The Ruined House

by Ruby Namdar

  The house was brightly lit with spotlights, as if a night crew were filming it. Linda stood in the doorway between the tall marble, Greek columns. Her wild black curls snaked like Medusa’s, giving her the frightening look of a witch in an old movie. Tears melted her thick eyeliner, which coursed in black rivulets down her pale cheeks. Where was George? What had happened to him? He couldn’t have left her alone at a time like this, not when he was always there when she needed him. Half-crazed, she ran to him. “My baby! My baby!” Her screams pierced the respectable, gentrified Park Slope night. He had to calm her down, get her back into the house. Soon all the neighbors’ lights would start coming on. But she wouldn’t be pacified. Her long, sharp, black-lacquered nails dug painfully into his palm, as they had once done in the delivery room, so many years ago. “You must find her!” Everyone knew there was a rapist on the loose in Park Slope, an insane murderer. Little girls had been violated and slaughtered in the bushes of their parents’ backyards. You could hear the desperate cries of the searchers, calling their names over and over. Andrew felt his upper lip tremble. He mustn’t panic, he had to stay rational! A mad idea crossed his mind like a lightning bolt: He was dreaming! It was all a dream, it couldn’t be real! “Listen, Linda! I know this sounds crazy, but you’ve got to believe me. I think I’m dreaming. I’ll shut my eyes tight and open them and try to wake up, okay?” Linda looked at him incredulously, not knowing what to make of such an absurdity. Andrew shut his eyes tightly. He gritted his teeth, clenched his fists as hard as he could, and suddenly released them. No, it wasn’t a dream. Nothing had changed. Alison was gone. There was nowhere to run to, no one to blame. How could it have happened? She had disappeared from her bedroom. The murderer had climbed through an open window and snatched her easily from her bed. Who had left the window open? Linda looked at him with a terrible hatred. Her eyes were bloodshot, as if all their capillaries had burst. “What do you mean, who? You! You left her all alone! It’s all your fault, yours!”

  14

  Wind smoothed, sand-honed wooden oars. Whalebones, hollowed by the years. The breeze coming from the ocean will blow away all impurity. The sun will bleach it. The sand will scrub it clean of its apartness and return it to the bosom of Unity. All matter will be pure again, restored to what it once was. Matter in itself can never be impure. It always is clean. We, too, will be cleansed. Our bones will become white and dry. They will abrade and grow smooth with the passage of time. Our skulls will split along their seams into brittle conches, no longer scary, no longer repellent, no longer human. Their marrow will desiccate and turn to dust. They will grow as friable as the shell of a dead snail bleaching on a shriveled bush by the shore. There will be no more terror; no more memory; no more shame or sin. All will revert to sand and stone, chalk and dust. To matter, pure matter in itself.

  15

  June 27, 2001

  The 7th of Tammuz, 5761

  Ten p.m. The dim, reddish light of Beauty Bar, which Andrew might ordinarily have found soothing and sensually stimulating, was having an opposite, irritating effect on him. His long walk down 14th Street looking for the self-consciously hard-to-find place had left him out of breath and perspiring. Ann Lee had insisted on meeting him here, and at this late hour, which seemed to him like the middle of the night. Yesterday’s phone conversation with her had given him a heavy, queasy feeling that increased as time went by and only grew worse now that he stood adjusting to the dim light.

  Andrew squinted at the noisy, packed bar, searching for Ann Lee. The tense anticipation he had initially felt about meeting her had become an unbearable torment. Although he knew she wasn’t there, he kept hoping to find her, threading his way between the trim young bodies talking animatedly in the tenebrous glow like beautiful devils in a designer hell. He had heard about this place, which had become one of the self-infatuated city’s hot spots, but had never been in it. Beauty Bar had originally been an old-fashioned beauty salon with 1970-ish barber chairs and large spaceship-shaped hair dryers along one wall. The fashionable bar that took its place had made this its ironic retro theme, and its regular customers—the college-aged progeny of wealthy parents whose clothes and hairstyles suggested that they were students at film schools and art and design academies—took part in the production. Stylish kids crowded around the bar painting each other’s nails with bright colors, or else sat in the barbers’ chairs or beneath the hair dryers chatting with a youthful insouciance. Andrew was used to the presence of young people, but not in this kind of situation. Usually, he dealt with them across a semitransparent divide of age and professional status. He didn’t socialize with them outside of the classroom and had no experience in dealing with them on their own territory. The longer he stood there, the more he felt his power peeling away like a cheap, old gold plate. The collar of his new shirt was damp with perspiration and its middle button, the one over his midsection, felt tight. What was he thinking, going for that slim-fit shirt? Did he think he was still a teenager?

