“So what happened?”
“I told them if they could find someone to invest in their shit paper, I wished them luck. Roger said I was being too harsh. I didn’t get the big picture. Some crap like that. That was the last time I talked to him. I told him to quit wasting my time. Roger was always kind of a schmuck when it came to business. He was a real disappointment to Izzy.”
I let his last comment hang in the air. It was obvious he felt the same way about me. There was nothing I could say.
“Anyway, do you want to come with Patty and me to Izzy’s memorial? It’s this Saturday. You knew the family, right? As I recall you and Kitty’s oldest boy were friends. What was his name again?”
“Aurelio.”
“Aurelio. Right. It will be at the compound. Why don’t you come out on Friday, and we’ll go over.”
Several days later, at a quarter to two in the afternoon, I was driving behind my father onto the Baum compound. There were scores of other cars on the grass. It reminded me of Izzy’s eightieth birthday. That had been ten years ago. I handed my keys to a valet, and followed my father and Patty to where another man, this one in a gray suit, was handing out programs and showing us where to go.
It was a lovely June day. There was a large open tent on the lawn shading rows of folding chairs facing the water, most of which were already occupied. At one end of the tent was a lectern surrounded by a semicircle of more chairs that was flanked by flowers. To one side, on an easel, was a large, framed, black-and-white photograph of Izzy. On the other side was a black grand piano. Several photographers milled around the crowd. There was no sign yet of the family.
We found three seats together near the back. The noise of dozens of people talking filled the tent. Most of them were quite old. My father knew several of the guests and stood to shake hands and speak with them. He introduced Patty and sometimes me. I looked through the program. On the cover was the same photograph of Izzy that now stood on an easel at the front of the tent. Underneath was his full name, the date of his birth, and the date of his death. Inside, the left side contained the words to the Twenty-Third Psalm. The right side listed the names of the people who would be speaking. I saw Roger’s and Cosmo’s names. The rest were unknown to me.
The tent fell silent as the family walked in. Roger came first, in a dark suit with a serious expression on his face. Diana on his arm. Kitty and Randall came next, followed by Dot. Then Cesca, Aurelio, Cosmo, and finally Carmen. They were all soberly dressed, which contrasted sharply with the lush green of the lawn, the sparkling azure of the water, and the light blue of the sky.
They kept their gazes forward without looking at the crowd. After they had all taken their seats in the first row, a rabbi in a black suit with a shawl around his shoulders stood and intoned a prayer in Hebrew. Many of the mourners murmured along with the words, my father included. Then Roger rose and addressed the crowd. Like many of the other men under the tent, he was wearing a yarmulke. He thanked everyone for coming and then explained that his mother was not able to attend. She was too weak, but she was grateful that so many people had loved Izzy. Roger then led the crowd in reciting the psalm.
When he finished, he removed several folded sheets of paper from the inside pocket of his jacket, put on his reading glasses, and proceeded to eulogize his father. He talked about how strong a man he was and how much he loved his family, and that they were everything to him. At several places Roger’s voice broke. When he sat down another man stood up. He was elderly and stout with a heavy accent. He had been Izzy’s business partner for many years and spoke of his acumen and told a few funny stories that lightened the mood of the crowd. The other speakers included men who remembered Izzy’s philanthropic work, his support of education and his contributions to the arts.
The last to stand up was Cosmo. But instead of going to the lectern, he went to the piano. “This was a favorite of Gog’s,” he said and then started to play. It was beautiful. The mourners were rapt. He played like an angel. When he finished, he stood up and without bowing returned to his seat. Roger then returned to the lectern and thanked everyone else again for coming and invited anyone who wished to join them for some refreshments inside.
There were more than one hundred guests, many of them elderly, so it took them a long time to file into the house. I hung back, trying to look inconspicuous.
“I thought I saw you here.”
I turned around. It was Lio.
We embraced. He looked very well. Clean-shaven. Dressed in a dark suit.
“I’m sorry about your grandfather.”
“Thank you. I loved him very much.”
“How is everyone else?”
“They’re all right. We’ve all had time to let it sink in. He had been ill for a while. Some are more upset than others. Cesca’s been taking it particularly badly.”
“Why?”
“I’m not sure. She always felt very close to Gog. Might have something to do with being eldest grandchild.”
We talked for a little about his work, and he asked about mine. He seemed excited about what he had been doing and promised to show it to me. I wished I could have been as enthusiastic. In recent weeks I had come to feel as though I lacked the talent or the vision or the drive or whatever it was that was required to be a successful artist. I would stare with grim dissatisfaction at my canvases. I had all but stopped working, walking guiltily past my easel on the way in or out of my small apartment, staring into space, drinking too much, and generally feeling depressed. When I did work, it was often only to scrape away and repaint something I had already done.
I wanted to share how I was feeling with Aurelio. He of all people would understand and could lend a sympathetic ear. Maybe even provide some useful advice. But I was hesitant to tell even him. To do so would have been an admission of my inadequacy. To doubt was to admit that I wasn’t up to it, like a seminarian questioning transubstantiation.
