Mary turned up the collar of her jacket and retied her scarf beneath her chin. The boat rose and smacked its wooden hull down on a rising wave. Sal screamed as the boards of the deck buckled under the impact.
“Ah, a life before the mast,” said Charlie, taking a swill from Frank’s flask.
“Did you see the floor bend?” said Sal. “I’m scared.”
“I think it’s called a deck, isn’t it?” said Charlie.
“If it didn’t bend, that would be a problem,” said Edward. “How are you feeling, Frank?”
“Pretty good,” said Frank, whose face was pale even on dry land. He was holding hard to the rail and seemed to have left the crewing work to Charlie.
As they neared the point, Edward made a sudden tack and caught the wind at its strongest; by the time he turned again, there was no distance between the two boats. For a hundred yards or so they ran along parallel, but as they were on different tacks, it was hard to tell who was ahead when they crossed the finishing line. They waved to the French and turned for home.
“We won,” said Katy.
“More like a dead heat,” said Charlie.
“You can be sure of one thing,” said Edward. “In their history books that’ll go down as a crushing French victory.”
“Get me home, sweetie,” said Katy. “I’m drenched.”
It took more than the hour Edward had promised for them to reach the mooring where the car was parked, but it was only a short drive to the cabin, which was at the end of a lane in an area of woodland.
“God, it’s Walden Pond,” said Charlie, as Edward drew up on the track alongside.
“But it has hot water,” said Edward. “Provided the yardman remembered to switch it on.”
The cabin consisted of a living area dominated by a cavernous fireplace, above which was a moose’s head; the room was divided by a wooden counter, the other side of which was a primitive kitchen. A short passage, snared with nets and fishing tackle, joined the main room to two bedrooms at the back; a narrow stairway rose from an alcove behind the fireplace to a bathroom and a further bedroom in the roof. The cabin was surrounded by a wooden balcony that gave views into the forest; the windows had wire coverings of tight mesh against the ravening insects.
It was starting to grow dark as they unloaded the station wagon, and Katy showed Mary and Sal up to the bathroom, which, she had decided, the women should use first.
Mary and Charlie were given the upstairs room, where Mary undressed in preparation for following Sal into the bath. Charlie went through their bag, looking for spare socks.
“Bloody cold, isn’t it?” he said quietly.
“It’ll be fine once Eddie’s lit the fire.”
Charlie put on two pairs of socks and climbed in beneath the eiderdown. He pulled it back on Mary’s side and patted the bed invitingly. Mary pulled a dressing gown over her underclothes and slipped in beside him; she felt Charlie’s hand run up her thigh and curled in closer to him. They could hear Edward’s voice from downstairs.
“Frank, can you give me a hand with some logs? They’re in the crawl space beneath the cabin.”
Charlie whispered into Mary’s hair, “Do you think Frank’s ever seen a log before?”
Mary laughed. “Do you like Sal?”
“She’s all right. Kinda cute.”
“Not really your type, though, is she? Not like Katy.” She nudged him in the ribs.
“I don’t know about that.”
“I’d better hurry up so I can help with dinner.”
Charlie squeezed her thigh beneath the dressing gown. “Go on, then. Did you see any wine down there?”
“Yes, there was a whole case in the corridor. But, darling, please don’t drink too much. Promise me. Remember what Dr. Weissman said.”
In her bath, Mary caught the scent of woodsmoke from below. She slid back beneath the steaming water and let it run through her hair; the taste of steam in cold bathrooms reduced her always to the condition of childhood, of the world outside banished by the familiar warmth. By the time she went down to help Katy, the fireplace was stacked with flaming logs and Edward was pouring drinks from the wooden counter. Katy had brought a clam chowder, which only needed to be reheated, and had put some potatoes in the oven to go with a honey-glazed ham; on the gas ring she was doing something New England-looking with corn.
“So you see there’s nothing for you to do, Mary,” she said. “Just relax.”
Mary did as she was told. Sal came and sat on the sofa with her, next to the fire, while Frank sat opposite them with one foot up on the low table next to a dish of potato chips and tomato dip. Mary noticed that Sal’s behavior toward him was coquettish, and that Frank seemed not to mind.
