Cheap Diamonds

by Norris Church Mailer

  “So,” I said, turning my glass so the candlelight caught red glints in the wine, “this is not a date, right?”

  “Right.”

  “Then what is it?”

  “It’s dinner. Everybody has to eat dinner,” he said with a little smile. I put my glass down and looked him in the eyes, as best I could.

  “Are you married, Ron? I need to know that right off.”

  “Married. What makes you think I’m married?”

  “Stop stalling. Are you married?”

  “Well, if you put it that way, yes. I am. Kind of. To my high school sweetheart, Becky. Rebecca. No kids.”

  “‘Kind of.’ What does that mean?”

  “Well, we’re sort of having a trial separation.”

  “Sort of? You moved out or what?”

  “Not exactly. We’re still living in the same house, but we’re not sharing a room. Well, actually, we are sharing the room, but not…”

  “So she doesn’t care if you go out with models?”

  “That could be part of the problem. But she’s got her own life. She likes to bowl. Out in Jersey. I told you I lived in Jersey. She hates coming to the city. That’s another one of the problems. You marry a cute cheerleader from high school, she turns into a bowler who hates New York, and you turn into a photographer who is in love with the city. But I don’t want to talk about all that tonight. Can’t we just have a nice dinner?”

  “Oh, Ron, I wish you had told me that before. I just got burned by a guy I didn’t know was married, and now here I am out with you!”

  What was it about me, that married men thought I would go out with them? I vowed to start asking every man I met if he was married long before we got to the dinner part. And I had my doubts that Becky thought they were having a trial separation.

  “You’re not getting burned. We’re having a meal. That’s all. We’re colleagues. There’s nothing in the marriage contract that says you can’t be friends with other people, especially people you work with. Becky has large amounts of male friends. She’s part of a mixed bowling league that goes out every single week, and I’m not jealous.”

  Well, sure. Of course not, I thought. They weren’t male models. Straight male models, that is.

  “All right. Fine. You’re having a trial separation and we’re colleagues, but we’re just going to be friends. That’s it.”

  “Of course. I’m not like a lot of the photographers who hit on the girls, you know. Have I ever made a pass at you? Have I? You’re insulting me.”

  “I’m sorry.” He acted like he really was insulted. And no, he had never made any kind of pass. I was confused. If I was married I would not like it in the least if my husband was taking models out for dinner, and even if he and Becky really were having a trial separation I’m sure she didn’t, either. But then, when you think about it, did marriage mean you had to put a lock on yourself for the rest of your life and never see anybody but your husband or wife? I couldn’t imagine my mother or daddy just going out to dinner with somebody of the opposite sex like that, but this was New York and the rules weren’t the same, it seemed like. I felt so far from marriage that I couldn’t even think about it. Then I had another thought.

  Maybe he didn’t find me attractive.

  “Not that I don’t think you’re attractive,” he said, reading my mind, “but you’re not my type.”

  “Well, that’s a relief. You’re not my type, either. Glad we got that cleared up.” I took another sip of the sour wine. I meant it, that he wasn’t my type. Not that I don’t like short men, but for some reason, even though he was cute, Ron didn’t light my fire, and apparently I didn’t light his. In fact, there weren’t many men that did light my fire. Only two so far, one who was far away in my past and one right next door who apparently was playing hard to get or something.

  So, good. Even though there was something weird about it, I decided to ignore the questions and try to relax and have a nice evening, since we were here already and all.

  The menu was in Italian, and I had no idea what anything was. I never took a foreign language at school because it didn’t occur to me that I would ever go to a foreign country. Like New York.

  “I can’t read any of this, Ron. Do they have spaghetti?”

  “Spaghetti? Well, of course they have spaghetti. But you can get spaghetti in any joint in the U.S.A.! You can get it in cans made by Chef Boyardee, for Pete’s sake! But you don’t want to order spaghetti here. This restaurant is the genuine thing. The chef is from Sicily. They ship the olive oil and the spices and the tomato sauce from Tuscany. They make their own pasta right here by hand from grains grown in Sicily and ground into flour in mills that are hundreds of years old. There are dishes in this restaurant you can’t get any other place in New York. Why don’t you let me order for you? I’ll surprise you. You’ll love it. You wait.”

