“That’s okay, mister,” said the attendant. “It’s been taken care of. Mrs. Oppenheim already called down. It’s on Mr. Oppenheim’s tab.”
16
CESCA MARRIED GAVIN, AS I WAS AFRAID SHE WOULD. IN the end, I wasn’t invited to the wedding. I wrote to her often. Long, passionate, youthful letters. Occasionally she wrote me back a short note. Once I got a postcard from Spain with a photograph of the sea on the other side. It began Dear Tricky Wylie . . . But eventually we lost touch.
I cherished her memory. I dated other women, but none of them touched me the way she had. I was just going through the motions. Fumbling in the dark, the creak of bedsprings, bad breath in the morning, forced gaiety to pretend that what I really wanted was for her to be gone. Cesca was the apogee. No one else came close.
After college I returned to New York, rented a small apartment downtown near Wall Street, where the streets in those days were empty of life at night, and tried to paint. I took classes several days a week at the Art Students League. My father gave me a year to succeed. After that, who knew? He mentioned law school, but I never gave him any reason to think I would really do that. To his credit, he was surprisingly supportive of my wanting to paint. He seemed proud of my talent, one he lacked. I think that, not unlike Izzy Baum, he would have been pleased to be the father of a famous painter. He even steered a few of his friends and colleagues to me, and they obliged him by paying me to paint portraits of them, or their wives or children. Once even a favorite Pekingese dog.
At the same time, he constantly reminded me of how difficult a painter’s life would be. “There’s no money in it,” he would say over dinner. “How do you ever plan to support a family?” I had no proper response and always assumed there would be money from somewhere, whether I earned it myself or was given it. He had been raised without such assumptions, earning every penny. He warned me about the dangers of being a rich man’s son. That was why he wouldn’t give me more money. He pointed to Roger as an example of early privilege having ruined his life. I had no answer to that.
I worked as a bartender and a copy editor. I lived as cheaply as possible, eating primarily pasta and canned soup. I completed a cycle called “The Life of the Poet.” It was a series of ambitious canvases depicting different aspects of a poet’s life. The poet with his family. The poet at work. The poet in love. There were eight in all. Aurelio formed my mental image of the poet—tall, gaunt, handsome, slightly tortured, wholly dedicated to his art. The paintings were large. I labored over them with everything I had. I made slides and showed them to several galleries. The only one that evinced any interest was run by an old queen, who took me for dinner one night and, after several bottles of wine, he started to say how handsome I was and suggested that we go to bed. I left him at the table, calling after me to come back. That I’d be sorry. It was a time when galleries displayed works with broken china on them or cartoons of barking dogs. Those galleries meant nothing to me, and I meant nothing to them.
In the spring Aurelio called me. He was back in New York for several weeks, also talking to galleries. He was not having much more luck.
“The art world has gone insane,” he said. “Beauty is dead. All they want is ugliness.”
We went out to a little coffee shop near his mother’s house. He looked well. Older, of course, but still the same gentle soul he had always been. He said that coming back to New York was depressing. It wasn’t just the art world. It was the city, the crime, the drugs, the filth. He sat there drinking his coffee.
“If it wasn’t for my family, I wouldn’t come back at all,” he said. “By the way, have you heard about Cesca?”
“No. Why?” I answered. I had been careful not to ask after her, waiting to bring her up at the end.
“She left Gavin. Ran off with some French actor.”
“Where? When?”
“A few months ago. In Paris. Mare was furious, of course. Personally, I was amazed the marriage lasted as long as it did. Cesca’s not the kind of person to be tied down by one man.”
“How is she? Have you seen her?”
“She’s well, I think. We spoke the other day. She’s already left the actor.”
“Is she still in Paris?”
“No, she’s back here now. In Amagansett. I’ll be seeing her this weekend.”
I wasn’t sure if this was good news or not. Instead of asking more, all I said was “Give her my best.”
Two weeks later my intercom buzzed. It was late, and I had just gone to bed. “Who is it?” I said into the intercom. At first I only heard static. “Who?” I repeated.
