmet to my head. I let Noboro tie it for me, and the others did the same.

  We were ready for the protective gloves—mittens, really—that Noboro called kote. As I slipped into them and picked up a shinai with the now-familiar two-handed grip, my hands felt like lobster claws. Stinging drops of perspiration rolled into my eyes and I raised my gloved hand to wipe away the sweat but it was blocked by the catcher’s-mask grill of the men helm
et. A twinge of claustrophobia constricted my chest.

  Peering through the metal grill, I glanced at my friends as Noboro signaled me to face him. The tip of his shinai was pointed straight at my throat, and the protection offered by the throat guard of the helmet felt entirely inadequate. For the first time since I’d started kendo lessons, my opponent was no longer imaginary. In fact if he were to thrust his shinai just right, he’d burst my Adam’s apple.

  “Bradley-san,” Noboro said, “in this exercise we step toward each other, and when the maai is correct we strike to the men—the head—at the same moment. Do you understand?”

  When I glanced over at Ray and Lennie again to see if they were watching, Noboro positively screamed at me. “Zanshin!” he cried. “You must be completely focused on your opponent. Your life depends on it!” It was difficult to see his eyes through the grillwork of the men. “Now, we step toward each other.”

  He raised his arms toweringly over his head, as if the sword were an ax, and I imitated his movement.

  Twelve more inches, maybe six, and I’ll be in range, I thought, as we both moved forward.

  I was still worried about my throat, but we seemed to be in range so I let my shinai drop downward.

  An immense ringing sounded in my ears, and colored stars appeared in the air. Noboro had brought his shinai crashing down on my helmet the instant I had started my own slower strike. My sword sagged limply and I staggered backward, stunned by the blow.

  “Yyyyyyyyyyaaaaaaaaaaaa!” cried Noboro, as the press of his body drove me further backward. The grillwork of our headgear pressed together, and his face, inches from mine, was a mask of concentrated fury. He stepped away, made a short bow, and faced the others.

  “That is the basic hit to the men with a strong kiai.”

  My ears were still ringing, both from the force of the blow and his yelling.

  “Christ, I can’t believe how much that hurts, even through the helmet.”

  “Not helmet,” he corrected me. “Men. You’ll become accustomed to receiving the strike. Next . . . Leonard-san. Remember, we hit at exactly the same moment.”

  Lennie squared off in chudan—the basic fighting position—facing Noboro. As they moved toward each other, they both raised their shinai above their heads and I watched the maai to anticipate the strike, but again Noboro’s sword was faster than I could follow. A pop, like the crack of a small pistol, told me his shinai had again found its target.

  Lennie had tried to hit at the same time, but his downward stroke was weak and glanced harmlessly off the side of Noboro’s men. Noboro, his sword already raised again, pressed the grill of his men tightly against Lennie’s and yelled ““Yyyyyyaaaaaaaa!” inches from his face. Lennie tried to return the battle cry—“Yyyaaa”—but his kiai didn’t have the same force of effect.

  Noboro bowed to Lennie, who also, I was glad to see, appeared stunned from the strike, and as Ray squared off with Noboro, I whispered through my face mask, “That guy’s unbelievably fast, especially for a man his age.”

  “Well,” Lennie answered, “kendo is his sport.”

  But I could tell that he, too, was impressed with Noboro’s skill.

  Noboro and Ray were three steps apart, their swords pointed at each other’s throats, when Nora appeared beside us on a horse. Ray and Noboro kept their concentration on each other and moved forward at the same time, their shinai lifted high over their heads. The horse was startled by the upraised bamboo swords and, snorting loudly, it spun around, shying away from the bizarrely dressed men with their threatening sticks.

  Lennie called to her, “Be careful!”

  Still the swordsmen didn’t drop their focus. The downward strokes were simultaneous and a single loud “pop” echoed across the lawn as their shinai hit at precisely the same moment.

  “Yyyyyyyyyyyyyyyyyyyyyyyyyyaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaa!”

  “Yyyyyyyyyyyyyyyyyyyyyyyyyyyyyyyaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaa!”

  They crashed, their masks pressed together, neither one giving up an inch, and their combined battle cries, screamed into each other’s faces, sent Nora’s gorgeous black Thoroughbred mare into another round of gyrations. She stayed on skillfully and moved the horse a short distance away. After dismounting and passing the reins over the horse’s neck, she walked right up to us, leading her still-skittering horse as Ray and Noboro disengaged.

  “Lord, what a racket,” Nora said.

  “That was the correct exercise,” Noboro said, ignoring her. “To hit simultaneously is called aiuchi. This is not what you would call a tie, but there is no loser. To strike aiuchi is a great honor for both Ray-san and myself. That is all for today.”