  Ron signaled the waiter, who quickly came over and rattled off a list of specials in a language that may have been English, but I couldn’t understand a word he said. I just looked mutely at Ron, who picked up the menu and scanned the list.

  “We’ll have the…” Ron pointed to the menu and rolled off a name in Italian. If it had tomato sauce on it, I thought, it would be good. Even cardboard with the sauce I smelled at Puglia’s would be good.

  We drank the wine, his glass emptying much faster than mine, even though I kind of got used to it after a few sips. I didn’t know why people were so crazy about wine.

  “I want to thank you, Ron, for letting me do the stocking shoot for Vogue. I called my mother and told her I was going to be in Vogue and she told everybody she knew, neglecting, of course, to say it was just legs. They’ll all go crazy trying to find me and think she’s a liar. I wish I could do something where you could see my face for once. Even the Vanity Fair nightgown shot I’m doing, you won’t see my face.” It was the style of the ad, but I had seen the pictures Neal Barr did for the test, and they had dramatic lighting that made my hair look like a halo, my body long and lean, but my hand was over my face. The worst thing about that shoot was that they would have to put fake fingernails on me, because I always clip them short, and I dreaded it. I’d had to have them for another leg shot I did, where my hands were pulling on the stockings, and it just took forever. They had to put forms on the ends of my fingers, mix up some kind of paste, paint it on, let it dry, and then shape them into points and polish them. The long nails did make my hands look a lot better, though, almost graceful, but they were torture to try to wear. When you’re not used to long nails, you can’t push an elevator button or dial the phone or even button up your blouse. Forget picking your nose. I nearly mutilated my sinuses once without thinking. I left them on for about a day after the shoot was over and then cut them off. The part attached to my actual nails was on there pretty good and I had to gnaw them, taking a layer of fingernail with it and practically destroying my fingertips. I would have to be paid pretty well before I let them do it again.

  “You’ll have that mug in print yet. I’ve got a shoot for Glamour coming up, and I’m going to try to use you for it. It’s a small editorial on scarves, but you look good in them. I like the way you tie them around your head.”

  I did love scarves, because my hair was so wild. I tied them around my waist for belts, too, and knotted them like necklaces around my neck. The thought of being in a Glamour editorial warmed me up, even though we didn’t get paid as much for editorial work as we did for ads, the day rate being the same as our usual hourly rate, but the bonus was that everybody wanted the editorial models for their ads so you got more work from it. I smiled, all rosy, and Ron added a splash of Chianti to my glass.

  The waiter brought over a covered dish and put it in the middle of the table. Then, with a flourish, he lifted the silver lid.

  I screamed.

  In the middle of the platter was the head of a…sheep, I think, cut in half, the eyeball and tongue and teeth all in place, the ear still there, roasted and crispy. It was the most
horrifying thing I had ever seen in my life. The waiter jumped and dropped the lid, which clattered around the floor, and everyone in the restaurant turned to look at me. Ron was shocked.

  “I didn’t order this!” he shouted at the waiter. “I ordered a veal dish!”

  The waiter was totally confused, and people from across the restaurant were standing up to see what was going on.

  “Sì, this is what you ordered!” the waiter said in his heavy accent, grabbing a menu and pointing at an entry. “See—right here.” He read the name of the dish, which kind of sounded like what Ron had said, but I couldn’t tell. “This is what you said! Capuzella! It is delicacy in Sicily!” He looked like he was going to either cry or punch Ron in the nose. The eyeball in the poor half a sheep’s head stared up off the plate at me, white and blank. My stomach started to rebel.

  “Cover it back up! I can’t stand looking at it! Do people really eat this? An eyeball! Teeth! Oh, Ron, I think I’m going to be sick!” My stomach started to roll and I yawped a little.

  Ron, a slight shade of green himself, draped his napkin over the offending half a sheep’s head and tried to look like he didn’t know me. The maître d’ was making his way toward our table, pushing aside several other customers who were getting up to see what had happened.

  I grabbed my purse and ran out the door, then stood by the street and gulped several breaths of fresh air, and thankfully didn’t throw up, which would really have been embarrassing.

