Don't Make a Scene

by Valerie Block

  “That's a sweet invitation, but I don't know what Claire's plans are.”

  “Or the following Tuesday, we could come in for dinner in the city?”

  This could go on and on. “Mom, I'm running late. I really must go.”

  The phone rang again.

  “I was just handed two theater tickets for tonight,” Dorothy announced, “and I can't think of anyone I'd rather go with than you!”

  The only thing Diane hated more than live theater was being at Miss Dorothy's Vail's beck and call. “I am so sorry, Dorothy, I have plans.”

  “No, you don't.”

  “Excuse me?”

  “I happen to know that you don't have plans. I looked in your date book yesterday when I was visiting.”

  “Did you happen to notice that that date book was business-only?”

  “Fifth row center,” she continued. “I don't want to make a point of it, but it's getting harder and harder for me, going places alone.”

  This woman was really turning into a second job.

  “I am so sorry, Dorothy,” Diane purred, “but the plumber is here, and I must get back to work.”

  In fact, she did have plans: she was seeing Vladimir that evening for an early movie and dinner. There was an unspoken agreement that she would spend the night with him on weekends, but not weeknights. She had a seventy-five-minute trip on Metro-North to consider now. She didn't want to crowd him, but if he expected the evening to end at his apartment, it would have to be a sleepover. She wanted to clarify things, but each time she brought up something practical, Vladimir changed the subject.

  She reserved seats in the back, and at the end of the day, Vladimir arrived and they installed themselves just as the lights went down. They saw Spring, Summer, Fall, Winter … and Spring (Kim Ki-duk, 2003), a Korean film about a Buddhist monk and a boy he is raising in a one-room monastery on a raft in the middle of a lake. Each season deals with a different stage of life—the natural cruelty of the boy in childhood, his sexual awakening as an adolescent, the young man's return to the lake after experiencing torment in the world outside, and so on. With next to no dialogue, simply through interactions between the characters, the breathtaking natural scenery and animals, the film cleverly raises questions about large moral issues—cruelty, passion, responsibility—without passing judgment. As with the first time she'd seen it, the film's simplicity and intimate connection to nature felt like a thorough vacation to Diane. This time, she decided that one-room living was actually desirable. When the lights came up, she was refreshed and ready to talk. Vladimir was asleep.

  “How could you?”

  He yawned. “Monks in a lake? Very easily.”

  Over dinner, she asked him about his favorite movies.

  “No offense to you, your profession, or anything, but I think that movies are a waste of time.”

  “Oh, come on. You must have some favorite movies.”

  He shrugged. When she pressed him, the names Schwarzenegger, Norris and Willis surfaced. She looked at him. This would be a problem—not just an issue: a problem. She was currently running a series of films with intriguing elements of set or production design; many of these would appeal to his architectural side. The following week, in a double feature of films using color in unusual ways, she would show Hero (Zhang Yimou, 2002), a gorgeous martial arts epic featuring Maggie Cheung and Zhang Ziyi in an airborne sword fight amid a whirlpool of red and yellow leaves. She had paired it with Gattaca (Andrew Niccol, 1997), a sci-fi thriller that appeared to be set in an Armani showroom of the future as seen through a beaker of urine.

  She invited him to see either or both.

  “We had a visit today from your friend Paul,” he said in response. “Does he ask you about me? Because he asks me about you. And he keeps talking about how beautiful Havana is.”

  “Speaking of Havana,” she said, dipping a piece of raw salmon into dark sauce, “we have a screening of The Buena Vista Social Club coming up. Would you like to see it?”

  “I saw it.”

  “Did you like it?”

  “Some of them signed the petition supporting the Regime's incarceration of journalists and librarians in 2003,” Vladimir said, polishing off his rice.

  “The musicians?”

  He nodded. “Either they signed the petition, or they woke up one morning and discovered, mysteriously, that they had signed the petition. Either way, it doesn't matter.”

  “Doesn't it?”