“It’s Cesca. Come down.”
“What time is it?”
“Who cares? Come down. We’re going out.”
Quickly, I pulled on my jeans and a T-shirt, grabbed my wallet and keys, and locked the door behind me. She was in front of my building, sitting in her red BMW convertible, wearing a revealing black dress. She looked terrific.
“Hello, Tricky Wylie,” she said. “Get in.”
I slid into the passenger seat. “How are . . .” I began to say when she reached over and kissed me deeply.
“Oh, I’ve missed you so much,” she said.
I didn’t know what to say. Thoughts and emotions spilled through my brain. Had I missed Cesca? When had I not? Had I not thought of her every day? Had I not put her face in front of every girl I met and found them all wanting?
But I also remembered everything.
She had been married.
Her life had become unknown to me.
She had ruined me.
And now she was sitting here opposite me, smiling her brilliant smile, her short skirt revealing those miraculous knees.
“What are you doing here?” I managed to say.
Already she was pulling away from the curb, taking us into the night. She drove a stick, shifting fluidly.
“We’re going dancing,” she replied. “There’s a great club in Tribeca.”
There was a large crowd milling in front, some of the people wearing outlandish costumes, like contestants on a game show. We parked across the cobblestoned street. “Come on,” she said. Pushing past the crowd, she walked up to one of the bouncers at the door and said, “Hello, Tommy.”
He replied, “Hey, Cesca. How’s it going?”
“Great. He’s with me.”
I followed her through a long hallway decorated with surrealistic images. An insistent bass beat pulsated through the room. The dance floor was packed. Beautiful women, effeminate men. Celebrities. Movie stars. Investment bankers in pinstripe suits, club kids. Grace Jones strode past me, tall as an Amazon. “Let’s get a drink,” Cesca shouted into my ear. There was a bar in the back. People made way for her as she approached. She greeted the bartender with a kiss on both cheeks. “Hello, darling, two vodka martinis, up with three olives.”
“You got it, Cesca.” She slipped him a twenty-dollar tip.
“So how are you?” she asked me, lighting a cigarette. It was only slightly less loud here.
“Fine, fine. Really good,” I shouted into her ear. I was still feeling disconcerted, as though I had woken up in the wrong bed and had no idea how I had gotten there. “Lio told me about you and Gavin.”
“Yeah, well. ‘Ai xí és la vida,’ as we say in Catalan. That’s life.” She shrugged her shoulders. “Do you know? I never even took his name. What do you think that says about me? What do you think that says about him? Maybe I should have taken you up on your offer after all.” She smiled. “You know, sometimes I think you’re the only person who really gets me. I think you’d put up with anything I did, wouldn’t you?”
It was true. But I wasn’t an idiot. I knew what damage she was capable of doing. It was like those stories of people who adopt lion cubs and raise them as pets. Then, one day the lion has grown and it mauls you. The lion’s not to blame. Such behavior is in its nature. But inside us there is the belief that we are different, the exception. The ones who don’t get into car ac
cidents, or are never diagnosed with cancer or mauled by lions. Until we are, we think we are invulnerable.
I nodded, but she was no longer paying attention. She drank her martini in nearly one swallow and placed the glass back on the table. “Drink up, Wylie. Let’s dance.”
I was never much of a dancer, but it didn’t matter with Cesca. She was a marvelous dancer. Sensual, spirited, moving perfectly to the music, knowing that everyone in the room was watching her, admiring her. It was impossible not to. She danced with the entire floor, moving from partner to partner. I was just a member of the audience. Occasionally, like a leading lady on the stage, she would catch my eye and wink at me before resuming her role. I kept dancing on the periphery, keeping time to the music, not comfortable enough to stop but not feeling comfortable where I was. I knew there was no point in saying anything. I was just supposed to be happy I was there. It was what she wanted.
