After her brothers went out, Sarah and her mother tidied up the kitchen for a while.
“So,” her mother said, when they had put everything away, “you’re still happy in the apartment you have?”
Her mother had not been too pleased about her move to the city, but the apartment had been a stroke of luck. The brother of one of her father’s patients owned the apartment in Greenwich Village. He was going to California for a year or two, he wasn’t sure for how long. On condition that she would vacate at once if he needed it back, he’d been glad to rent it for a very modest amount to a family his brother assured him he could trust. So Sarah had a nice little one-bedroom place where she could live, even on the tiny salary the gallery paid her.
“It’s fine,” she said, “and I love my job.”
“Will you be coming home next weekend?”
“I think so. Why?”
“You remember I told you about Adele Cohen’s grandson. The boy who went to Harvard? The one that’s a doctor now?”
“The one who went to Philadelphia?”
“Yes, but he has a position in New York now. He’s just moving there. And he’s coming out to see his grandmother next weekend. I believe he’s very nice.”
“You’ve never met him.”
“If he’s Adele’s grandson, I’m sure he’s very nice.”
“How old is he?”
“Adele says he’ll be thirty next year. And he’s very interested in art. He bought a painting.”
“You know this?”
“Adele told me. She thinks he’s bought several.”
“What sort of paintings?”
“How should I know? They’re paintings.”
“We should marry.”
“You could meet him.”
“Does he have money?”
“He’s a doctor.” Her mother paused as if to indicate that this should be enough. “When his father married Adele’s daughter, he was an accountant. But he didn’t like accounting, so he set up a business selling heaters for houses. He sells air conditioning too. All over New Jersey. Adele says he’s done very well.”
So, Adele’s grandson had money. Sarah smiled. She could imagine her mother and Adele arranging all this. And why should she complain? Perhaps he would be perfect.
“I’ll meet him,” she promised.
As she returned from Brooklyn late that afternoon, however, it was not the doctor who occupied her thoughts in the subway. It was Charlie Master.
She’d flirted with him at Sardi’s, of course. She’d gently challenged him about his age. And he’d been interested, she was sure of it. But he’d been cautious, too, and she thought she knew the reason.
He wasn’t going to do anything that, if it went wrong, might jeopardize the exhibition of Theodore Keller’s photographs. He really cared about the work, and she respected that. So, half of him was attracted to her, and the other half wanted to keep the relationship professional. That challenge made the business of seducing him all the more interesting.
Sarah Adler liked her work. She loved her family. She respected her religion. But now and then, she also liked to break the rules.
Sarah Adler was not a virgin. Her parents did not need to know this.
Charlie Master was an interesting older man, and she was curious to know more about him. She wanted to learn what he knew. And, of course, he wasn’t Jewish.
So he was forbidden.
It was certainly something to think about.
The next day, she began to prepare a potential layout of the Keller show. As she thought about the balance and flow, it seemed to her that it could be improved if they had more examples of certain periods of Keller’s work. She made a note of these, and she also did a rough of the catalogue. Charlie Master was going to provide the text, but she outlined half a dozen points that she thought should be included.
The gallery had a good mailing list, but it occurred to her that if they had a list of collectors and institutions who’d acquired Stieglitz or Ansel Adams, then that would be useful. She made a note of this as well, asking if Charlie had any suggestions for how she could get this information. Then, having shown all the material to the gallery owner, she sent it to Charlie.
Whether I seduce you or not, Mr. Master, she thought, this is going to be one hell of an exhibition. Then she waited.
He did not fall in love with her at once. Ten days after he got the material, they met up at the little office near Columbia and spent a couple of hours going through the collection. Together they selected five more photographs for inclusion, and decided to leave out one of the previous selection.
She was wonderfully efficient. But she was also humble. He liked that.
“This is the first show I’ve organized for the gallery,” she told him, “and I have so much to learn. I’m really afraid of making mistakes.”
“You’re doing fine,” he assured her.
The following week they met at the gallery, and using a detailed diagram, she showed him how the show was going to look.
“We won’t be certain until we start to hang the work,” he said, “but so far I think it’s looking good. Very good.” When she was out of earshot, he complimented the owner. “She seems to have a real talent,” he said.
“She was here until ten the other night, going over mailing lists,” the owner told him. “You have to respect that.”
A few days later, Charlie asked her to lunch, to meet a collector he knew. The collector was impressed.
“She seems very good,” he remarked afterward. “And behind those glasses …” He grinned. “I see burning fires.”
“You think so?” said Charlie.
“You haven’t tried?”
“Hmm,” said Charlie, “not yet.”
Perhaps, he supposed, he could be her mentor.
When it happened, it was by chance. He was walking back from a meeting one evening and realized he was close to the gallery. On impulse, seeing the lights on, he looked in. Sarah was there alone. She looked pleased when she saw him.
“I was about to close up.”
“I just happened to be passing. Thought I’d look at the space again.”
“Go right ahead.”