  Ron threw some money on the table, and as he ran out after me, announced to the room, “Does anybody want a half a sheep’s head? It hasn’t been touched!”

  We drove to a playground several blocks away and sat on a bench until I started to feel better.

  “I’m really embarrassed. Now you can’t go back to that place ever again.”

  “No, it’s all my fault. I didn’t really know what I was ordering. I have a confession. I don’t speak Italian at all. My grandfather was from there, but I never learned any of the language, outside of penne alla vodka and spaghetti al dente. I was trying to impress you.”

  “I’m impressed. I’ll never forget it as long as I live. Do you go there a lot? They seemed to know you.”

  “Not really. A couple of times. But they never gave me a good table like they did tonight. The head waiter was showing off for you, not me. That was the real reason I invited you, if you want to know the truth—I knew they’d give me a good table if I walked in with you. Especially in that outfit.”

  He was half grinning and I couldn’t tell if he was kidding or not. I figured he was half kidding.

  “Well, they’ll remember you the next time, that’s for sure. And I better never show my face in there again, so you’ll have to bring somebody else.”

  “That’s all right. They probably get their sauce from the same supplier in Brooklyn as everybody else anyhow. I made up that stuff about tomatoes grown in Tuscany and all. Are you hungry?”

  “Starving.”

  “Are you still up for Italian?”

  Across the street was a pizza joint called Famous Ray’s, and we got a couple of slices and a Coke and sat on the bench watching some kids play basketball on a concrete court behind a chain-link fence. There seemed to be a lot of Ray’s pizzas in New York: Famous Ray’s, Original Famous Ray’s, The REAL Famous Ray’s, just plain Ray’s, and there was even one called Not Famous Ray’s—Ray was a busy guy, and I didn’t know if Ray was even an Italian name. Ron said that there was no such dish as pizza in Italy. Not like the ones we have here; it was more like tomato sauce on a cracker. But I didn’t care if this was authentic Italian or not. It was thick with pepperoni, melted cheese, and red sauce on a goopy crust that wilted until the oil ran down my wrist.

  “Hey, look!” Ron said, as we scrubbed the grease off ourselves with a wad of napkins and threw away the paper plates and cups. “There’s the Duck Guy!”

  “Where? What Duck Guy?”

  “Coming down the street—the Duck Guy! He’s a legend! He sells ducks. Wait right here.” Ron ran down the street, leaving me to stare after him. Sure enough, right in the middle of the street there was a guy pushing a big cart loaded down with huge yellow stuffed ducks.

  It was dark and there weren’t all that many people out in the neighborhood at this time of night, so I couldn’t figure out why the Duck Guy was still out trying to sell ducks. Although there was Ron buying one, so I guess he did the business. The streetlights cast a yellow glow on the playground, where only two or three boys were still jumping and shooting hoops. New York streetlights were different from the ones we had in Arkansas. Ours were whiter or something, but I liked the yellow light. It made everything feel a little eerie, like in old detective movies, where dangerous, exciting things were waiting to happen.

  Ron sprinted up to the Duck Guy, gave him some money, and picked out one of the ducks. It was nearly as big as Ron. I couldn’t believe it.

  “Here,” he said. “That’s to make up for the sheep’s head.”

  It was at least four feet tall and looked like the prizes my boyfriends used to win for me at the county fair. My bed had been loaded down with them back home, purple dogs, white teddy bears, red teddy bears. This duck was bigger than any of them. It would take up half my apartment.

  “Oh, Ron! It’s just the cutest thing!” I lied, in a gushy girl-voice. “I can’t believe you would do that for me.” What I couldn’t believe was that I had to ride on the back of a motorcycle holding a huge fuzzy stuffed duck with orange felt feet and beak and a green ribbon around its neck. Well, I guess he meant well. And the Duck Guy was a legend. Whatever that meant.

  “You really like it?”

  “I love it.” No sense in hurting his feelings. I don’t know if he expected me to give him a kiss or something, but I just clutched the duck and he patted me on the shoulder.

  Even if he was married, Ron was all right. No reason we couldn’t be friends. I vowed I would never sleep with him, or even kiss him, but I guess I had to take his duck and be nice about it. I’d figure out what to do with it later. He was, after all, going to use me in a Glamour editorial!

