‘Oh, come on, Willie,’ a flautist said. ‘He really understands music.’
‘Did I say he didn’t?’ Willie demanded. ‘He surely got inside Wolfgang Amadeus. And I’ve just read his latest book, brand-new, all about love in the post-war world. It’s a good book, of course. But he should know.’ There was something insinuating about his voice.
‘Know what?’ Justin asked.
‘What he’s talking about,’ the cellist had replied.
Katherine felt her hackles rise. ‘What do you mean?’
‘Great man or no, he’s not above enjoying tail.’
Outraged, Katherine had cried, ‘He’s a cardinal!’
‘Come, little one,’ the cellist had condescended from his ten-years and five-inches advantage over Katherine. ‘Surely you know that priests are human beings with human needs which sometimes have to be fulfilled.’
‘I don’t believe it.’ Katherine knocked her glass of Mâcon into a plate of brie.
Justin began calmly mopping up the red liquid. ‘Cardinal von Stromberg is a friend of ours and a very great man, and people always have to cut the great down to size.’
The cellist added his not-very-clean handkerchief to the plate of cheese and wine, sopping it up absently. ‘I, unlike you, go to Mass regularly, so I’m less easily upset. Celibacy didn’t come into the Church at all for the first several centuries. You should read his new book. Ginette gave it to me to read, thinking it might nudge me toward marriage. We’ll see.’
‘Oh, come on, Willie, you’ll never marry,’ a trombonist said, and the conversation shifted.
When Katherine and Justin were getting ready for bed that night she said, ‘Your concerto came off superbly. Even Willie couldn’t ruin it.’
‘Oh, Willie’s not that bad a cellist. Not tops, but all right. Anyhow, I think the concerto came off pretty well, too. But tell me again. Flattery will get you everywhere.’
They talked about the concerto for a while, and Justin sighed contentedly, ‘I think the Wolf would have been pleased,’ and went into the bathroom.
She asked, ‘It’s not true, is it?’
Justin called through the open door, ‘What’s not true?’
‘What Willie said about Wolfi.’
For a moment she heard the sound of Justin brushing his teeth. Then, ‘It’s the price of fame, Minou.’ He came in, tying the belt to his robe. ‘The moment anyone is famous, then people have to cut them down. All Willie was trying to do was boost his own lecherous ego by bringing Wolfi down to his level.’
‘He can’t.’
‘Of course he can’t. The Grey Wolf stands head and shoulders above the rest of us.’
‘He’s a cardinal. Why would Willie say such a thing?’
‘Precisely because Wolfi is a cardinal. Willie’s mind is totally phallic.’
Katherine sat on the edge of the bed. ‘So you don’t think it could be true, do you?’
Justin sat beside her, smelling of toothpaste and cologne, and put his arm around her. ‘You are still an innocent child. No. I don’t think it’s true, though I think it could be true. Wolfi is a human being, and all human beings have flaws and faults, even the greatest; especially the greatest.’
‘But—’
‘Little one—’
Perhaps because the mingled odors of toothpaste, of the cologne she had given him for Christmas, of Justin himself, were strongly aphrodisiac, she answered sharply, ‘I’m not a child!’
‘Katherine. Minou. Wife. Every human being has a special temptation. For some men it’s women, whether they’re priests or not. If they go in for womanizing as a fixed policy, then’—he held his nose—‘ça dégueulasse. But if they occasionally yield to temptation, pick themselves up out of the dirt, say I’m sorry to God or whomever they ought to say it to, then ça va assez bien.’
‘It’s dirty. I mean, Willie’s mouth is dirty.’
‘Sale, yes. But you must allow Wolfi to be human. He is not a marble statue.’
‘I don’t want him to be. But I don’t want him to be what Willie said, either.’
‘Wolfi is not what Willie said. That I can promise you. Willie has lived too long in America, where all friendship is assumed to have a genital basis.’ A look of bitter anguish moved across his face. ‘Who knows what Auschwitz may have spared you? Before I married you, I wasn’t much better than Willie. Believe me, Minou, I wasn’t. I’m not at all sure I would have been strong enough for complete fidelity.’ She put her hands over her face, pressing her fingers against her eyes, and Justin reached and took one of her hands, pressing it against his chest, moving her fingers through the dense, dark hair. ‘And, had I been able to go on playing, I might have been jealous of your talent. It is not good for husband and wife to be in competition.’ As she shook her head in negation, he added, ‘Wolfi is a great friend and confessor to many people, far more than we realize because we think of him as being especially ours. But he is not. He has many people who need him, women as well as men. Don’t you realize that if you and I become famous, people are going to say things about us, too?’
‘Us? What kind of things?’
‘Don’t sound so horrified. They’ll think of something. That I’m homosexual. That you sleep with half a dozen conductors.’
‘You’re laughing at me.’