“And you, Wylie? How is your work?”
“It’s going well,” I lied. “Will you be in New York at all? Maybe you could come by? It would mean a lot to me to have you critique them.”
It had been months since I had shown my work to anyone. I was working alone, virtually living alone. Most of my friends had entry-level jobs at banks or were going to graduate school. We were on different schedules. The young bankers worked late hours, and when they went out, they usually opted for expensive nightclubs like the Palladium. I rarely joined them because I was always short of funds.
“I might be in next week if I have time before I return to Barcelona.”
“When are you going back?”
“Wednesday.” Today was Saturday. “I’ll let you know. Come on in,” he said. “If I don’t start mingling with the guests, Mare will be furious.”
He led me inside the house. I saw Cesca across the room. She was talking to some guests. She looked tired. Her hair was pulled back and she wasn’t wearing any makeup. I wanted to say something to her but didn’t want to intrude.
Instead I bumped into Cosmo.
“Sorry about your grandfather,” I said.
“Thank you,” he responded, not even taking the time to talk to me and pushing ahead through the crowd until someone he actually wanted to speak with detained him.
Standing there alone, I scanned the room. It was packed, the guests spilling out into other rooms. Some children were playing on the lawn. I spotted my father and Patty as they chatted with another couple in a corner. I also saw Roger and his new wife shaking hands solemnly. Kitty. Carmen.
“Hello, Wylie,” said a voice behind me. I turned and recognized Gianni, Paolo and Esther’s son. He was as handsome as his father but in a softer way, and taller, though not as tall as me. He was about twenty years my senior. It was said that when he was a student at Harvard he dated Edie Sedgwick. Now he was a professor at a small college in New England. I had recently heard that his marriage had broken up.
“Are your parents here?” I asked.
“No, my father wasn’t feeling well so Oma stayed to take care of him,” he answered, using the nickname the family called Esther.
“Nothing serious, I hope.”
“His back has been bothering him lately.”
I felt guilty about not having seen them for a while.
“Would it be all right if I visited them?”
“I’m sure they’d love to see you. Just call ahead of time. Oma will let you know if it’s okay.”
At this point Cesca walked up to us and slipped her arm around Gianni’s waist.
“Hello, Wylie,” she said.
It was done so naturally it took me a second to realize what had just happened, and then it became obvious. “Hello,” I replied.
“I forgot you two knew each other,” she said, giving Gianni a kiss on the cheek.
“I’m sorry about your grandfather.”
“Thank you. It’s been rough. Poor Bushka. She’s taking it all very hard.”
I nodded my head. There wasn’t much I could add.
“And you, Wylie?” she asked. “How are you?”
“I’m fine.”
“Excuse me, Wylie,” said Gianni. “Sweetheart,” he said, turning to Cesca, “would you like something to drink?”
“That would be lovely. White wine.”
“Wylie?”
“No thanks.”
Gianni disentangled himself and walked through the crowd to the bar.
“It’s good to see you,” said Cesca, placing her hand on my arm. “You look skinny, though.” It was true. I hadn’t been eating well.
“Well, you look beautiful.”
“Thank you.”
“How long have you been with Gianni?”
“A few months.”
“How did you two meet?”
“Oh, we’ve known each other all our lives. I used to have a mad crush on him when I was a little girl. He was the most beautiful man I’d ever seen. Even more beautiful than you.”
“Are you happy?”
“Yes.”
“I wrote you a few times.”
“I know. Your letters were sweet. I hope you weren’t too disappointed when I didn’t write back.”
“No.” I smiled. “I knew better. And I’m happy for you. Gianni’s a terrific guy.”
She smiled back. “You’re a dear, Wylie. You always have been. Thank you for understanding.”
Gianni returned with Cesca’s white wine. I took this as my cue to leave. “My condolences again,” I said as I leaned in to kiss Cesca’s once-familiar cheek. Jasmine and roses.
I then shook Gianni’s hand and said I hoped I’d see him soon and that I’d call Esther tomorrow to see about coming over. I had meant what I said about him to Cesca. I had always liked Gianni enormously. It was easy to see why any woman would fall for him. I was happy for them both. When you love someone and you can’t have them, there is at least a kind of comfort in knowing that they are with a person you admire. I felt as though a chapter in my life had closed, that it was finally time to forget about Cesca.
Other things came to a close instead over the next few months. I decided to give up painting. It was something that had been coming for a long time, but I had been too stubborn to accept it. My plan now was to apply to architectural school. That way I could still make use of my artistic talents but in a context that would provide me with a more secure career. Harvard was my first choice, but I also was looking at Columbia, Cornell, and the University of Virginia, although I would have considered myself lucky to get into any of them.
My parents were relieved. My father immediately reached out to friends of his. He knew several members of the faculty at the Graduate School of Design. He even invited me to move out of my apartment in New York and stay at the pool house in East Hampton rent-free, which I accepted gratefully. They would not be there long, however, as they now left after Thanksgiving to spend the winter in Palm Beach, where my father had recently bought a house off South Ocean. I soon got a job working with my old boss building houses. It was good money and practical experience for what I now thought of as my new career. In the evenings I studied, boning up on my calculus and physics. I took out several volumes on architectural history from the library. Wrote flash cards with words on them like clerestory and gambrel. I was feeling good at last, convinced that my life was on the right track.
