“Forgive my distraction lately,” Vladimir said to Diane as they sat down at a window table in a café around the corner from the theater. “I've been getting hate mail from Cuba.”
“Really?” She was wearing her hair tied back today. “Is it political?”
“Everything is political with Cubans. Just the fact that I'm not there is political. The Cuban music I listen to is political, even if there are no lyrics.”
Diane sat with her elbows on the table, chin resting on her hands. “Why?”
“It was made by musicians who aren't living on the island. You're either with the Revolution a hundred and ten percent, or you're an agent of the CIA.”
They ordered lunch.
She looked up at him directly. “So why have I seen so little of you?” she asked.
He sighed.
“I'm sorry, was that too forward? Forgive me, sometimes I get impatient, and things just fly out of my mouth.”
“No, I appreciate your honesty.”
“I can't pretend not to be interested,” she said.
“Thank you,” he said, and looked at the sunlight slanting through the window onto the floor. The waiter brought juice to the table. “I'm glad you're interested. I'm interested.”
“You haven't been acting interested.”
Here it was, again. “It's not the way I like to begin, but I can't get around it. I'm married.”
“Oh?” she said, both eyebrows raised.
“To a Cuban.”
“I see.”
“Who lives in Cuba.”
She nodded.
“My wife will not grant me a divorce.”
“Why not?”
“No reason.”
“I see.”
“Out of spite, perhaps.”
She looked out the window. Had she lost interest now?
“Or for political reasons,” he said, sipping juice.
She looked back at him. “Do you see her?”
“Not in years.”
“She—your wife, what is her name?”
“María.”
“María hasn't found anyone else?”
“She found my parents. They took her side! She lives with them. They're another story.”
She laughed. “And what's that story?”
“You wouldn't believe it.”
The lunch arrived.
“Try me.”
“My parents divorced two years ago. But they live together,” he said, digging into his omelet.
“Why?”
“He likes her cooking.”
“And she likes cooking for him?”
“Him and his girlfriend.”
Her mouth opened; she blinked and shook her head rapidly.
Which was worse: talking about his parents or talking about María?
“How bizarre.” She was still looking at him directly; he considered this a good sign.
“It's very hard to find a place, and illegal to move.”
“It's illegal to move?”
“Yes, but she could find a place. The ration card doesn't matter.”
“Wait. They're on ration cards?”
This was news to most Americans. “Everyone is. And there isn't enough on the ration cards to live, to function. You need to supplement. Which they do, because I send them money. Well, I send money to my wife. But she's on the same household card.”
“It sounds crowded.”
“My sister and her husband and child also live with them. But it's a big house.”
“Your mom couldn't get her own place to live?”
“She did, but somebody liked the idea of her apartment, and denounced her to the police. So they took her apartment away.”
“What?”
“It's a long story. Still, my father has the frying pan by the handle.” She squinted. “I mean, with a single phone call, he could have found her a place. I haven't spoken to him in five years. Since I moved here.”
She considered this, browsing in her salad. “You know, Vladimir, I suspected that you were interesting. But I had no idea!” She laughed.
“So it's not that I don't want to get involved. I am involved.”
She blinked rapidly. “You haven't seen your wife in how long?”
“Twelve years. All this time, we've been yelling at each other over the phone. It's not a good situation. And yet, there it is.”
“So you must see other people here. Women.”
“Yes. But there comes a time when even a woman who thinks she's not looking for something serious realizes that she can't stay on the situation. It's not natural.”
“I'll tell you what's not natural. That a man like you—talented, successful, intelligent—can't talk some sense into this woman.”
“That's flattering. You underestimate the power of spite.”
“Twelve years?”
“All she has is this marriage.”
“But she doesn't have it!”
“Exactly right. All she has is the bitterness. That's all my parents have. But it drives them, the hatred.”
“It's perverse.”
“Welcome to Cuba.”
They ate for a few minutes. It was hard to tell how the facts had affected her.
“I'm sorry to hear all this.” She stared at him with her blue, blue eyes. He hoped she was one of the complication junkies.
They had arrived before the lunch rush and had lingered afterwards, drinking tea and more tea. Vladimir wore an air of fatigued, melancholic superiority throughout, like Dirk Bogarde in Darling
(John Schlesinger, 1965). After his preliminary confession, as if by agreement, the conversation stayed in the present, avoiding personal topics. Diane told him about her real estate odyssey Apparently Chris Wiley's romantic partner was a real estate broker; Vladimir said he would get his number for her. Vladimir followed her back to the cinema like a puppy, walking very close and looking at her a lot—a sudden, welcome turnaround that she needed time to process. Still: he was married.
The Bedford Street Cinema was playing A Touch of Class (Melvin Frank, 1972) as part of its “Manners in the Movies” series. When they hit the lobby, Vladimir went to look at the Cinema II space and Diane went into her office. She tripped over a suitcase: she'd forgotten that Rachel was expecting her. She should probably pick up some kind of house gift as a gesture: she would be staying open-endedly in the maid's room. Diane had thought she'd finished with her gift shopping (red scarves for everyone). But Chranukah wasn't for two weeks yet, and Rachel lived on Park Avenue. Did the doormen let you in without a gift?