At some point, Cesca grabbed my hand and said, “Come with me.” Her hands were slick with sweat. She led me to a large ladies’ room filled with people of both sexes, some smoking, others making out. Cesca found an unoccupied stall and pulled me in. Instantly, urgently, her arms were around me, her tongue down my throat, grinding her hips against me. Then she placed my hands on her breasts and began to fumble with my belt. “Fuck me, Tricky Wylie. Fuck me.”
I did. Against a wall. But I didn’t want to. I remember looking up at her face, her eyes closed. It was only later that I realized I could have been anyone. Then, all I wanted was to please her. I don’t know which of us was sadder or the more confused. Her, for treating life so cheaply, or me, for being so easily in her thrall.
Later she drove me home through the early morning streets. “I’m so happy to see you again, Wylie,” she said, running her fingers through my hair. “Molt maco.”
“What are your plans?” I asked. “Will I see you again?”
“Oh, I don’t know. I’m not sure where I’m going to be one week to the next. I’ve always wanted to go to Fiji. Maybe I’ll go there.”
“What would you do there?”
“I don’t know. What I do now, I suppose. Maybe I’ll learn to surf.”
“Would that make you happy?”
She threw her head back and laughed. “Shit, I don’t know.”
“What if I came with you? To Fiji, I mean.”
“That’s incredibly sweet but a terrible idea. I’d drive you crazy in a week. If you spent too much time around me, you’d get sick of me. I wouldn’t want that. I like the way you see me. It’s the way I’d like to see myself, I think.”
“How do you think I see you?”
“Beautiful. Interesting. Desirable. Did I leave anything out?”
“No.”
“That’s the problem, Wylie. I did. I’m also angry, frustrated, spoiled, stubborn, occasionally cruel and self-destructive. There are days when I hate myself so much I can barely get out of bed. And, when I do, all I want to do is try to obliterate everything in my path. That’s why I don’t want to see more of you. I don’t want to obliterate you too.”
“Shouldn’t I be allowed to decide that for myself?”
“No. I wouldn’t ask that.”
“What if it was what I wanted?”
She shook her head. “No, you wouldn’t. Believe me.”
“Aren’t you being too tough on yourself?”
She shrugged. “Am I? Who’s to say?”
“Me. Let me in, Cesca. I love you. I’ll love you no matter what.”
She drove in silence for several minutes. “I don’t know. Maybe. One day. Not now. Okay?”
“Okay.” That was enough for me. For the first time I felt like we had an understanding, an acknowledgment that there might be a one day.
She stopped in front of my building. The street was deserted. Trash littered the sidewalk. The windows in all the buildings were dark. Few people lived there. It was not a residential block.
“By the way,” I asked. “How did you find me?”
“Lio told me where you lived.” I had given him my address so he could write to me.
“Lio did?”
“Yes.”
“Did you say why?”
“I said I wanted to see you.”
“What did he say?”
“He said, ‘I think Wylie still has a crush on you.’”
“What did you say?”
“I said I still had a crush on you too.” She reached out and took my hand. “See, it’s not just you.” Then she kissed me delicately on the cheeks, the eyelids, and the lips. “Good-bye, Tricky Wylie.”
I stepped out of the car and leaned back in. “When will I see you again?”
“I don’t know. Probably not for a while.”
“Now that you’ve got my address, can you at least write to me and let me know how you are?”
“I’ll try. In case you don’t remember, I’m not very good at writing letters.” She smiled one last time and then started the ignition. “Take care of yourself.”
“You too.”
I watched her drive away. In the east the sun was already rising.
17
IZZY DIED. NO ONE TOLD ME. I READ ABOUT IT IN THE TIMES. ISIDORE BAUM, PHILANTHROPIST, IS DEAD AT 90. The obituary described his life, primarily his business career and good works. It mentioned his three children by name. Of his grandchildren the only one singled out was Cosmo. “One of his grandsons is the musician Cosmo Bonet.” The funeral would be private. A memorial service would be held at a later date.