There were two rooms. He went into the second one, and stood there, looking around the walls.
“You want more light?” she called.
“No. Thanks. I’ll be getting home now. What are you doing this evening?”
“Actually, I have a friend who’s in a little theater group. They’re putting something on this evening—I don’t even know what it is—but I promised I’d go.”
“That sounds interesting.”
“Maybe. Want to come?”
He paused, hesitant. “It’s been a while since I went to a theater group.” He smiled. “Why not?”
The theater was in the West Village. To be precise, it was a basement in a brownstone. There were two or three young people on the sidewalk. One of them had a mug of coffee. The door of the basement, however, was closed. There was a piece of paper pinned on it which said: “No performance tonight.”
“Great,” said Sarah.
“Maybe they didn’t have an audience,” said Charlie.
“That doesn’t stop them,” said the man with the mug of coffee. “Julian was sick.”
“What about Mark?” said Sarah.
“He had a quarrel with Helga.”
“Oh.”
“Maybe tomorrow,” said the man, helpfully.
“I’m so sorry,” said Sarah to Charlie. “I shouldn’t have suggested it.”
“The situation is familiar to me,” said Charlie easily. “Shall we get something to eat?”
They walked through the Village, looking at cafés and restaurants. They found a small Italian trattoria, ordered Chianti and bowls of pasta. Charlie grinned.
“I feel as if I were in my twenties again.”
“Nothing wrong with that,” she said.
While they ate, they talked about music.
He told her where the best places were to hear jazz in the city. She told him about her luck in getting the apartment in the Village. After the pasta they had a crème caramel dessert.
“Do you ever walk about in the Village?” she asked, when they were done.
“Yes. Why?”
“I feel like walking.”
“All right.”
The little streets were quite busy; the restaurants weren’t short of custom. Charlie wasn’t sure where the evening was going, or where he wanted it to go. He felt a little awkward. They passed a little place where the tables were set for playing chess. Several men were sitting there, looking very solemn. The waiters brought them drinks from time to time.
“Want a game of chess?” Sarah asked.
“Okay. Sure, why not?” They sat down, and each ordered a small cognac. They played quietly for half an hour, then Charlie looked at her suspiciously. “Are you letting me win?”
“No.”
“Are you sure about that?”
“Would I lie to you?”
“Yes.”
“Trust me.”
“Hmm. Checkmate.”
“There.” She laughed. “I never saw it coming.”
When they left, they went up the street. At the corner, there was a candy store still open. Telling him to wait, Sarah went inside, and emerged with two little bags of fudge. She gave him one. “A present for you,” she said.
“Thank you.”
“Do you want coffee? My apartment’s just around the corner, on Jane Street.”
He hesitated a moment.
“You don’t have to,” she said.
“Coffee sounds good,” said Charlie.
All through that midwinter and early spring they would meet, two or three times a week usually, sometimes spending the night at his apartment uptown, sometimes at hers in the Village. In part, for both of them, it was an adventure. Charlie knew she was hungry to possess the knowledge and experience he had to offer. And for his part, he enjoyed sharing the things he loved with such an intelligent mind, and watching her grow and develop. But that was only the half of it.
By January, her slim, pale body had become an obsession with him. Often in the afternoons, while Sarah was busy at the gallery, he’d sit in the little office near Columbia, or in his apartment, and dream away an hour at a time thinking about her. Standing beside him, she only had to move her body sinuously close to his, and he would be overcome with a desire to possess her.
Each time, before their lovemaking, she would slip off the little pendant that she wore around her neck, and for him this little gesture, which she did quite unself-consciously, became a moment of excitement and great tenderness. In their lovemaking, she could drive him wild with passion. But she was more than a young mistress; there was something else that he could not describe exactly, something ancient, something belonging to the East, he supposed. He’d discovered that first night that her narrow breasts were larger, fuller than he’d expected. When they made love, and when she lay beside him afterward, it seemed to him that Sarah was not just a girl, however interesting, but a timeless woman, full of richness and mystery.
He spent so much time thinking about her that sometimes he cursed himself for not having enough to do.
Every other weekend, he would see little Gorham as usual. He almost wanted to introduce the boy to her. But even if he just said she was a friend, Julie would soon get to hear of it, and guess the truth, and then there would have to be explanations, and trouble. Besides, on these occasions, Sarah was always home with her family.
That was a small difficulty. He’d have liked to spend all his free weekends with her, but usually she insisted that she had to see her family.
“They’d get very suspicious if I missed too many weekends,” she told him with a laugh.
Some weekends she could get away, though. Late in January, he took her skiing in Vermont. She fell down quite a few times, with good humor, looked at her bruises ruefully, and agreed she’d give it another try, but maybe not for a while. Then, in February, he treated her to a weekend at a country hotel in Connecticut.
It was a cold Friday afternoon when they drove out of New York. The roads were clear, though there was still snow on the banks beside them. Charlie owned a 1950 De Soto Custom Sportsman of which he was very proud.
