“Really? Does Paul know about it?”
“No. It’s in my drawer. My grandmother gave it to me and told me not to tell Paul I had it.”
“I have three thousand that I saved when I was working. Chuck knew about it, but when he started earning big money he must have forgotten.” She chewed on her cuticles and thought. “Even if we could make a down payment with five thousand, how could we get a mortgage? We don’t have any collateral.”
“My father would give me money if I asked him, but I’m sure Paul would feel insulted if I did that.”
“You’re right,” she said glumly. “He’d have a fit.”
“There’s a trust fund from my grandfather, but it isn’t due for a couple of years.” She was chagrined to admit that she had never asked the amount of the trust. (She wasn’t even certain it was money.) If it were a dazzling figure, it would boost Larraine’s morale. Many times she had the urge to do something nice for Larraine—surprise her with a baked pie or iron her clothes—although it wouldn’t make a lasting difference. It wouldn’t make Chuck love her again. Once she had thought of telling her about James. Larraine, I had a lost love, too. But the words—she couldn’t formulate a satisfactory opening sentence—stuck in her throat. The hurt and disappointment were still with her. “We could ask McKay,” she said brightly. “He just loves to make it look like child’s play, so let’s see what he has to say.”
The aimlessness of the previous year—and the loneliness, too—were replaced by purpose. She felt useful and on the verge of something. Paul sniffed out her new mood and was suspicious that she wanted to take her energy and interest out of their life together and place it elsewhere. He would flatten his mouth and shift both eyes sideways, as if he were exasperated. “There’s something I have to say to you.” She came to dread those words. The something was always a warning: Don’t be naive. Don’t get carried away. Don’t get too chummy with Larraine. She thought some of the junk he brought home from the auctions made him seem naive, but she would never have said so. She still respected him deeply for saving people’s lives. Next to that, any small fault was inconsequential.
37.
OH, JAMES . . .
It was the simple desire for revenge that gave Delal the initial furious energy to chase James. She was near him and Nijmeh was not. That was extracting retribution. But James was a man who had been presorted at birth to invade women’s fantasies, and Delal wasn’t immune. She kept imagining a moment when he would be driven to kiss her.
A bonus of coming to Edinburgh was her appreciation of university life. Graying, clear-eyed men served up knowledge as if it were the key to a worthwhile life. She became smug and pious over her intellect. She also wanted to get rid of her virginity and learn to smoke.
She needed a place to live, which she envisioned as a garret with sloping ceilings. After a street-by-street search—Edinburgh was a canyon of heavily ornamented gray structures—she found two tiny rooms (with the toilet and sink inside but the bath, which she paid extra to use, in the hall). The apartment faced a barren courtyard but had a domed skylight—she could see Orion’s Belt from her bed—and a tiled, working fireplace. It was an ordeal to drag logs up four flights of stairs, but struggle was now an ennobling part of her life.
Oriental rugs and pink bulbs in fringed lamps made the room (and Delal) look softer and prettier. She was satisfied that she had seen a room like it in a Charles Boyer film.
When the semester was under way, she began a social life of sorts by inviting acquaintances to her place on Friday evenings and urging them to bring friends. Her rooms were underheated, like everyone else’s, but she had a phonograph and the latest long-playing records. The landlady was supplied with schnapps to forestall any resentment over the traffic.
It took her a long time to find James. During the first few empty weeks, she was convinced he wasn’t there. It was with relief and stomach-jolting joy that she spotted him late one afternoon lounging back on the steps of the quadrangle with his face upturned to the sun. Too unnerved to attempt conversation, she waited and followed him to see where he lived. She monitored the quadrangle each afternoon and discovered that one of his classes let out there on Tuesdays and Thursdays. What’s more, he often stopped to browse in a secondhand bookstore halfway between the university and his rooms, and she chose that cozy unhurried setting as the ideal place for them to “meet.”
They were standing between shelves, their privacy assured by thick walls of books. “You . . .” He was more than a little surprised to see her. “. . . here?”