She sat down at her desk to think.
Married. Granted, it wasn't good news. On the other hand, were there any men left at this age who didn't have baggage, often in two countries? Did it really matter, in the long run? Perhaps it mattered only in the long run.
Vladimir walked into her office as she was getting off the phone with a distributor. He stood in front of her desk. There was something in the air. She remembered the scene in A Touch of Class when George Segal comes to Glenda Jackson's office in a chaotic fashion showroom:
“Buying or selling?” her assistant asks him.
“Begging,” he says.
Vladimir put his bag on her visitor's chair and watched her.
“How would you like to see a movie?” Diane asked.
“How would you like to see my apartment?”
She laughed long and hard at this one. “You know, it's three o'clock.”
Vladimir took her hand to lead her away from the desk. “Yes.”
“It's three o'clock and it's Tuesday.”
They sat down on the sofa. “Let me look at you,” he said. Vladimir Hurtado Padrón, of the dark eyes and the curly lashes and the heavy black eyebrows, gazed at her and began touching her face, her neck, her hair.
She wasn't expecting anyone, but her door was open. There was also the window from her office to the projection booth to consider, although Floyd wouldn't need to change the reels for another t
wenty minutes. In the meantime, here was Vladimir, alive and interested, impossibly and previously attached, running his hands through her hair.
She went to shut the door and he followed her. They stood at the door. Akira Kurosawa once said that sound and picture act as mutual multipliers. The combination of the sound of Vladimir's breathing on her neck and the sight of Vladimir's longing was multiplying her own longing, tremendously.
“Come home with me.”
This could be just an average Tuesday afternoon for an attractive man like him. It could be that it was December—some people become needier around the holidays.
“I need a moment to think about this, Vladimir!”
“Oh.”
“You duck phone calls and cancel dates and reschedule and then cancel again and get me all confused, and now suddenly you're here, and you're ready, with an absolutely unbelievable story, and I just need a minute to process it. Would that be okay?”
“Yes, okay,” he said, sounding fatigued.
“Don't be depressed. Why don't you watch the movie?”
“No, I should get back to the studio. When will I see you?”
“Tomorrow night?”
She walked him out; as if by agreement, the space between them grew as they reached the lobby, and Vladimir waved as if he had just dropped by to look at the space.
Diane slipped into the theater just as the bored and married American George Segal brings the frustrated and divorced Brit Glenda Jackson to a London hotel room after a preliminary lunch.
“Look, I'm all for some good, healthy, uninvolved sex,” she says, “but not in this overworked little joint where the sheets haven't been changed in three weeks and I have to be back at the office in— Christ, half an hour ago. But if you'd like to arrange a lovely weekend, somewhere where the sun is shining, by all means, do.”
Glenda Jackson was the Star of the Month because her oeuvre had particularly explored the darkness lurking beneath social niceties, and no one else had so perfectly embodied harassed intelligence. Manners were an issue every day at the Bedford Street Cinema: Diane found herself throwing out at least three customers a day for breaking the social contract—by talking; using cellphones, laptops, or video games; preparing food; changing diapers; or fornicating during screenings.
It was impossible to watch movies in theaters where she didn't have control. She'd seen her last first-run film at the Lincoln Plaza Cinemas, seated in front of a pair of pretentious yentas in late middle age parroting the New York Times review of what they were about to see, even as the film began to roll. Diane shushed them repeatedly.
“She is so rude” said one of these women, loud.
“I'm rude? You're the ones behaving like you're in your own living room!”
“Pipe down, kids,” said someone else.
“Well, you're just a bitch, then.”
“Yes, I AM a bitch! I'm a bitch … at the movies!”
This got a laugh or two, and the women subsided for a moment. “Do you have a Kleenex?” said one to the other, as if they were on a bus. “I've been getting a cold.”
“No, but I think I have a cough drop—where did I put it?”
At this point, Diane shone her flashlight into their eyes. There were sounds of shock and disbelief, and the ladies scurried out. A moment later, an usher with a flashlight of his own came and summoned her. There was a ruckus in front of the concession stand; the manager offered a refund, but insisted all three of them leave.
“I was doing what you should have been doing,” Diane said. The movie was a Spanish costume drama at a so-called art house, not an action movie at the mall.
But this was surely last year's story of bad manners. In the meantime, she had better things on her mind, matters of courtship and excitement.
Vladimir had been standing right in front of her, touching her, ready to take her home. Why had she sent him away?
Even though Vladimir had promised to make the connection with Chris Wiley's partner, she called Chris directly and brought up the subject. Chris handed the phone to Paul, who was apparently sitting right there.
“Paul, I hear from Vladimir that you're a patient man.”