“So how are you liking the rustic life?” said Sal.
“It’s different,” said Frank. “You see a flame like that where I live, you call the fire department.”
“Do you like New York?”
“Sure, I like it. But if there was somewhere bigger or with more things happening I’d go there. Why would you want to be second best?”
“What’s your apartment like?”
“It’s in the Village. My office is downtown, so it’s kind of convenient.”
“I’d love to come and see it. I had a boyfriend in the Village once. We used to have such a good time. All those galleries and everything.”
“You can stop by some day. Just give me a call.”
Mary found herself irritated by Sal’s disingenuous manner. “Have you finished your article, Frank?” she said.
“Yeah. Pretty much.” He smiled and stood up. “I think I’d better go wash up before dinner.”
When Charlie came down he put a record on, lit a cigarette and poured himself a tumbler full of red wine, catching Mary’s warning glance as he did so.
“It’s wine,” he said, “not even a proper drink.”
Edward Renshaw, fresh from the bath and wearing a red plaid shirt, insisted on dancing with Mary while the soup was heated. He pushed back the low table to make room, and whirled her round the floor to the hissing beat of Duke Ellington.
“Jimmy Blanton on bass,” he explained to Mary, “so anyone can dance to it.”
Edward was a good mover, though Charlie always maintained his interest in Mary was more than just that of a man who liked dancing. His right hand was tight on her waist, and he pulled her pelvis close to his. Charlie responded by flirting with Katy Renshaw, ostensibly as a revenge, though conveniently it happened that he found Katy’s primness oddly arousing. Katy was too busy directing them to their seats for dinner to take much notice.
Mary was flushed by the bay wind, the chowder and the log fire; her clean, almost-black hair shone in the light of the single bulb whose dim wattage had been augmented by two hurricane lamps on the mantelpiece and by a group of flickering candles on the dining table. Charlie looked at her affectionately as he filled another glass of wine before turning with the bottle to Katy, on whose thigh, beneath its woolen skirt, his hand hospitably lingered. Over the competitive din of conversation, the sailing race inaccurately recalled and the pleading wail of tenor saxophones, Mary could barely make herself heard. Having eaten her plate of honeyed ham, she settled back into her chair, hoping she had room for another of Sal’s extolled desserts, accepted the wine that Edward poured for her and lit a cigarette. She felt afloat on warmth and appreciation; she caught herself at an instant somehow exhilarated and admired, though no one at that moment was talking to her. Frank was listening to Sal’s self-exploratory monologue in the next chair, his tired face intent with concentration yet simultaneously aloof. His eye met Mary’s for a moment as he turned his head to locate an ashtray on the table between them; she noticed he had found some clothes of at least semi-rustic variety in his bag, a pair of beige cotton drill trousers and a holly-green crewneck sweater, which looked suspiciously new, as though purchased from a Georgetown outfitters for the purposes of the trip.
Mary had drunk more wine than
usual, though no more than anyone else, she thought, as she swayed about the floor in the arms first of Edward, then of Frank. Charlie was roaring, on the edge, and kept turning up the volume of the music, replacing Edward’s or Frank’s choice of record with his own and abusing their ridiculous taste, their passion for the second-rate.
Katy remonstrated with him, but was herself too unsteady to be able to control him. She clung tightly to his arm as he filled another glass, and it was only when she showed signs of becoming lachrymose that Charlie saved himself from embarrassment by changing dance partners, pushing Edward toward his wife and pressing Sal’s hand against his own heart in a nightclub clinch. Mary laughed, as Frank’s light touch in the small of her back steered her between these harmlessly irresponsible friends, whom she loved, even Sal, she told herself, as they slid and shouted and held on to one another, filled by an effervescence that had welled up in them from the inexplicable pleasure of their lives.
Mary detached Charlie from a bottle of scotch that Frank and Edward, now seated at the table, had begun to pour into beer glasses. She guided him upstairs to the bathroom and administered to him as she had done so often to their children. His eyes were glazed, but they were still in touch with the world; they were not, as she had sometimes seen them, looking backward into some blank plain inside his head.