  It was too late to change that, though. What was done was done: you simply had to pay the price of having done it. He sucked in his stomach to ease the pressure on the button, which seemed about to pop and ricochet into space before the mocking eyes of the youths surrounding him. For the umpteenth time, he stared at the backs of the customers at the bar, hoping to make out Ann Lee’s familiar, miraculously materialized form. It wasn’t there. Of course not. It was twenty after ten. Where could she be? Andrew abandoned his observation post by the door and made his way to the bar. Could she be sitting there unnoticed? He knew perfectly well she couldn’t be. Why had he worn this damn shirt? He could hardly breathe in it.

  On any other evening, Andrew would have sat at the bar, ordered a drink, and waited, enjoying the trendy high voltage of the place. Now, though, he felt too nervous for that. He looked at his watch again: 10:25. She was seriously late. Once more he surveyed his dim surroundings, hoping against hope to spot the wry but loving smile that he adored. His glance fell on a corridor leading to a mysterious, perhaps even ominous-looking, back room. On a whim, he strode toward it. Suppose she were hiding from him there. A red velvet rope, of the kind used to cordon off lines and museum rooms, barred his way. Only half-aware of what he was doing, he sidestepped it and continued toward the back room, keeping close to the wall as if for protection. What if she were there, passionately making out with some young guy, his shirt hiked up past his flat stomach, his sharply outlined pelvis showing above his low-slung pants? The ridiculous thought had a chilling effect. He slowed his gait, afraid of what he might see when he peered into the room. What, for God’s sake, was he doing here? Where did he think he was going? He knew he should stop, take a deep breath, get a grip on himself, and turn around. Yet his legs refused to obey him and he walked on, determined to reach the end—the dead end—that he was heading for.

  “Sir!” There was a hard edge mixed with cruel amusement in the voice behind him. “Sir! The back room is closed to visitors.” More impatient than the first, the second “Sir!” brought Andrew up short. “Excuse me,” he murmured while turning to face his challenger, a husky, spiky-haired bouncer. Surprised by the exaggerated deference in his voice, he was even more startled to hear himself say, “I’m looking for the bathroom.” The bouncer measured him up and down with narrow, close-set eyes, nostrils flaring scornfully as if he were able to read Andrew’s mind. “It’s back there,” he said drily, pointing with his chin to a door on the other side of the velvet rope. “Didn’t you see the sign?”

  Andrew hurried to thank him, demeaned by his own lie. With a shaky hand he opened the bathroom door, slipped inside, locked the door behind him, and leaned against it as if afraid of being followed. The bathroom had the same camp decor as the bar. There was leopard-skin wallpaper, a synthetic fur toilet seat, and a red lampshade whose risqué glow called to mind a European brothel. Although he had no need to go to the toilet, Andrew unzipped his fly and forced himself to squeeze out a few drops as though to justify himse
lf to the bouncer. He took his time at the sink, running the water loudly as additional proof, which he felt compelled for some reason to provide, that he had merely been looking for a place to wash up. The strong hot flow had a calming effect. He leaned over the sink and scrubbed his face until it was red and stinging. Near-scalding water spattered in all directions, staining his pants and shirt with dark splotches. He would look like a fool! It was a good thing the place was so dark that you could hardly make anyone out.

  Andrew’s chest, which had been feeling less tight, contracted again. Suppose there were students of his here! It was exactly the sort of place you would expect them to spend a free evening. Although he knew no one in his introductory course by name, he would be recognized at once. All he needed was to be seen wandering around in wet pants like the city’s village idiot! The whole university would know in the morning; the classrooms and corridors would buzz with sordid descriptions. Stay calm! Don’t lose your head! Water ran down his cheeks in large drops. He groped blindly for the faucets and turned them off. A minute or two went by. The drops slowed to a trickle. He waited for the bathroom to grow quiet and summoned the courage to look in the mirror. All that water hadn’t made him look any fresher. He had the red, unfocused eyes and pale, puffy face of someone who had been crying. His hair, a muddy gray in the bordello-red light, stuck out wildly. He tried brushing it with a hand and looked at his watch: 10:40. Enough! He couldn’t go on hiding here all night. He had to go back out and face the music.