I sent a letter of condolence to Roger, but that was all I felt was appropriate. I assumed the whole family had returned for the funeral, but I could not bring myself to contact Cesca directly even if I knew how. Her life had once again closed to me. For all I knew she had ran off with someone else or even remarried. Even Aurelio had dropped away, making good on his promise to avoid America.
It was June. I was having my regular monthly dinner with my father in New York. He had recently remarried. His new wife, Patty, was younger than him and pretty. She was also a good cook and a passionate entertainer, two attributes my mother lacked. I had never known him in better spirits.
My year to become a painter had become two and I was no closer than before to selling my work. I dreaded our dinners, knowing he would inevitably bring up my lack of success and my dire financial situation. There was a steak house on Third Avenue he had been going to for years. It had beige-jacketed waiters who all knew him and greeted him by name. “Service. That’s the most important thing in a restaurant,” he would tell me. “These days you can get good food in lots of places, but if they don’t know you they won’t take care of you the same way.” The maître d’ was a short Italian guy in a sharp suit. His name was Joe, and he always led us in to my father’s favorite table. I watched as my father thanked him with a neatly palmed twenty-dollar bill. My father no longer needed to look at a menu. They knew what he liked. Jack Daniel’s. The chopped salad. New York strip, rare. House fries. I had the same.
After grilling me about my life and finding my answers unsatisfactory as usual, he decided to move to other topics. Not that I blamed him. The subject of my life was depressing even to me at this point. I was stagnant, broke, even if I wasn’t willing to admit that to my father yet. I remembered listening to Esther and Paolo tell me about the camaraderie they had enjoyed with fellow artists in New York in the late forties and fifties. Many of these artists had, like them, escaped the threat of Nazism to find safety and a new place to work in New York. This motley group of Frenchmen, Germans, Italians, Romanians, Dutch, and even a few Americans had been at the forefront of an artistic revolution. Yet they were all friends. They all socialized with one another, critiqued each other’s works, had affairs with each other’s husbands and wives.
There was none of that around now. At least not that I saw. Artists were more competitive, more secretive. As Esther said, “Artists these days don’t care anymore about creating art. Art has become a commodity, like pig b
ellies or steel. Something to be bought and sold. They just want to make money,” pronouncing the last word “mo-nee.”
“By the way,” my father said as the steaks arrived. “Izzy Baum died a few months ago.”
“Yes, I know. I saw the obituary.”
He looked philosophical for a moment. “He was quite a guy. I owe a lot to him.”
“I’m sorry.”
“No, it’s okay,” he said, waving his hand as though it were possible to brush mortality away like a gnat. “Izzy had a full life. It’s just hard to believe how fast it all goes. It seems like only last week that I met him for the first time. And now he’s dead. Makes you think.”
I nodded my head. I was too young and self-absorbed to give much thought to death. In those days, life seemed to stretch out forever, and I was just beginning my journey.
“Anyway, the reason I brought up Izzy is that his memorial’s this weekend,” he said. “In Amagansett.”
“Are you going?”
“Of course.”
“When was the last time you saw him?”
“A few years ago. He was already looking old and feeble. He’d had a stroke. I went over to the house once, and he was in a wheelchair. The left side of his face was paralyzed, so it was a little hard to understand him, but he was mentally all there. He knew who I was. Asked about business. Told me he was proud of how I had turned out.” He stopped chewing.
“What about Roger? When did you see him last?”
My father nodded his head and resumed eating. “About the same time. I haven’t really had much to talk about with Roger lately, you know. He’ll call me up every now and then and try to pitch me some crazy idea. He had one about making paper out of garbage. There were some people he had met. They had invented the process. All they needed was some start-up money. So I met them. They came to the house one day. They had brought along prototypes. Not only would it find a use for the billions of tons of garbage produced every year but also think of the trees that would be spared. A win-win for everyone. The only problem was that the prototypes smelled like shit. We can fix that, they said. That’s what we need the money for.” My father laughed and shook his head.
Girl in the Moonlight Page 17