When they were in bed, Mary said, “What do you think they’re doing now?”
“Who? Frank and Sal?”
“No! The children.”
“I sincerely hope they’re asleep.”
Their conversation degenerated into imitations of Richard and Louisa, random phrases that evoked them, that conjured in this remote cabin their terrible sweetness, their idiotic grandeur in their apprehension of the great puzzle that the world represented to them. Mary curled closer to Charlie, her eyes brimming with the love that the words had set flowing in her; she smelled the mixture of wine and toothpaste on her husband’s breath as he nuzzled her dark, wavy hair, felt his caressing hand come to rest at its favorite place, between her legs, as he began to fall asleep.
It was all right, she thought, everything would be for the best after all, because no illness, no death or treacherous cruelty could be strong enough to break up a world so fortified with love or a life so diverse and rich in the sources of its contentment.
Chapter 4
Mary awoke from a dream of her dying mother to the sound of New York. They had been booked into a hotel on Lexington Avenue; it was twenty-four stories tall, faced in red brick, and the howl of the avenue was conducted up its sheer sides. It had been chosen for its proximity to the Consulate, a short walk away on Park Avenue between 39th and 40th Streets, where, to Charlie’s delight, it was housed in the National Distillers Building.
By the time Mary returned from the bathroom, the bellboy had called with breakfast and the newspapers. Charlie read rapidly through them, occasionally grunting or exclaiming, and passing them over to Mary as he finished. The bedside telephone rang and Charlie, saying “I’m not here,” handed the heavy, bleating instrument across the bed, its flex tangling in the remains of scrambled egg and brittle strips of bacon.
“May I speak with Mary van der Linden?” She half recognized the voice. “This is Frank Renzo.”
“Hello, Frank. How are you?”
“I’m sorry to call so early. A colleague of mine was at your consulate yesterday and heard you were in town. I wondered if I could repay your hospitality, show you something of the city.”
“The guided tour?” Mary tried to think of a way of stalling him; she had been planning to spend the day alone, shopping in the morning, lunch downtown, then a gallery. “That’s very nice of you. I’d better check with Charlie what his plans—”
Charlie waved his hand dismissively, in an accommodating, don’t-mind-me gesture that was the opposite of helpful.
“Well, I … I suppose … That would be very nice.” She handed the telephone back to Charlie. “Thanks a lot.”
Charlie laughed. “You getting the tour? It might be fun. I’ve got meetings at the Distillery all day anyway.”
After Charlie had gone, Mary dressed with some care. She wore a suit with a tailored jacket and a skirt which, though a little tight at the knee, would not prevent her walking with ease if it turned into a long day of sightseeing. Most of the women on Fifth Avenue, she had noticed the day before, were wearing hats, but she had never felt comfortable with anything on her head and resented having to wear proper hats to weddings or to the parties on the Embassy lawns. She put a scarf into her purse, next to the small leather photograph wallet with a picture of the children, checked her makeup in the bathroom mirror and set off.
Frank was waiting for her in the lobby. He looked distracted, as though the enterprise had been someone else’s idea. He was wearing the suit with the nailhead pattern he had worn on the first evening he had arrived at the van der Lindens’ party, Mary noticed, and his tie was already beginning to sink down from the top button of his pale blue shirt.
“Hi.”
He held out his hand.
“This is very kind of you,” she said.
“Do you have an idea what you’d like to do?”
“No. I rather hoped you’d have a plan. Perhaps we could go and see some pictures—whatever’s on at the Met, for instance.”
Frank, who was carrying a felt hat and had a raincoat over his arm, looked worried for a moment as he inspected Mary; but he swallowed whatever misgiving he might have had and took her by the elbow through the revolving doors onto Lexington Avenue, where he hailed a cab.
“Aren’t you working?” said Mary, straightening her skirt over her knees as she settled onto the slippery seat.
“No, I have a few days’ vacation.”
“And you’re not going away anywhere?”
“Oh no. You never know what might turn up.”
Frank barked an instruction to the driver and sat back. “Guy just arrived from Puerto Rico. Doesn’t know where the hell he’s going.”
