Purgatory Gardens

by Peter Lefcourt

  He’d gift-wrap a bottle of 1991 Pauillac and tell her it was the best vintage that Bordeaux had produced since 1961. She wouldn’t know the difference. There was no way he was getting the Italian a present. But then, he thought, what if the man got him something? What would Marcy think?

  Perhaps he could sprinkle a little strychnine on a slice of pizza and present it. Merry Christmas, Sammy. Requiescat in Pace. There was a pair of fake gold-plated cufflinks that he’d had since his days running the art gallery in Nice. He’d put them in a box and tell the Italian that they were from the Gold Coast. He wouldn’t know the difference, either—unless he went to pawn them.

  A little after ten o’clock Didier showed up at Marcy’s in his best African outfit, a multi-colored Senegalese pagne, carrying his two presents, both elaborately wrapped.

  “Didier, how sweet!” Marcy cooed. “Sammy got a present for you, too!”

  Sure enough, the Italian, no doubt having used the same reasoning, had brought something for him. Pewter salt-and-pepper shakers, marked Sel and Poivre. They couldn’t have cost more than ten dollars.

  Marcy unwrapped her wine and threatened to open it right then and there, but Didier objected.

  “Marcee, ’91 is a great vintage. You must put it in your cellar for at least another ten years.” When it would be completely vinegar.

  “What cellar?”

  “You must have one.” When they lived together, he would put one in and use the ’91 Pauillac for spaghetti sauce.

  Sammy grunted some words of gratitude for the cheap cufflinks. Which, if Didier remembered correctly, he had spent less than ten dollars for at a flea market in Nice. It was a close call which gift was worth less—the cufflinks, or the salt-and-pepper shakers.

  Marcy opened a bottle of California champagne and poured out three glasses. Then she proposed a toast.

  “To peace on Earth, goodwill to men.”

  Didier and Sammy mumbled some sort of assent as they eyed each other over the raised glasses, murder in their eyes.

  They drove to the Apostolic Church of the Desert, on Dinah Shore Drive, in Marcy’s car. Sammy grabbed the front seat beside her, relegating Didier to the back. Tant mieux. He had more leg room.

  The congregation was made up chiefly of Mexicans and gay men. Father Luis Espinoza performed the mass and gave an interminable sermon. Something about how it was never too late to turn to Jesus.

  Au contraire. It was indeed too late. Here they were—two Jews, one alleged, the other non-practicing, and an animist (or, more accurately, a devout atheist)—in a church on Christmas Eve in Palm Springs, California. There wasn’t a wise man in sight. Two of them wanted to kill each other in order to fuck the third one.

  Still, when it came time for the wafer and the wine, all three of them kneeled before Father Espinoza and accepted the Eucharist. Pourquoi pas? A little grape juice wouldn’t hurt anybody. Didier would have preferred palm wine. He could remember the taste of nsafufuo, the potent palm wine that was drunk in West African villages. It was the worst hangover on the face of the earth.

  Afterward, they walked quietly to the car, one of them on either side of her. How long could this go on? At this point, he was ready for the two of them to settle it by hand-to-hand combat. Just go out into the desert and finish it off. One way or the other. Didier outweighed the Italian by twenty pounds, but the man had the nasty look of a street fighter. There was a scar on his cheek that was no doubt the result of a knife fight.

  They got back in the car, Didier grabbing the front seat this time. Before starting the engine, Marcy said, “I’d like to invite both of you back to my place for a drink.”

  The two men looked at each other, hoping that the other one would decline. When neither did, they each nodded, more or less simultaneously.

  Marcy didn’t say anything else during the short drive back to Paradise Gardens. She dispensed with her usual breezy banter and concentrated on driving. He could feel Sammy’s eyes on the back of his head, as if to say, One move and you’re dead.

  Back at her condo, she excused herself to go into the bedroom, leaving the two men alone in uncomfortable silence. Klaus wandered in through the doggie door and glared at both of them. Then he delivered a powerful fart and lay down on his cushion with Hundebett stitched in purple thread, looking up at both of them as if to say, That’s what I think of you.