  Class having been dismissed, we could now give Nora our attention.

  “I came over to ask you all for dinner tonight,” she said. “It’s mostly going to be folks from the Circle. Noboro and Ray, you haven’t met everyone yet. And my cousin April and her husband are here visiting too. Very casual—pasta and a salad.”

  Noboro untied his men. As he slipped it off his head he looked up at Nora, who, in her riding boots, was at least six inches taller, and said, “Thank you, yes. I would like to meet the others.”

  “Good,” said Nora. “At seven.”

  “Thank you, Nora,” said Ray.

  Through the grill of his men, I noticed that he had the same unusually colored eyes as Nora—grayish-green irises, with scattered flecks of yellow.

  She looked surprised that he’d spoken, and she didn’t respond. Following Noboro’s lead I removed my men. Ray and Lennie also took off their men, and Nora’s horse relaxed.

  “Who is this?” I asked her.

  “Her name is Point de Vue,” she said, as I stroked the mare’s velvety black muzzle. The feel of the whiskers and the smell of the horse’s breath—a fragrant mixture of grass and sweet feed—stirred old memories from my riding days.

  “You ride, don’t you,” she said. It wasn’t a question.

  “Yes,” I answered.

  “Do you want to go out with me tomorrow morning, instead of taking your walk?”

  My three former walking companions held their helmets by their sides as they stared at me expectantly.

  “Sure,” I said. I very much wanted to ride with Nora on the Schoolcross trails, and I knew she kept three horses.

  “Maybe Ray would like to go too,” Lennie said.

  “Someone can’t just get up on a horse, Lennie,” Nora replied. “They have to know how to ride. Otherwise, it’s dangerous.”

  This was, in fact, quite true, but Nora spoke as if Ray wasn’t there.

  “I know how to ride,” said Ray. “I used to ride all the time . . .” Nora looked skeptically at him. “. . . when I was a kid in Virginia.”

  “You see, Nora,” Lennie said. “Ray does know how to ride.”

  Just before noon that same morning, the Mercedes stopped outside the Quaker Cottage and Lennie emerged, carrying two shopping bags containing more clothes and books for Ray. Ray had refused all invitations to leave the farm, saying he preferred to stay home and paint, even on my brief runs into Millbrook for groceries.

  I came outside to find Lennie on the front porch talking with Ray, who’d been doing push-ups and sit-ups on a rectangular carpet he’d moved from the hallway onto the wooden floor of the front porch. He had stopped exercising immediately upon Lennie’s arrival and was now examining a black cotton turtleneck and a pair of sturdy hiking boots from one of the shopping bags.

  “I hope everything fits,” said Lennie. “You know you can go to town anytime, don’t you?”

  “As soon as Bradley sells one of my paintings, we’ll all go into New York and celebrate,” Ray said, breathing heavily from his exercise. “I’ll buy everyone a steak dinner.”

  “Okay,” said Lennie. “We’ll let Bradley choose the restaurant.”

  In fact I believed I was ready to close the sale of two paintings to Marvin Platz and had prospects for selling several more. Marvin was supposed to give
me his answer by tomorrow.

  The Times article had stirred the interest in Ray I was hoping for. Other publications, including Collector, American Art Review, and the London-based Modern Painters, were picking up the story. Combined with Lennie’s endorsement, the exposure was giving Ray the necessary stamp of legitimacy. The Lennie/Tingley incident at the Edison’s Electric gallery the night of the opening was also making the rounds of the art world, but, as far as I knew, it hadn’t yet reached the media.

  “Do you want to have a sandwich with us, Lennie?” I asked.

  Despite my complete lack of culinary skills, I had become the head chef of the Quaker Cottage. My cuisine tended toward ham sandwiches and canned soup for lunch and, in the evening, Stouffer’s frozen meals or a hamburger. Ray accepted the offerings in silence, but the gusto with which he devoured my cooking told me that I was, at least, exceeding the bar set by the dining hall at Lorton. His cleanup after meals was always quick and efficient.

  “No, thanks,” Lennie said. “I’m eating at the club with Noboro. But don’t forget, we’re all having dinner at the Big House tonight.”

  He studied Ray, who was now sitting in one of the wicker chairs on the porch, holding his new turtleneck and still breathing heavily.

  “Been exercising again?” Lennie asked. “I’d think you’d want a set of weights.”

  He seated himself in the other chair beside Ray and tilted back. I leaned on the sturdy porch railing, facing them.

  “I’m not a weight lifter,” said Ray. “I never liked going into the weight rooms.”

  “Why?” asked Lennie.

  “Those rooms belonged to the brothers.”

  I must have looked uncertain.

  “You know,” he said to me. “Black guys. Lorton’s mostly black guys.”