The morning followed no logical itinerary. Frank’s version of the city was less influenced by architecture or appearance than by stories he had written and people he had met. It began with an hour among the rows of secondhand bookstores on Fourth Avenue, round 10th Street, then went over to Tompkins Square—an interesting district, he explained, because the New York City Housing Authority had built its first project on Avenue A at Third Street. Mary could not see what was noteworthy in the depressed and menacing blocks, with resentful-looking youths playing softball behind wire mesh.
They walked up to Tompkins Square Park, where he showed her a small monument of two children, carved in relief on a stone background, looking at a flowering tree. The girl was seated, the boy carried a hoop; an engraved caption read: “They were earth’s purest children, young and fair.”
“It commemorates the loss of a steamboat,” said Frank. “Over a thousand people from this neighborhood died on it, mostly Germans. Their families couldn’t bear to stay on these streets afterward, so they moved out and it was taken over by Russians for a time. Around here you can still feel that sense of loss. Don’t you think?”
The children reminded Mary of her own, and for a moment she lost track of what Frank was saying, as her mind turned over thoughts of family and bereavement.
“You used to hear them talk Russian in the stores and cafés.”
“Is that so?” She rallied. “And what do they think of Sputnik?”
“I couldn’t say. Most have moved on. A lot of them came before the Revolution and they’re not so crazy about Communism.”
Frank took her back to the Bowery and on to the end of Bleecker Street, where he pointed to a handsome, ornamented building.
“Know who designed that? It’s Louis H. Sullivan, his only building in New York. You ever go to Chicago, you’ll see his best stuff there. We’re pretty proud of him back where I come from.” He smiled. “Is any of this interesting to you?”
Taken aback by his
directness, Mary stammered slightly. “Yes, of course. Yes, it’s very interesting.”
“So, do I just keep on talking?”
“Yes. Yes. You do that.”
“We’ll walk down to Chatham Square, where two El tracks used to meet. You got to imagine what it was like, the people in the dark beneath all that ironwork.”
Frank walked quickly, and Mary found herself struggling a little to keep up; she wished she had accepted an earlier invitation to take a break in some Russian, or possibly Greek, café. The lower reaches of the Bowery were lined with discount liquor stores, flophouses, pawnshops and hotels whose imposing names—the Grand Windsor, the Palace, the Crystal—were set in context by their modest claim to offer “Clean Rooms.” Frank strode on, apparently unaware of the fallen men stretched across the doorways, talking of the movements of people and how he felt that, although the city was a thousand neighborhoods, it had a single character as well.
“And what’s that single character?” Mary asked.
“Search me. Jewish, I guess. You find Jewish stores and theaters, you’re pretty close to the real thing.”
He took her suddenly by the elbow and steered her to the right, down Grand Street. “You gotta see this.”
After a few blocks, he stopped in front of an Italian general store, so un-American it might have been transported whole from Verona.
“Louis Sullivan, Little Italy. Another home for you” said Mary.
They went into the store, which sold straw ponies from Positano, devices for making lasagne, plastic gondolas, plaster saints and arlecchinos, colored drinking glasses and 78 rpm shellac recordings of Caruso in brown paper covers. By the cash desk, there was a Grammatica Accelerata: Italiano—Inglese. A woman in widow’s black smiled at them from behind a wooden counter; the homesickness was almost palpable.
“Breaks your heart, doesn’t it?” Frank said.
“Yours, I think,” said Mary.
They went back onto the Bowery and continued walking south, where the street widened for the approach to the Manhattan Bridge, a square triumphal arch that might have been commissioned by Trajan or Tiberius. A traffic cop stood in the middle of the road, his blue serge jacket double-buttoned beneath his chin, waving his white-gloved hands at the streams of arriving and departing traffic. He was yelling at the cars and trucks, his body a frenzy of agitation as though he was about to dance. Mary thought his wild gestures were those of anger, until he pointed at a truck driver and mimed a festive pulling of the klaxon; she saw the smile of gratification spread across his face as the driver noisily obliged.
On Green Dolphin Street Page 7