He’d booked the room in advance, in a charming place he knew, only an hour’s drive out of town. In the name of Mr. and Mrs. Charles Master. Hotels didn’t usually inquire too closely, so long as you signed in that way. It was dusk when they arrived. They had a couple of suitcases which he carried himself to the door of the white clapboard house. There was a log fire in the lobby, and while the manager greeted Charlie and led him to the little counter to sign in, Sarah went over to it. After a moment or two she took off her coat and sat on the low ottoman in front of the cheerful blaze. She was wearing a white shirt and a cardigan. Charlie glanced over toward her and smiled; the fire was already giving her face a charming glow. Just then, an ember fell out of the fire. She reached forward for the tongs, in order to replace it, and as she did so the little Jewish star on its chain swung out from her neck, catching the firelight. Having put the glowing ember back on the fire, she got up and came toward the desk.
The manager of the place had just been starting to tell him about the room when Charlie noticed him look sharply across at Sarah as she leaned down by the fire. Now, as she came over, the man was staring at her neck.
“Nice fire,” she remarked.
“Excuse me,” said the manager, and went into the little office behind the desk. A minute or so passed before he came back.
“I am so sorry, sir,” he said to Charlie, “but there seems to be a problem with the booking. When you came in, I mistook you for another guest. We don’t seem to have a reservation for Master at all.”
“But I telephoned. The reservation was definitely made.”
“I cannot tell you how it happened, sir, and I do apologize. But I’m afraid we’re entirely full. I just went to make sure. All our weekend guests are already here.”
“There must be a room.”
“No, sir. There’s absolutely nothing. I don’t know what to say.”
“But I’ve just driven out from the city.”
“Yes, sir. There’s another hotel a couple of miles away I could direct you to. They may have space.”
“Damn the other hotel. I booked here. I demand my room.”
“I’m very sorry.”
“Charlie.” It was Sarah, at his side. “Come over by the fire, Charlie,” she said softly. “I want to tell you something.” With an irritated shrug, Charlie did as she asked.
“What is it?” he said.
“Charlie, I don’t want to stay here. I’ll explain in the car.” Charlie started to protest, but she put her hand on his arm. “Please, Charlie.”
Thoroughly angry, and mystified, Charlie took the bags and went out to the car with her. When they were sitting inside, she turned to him.
“It’s me, Charlie. He didn’t have a room when he saw me.”
“You mean he saw you didn’t have a wedding ring? I hardly think—”
“No, Charlie. It was my pendant he saw.”
“Your pendant?”
“The Star of David. He realized I’m Jewish.”
“That’s absurd.”
“They don’t have Jewish people in this hotel, Charlie. This is Connecticut—how many miles are we from Darien?”
It was said that a Jewish person couldn’t even buy a house in nearby Darien. Charlie didn’t know if it was true; more likely just an ugly rumor. And anyway, the horrors of the thirties and the war had changed all that sort of thing. People weren’t anti-Semitic now. You couldn’t be.
“I don’t believe it.”
“If you go out with me, Charlie, you have to accept these things are going to happen. You think a Jew can get into most country clubs? My mother was fired by a bank for being Jewish. Are you telling me that people yo
u know, like your own family, don’t make anti-Semitic remarks?”
Charlie thought for a moment, then shrugged. “Okay. Maybe sometimes. But it’s just a sort of Episcopal, old-money thing. People like my mother look down on anyone who isn’t one of them. Jewish, Irish, Italian, you know. It’s ridiculous, but they don’t really mean anything by it. I mean, they’d never—”
“You’re right, Charlie. I’m sorry. So how does it feel, being thrown out of a hotel?”
“I’m going to make him give us that room.”
“Just take me back, Charlie. It was very nice of you to bring me out here, but can we eat in the city, please?”
And as the weeks went by Charlie realized that she was right. Of course, being involved with the theater and the arts, he’d always had plenty of Jewish friends. He had friends of all sorts, for that matter. When he was with them, they might refer to their Jewishness sometimes, or tease him a little for being an Episcopalian blue blood. But these things never came up very much. And when he was with his own crowd, people he’d known at school, that sort of thing, there might be things said about all kinds of races that you wouldn’t say in other company. Harmless prejudices, little jokes. They hardly seemed to matter when it was someone else you were talking about. But now he began to observe with different eyes.
He’d often told Sarah about his family. Just small stories about their life in the old days, and how his mother remained, in most of her attitudes, a splendid relic of those times.
“I’d love you to meet her,” he once said.
“That might not be such a good idea,” Sarah had remarked.
He’d continued to think about it, however, and one afternoon in early March, when they’d been visiting a gallery on Fifty-seventh, he suddenly said to her, “Let’s go up Park and see my mother.”
“I don’t know, Charlie,” Sarah said. “How are you going to explain me?”
“That’s easy. You’re the person who’s organizing the Theodore Keller show. I told you, our family were his first patrons.”
“I suppose so,” she responded, doubtfully.
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