  Andrew left the bathroom and headed for the bar without looking back. There was still no sign of Ann Lee. Could he be in the wrong place? Had he confused the time? Nonsense! He knew the truth only too well, as much as he hated to admit it. He detoured around a group of youngsters in heated conversation, sure they were making fun of his bumbling manner. They had seen him skulking like a prowler toward the back room. It was all over with! Tomorrow he would be the talk of the town.

  Andrew pushed through the crowd to the bar, looking for a place to sit. Everything was taken. He debated and decided to order a drink and have it standing. Greater than his craving for alcohol was the need to hold something in his hand to give him confidence. New Yorkers that they were, the young people at the bar did not hurry to make way for him. They were too self-involved, too young and beautiful, to notice anyone. Andrew found himself pressed against their alien, unyielding bodies. The sensation, though intense, was not in the least sensual. Once at the counter, he couldn’t manage to attract the attention of the female bartender at its far end. Was he being paranoid or was she deliberately looking through him? What had happened to his celebrated presence, his knack for making himself the center of things? He leaned forward and waved to her, trying to catch her eye. Those days of masculine potency now seemed like a distant dream, formless shards of memory. He looked again at his watch, angered by his weak nerves and willingness to take part in the ugly game Ann Lee was playing: ten forty-five. Where the hell was she? Yes, she sure was taking her sweet revenge.

  The bartender was talking to a pale young man, leaning over the counter with her large white breasts all but spilling out of her low-cut dress. Andrew looked away and let his gaze wander. Above the mirror behind the bar, dominating the 1970s advertisements for shampoos and hair conditioners, was the brash sign: OVERSIGHTS CAN BE EMBARRASSING! PAY WHEN YOU’RE SERVED! SPARE YOURSELF THE EMBARRASSMENT! Andrew studied it. Although unsure how to interpret it, he felt certain it was meant for him. Here am I, he whispered, clutching at the quote as though at a straw, an old Jewish gentleman. The stiff, ascetic figure of Bernard Malamud appeared like a wraith in the fogged mirror above the bar and vanished, just as the pleasure of quoting him quickly dissipated, like a match blown out by the wind. Resting both elbows on the counter, Andrew called to the bartender in an impolitely loud voice. With a look of cold annoyance, she turned and walked challengingly toward him, her heavy breasts swinging like a cow’s udders. “Yes, sir. What will it be?” The question took him by surprise. He had been trying so hard to get her attention that he hadn’t thought of what to order. Although he wanted a whiskey, his acid stomach rebelled against the idea. He settled on a beer, asking the bartender, with the same deference he had shown the bouncer, to recommend a craft brew. Leaving a big tip that made no impression on her, he carefully lifted the wet glass from the damp counter and worked his way back through the crowd of barbed bodies while trying not to spill his drink.

  There were no seats. The only available one was a high barber’s chair standing by itself in the middle of the room. Andrew managed to clamber into it, holding his beer as though he was hiding behind it. His shirt tugged at its middle button and clung to the folds of his stomach. He sat as straight as he could to relieve the pressure on the button and took a sip of his beer, which was every bit as tasteless as he had expected it to be. How long was he going to put up with this childish ritual of humiliation? It was 10:50! Should he get up and walk out? What was keeping him in this nightmare? Nonsense, he wasn’t going anywhere. He would sit and wait, sit and drain his hemlock to the lees.

  “Excuse me, sir. Would you like a manicure?”

  Andrew turned around, the beer almost sloshing from its glass. Behind him, a pudgy, bored-looking young lady was looking at him with indifference from a small table arrayed with colorful little bottles. A sign behind her said, MANICURE $10. DRINK INCLUDED. Yet another creative, self-satisfied shtick! Andrew murmured something that sounded like “No, thank you, maybe some other time” while pretending to overlook the manicurist’s generously exposed though not at all sexy cleavage. What was it with these low-cut dresses? Was it an occupational requirement? She looked at him with round, vacant, bovine eyes, rhythmically chomping on a stick of gum as though chewing her cud. A tired, apathetic old gentleman who has lived long enough. What was he doing in this preschool? Why in the world had he agreed to come here?