“Vladimir said that? About me?” There was laughter on the other end.
“Maybe he didn't. Perhaps I just assumed it, because to do what you do in this market, I think you'd have to have the patience of a saint.”
“I gather you've had a tough time of it. Would you like to stop by my office this week? When are you looking to move?”
“How does tomorrow sound?”
“My kind of client!” he said, and they fixed a date. “Vladimir is here, Diane. Would you like to talk to him?”
She felt flushed and dehydrated. “Sure.” Had Vladimir talked to Paul and Chris about her? Was he that familiar with them? Or did he chat about his personal life mindlessly, like her sister?
A moment later he was on the phone. “Hi,” he said quietly, and she heard rowdy laughter in the background. “Are we on?”
“Most definitely.”
Vladimir hung up the phone in an optimistic mood. It was irritating to return to the conversation he'd just been having.
“We have a beautiful coffee-table book about Cuba,” Paul had been saying. “All the fabulous pastel shades, and those great cars from the fifties. It's like a fantasy.”
“It isn't like a fantasy, it IS a fantasy.”
“But my friend Carl said it really does look like that. Everything in sepia tones, and old black guys in white linen suits carrying double basses through the streets. He just loved it. He collects fifties cars.”
“Cubans drive cars from the fifties because apart from the Russian and Polish cars from the eighties, there are no other cars to drive. And you need a permit to have one.”
“Like here.”
“Does the U.S. government tell you if you have the right to own a car?”
“The Cuban government decides that?”
“Yes,” Vladimir said, annoyed. Nobody listened.
He saw Paul processing the information. “Is that possible?” Paul asked.
“It's been possible for almost five decades.”
“Well, Batista was terrible for the country, for the people, wasn't he?”
“Of course he was.”
“You're not saying that Fidel is worse than Batista, are you?”
“These are the choices? Kleptocracy or dictatorship? Which would you like to live under?”
“We have a lot to answer for with the embargo,” Magnus said piously.
“The embargo is the best friend Fidel Castro ever had!”
Magnus sat with his mouth open, as Paul asked, “Wait, you're saying that the embargo helps Fidel?”
“When anything goes wrong, Fidel Castro blames the embargo. There is nothing more bonding than a common enemy. If the U.S. ended the embargo, Fidel Castro would have no one to blame. He would fall flat on his ass.”
“But when Fidel came to New York,” Magnus said, as if it were relevant, “he didn't stay at the Waldorf-Astoria, he stayed in Harlem, right?”
“That's right,” Paul said. “He stayed in Harlem, and he brought his own chickens with him.”
Magnus nodded, eyes shining. “He took on the Man, didn't he?”
“Magnus, Magnus, white boy from the suburbs. You don't get it: Fidel Castro IS the Man. He the MAN!”
“Vladimir,” Chris warned.
“So you're seeing this Diane person again?” Paul asked.
This was irrelevant, and typical of Paul. “I'll take the Fifth.”
“Chris! He's taking the Fifth!” Paul roared with laughter.
Magnus was wearing baggy jeans and a T-shirt that hit his knees.
“So, Magnus, I see you're a rap star today. No more Revolu-ción?”
Magnus cast a meaningful look at Chris, who sang, “Now, Vladimir, we must treat each other with respect.”
Magnus whispered something to Paul, who looked amused.
�
��How am I not respectful?”
“Where I come from,” Chris said, “everybody's very nice. They'll savage you the moment you leave the room, but they are sweetness itself when you show up. It's a good idea.”
Vladimir had seen Chris upset when he walked into a store and wasn't greeted properly. “I'd rather they be rude to my face.”
“No, you wouldn't,” Chris said.
“I don't see why a T-shirt should cause unpleasantness,” Magnus said.
“Then don't wear aggressive political statements. But if you do, be prepared to take responsibility for them.”
Chris cast a baffled smile his way. No doubt there would be another lecture about American Business Practices, and he would be taken to task for his tardiness, again. Vladimir went to his computer, tuned them out, pulled up the latest nasty letter from Cuba and wrote rapidly without thinking.
“Dear Yasmina,
“It is unfortunate that Migdalia, violating a basic rule of formal education—that one does not share private correspondence—has dragged you into this sterile controversy. It is also unfortunate that in order to respond to a letter that was not sent to you, you are using your mother's e-mail address. As I prefer not to compromise your mother with this ridiculous dialogue, I will not prolong the ideological debate. It is absurd that you think that in order to love my friends who reside in Cuba I need to support the ruling dictatorship on the island. If one day you understand that I am not your enemy, that you have gratuitously insulted me, and that we can agree to disagree, perhaps you will be able to mend what you have so efficiently broken.
“Until that day comes, Vladimir.”
He sent the letter off, to be read first by the censors in the Ministry of Education, then by Yasmina's mother, Yasmina's mother's friends and colleagues, then by Yasmina, Migdalia and every other defender of the bloody, pigheaded Revolution.
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