I was also able to spend time with Paolo and Esther. Winters on the East End of Long Island are bitter, and their house was old. When the wind blew, you could hear it whistling through the cracks. They bundled themselves up in heavy sweaters and stoked their wood-burning stove. When it snowed, I drove over to shovel their driveway and the path from the house to the old shed where they kept their tiny car. Many days I brought them groceries when the roads were too icy for them to drive. Once a week I split wood for them.
In the past they had gone away during the winter to a more hospitable climate where Paolo could teach. But not this winter. Paolo was feeling too weak. He had a bad cough, the result of too many years breathing in cement dust and tobacco smoke. They were not disappointed in me for having turned away from painting. They had many friends who were architects. Sert, Corbusier, Bunshaft. Paolo had even collaborated with some of them. For Sert he did a huge mural. For Bunshaft another. Paolo told me proudly that those commissions had helped pay for Gianni and his sister to go to college.
“And how is Gianni?” I asked over tea in their kitchen.
“He has been involved with that Bonet girl,” said Esther, who was knitting a sweater. Her voice reeking with disapproval.
“Is anything wrong?”
“She is magnificent,” said Paolo. “Like a wild animal.” He then started coughing.
“Yes, she is quite lovely, but I am not sure she is right for Gianni,” sniffed Esther.
“Pah,” said Paolo. “Have you ever known a mother who thought a girl was right for her son?”
“Victoria was right for him,” she replied, mentioning the name of Gianni’s first wife. A pretty heiress he had married when he was still in grad school. “She is also the mother of his sons. He should never have left her.”
Paolo leaned over to me. “It was the Bonet girl who broke them up. She saw him at a party. Bang!” he said, smacking his palm on the table. “She is a siren. Like Ulisse e sirena, no? Che cosi fai? What do you do? He had no one to tie him to the mast, si? So he crashed upon the rocks. Pow!” He slapped his hands together. More coughing.
Esther shook her head and sighed. “It has been very difficult on the children.”
“I’m sorry,” I said. “I had no idea.”
“He has asked her to marry him,” she said. “Once the divorce comes through.”
“What did she say?”
“She said maybe—not definitely no, not definitely yes,” laughed Paolo. “But I told him to forget about her. A siren doesn’t marry. She can’t stop being a siren. It is what she does. It is her natura, no? You may as well stop asking a horse to be a horse or a fish to be a fish.”
In early March, Paolo and Esther invited me for dinner. Gianni would be coming out, and he was bringing Cesca with him. When he was there, I was demoted. He was the true son, after all.
“Thank you for all the help you gave my parents this winter,” said Gianni. “They said you were wonderful to them.”
“They are wonderful to me. It is the least I could do.”
I would steal quick glances over at Cesca. She looked subdued, distant. When she caught me looking at her, she would give me a brief smile and then look away. Gianni was very solicitous of her. Could he get her more wine? Was she warm enough? He could bring her a sweater. She barely responded to him.
“So what are you doing up here by yourself, Wylie?” she asked midway through dinner.
I told her. Applying to architectural school. Working construction. Rising at dawn, putting on my quilted canvas jumpsuit to keep out the cold, and driving to the work site while it was still dark. The ground was rock h
ard. It was worse when it snowed. My hands were red and chafed; dirt circled my broken fingernails no matter how hard I scrubbed.
“Sounds awful,” she said.
“No, I like it. For the first time in my life, I feel I’m doing something really useful. I have a plan.”
“What about at nights? Don’t you get bored?”
“I study most nights. And I’m pretty tired, so I’m in bed early. This is the latest I’ve been up in weeks.”
“What do you do for fun?”
“I don’t know if you could call it fun, but it does get lonely some nights. There’s a bar in town near the railroad tracks. Big Al’s. Sometimes I go there after work. There’re also a few places in Sag Harbor. The Sand Bar. Murf’s.”
“I’ve never heard of them.”
“They’re all local places. Nothing fancy.”
The conversation turned to other things. The corrupting influence of television was one of Esther’s favorite topics. Also politics. Esther was liberal, Gianni more conservative. To his mother’s horror, he had voted for Reagan. Sometimes they would argue. This was one of those nights.
“I’m sorry,” Cesca said at one point, addressing no one in particular. “I’ve got a headache. I think I’m just going to go to bed.”
Gianni stayed up with us, finishing the wine. Later, after he and Paolo had gone upstairs as well, I helped Esther wash up. “Wylie,” she began, “do you have any girls in your life?”
“Not exactly. There is one girl, but she doesn’t feel the same way about me.” I dried a dish and placed it in the rack.
“How do you know? It can be hard to tell sometimes what girls are thinking. Many times they say one thing and mean something else.”
“Well, she’s with someone else.”
“Ah, are they married?”
“No.”
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