  Andrew got down from his chair and headed for the bar, promising to leave at the stroke of eleven. Although all the seats at the counter were still occupied, he succeeded in reaching it quickly and depositing his almost full glass, which had become a burden he was glad to get rid of. He looked at his watch: 10:55. Would he really walk out in five minutes? Perhaps he should have a scotch, after all. What brands did they have? Nothing special, that much was for sure. Looking for the bartender, he turned his head to his right and jerked it back quickly. What he saw, so near it could have been a close-up on a screen, was alluring and repelling at once—titillating, shocking, beautiful beyond words, and thoroughly revolting: a colossal, voluptuous kiss that as though had an existence of its own between the two faces that framed it. They were so young, so good-looking! The kiss was passionate to the point of being aggressive. The young man’s hands held the young woman’s two cheeks. His tongue, thrust into her mouth, moved beneath hers, wrapped around it like a naked snail. Her chest rose and fell so that you could almost hear her throbbing heart. Andrew stared at his reflection in the mirror, not daring to take another look at the young couple. Yet the vivid scene remained before his eyes, draining and exciting him. His weary mind was collapsing under the weight of too many impressions. He blinked hard and threw an involuntary glance in the direction of the kiss. It was gone. The seat next to him was empty. In the seat beyond it, a few steps away, sat Ann Lee. She was staring at him stonily, her face like a stranger’s. Andrew’s heart sank. His chest was a bottomless abyss. All was lost, that was perfectly clear. All was lost.

  16

  I’m tired of playing this game! It doesn’t turn me on anymore—and it’s not working for you, either, by the way. It was you who cast me in the role of the sexy, dangerous, innocent, child-woman, but you’ve had enough of it, too. I admit that at first it was exciting. The aura of mystery, the childish drama of ‘Should or shouldn’t I call back?,’ ‘Who’s sleeping at who’s tonight,’ and ‘Should I keep a spare toothbrush and pair of panties at his place?’ Candlelight dinners in the nude on the rug with Tosca or Carmen in the background
and breakfasts in bed at two in the afternoon with eggs poached in Burgundy, a fresh baguette, and red roses. Yes, it was wonderful, don’t get me wrong! But it’s no substitute for real life, for a real relationship between two adults. I feel we’re trapped in a play you’ve produced to protect yourself from life. I feel expected to go to sleep acting and wake up acting. I feel as if a camera were following me and forcing me to play a part in a bad Hollywood movie. I’m fed up with it. I don’t want to go on being a prop in a stage set designed by you. I want to be with you without always having to feel that I’m some character in a novel about an older man having a passionate affair with a Lolita young enough to be his daughter. I want to wash the dishes while you work or do my exercises in the bedroom while you’re checking your e-mails and answering phone calls at the end of the day. I want to take care of you when you’re sick and to know that you’ll take care of me. I want to eat ordinary breakfasts with you—cornflakes, or a scrambled egg with toast—and grumble that you’re reading the newspaper while you eat. I want to go out with you for dinner, to meet your friends, to get to know your world, to be a part of it. I want children! Not now, but someday I’ll want children and a family. We’re having a secret affair, for God’s sake—can’t you see how absurd that is when neither of us is married? I’m not your student anymore and you’re not my teacher, you haven’t been for a long time! You’re as tired of it as I am. The role no longer fits, you’re miscast in it. You try holding on to it, but everything around you is falling apart. The safe, perfectly designed little world you’ve created no longer works. The actors have stopped following your directions and so have you. Something bigger and deeper is going on inside you. I have no idea what it is. But you have to confront it, you can’t go on denying it and pretending it doesn’t exist. I’m leaving. Don’t look so surprised. We both know it’s been in the cards for a long time. I’ve been offered a grant to compose with a studio of my own for four months in San Francisco and I’ve decided to take it. I know I didn’t consult with you about it. I never thought of that as a possibility. It wasn’t included in the unwritten contract of our torrid love affair. I need to think and I would advise you to take the time to think, too—to think about the two of us. I’m not going to call you. You can phone me if you like when I get back, but only if you’re ready to be my true partner, not an actor in a romantic comedy.”