  When Marcy finally came out of the bedroom, she had redone her makeup and changed into a pair of expensive and uncomfortable-looking pumps. She looked delicious.

  “Would you like me to open a bottle, Marcee?”

  She shook her head. “Sit down, both of you. On the couch.”

  There was a commanding tone in her voice, one that Didier was not familiar with. As if to back her up, Klaus got up off his cushion and started to pace at her side, like a second lieutenant attending the commandant.

  “Plotz, Klaus,” she ordered. The dachshund waddled back to his cushion and plotzed.

  The two men sat down side-by-side, facing her. She stayed standing, listing slightly in the three-inch heels. She looked from one to the other, like a mother addressing two naughty boys.

  “I want to say something to both of you,” she said. “Something very important.” She paused for dramatic effect. Then: “I’ve chosen Christmas Eve to have this conversation with you, because it’s a time when our hearts should be full of love and goodwill toward our fellow man.”

  It sounded to Didier like she was reciting her lines from a script. The two men leaned forward in their seats, in anticipation. Didier was ready for anything. Except, as it turned out, for what she said.

  “First of all, I’d like you both to know how happy I am to consider you my friends. You are both very dear to me, extremely dear—possibly the closest friends I have these days. This time of year, especially, we should stop and give thanks to our friends, the people who make our lives more meaningful . . .”

  Nom de Dieu. Where was she going with this? She sounded like one of those dreadful greeting cards full of high-sounding merde that Americans sent one another.

  “It is a time for forgiveness, for reaching out and making amends to those we may have injured, inadvertently or not. As well as to those who we might wish to injure . . . in the future.”

  Didier felt the first drop of perspiration underneath his pagne.

  She paused, as if to gauge their reaction. He looked over at Sammy, who seemed as catatonic as Didier felt.

  “I debated a long time before I decided to do this,” she went on. “It’s not an easy thing to do, but I think it’s necessary to . . . to intervene.”

  She emphasized this word for dramatic effect. Didier felt his stomach go queasy, usually an indication that he sensed he was going to hear something he didn’t want to hear.

  “So . . . I want you to consider this as an intervention.”

  The two men looked blankly at her. She elucidated: “You don’t know what an intervention is?”

  They shook their heads simultaneously.

  “An intervention is a psychological technique in which family and people who love someone involved in destructive behavior communicate their awareness of it to him, and their willingness to help him overcome it. It’s usually associated with drug or alcohol addiction, but it can be used for other types of behavior—infidelity, kleptomania, anger management . . . you following me?”

  Rhetorical nods. The Italian was no doubt as apprehensive as Didier was, but he wasn’t talking. They were both waiting for her to cut to the chase, as Americans so charmingly phrased it.

  “Sammy . . . Didier . . .” she looked each one in the eye as she pronounced his name. “Violence is never a solution. Never.”

  Marcy waited for a response. But both men just continued to sit there and nod compulsively.

  Her voice got deeper, more theatrical. “I want you both to renounce your plans to do the other one harm.”

  Then, in response to their astonished looks, she said, “I know everything.�
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  Didier thought she might be bluffing, fishing for information based only on a hunch, but that idea was quickly squelched when she elaborated: “Everything. Acme, the patio decks, the whole deal.”

  The chase. Enfin! He felt Sammy deflate beside him, as if some burden had been lifted from him. Didier was lightheaded, giddy. It was finally out in the open. She knew. Sammy knew. Sammy knew he knew. He knew Sammy knew he knew. Everyone knew. He had no idea what to do.

  Nobody said a word. The only sound in the room was Klaus’s light snoring from his cushion.

  “So here’s what we’re going to do. We are going to stay here in this room until both of you make amends, call off your plans, promise me that this will never happen, and embrace.”

  “Embrace?” The word slipped out, involuntarily, from Didier’s mouth.

  “Yes. It will signify you’re ending this feud and starting to build love for each other.”

  Then it was Sammy’s turn to say something. “Marcy, I’m not sure this is such a good idea.”

  “Sammy, you’re in denial. You’re blinded by your problem and can’t see it clearly yet. You need to do this.”