  “They're dependent on the Regime's favor, in order to make records, to leave the island and tour.”

  “Did you like the film?”

  “I cannot tell you how mad that petition made me.”

  He was there, vividly, and yet he was not quite interactive. She was dating a hologram.

  Chris left his suitcase in the dark foyer and walked to the back of the apartment.

  Paul was propped up on pillows in bed. He peered at him from behind the tent of The New York Times. “You look like the cat that swallowed the dog.”

  Chris took off his shoes. “I bought a house.”

  “You what?”

  He tried not to smile. “A house. With a front porch and a backyard.”

  Paul batted through the pages and settled on one, rattling the newspaper into place and doubling it up to read above the fold. “A house. You bought a house? I don't buy a jacket without discussing it with you.”

  “I've discussed it with you.”

  He tossed the paper aside. “And I told you I don't want to live in Atlanta.”

  “And that was the end of the conversation. So I made the bid without you.”

  “You are aware of what I do for a living?”

  Chris took off his jacket. He'd expected personal irritation from Paul, but he hadn't counted on professional pique.

  “How could you think of leaving this?” Paul flung out his hand.

  “This? This urine-soaked alley crisscrossed by scaffolding and garbage, bombarded by handbag vendors and teenage tourists? This noisy, overcrowded, hyped-up zone of boutiques selling Italian shoes and Japanese makeup and ten-dollar tomatoes? Tell me what's so great about it.”

  The newspaper fell to the floor. “Have you spoken to Vladimir?”

  “Of course not. You're my first stop.”

  Paul was motionless, blinking.

  Chris pulled a chair over to the side of the bed and perched there.

  “You think you should maybe talk to him?” Paul asked. “I mean, isn't he your partner?”

  “I don't think it would ultimately affect the partnership. I'll be going back and forth. When I'm not around, he and I can do everything over the phone and on the computer. And I can start developing business in Atlanta.”

  “I see. How much time do you think you'll be spending in Dixie?”

  “I have to go down to take another look at it before the closing, and talk to some contractors. I want to be there for the home inspection.”

  He saw Paul's key-driven mind kicking into gear. “It needs work.”

  “Major, major work. I thought I'd go down on Thursday nights, for the weekend, while the work is going on. You are invited for any and all of it.” He nudged Paul aside and sat down on top of the covers.

  Paul made room for him. “How would we get there?” he asked, raising an eyebrow.

  “We would fly.”

  “We would WHAT?”

  “We would fly” Chris laughed, and ran his fingers through Paul's bangs.

  “We would voluntarily put ourselves in a metal tube that goes up in the air? Twice in a weekend? Why would we do that?”

  “Come on. It's not so bad.”

  Paul tossed the covers aside and got out of bed; he was winding himself up for a fight. “You knew what I would say, and you went right ahead anyway.”

  Paul could be such a handful. “We've been through this. I need a slower pace. I need more space, greenery, conversation. I need a porch.”

  Paul was stalking the confined space at the foot
of the bed. “And who will you be having conversations with on this porch? Your neighbor, Mrs. Magnolia Peach Pie, who has a vested interest in making your life a living hell so you move out and some nice clean straight couple moves in?”

  “You haven't seen the neighborhood, friend.”

  “Gay neighborhood?”

  “Mixed. In all senses.”

  “In Georgia? You're insane, friend.”

  “I'd respect your opinion if it was actually based on anything. I think if you visited, you might change your mind, but I'm not pushing you.” Chris got off the bed to get something to eat. “I want to be with you, but I'm not willing to stay here full-time.”

  “What does that mean?”

  Chris paused. “That means I'll be traveling, and I hope you will, too.”

  Paul went into the bathroom shaking his head.

