Willing

by Scott Spencer

  Are those friends of yours over there? I asked Nina. Who are you meaning? she said, crossly. I tried to think of where things had taken a wrong turn for us; was it when I basically refused to walk with her to that nearby ATM to withdraw extra money? Over there, I said, those four guys checking us out. She looked at them, making not the slightest concession to discretion. I don’t know them, she said. They keep looking this way, I said. And why not? Nina said.

  Piedmont was having four bottles of Mumm’s brought to us. A bartender had somehow materialized and was now a graceful black silhouette in front of the neon blue lighting. Also materializing was a stocky young woman, satirically dressed in a crinoline party dress and combat boots.

  I caught Cobb’s attention and pointed to my forehead, to a spot corresponding to his swollen bruise. What happened? I silently asked. He clicked his fingernails against the tabletop and looked at me silently, with no intention of answering. Then he slowly turned away—and this might have been a trick of the light, or it could have been simply because my brain was deprived of proper rest and was starting to fade, or it could also have been that my brain wasn’t so much starved for sleep but had ingested the wrong stimuli and was now infected like a hard drive corrupted by a virus, but whatever the reason, or the unreason, whatever flames of irrationality were licking at me, when Cobb refused to answer my question and turned away as if I were not worth bothering with, I could see, actually see, the broad-shouldered waitress walking toward us with a tray and eight glasses, right through Cobb’s head.

  The bottles were uncorked, the glasses were filled, and Piedmont, whose party this seemed to be, made a toast. To freedom, my friends, to our lovely hosts, and to fellowship. Nina was drinking her champagne before Piedmont was halfway through the toast; the rest of us said Here here or Skål, and we clicked glasses, click click click.

  The quartet’s piano player was a woman. Her back had been to us, and all I had noticed of her, as she punched out shimmering little chords of accompaniment, was her wavy red hair and the way it bounced up and down on her black tuxedo jacket as she moved to the rhythm. She played a solo, skittering and discursive, you’d have to be totally committed to listening to it in order to hear it at all, and when she was finished there was a smattering of polite applause. She looked over her shoulder to acknowledge the audience’s good manners, and it was almost as if Deirdre was there. I knew I was really looking at a Norwegian jazz pianist, I knew that woman at the black Baldwin upright, in her tux jacket and tight faded jeans, her enormous dollhouse chandelier earrings, I knew she was not Deirdre, yet the resemblance was shocking. The coloring, of course, and the feminine swagger, that nonchalant, otherworldly confidence that is yours when you have always been loved, when your parents are bright and humane, when your ears have a kind of dewy sheen from all the encouraging words they have heard. I never really had to leave her. I could have fixed the situation. It wasn’t hopeless; it wasn’t lost.

  Suddenly, a wave of longing for Deirdre came crashing to the shore of the little island that was myself, and then everything was unbearable: the way I was living my life, the way I had always lived my life, the things I had failed to do, the things I had done, and what I was doing right now, the reason I was here. I was left with nothing but devastation, a sudden opening into a loneliness and sadness so great that it threatened to pull me in. If I were to be pulled in, into that darkness, that terrible darkness, I feared I might be lost forever. Which is to say that the tears that suddenly sprang to my eyes might have been tears of sadness, but they might also have been tears of terror. Terror might have stuck its staff into me like a dowser’s willow crook, and hit the underground stream where the tears had been all along. The piano player was into a slow, bluesy version of “Over the Rainbow.”