  I could hear Suzan in the back of my head, though. Was taking a duck the first step in sleeping your way to the top?

  20

  * * *

  MONKEYS, SCHMONKEYS

  “Did you use my hairbrush? There are definitely blond hairs in this brush.”

  Sal was furiously cleaning the hairbrushes, putting them into tall jars filled with blue Barbasol antiseptic. Lale lounged on the couch, strumming a guitar and watching.

  “No, I didn’t use your hairbrush. Why would I do that?” he said. “I have my own hairbrush. Maybe Preston used it.”

  “You know Preston doesn’t brush his hair. I am serious, Lale, you are not to use my personal things! There are a zillion hairbrushes on the makeup table, and you have to pick out the one that is my personal one. Are you trying to make me crazy?”

  “You were crazy the day I met you.”

  “That, my darling, is the one true thing you have said all day. I am crazy to keep up this charade that you are the boarder here, when clearly you have taken over this place! Just look at it—your stuff is everywhere! Your boots, your clothes, your hair products! A guitar on which you have learned to play exactly one song. If I never hear “Wipe Out” again it will be too soon!” Lale stopped playing, put the guitar aside, his face impassive.

  “Not to mention the phone calls you get at all hours of the day and night,” Sal continued, shoving the brushes into the jars, hard. “You hand out my private number to every woman you happen to ogle on the street, not to mention your growing fan base of lovesick females. You are going to have to get your own phone line if you stay here. Even Preston is fed up with it. He has threatened to move out, and if he does then we will undoubtedly lose the space unless one of us can convince the powers that be that we are artists. Why they think that someone who slops paint on a canvas is entitled to space and another artist who carefu
lly applies makeup to faces is not, is beyond me. I just hope the inspector can’t see your masses of stuff and realize you do no work here.”

  Sal meticulously started going through his makeup case, tidying it and wiping off any makeup that had smeared on the containers. “But frankly, I wouldn’t be unhappy to have Preston out of the picture. His personal hygiene always left a lot to be desired. Some people actually are into rancid body smells and all that, but not moi. I was always a bath and shower man myself, and frankly the smell of skin freshly washed in Irish Spring soap is the biggest turn-on of all. I could just take bites out of a bar of Irish Spring!”

  Lale started playing again, this time a softer, slower version of “Wipe Out.”

  “What were we fighting about?” Sal asked finally.

  “The hairbrush. I think.”

  “Oh, yes. Did you use my hairbrush or not? Tell the truth.”

  “Okay, I might have! What’s the big deal? They all look alike to me anyhow. And since you have turned me into an Irish Spring bath and shower man, you should be happy. It was clean hair. If me and my stuff bother you, and Preston is whining about me, I could always find another place and Preston can stay. I could afford it. I’m making a lot of money.”

  “Which you would do well to try to save. Models don’t go on forever, you know. Pretty faces are lined up from Malibu to Montauk waiting to take your place.”

  “I’m scared,” Lale said sarcastically.

  “So go look for another place,” Sal went on. “You’ll never find an apartment for thirty-three dollars and thirty-three cents a month like this one. And besides, what would you do for entertainment? You’d miss me. Tell the truth—I’ve grown on you.”

  “Yeah. Like a wart. Nah. I wouldn’t miss you at all. The only reason I stick around is to see what weird thing you’re going to do next.”

  But Lale smiled when he said it. Sal had grown on him, and every time he thought about finding his own place somehow he put it off, not quite ready to leave the loft and be on his own. He told himself he stayed because Sal was indeed as famous as he said he was, and had a lot of contacts in the business, like Michel Denon, who had been right-on about him being a successful model the minute he saw him in the coffee shop, but it was more than that. Sal was action. He knew the ropes in a world of which Lale was totally ignorant. There was nothing about New York Sal didn’t know, and he was generous with his knowledge. Lale was using Sal, but he figured Sal knew the score. Sal was using Lale, too, and the fact that he was straight didn’t seem to bother Sal at all. He simply liked having the beautiful maleness around, all that lovely testosterone coloring the air. And as Sal always said, one eyebrow cocked, you never know.