“Hello. It’s Delal,” she said stupidly. There were new lines on his face, but the overall effect was so much more enchanting than any vision of him she could have dreamed up. The flesh-and-blood James sent her heart racing with anxiety. Self-assurance fled. Next to him she felt frumpy. The red muffler around his neck was just one sign of his confidence and dashing nature. His hair fell in a silken clump over his brow. How wonderful it must be never to plan the effect that put you in the best light.
“Well, hello,” he said finally. “How are you?” Good, civilized James. Asking how she was as if they were having tea. As if she hadn’t changed his life and come thousands of miles to ensnare him.
“Fine. Just fine. I wasn’t sure if you were here.”
“I’m here,” he said.
“So am I.” Just then her toughness ran out. She was afraid of ruining it and decided not to linger. “I’m in kind of a hurry now, but why don’t you drop by on Friday night? Twenty-two Thierry . . . can you remember that? Top floor. It’s sort of a standing open house.” She stalked off briskly, her heart pounding like a jackhammer.
When she saw his large head filling her doorway that Friday night, she had a moment of pure happiness. He had come to her. The thing to do was not to make a fuss. Act as if it didn’t matter. She hardly spoke to him the entire evening other than to catch his eye across the room and ask him to stoke the fire. When the evening ended, she felt emotionally exhausted, as if she’d taken a grueling exam. The next time she would allow herself more conversation.
She bought a black jersey dress and had her hair cut but then blamed these calculated lures when he didn’t appear that Friday or the next. It had to do with trying too hard, which mostly resulted in failure. She felt dull, as if her bright hopes were ill placed, and it took until Thursday to recuperate and shrug off that deadly feeling of rejection.
On the third Friday he was back. She met his eyes over the heads of the crowd and began to tremble so uncontrollably she had to hug herself and bury her hands inside her arms. Part of the trembling was the thrill of being saved yet one more time. The other part was fear. She had begun to understand how seriously she had interfered with his life.
He had come alone and while he wasn’t officially her date, at least he wasn’t entrenching himself in another woman’s life. He found a spot on the floor and did his share of talking. She caught a word here and there . . . Hegel . . . synthesis . . . Vittorio De Sica . . . Two girls circled him all evening, but he left alone while there was still a crowd. All Delal could do was drape herself against the doorway and urge him to come again.
Of course seeing James made her think of Nijmeh. Sometimes she would imagine that Nijmeh was at her house on a Friday night and James would walk in. She could see them turning to each other wordlessly but with tears of happiness. He would take her in his arms and smother her face against him. Then they would leave without even a good-bye and never return to 22 Thierry.
Nijmeh deserved what had happened to her. She should have followed James to the ends of the earth, but she had no imagination. She didn’t know who she was and then was grateful when someone decided for her. Her father had decided she was his alter ego, meant to fulfill his fantasies. Now Paul, no doubt, was turning her into his handmaiden. Did Paul ever make her really hot? Probably not. Well, they deserved each other. Delal knew what was best for Delal and
went after it. The trick was never to admit defeat.
Nat King Cole’s perfect smoky voice was coming from the phonograph. “Dance, ballerina, dance. And just ignore the seat that’s empty in the second row . . .”
“What a callous jerk.” Delal blew a puff of smoke at the ceiling. “It’s her big night and he didn’t show up.” She had her head thrown back on the hard horsehair sofa, her legs stretched out in front. It was a pose meant for philosophical reflection after an evening of wine and music.
“Who didn’t show up?”
“The man in the second row. Her love, I suppose. Why couldn’t he have been happy for her success? Why did it have to be love or success? If it had been the other way around, she would have been there cheering him on.”
He was sprawled next to her, groggy from having consumed at least three-quarters of a bottle of Beaujolais, but her statement made him sit up and look at her. “Delal, you’re the oddest girl. You’re analyzing the song?”
“Why not? Millions of people are listening to those lyrics and all of them are critical of this poor girl who simply wanted to use her talent.”
He shook his head and sank back, but she could see he was amused. “I can always count on you for the unexpected.”
Good. That means I’ve got your attention. She was conscious that the wine stupor had loosened his body and made him sink closer against her. His head was almost on her shoulder. “I like to think things out.”