  “Or else?”

  “There is no or else. This is an intervention. You don’t get a vote. We’re staying here until it’s done. And . . . if you don’t like it, tough.”

  “What if I just left?” Sammy said, beginning to sound like he was really pissed now.

  “I wouldn’t try it. Klaus, as you know, was trained by a retired agent of the Bundesnachrichtendienst. I have various commands for him to subdue you. They’re German words which will call him to action. I would hate to use one, but I will if I have to.”

  Then she turned to the dog and said, “Klaus, achtung!”

  The dachshund sprung to life, immediately alert, eyeing the two of them with menace.

  “Do we get to use the bathroom?” Sammy grumbled.

  “Just let me know first, and I’ll give Klaus the ‘stand down’ command.”

  XIII

  THE CHASE

  By two in the morning, Sammy Dee and Didier Onyekachukwu had not embraced. But they had said a number of things that they presumably wouldn’t have said under normal circumstances. Marcy conducted the intervention like a group leader in a consciousness raising exercise. She had done EST, The Forum, Landmark, a couple of twelve steps, and knew the drill. Keep them on the defensive. Don’t let them out of the box. Make them see their denial in undeniable light.

  They were both tired, cranky, and combative. They kept eyeing the door, checking the location of Klaus, asking to go to the bathroom.

  “You made the first move, Sammy. So you need to look at where that decision came from,” Marcy said.

  Sammy looked back at her, shrugged, murmured. “I don’t know.”

  “I don’t know is not an acceptable answer.”

  “Okay, so I wanted him out of the way.”

  “Was putting a contract out on him the only way to accomplish this?”

  “It was the easiest.”

  “So that’s what you do—take the easy way out?”

  “I didn’t know what else to do.”

  “Why didn’t you talk to me about it? I could have solved the problem for you. Could have saved you a lot of time and money.”

  “What was I going to say? ‘Marcy, which one of us do you like better?’”

  “Why not? A hell of a lot easier than having someone killed.”

  “But . . . but what if you chose him?”

  “Okay, I get that. But, Sammy, why would you want me if I preferred Didier? Would you have wanted to win by default?”

  “I don’t know . . .”

  “Uh-uh.”

  “I . . . didn’t . . . want to know the answer.”

  “Because . . . ?”

  “Because I didn’t want to know.”

  “Uh-uh.”

  She looked directly at him, her eyes boring in. This time he really didn’t know the answer. She prompted him. “Maybe, Sammy, you didn’t want to know because you were afraid to lose.”

  “To him?” he said disdainfully, indicating Didier, who was sitting smugly beside him and enjoying the spectacle of Marcy raking his rival over the coals.

  “Was there anyone else in the picture?”

  “You tell me.”

  “Uh-uh.”

  Sammy stole a glance at his watch. Ten after two. He was exhausted, hungry, disgusted.

  “Marcy, I’m really tired.”

  “You want to go to bed?”

  “Yes.”

  “Then make amends. Admit that what you did was terrible. Embrace Didier. Forgive him. Forgive yourself. And promise that you will never hurt him in the future.”

  At this point, Didier piped up. “Come on, Samee, just admit it. You did a terrible thing.”

  Marcy whirled on him. “Uh-uh, Didier. First of all, you’re not supposed to talk yet. This is Sammy’s turn to own up to what he did. You’re next.”

  “I’m willing to embrace him. If he’s willing.”

  “You need to admit your guilt first.”

  “I was just acting in self-defense, Marcee.”

  “Really? Are you telling me that you knew there was a contract out on you?”

  It was Didier’s turn to squirm on the couch. “Well, I suspected so. You see, there was the pizza incident. That was clearly his work.”

  “If it was clearly his work, why didn’t you report him to the police?”

  “I had no evidence.”

  “Then why did you assume he was responsible?”

  “He was. He just admitted it.”

  “You only know that now. At the time, you didn’t know that. Otherwise you would have done something.”

  “Well, I was unsure that justice would prevail.”

  “What do you mean, Didier?”

  “You are well aware that in this country, they don’t like blacks.”