  When Chris saw impatient-looking boys in tight jeans on the streets of New York, he was reminded of himself in his early twenties, avid for the next experience. He'd been aggressive, hardworking and driven in his professional life; he'd been shallow, arrogant and naïve in his personal life. Currently, he was politically gay, socially gay, demographically gay, but sex itself had little to do with it. Where had all the sex gone? Increasingly, impatient-looking boys in tight jeans walked right past him, not even making eye contact. Fatigue and irritation outweighed desire much of the time. Had he been drained of all hormones? Did he care? Was this a natural effect of age, or monogamy, or was it just Paul? Paul was seriously gorgeous, but so annoying on occasion that Chris had to remind himself to open his mouth to avoid clenching his teeth. Periodically, Paul did absurd things—tossing liquids out the window, going out in January without a coat, crossing against the light in the middle of the block while traffic whizzed all around him—that Chris suspected were intended to elicit an alarmed response from him so Paul could then accuse him of behaving like a Jewish mother.

  “What do you get out of this?” Chris asked him each time.

  “Just that! The way you say ‘What do you get out of this?’ makes me happy! I don't know why!”

  Paul returned, still in a snit. He picked up the newspaper and rattled it.

  “An unexpected turn of events,” he announced, getting back into bed.

  FEBRUARY

  AT SOME POINT much too early in the morning, a phone rang very near her head, and Diane was jolted awake. Vladimir reached over her to pick it up. He listened, cursed, rose and took the phone out into the living room. He spoke in loud and emphatic Spanish. She had taken French in school, but she was able to recognize a few words, like “María” and “cojones.”

  She looked at the clock. It was seven a.m. This was too early for phone calls, weekday or not. He walked back into the bedroom and turned on the lamp.

  “What happened?” she asked.

  “Javier didn't come home last night, so they're hysterical.”

  “Who's Javier?”

  He sat down on the bed. “My son.”

  The lamp was awfully bright.

  “You have a son?”

  “Yes, I have a son.”

  “What?” When had he planned to tell her this?

  “I have a son. He's seventeen.”

  “He's seventeen? You have a son who's seventeen?”

  He cast a dark, impatient look at her. “Cojones, Diane!”

  This was said in the same tone of voice as “Cojones, María!”

  She had to be careful. “Okay, what happened to your son?”

  “They don't know, so they call me, like I can do something about it. From here. He's probably getting laid.”

  “If he did … get laid last night, where is he now? Wouldn't he go home?”

  “How would I know? Why do they call me? What can I do about it?”

  “Well, he is your son.”

  “Yes, Diane, he is my son,” he said at top volume. “And we have as much in common as any two people who've had dinner together twice.”

  He stalked into the living room. She lay back down. She heard him turning on his computer. Vladimir was always working, always angry—at Fidel Castro, a contractor, an electrician, the bank, his father, his mother, his wife, his sister, the Cuban people for being so easily manipulated, the American people for being so naïve, the Miami Cubans for living in nostalgia, the substandard and ungram-matical Hispanic press, the substandard and vulgar Hispanic TV, the Spanglish spoken on the streets of New York. He was in regular conflict with old friends who remained in Cuba, and old friends who'd arrived in America and hadn't pushed themselves. He'd begun to play chess obsessively with a computer program, referring to the opponent as “Castro,” whether he won or lost. Diane was walking on eggs with him at all times.

  “He's alive, Diane,” he called.

  She knew who He was. Fidel Castro hovered over every conversation, in the tradition of the one-issue man. She stayed in Vladimir's bed a while longer. She needed a shower. Would he consider it pushy if she asked to leave a few things in the bathroom? What if she just hid them under his sink? What could he do to her?

  “How is it possible to be immersed in something that makes you mad all the time?” she asked, and was pleased that he actually looked up.

  “That's a really interesting question,” he said.

  But he didn't answer it.

  Akira Kurosawa had reported in his memoirs that he always felt more loneliness at being separated from his film crew than joy at being reunited with his family. How had this gone over with Mrs. Kurosawa?

  “Will you come this Friday for the panel discussion?” she called.

  “Ah, no. I have a friend coming into town from Paris.”

  She rolled over. A friend?

  “So I won't be making plans for this weekend.”

  She decided to deal from strength. “So come to the movie tonight.”