“Yes, that’s it. And you’ve got a very logical mind. One and one”—he reached over, took her hand, and isolated the fingers—“had better add up to two or you’ll have Inspector Delal beating the bushes.” He had the two fingers squeezed inside one of his hands and it made her heart jump around like a rabbit. Was he going to take her fingers to his lips and kiss them? Was he going to use them to pull her against him? A look of surprise came across his face. At that moment all of her expertise in human relations was for naught. She was helpless. Unendurable desire pulled her to him, but she couldn’t kiss him. Suppose he didn’t want to? Please . . . you’ve got to kiss me or I will die . . . His other hand went around her neck as an anchor. A sweet agony overtook her. Now! She parted her lips in anticipation as he brought his face close and placed his mouth against her. Oh, James . . .
“I want to take your temperature. Open your mouth.” Star was still half-asleep and had only opened her eyes to see the time.
“I’m not sick.”
“This is not because you’re sick. It’s to be sure you conceive. I want you to get pregnant.”
“Is it necessary to do it this way?”
“We’re not doing it the other way,” he said sarcastically. “Open your mouth.”
She had been wondering herself why she wasn’t pregnant. Many nights he didn’t touch her and she thought that maybe she was for show and he had someone else for sex. He came in at all hours, sometimes two or three in the morning.
She tried to care and feel outrage, but instead she felt guilt and humiliation that she had failed on every level. She hadn’t kept her part of the bargain. She hadn’t learned to love him. But he didn’t love her either. The truth was that Paul, while he might be proud to have her for his wife, didn’t really trust or like her. To herself she reasoned, Why are we having a baby? But the consequences of saying such a thing out loud were too serious.
Her involvement with McKay was a pocket of security. It was something safe and engrossing to give her purpose and faith in her own identity. What had started out as a playful speculation was becoming more real as McKay showed them the mechanics of the trade. She and Larraine had hopes of going into business, but she couldn’t tell that to Paul. At least not yet. They had divided the city into quarters, systematically following leads and answering ads. There were many possibilities. They had pinpointed an area north of the Capitol Building as a realistic starting point. It was run-down but showed signs of reviving. If they could afford anything it would be in a neighborhood that hadn’t yet been found.
“Never say die,” said Larraine. “If we want it badly enough, something will break. You could offer yourself to the loan officer, sugar. Just kidding.” It was seductive to daydream.
That past week they had traipsed—with trepidation—through the new bohemian turf lined with coffeehouses on the edge of China-town. “See those men?” whispered Larraine. “They don’t work. They think we’re all crazy and our values are crazy. They think we’re emotionally dead. They write the filthiest books. Every other word is fuck. Fuck this and fuck that and this fucking thing and that fucking thing. They use it as a noun, an adjective, and a verb. They call women ‘chicks’ and money is ‘bread.’ They lack drive and that’s putting it mildly. But sometimes when I’m a little drunk I think they might have something. Maybe we are emotionally dead.”
Every day for two weeks Paul stuck the thermometer in her mouth before she got out of bed and recorded the reading on a chart he had posted on the wall. “You’ll see,” he volunteered after a week, “it’ll shoot up when the egg drops. It’s a very reliable system. This is what I advise for my patients who have trouble conceiving.”
She wasn’t having trouble conceiving. They didn’t have sex frequently enough. This seemed such a cold-blooded way to go about it.
On the fifteenth morning he read the thermometer, but instead of getting up to record the figure he began whistling and put it down beside him on the floor. “This is it! We’re gonna make a baby!” He seemed more lighthearted than she’d ever seen him. He pushed the blanket away and pushed up her nightgown and rolled on top of her. The sun was streaming in the window and she felt horribly self-conscious. “Hey, don’t look so happy,” he quipped.
“It’s so bright.”
“Yeah . . . well, we’ve got to make hay while the sun shines.” He grinned and she could feel the beginnings of his erection. He bent over her as if he had a job to do. “It would help if you put your hand down there.”