  Nina rubbed my back in rapid little circles. Someone refilled my glass. Leave him alone, Piedmont was saying. At one point, unable to support my head any longer, and wanting the privacy of at least not being able to see the others, I pitched forward and brought my forehead to rest on my forearm, almost tipping the table over. I heard the champagne bottle sliding; I think Cobb caught it because I heard Olmo say Good hands, Len. I heard Nina saying Hello? Are you going somewhere? Presumably she was speaking to me. I heard Len telling someone he was planning to go for a five-mile run as soon as possible, and I heard one of the women say something in Norwegian to one of the other women to which she replied with a admonishing No. Olmo was telling the story of Hap’s unsuccessful proposal of marriage, just as he had back in Westchester, but this time adding that Hap was a legendary womanizer who had slept with probably a thousand women and wasn’t it funny that the one woman he proposed to—and who was almost certainly going to pass—had oversized calves. From there, Olmo was saying that the three of them were thinking of getting out of the business and starting their own hedge fund. The men didn’t seem to care about this, and the women might not have known what he was talking about. I didn’t know what a hedge fund was, either, not in any detail; I didn’t know what distinguished it from a mutual fund, or why the word hedge was in it. Was it a hedge against inflation, a hedge against the overall direction of the market? My mind circled around and around this question. The voices of the others were distant, muffled, like the scream of that bastard whose cry of pain I’d heard underwater at the Blue Lagoon.

  My own exhaustion was circling me like a boxer eager to end the fight; I closed my eyes for a moment, and, boom, I was gone. A few moments later I came drifting back. I opened my eyes. I was in the backseat of a car. A pale yellowish tuft of stuffing poked out of a slit in the upholstery, next to where my head lolled. Nina was on my left, someone else on my right; the driver had a steel gray crew cut, protruding ears, a white silk scarf wrapped around his neck. My eyes burned, my eyelids were as heavy as my legs, and the next thing I knew I was waking up in a bed, on top of a down comforter, darkened beneath my chin by saliva. I had been dreaming of the sky over Fifty-fourth Street; I had been looking at it when the waiter from my corner coffee shop came out to smoke a cigarette, his see-through pocket full of lottery tickets. I rolled onto my back. Where was I? A bare lightbulb was directly above me, screwed into a socket in the ceiling, which was surrounded by expanding ripples of wedding cake plaster. I turned away from the light’s glare, noticed a window, partially open, uncurtained, a flat, hard darkness beyond.

  I felt compelled to get out of this strange bed, but some need for safety kept me still, because, having no idea where I was, I didn’t know what I would do once I was upright, or where I would be, or what I would find. I heard music from the next room, the throb of it at once nostalgic and disorienting—it was a letter from home, but who was sending it, how had it gotten here? All that separated me from the music was a wooden door, painted eggshell blue. I got to a standing position—the compact, overheated room did a kind of visual hiccup as the blood momentarily drained from my head—and, thinking that the worst that could happen to me had probably, without my entirely knowing it, already happened, I smoothed down my shirt, and opened the door to whatever was awaiting me on the other side.

  Here were my thoughts, in the order in which I had them. Big room. Not so warm. Len Cobb is beating up Nina. Olmo and Piedmont have been drugged, and now they are on a black sofa with their heads thrown back, their mouths open. Isn’t that the drummer? God, water pipes are so lame. Hookahs, hookers, that’s weird. Nina seems to be getting away from Cobb. There’s an iPod, there’s a speaker tower. Marijuana. Smells good, feels bad. What clutter. Distant ring of cell phone—Eine kleine Nachtmusik. I must help Nina. Oh my God, Nina.

  At which point I lurched forward, shouting out her name. I don’t think anyone in the room had at that point realized I was a factor. One of the Norwegian girls said The dead are now coming awake, and Nina, who was on the floor, propped up on her elbows, looked my way, with a weird little Oops of a smile, at which instant I realized that Len wasn’t doing anything wrong, not really, certainly not in any actionable way. His dark
trousers had been replaced by dark naked legs and he was merely fucking Nina, and hot on the heels of this deeply embarrassing—even shaming—clarification was the further clarification that my other two traveling buddies were not the recipients of some knockout drug but were doing their best to enjoy side-by-side blow jobs, administered by Marit. Wasn’t Nina meant to be for me? I could have walked into a booby trap, stepped on a land mine, so sudden and intense was the explosion of searing, irrational jealousy. There are men, and I am not one of them, for whom jealousy is a springboard into acts of violence, and there are others, take for example me, for whom jealousy is a springboard into an overwhelming sense of shame. Shame and wretchedness and smallness and insignificance and exclusion.