  “I have to work late.”

  “Come to the late show.”

  “Why don't you come over here after the late show?”

  She breathed in. “So does this go over well in Havana? ‘I'm married in absentia, and I'd like to see you tonight after the late show?’ ”

  He looked exhausted. “I am running behind in the construction documents. Your construction documents.”

  “Would this friend from Paris be Terry, the chef and former neighbor that you dated for two years?”

  “Yes,” he said, typing.

  She stepped into the shower. In The Grifters (Stephen Frears, 1990), which would play that night in the “Cynics, Shysters and Con Men” series, a young and eager John Cusack receives advice from a card shark in a white suit who tells him to stick to the short con, and never take a partner—partners are out to fleece you. “There's nothing to whipping a fool. Fools are made to be whipped. But to take another pro, even your partner, who knows you and has his eye on you: that's a score, no matter what happens.”

  Diane had been dating for twenty-five years. What was she, if not a pro? She was a pro, and yet she never seemed to get any better at it. How had she not seen this? What had they been talking about for almost six weeks?

  When she emerged, wearing a sweater from his collection, he was at his drafting table looking handsome, talented and absorbed, with his magnificent hair restrained by a No. 2 pencil. If she had to design a model boyfriend, in his totality, her ideal probably wouldn't come out like Vladimir, even without a child involved. But that wasn't how it worked. You had to deal with who showed up. And here he was. Intractably married, with a seventeen-year-old in a different country. He continued to focus on the Internet.

  Finally she said, “Do you have a picture of your son?”

  He slid off his stool and pushed open one of the frosted-glass doors of the cabinet he'd designed. He pulled out a framed picture.

  It was the whole family, in front of a cake.

  “This is Javier.” He pointed to a twelve-year-old who looked like him: The boy was surrounded by laughing people. “That's my mother,” he said, pointing to a wom
an with short maroon hair. “And that's María.” He pointed to an overweight women in a sundress. He put the photo back on the shelf and slid the door closed. And that was that.

  He was married, with a child. Not a child, a teenager! What else was he hiding in these cabinets? “Tell me. I want to understand the situation.”

  “María and I talk twice a month. She poses questions, and then answers them, and then shouts at me for not getting involved.”

  “And Terry?”

  “Terry comes into town now and then.”

  “Is she staying here?”

  “No,” he said. He didn't sound quite sure.

  She walked to the window. Most Americans didn't like anyone to rain on their parade. But cynicism of the lyrical variety—Billy Wilder, Joseph L. Mankiewicz, Spike Lee, David Mamet—was a homegrown tradition rarely acknowledged or celebrated; Diane had programmed the current series to run when everyone else was promoting Valentine's Day schmaltz. She was showing Witness for the Prosecution (Billy Wilder, 1957), a film so cynical it made Double Indemnity (Billy Wilder, 1944) look like a bedtime story. In the film, Marlene Dietrich delivers the definitive con by using her reputation as a dragon lady to make people see what they expect to see. People are often misled by their own expectations. Look at her expectations of Vladimir—she hadn't asked him about children, or other women, because it hadn't even occurred to her that he might have any stashed away. Few people were as solitary as she seemed to be.

  “You're forbidding me to see an old friend?”

  “Of course not. A man cheating on his wife is one thing. But a man cheating on his girlfriend and insisting he has every right to do so …

  “What cheating? Who is cheating? We are having dinner!”

  “And after dinner?”

  “That doesn't affect you and me.”

  “I don't like this situation, Vladimir. If you hadn't mentioned it, I'd be none the wiser. But since you mention it, sorry, I can't sign up for that.”

  American prude, she thought, and walked out into the hall. She pushed the elevator button. Okay, then. She'd find somebody else. Single, straight, monogamous men over thirty-five were just growing on trees in New York, after all. There was a terrible pressure in her head. She'd made a nice exit; she couldn't very well ring the bell and ask for aspirin now. She had just stepped into the elevator when he walked out barefoot and blocked the elevator door.