They had a routine. He would feel a breast and she took it as a signal to let her hand travel down. He engaged in routine foreplay before climbing on top of her, pushing her legs out and up and putting himself inside. If he were particularly tired, he’d whisper, “Lift your fanny so I can get in deeper.” Once astride he braced himself on his elbows and executed an agile series of thrusts, which, while they benefited him, never allowed contact for her. Occasionally he’d whisper his progress: “Wait . . . don’t move. I don’t want to come too fast.” She’d lie still, afraid to breathe.
Most of the time they said nothing. Star became mildly aroused about the time he climaxed. She didn’t feel resentful or deprived. She felt relieved that he was through.
When James had kissed and touched her, she had responded with love and arousal. Her body had been extravagant, gathering liquids and pouring them out, radiating heat, pushing for unfathomable closeness. Afterward she’d felt opulent and languorous and sated. When Paul’s hands traveled under her nightgown, she let it happen because he was supposed to have access to her body. Sometimes she stayed in the bathroom until he was asleep, but her conscience didn’t allow her to do that too often.
“You do want a baby, don’t you?”
“Of course I do.”
It was their second year together. Delal hadn’t seen James during the summer, which he had spent in Italy with his parents. A postcard arrived with a picture of the Pietà. I’m getting reacquainted with the sun, he had written. Italy is colorful, warm, and picturesque. Hope things go well for you at home. J.
Her immediate response was to hate him. He had climaxed over some part of her outer body many, many times. Should he have thanked her for sex on a postcard? No. He should have written something personal in a letter. She had a worse thought. Was this a duty postcard to assure him more hand jobs for next semester?
Her defense was to be unavailable, but the reality of James—broad chested, tanned, teasing, and smilin
g—made her desperate to be with him. She was relieved to be wanted and eagerly escalated their intimacy to real sex. He hesitated. She spread her legs and brazenly fingered herself until he complied. What triumph she felt that first time. She squeezed and pulled to make him go deeper. The first searing stream of liquid caught her by surprise. She felt giddy, then triumphant.
On the same day that Star felt her baby’s first really solid kick, Delal took James in her mouth. It was an oppressively gray afternoon, but the weather was obliterated by the performance on the wide, freshly made bed. Oral sex wasn’t her act of desperation to keep a restless lover from straying, because James, if not in love, seemed content. His gentleness and physical loyalty were endearing as well as puzzling. There was no mention of love, but she kept thinking he might love her and not know it.
Delal wanted him in her mouth and her eagerness made it easy to accept. She loved kissing his chest and back and the feel of his skin repeatedly drew her fingers and lips to it for tactile pleasure. “James”—she was inching down his body on her hands as her breasts bobbed seductively—“just lie there. No matter what, don’t move.”
“What if there’s a fire?” He was stretched out on his back, enjoying the rain outside from the warmth of her bed.
“Shh . . .” Her face was between his legs, kissing the insides of his thighs, her tongue darting out to test the firmness of his skin, her lips and cheeks nuzzling and rooting into him.
He couldn’t lie still. A statue couldn’t lie still under that assault. “Delal . . . how can I keep still? If you knew how that feels . . . I won’t last long at this rate. Come back here.”
“No,” she said firmly, as if she knew better what was good for him. “This is what I want . . . to kiss you here . . . and here . . . James, don’t get up. It’s all right.”
The delicate pressure together with the friction created by the grainy surface of her tongue made him hold his breath and recede into a private world of selfish pleasure. Ecstasy was no mere word. “Suck . . .” he urged, too aroused to leave that part to chance. “Could you,” he pleaded. “I can’t tell you how wonderful that feels. Delal, I can’t hold out too much longer . . . turn over.” She ignored him and continued with dedication until he groaned and called out to her like a man at the edge of the world. She felt triumphant. When he started to climax, she clamped her lips more tightly. She couldn’t abandon him now. It sounded as if he were whimpering, as if nothing on earth had ever moved him this way. He tried to rise and reached for her. How could he leave this? she kept thinking. How could he possibly leave this? She released him very tenderly, raised herself off the bed, and walked tall (and naked) to the basin.
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