  Len was energetically jabbing his finger in the air. At first I thought he was pointing at me, in a threatening way, but then I saw he was pointing at Rebekah, who was already out of her white sweater and was now wriggling out of her matching skirt, folding it neatly and placing it on a wooden chair, painted, like Rebekah herself, in a primary color, in this case blue. She was wearing lacy red underwear. Her breasts were heavy, rather maternal. She held one with her left hand while her right hand pulled her underpants to one side, revealing a pink exfoliated crotch. Her eyes were looking in my general direction, though not exactly at me. Then she turned around, shook her ass at me. It was clear I was meant to be aroused by this, and I was, to some extent—my penis was not exactly ready for action, but it stirred. I waved her over, thinking it would be better for everyone if we went back to the bedroom. I couldn’t stand watching Nina and Len fucking. And Olmo and Piedmont sitting shoulder to shoulder like two men on a roller coaster—that wasn’t much easier to take.

  Where are you going? Piedmont demanded of Rebekah. To your friend, she answered. No, no way, let’s all stay together. Piedmont tilted his head back so he could see me as if I were in the viewfinder of an old black-box camera, and said Don’t take her away; it’s one for all and all for one. Now Marit was fellating only Olmo; the woman who had come into the restaurant with Olmo was working on Piedmont. I got a look at her because she took a break, sat back on her heels, like a woman on a riverbank exhausted after hours of scrubbing clothes. She had hiked up her shirt to expose her sheer copper-colored brassiere. Her belly was divided into three distinct folds, each one the width of a celery stalk. Despite the tough mask of pancake makeup and mascara she wore over what had once upon a time been her face, she looked as if she were struggling. She caught her breath, swallowed, bowed her head. Later, when I had sex with her, I learned her name was Maud, I mean the name she used. This was the first, and probably will be the only, time I participated in an orgy. More than that I cannot say.

  Except I can say this, too: you can’t always care about what you do, and how you behave. You can’t always care about right and wrong, even if you have God on your side, which I did not, even if you have God, or some idea of God, in your hip pocket, even if you carry a flask of his blood in your jacket, it doesn’t matter—there are times when you just don’t care anymore. You just do the bad thing, because you are frightened, or curious, or bored, or angry, because something or someone tells you to, or because you are consumed with desire, maybe not consumed, not starving, maybe just somewhat hungry, just wanting a few more sips from the great chalice of earthly pleasures, just enough to top you off. It happens. To all of us. The most you can hope for is that you don’t sin too often, and that you don’t break a major commandment. In other words, steal but don’t kill. You could get by with breaking all the commandments except the one that warns you thou shall not kill; even though it got shuttled down to number six (sic!), it’s still the commandment that matters most. Go ahead, if you must, and worship false idols, fantasize about a new Mercedes or the woman next door, and if you hit your thumb with a hammer and happen to take the Lord’s name in vain I think the Lord can deal with it, I really do.

  All right. I can say something else about the orgy. It was great, mad fun. It was as close as I’ve ever gotten to being an uncivilized man. Maybe the Metal Men experienced similar highs blasting mountains, grabbing whatever they wanted. Maybe Dr. Gordon felt something akin to this after splitting a patient’s sternum and holding his heart. Maybe Tony felt thrust far beyond the earth’s persistent gravitational pull when he scratched off the winning numbers. But, despite the irregularities of my early life, I had always closely adhered to what was expected of me. I got my assignments in on time, I paid my rent, left an 18 percent tip when I dined out, looked—with one notable exception—both ways before crossing the street. Now, however, in the drummer’s front room, with Olmo singing Who likes monster cocks? and Marit continually repeating the rather obvious yet somehow remarkable observation Now, boys, we are really doing it up, I was feeling for the first time the pleasure that can be derived from blithely violating the boundaries that had long ago been so carefully pointed out to me while I was walking around the parameters of my life like a good dog on a leash. The occasional confrontations with the unappealing bodily facts of the many animals writhing around were more than made up for in the forbidden, mindless, pleasure of sex for sex’s sake.