  “Whad’ya mean?” Sammy whined. “O. J. Simpson walked.”

  “But now he is prison, n’est-ce pas?”

  “Irrelevant,” Marcy ruled, like a judge in a courtroom. “We are not talking about O. J. Simpson. We’re talking about the two of you.”

  Klaus started snoring again. Marcy jolted him awake with a forceful, “Klaus, achtung!” The dachshund snapped out of his stupor.

  Sammy looked at the dog and started, involuntarily, to giggle.

  “You don’t want to piss Klaus off, Sammy.”

  “I’m sorry. It’s just hard to imagine him as an attack dog.”

  “Klaus, bereit zum Angriff!” She snapped.

  The dog raised himself up on all fours and bared his teeth.

  “That’s the penultimate command. The next one is attack.”

  Sammy backed down. “Sorry. Just kidding, Klaus.”

  She ordered the dog to stand down. “Rührt!” The dachshund relaxed back into his at-ease posture.

  Marcy decided it was time to switch into good-cop mode. She sat down on one of the kitchenette stools and worked up a smile. “Look, guys, I know you’re both exhausted. But that’s part of the process—fatigue makes your defenses crumble. You see, you’ve built these fortresses around yourselves to protect you from your own feelings, like . . . like some sort of stockade. But here’s the thing—there are no Indians out there. There’s nothing but your own fears and insecurities. You need to acknowledge them for what they are—limitations, hang-ups, rationalizations, all the stuff we make ourselves believe rather than looking the truth in the face. You understand what I’m saying?”

  Marcy was winging it, tossing around the vocabulary of all the self-help programs she had taken over the years, hoping that some of it would penetrate.

  But these guys were hard cases. They had built very sturdy stockades. If she was going to wind up with either of them—and at this point, she wasn’t entirely sure she wanted to—they would have to transform themselves from the Neanderthals they were into something a little more evolved.

&
nbsp; “So . . . who’s ready to take the first step?” She looked from one to the other expectantly.

  “What must we do?” Didier asked, without a great deal of enthusiasm.

  “First of all, you have to get up, turn to Sammy, and ask for his forgiveness.”

  “Will he do it, too? At the same time?”

  “We can go in order. But you both have to do it.”

  “What if I do it, and then he backs out on the deal?” Didier asked.

  “Then we’ll still be here,” she sighed.

  “Well, I’m not going first,” Sammy snapped.

  “Why not?”

  “Because he was the one who moved in on me. He knew I was interested in you, that we had gone out on a date, and he just barged right in. With no respect for my . . . rights.”

  “What do you mean, your rights?” Marcy stared at him hard. “Are you saying that I’m property that you can claim to have a right over?”

  “He has no respect for women,” Didier attacked.

  “Who the fuck asked you?”

  Didier turned to Marcy for support. “He doesn’t, does he, Marcee?” But before she could say anything, Sammy shot back: “Right. Not like you people over there in Africa, making your women walk around with their tits exposed.”

  “So! You banish your women to the kitchen to make spaghetti!”

  Sammy got up and confronted Didier.

  “I’m not Italian!”

  Didier got up and stood his ground.

  “Bullsheet!”

  “I’m a Jew!”

  “If you’re a Jew, let’s see your circumcision!”

  “You want to show me yours?”

  “I don’t want to embarrass you, mon cher.”

  They were both about to unzip their flies when Marcy interceded. “Stop it! Both of you! You’re acting like a couple of ten-year-olds measuring their penises.”

  The two men stood there, fists clenched, ready to spring.

  “Sit down, both of you,” she ordered.

  Each one waited for the other to sit first. Finally, they did it—more or less simultaneously—crossed their arms, and waited.

  “All right, we don’t seem to be moving in the right direction. And I’m getting tired, not to mention disgusted. So here’s what we’re going to do. I am going to bed. But before I do, I am going to put Klaus in front of the door in lock-down mode. He’s been trained by the Bundesnachrichtendienst to keep suspects at bay—prevent them from escaping, but not kill them. Just maim them so that they remain available for interrogation.”