  16

  WE WALKED BACK to the Christofer around eleven in the morning, two by two, the original couples restored, reeking and depraved. I could barely put one foot in front of the other. Everything felt so askew, I would not have been surprised to find I had put my pants on backward. All that propelled me were visions of my bed and fantasies of occupying it by myself, tossing and turning in a cool ecstasy of privacy and autonomy. I thought about that bed awaiting me with the fervency of a shipwrecked sailor floating in the middle of the ocean, clutching to one piece of jetsam, keeping despair at bay with a dream of dry land. Even at the height of morning commerce, Oslo maintained its dreamlike hush. A truck went by as quietly as a golf cart. Two workers carrying cases of wine into a restaurant moved themselves and their cargo with such grace you could have thought they were stealing the wine rather than delivering it. Piedmont was in front of me, the back of his shirt dark with sweat. Rebekah kept a guiding, encouraging hand on his elbow as he clomped along. Behind me, Marit had asked Len about the boy with the scars and only one arm, and Len launched into a discourse about Jordan, in which Jordan emerged not only as a war hero but as a man in whose person resided all the great virtues: loyalty, compassion, honesty, and courage. I don’t know what kind of trash you’re used to, Len said, but he’s a good man, a very, very good man. He makes me afraid, Marit said.

  I heard a sharp intake of breath. What are you shivering about? Len asked her. I was thinking of him, Marit said. Then don’t think about him. And don’t go shivering either. You understand me? Don’t do that. That’s very rude.

  When we arrived at the hotel I made my hasty good-byes and returned to my room, but it was occupied by two housekeepers. They may have been mother and daughter. The older one was standing with her hands on her wide hips, surveying the damage, her face an olive oval ensconced in a floral scarf. The younger one, bareheaded, in jeans and a lilac blouse, was beginning to gather up the bed linens, grasping them with swift, harsh gestures, as if they were delinquents who might try and break free. They didn’t react to my walking in; they seemed neither startled nor aware. Sorry, sorry, I said. But even my voice couldn’t move their eyes toward me. How much time do you need? I asked. We are cleaning room now, the older one said. Twenty minutes? I offered. More, she said. I took a last longing look at the bed—even without sheets and pillows it looked inviting—and then made my way back down to the lobby.

  Stephanie and Gabrielle were standing in front of the elevator as I got out. They had just gotten back from the Munch museum, and they were laughing at one of the souvenir postcards they’d picked up at the gift shop. Stephanie greeted me warmly, but Gabrielle looked concerned. She appeared prosperous, cultured, and busy in her pleated skirt, soft wool sweater, and white blouse with a big floppy bow at the top of it. Where is Nina? Gabrielle said. Her tone seemed to suggest I
had done something terrible to Nina, and I shook my head. But everything is fine? she asked. No problems? I really didn’t want to evaluate Nina’s services just then; it seemed particularly awkward to be doing so in front of Stephanie. Gabrielle, however, was determined that I answer; I finally said No problems at all, but even that wasn’t enough and the inquiries continued until I said She’s great, she’s a beautiful woman, I’ll be seeing her later on. Gabrielle smiled; like most people, she was receptive to information that made her life easier. Lincoln was sure you would like her energy, she said. Yes, I said, her energy. Are you ready? Gabrielle asked Stephanie, stepping into the elevator. Are you going to have a coffee or something? Stephanie asked me. Yes, I am, I said, and then, remembering my manners, I asked her to join me.

  We went to the restaurant where last night’s strenuous festivities had begun. The room seemed not to have fully recovered from a long night. The slightly skunky smell of beer was in the air, and a large table had been pushed into a corner and piled high with white linen tablecloths and red napkins waiting to be laundered. The waiters working seemed to have just rolled out of bed, and they moved nervously, with the overly solicitous manner of unfaithful husbands hoping to hide what they had been up to the night before. Our waiter asked for our room numbers, and I detected a slight hesitation from Stephanie, which made me wonder if she felt uneasy about my knowing which room she was in.