‘Not really.’ Again he rubbed her fingers against his chest, but his voice was serious. ‘Minou, if we do what I expect us to do in the world of music, there will be people out to smear us, and malicious gossip is one of the easiest weapons.’
(He was right; there had been gossip; all far from the truth: Justin and a ballerina; Justin and an Iranian oil princess; Katherine and a violinist with whom she played frequently; anyone, everyone—it did not bother them overmuch.)
She sighed. ‘Merde. You’d think I’d realize it’s a vile world. I do, in the big things. How could I not? It’s the little things that surprise me.’
He drew her to him. ‘I know, ma chérie. But there are good surprises, too. Wolfi. His books. How like him to let us discover them for ourselves! And you, Minou, you are my great, good surprise.’
‘I’m not a surprise,’ she murmured. ‘I’m Katherine.’
‘That is a surprise. I thought, when you first came back to Paris to work with me, that you would remain a frozen little girl all your life, that you would never become the warm, wise, mature, wonderful—’ He broke off and kissed her forehead, her eyebrows, the tip of her nose, her chin. ‘That you are my Katherine is the greatest surprise of all.’
There are many ways of love, of intercourse, which the world, including all the Willies, cannot understand.
10
There were, of course, temptations. In the sexually permissive atmosphere of the world after the war, she was often approached. Perhaps her unmet need was felt; in any event, she had many offers. ‘We’re in Antwerp just this one night; my room is just down the corridor from yours; I’ll be waiting …’
The Willies of the world were easy to turn down. With others it was not so easy, especially if they had just been making music together. There were times when it was all she could do not to give in to her need. And why shouldn’t she? Wouldn’t it have been completely normal and natural? But something, and she was never sure what, kept her from it, and when Justin lay in her arms, and then, in his turn, held her, murmuring endearments, she was grateful that she was wholly his. She did not fully understand why she could not reach out for fulfillment to some of the men who came to her with love as well as desire. It had nothing to do with morals or virtue. Perhaps it was an inchoate knowledge (which she understood more fully later) that she could not give her body to someone for a brief time of pleasure and release, and let it go at that. Perhaps others could hold some of themselves back; she could not.
After Justin’s death there were offers of marriage. But no one came up to the standards of companionship set by Justin. She was not interested in compromise or second-best. There were musicians with whom
she had enjoyed playing, and perhaps lingering over supper after the concert. But that was enough. For some reason Julie was concerned that her mother might remarry. In this one area Katherine was able to give her complete reassurance. ‘No, darling, don’t worry. Your father was all the husband I need.’
11
The volume of Kant slipped from the old woman’s fingers and slid to the floor. Not bothering to pick it up, she turned off the light and slid into sleep, not the deep sleep of the early hours of the night, but the shallows in which conscious and the subconscious slide in and out of each other.
She dreamed, not of Justin, or of the cardinal, but of Llew; that he was playing the organ in the Cathedral, with the moonlight pouring muted colors through the windows, and that Dorcas, holding a baby, was standing beside him, turning the pages.
Katherine slipped slowly back into consciousness and reached out with foot and hand for Justin’s body. Are such habits never broken? She was alone. Alone in bed as she had been for twenty years. Was it twenty? No matter. Long enough.
The past was always part of the present and some events never lose their power to evoke pain.
One night, as she and Justin were getting ready for bed, he turned to her. ‘Katherine, I want children.’
She paused, hairbrush in hand, her hair thrown back. Then, ‘All right. We can look into the various adoption agencies. The war has left plenty of homeless children.’
‘No.’ The lines between Justin’s nose and mouth were white with tension. ‘Not adoption.’
She did not know what to say, what he had in mind, so she continued brushing her hair, long and black and silky and heavy, so heavy that she felt pulled down by it. Or by Justin.
The brush moved more and more slowly over her hair.
‘What happened to me is between you and me. We have told Wolfi, and we will tell no one else. We have come to terms with it, and that is that. But I have heard that there have been rumors—from someone from Auschwitz—I can’t have that. I want them stopped.’
Silence lay between them like a chasm.
His voice was angry. ‘I warned you that something like this would happen, that when we began to make names for ourselves people would have to find some way to diminish us, the way they do with Wolfi—’
‘But that’s not true—’
‘Katherine, I want this stopped. It is essential to me that it be stopped.’ He was almost shouting. ‘You can have children. You’re still young, you’re still in your twenties.’
She felt as though she would never be able to speak again; the column of her throat was frozen.
‘My God!’ Justin cried. ‘Don’t act dumb! Don’t play the naïve child. You are a desirable woman. There are plenty of men who—stop whimpering! Don’t you see what has to be done to stop people? If you get pregnant it will be assumed that I am the father. I will be the father. I don’t ever want to know who—’
Now she said, sounding to herself old-fashioned, a stupid schoolgirl, ‘But when I married you I promised to—’
‘Damn it! I don’t want you to become a prostitute! Just to get pregnant, to give me a baby. I will love the child, I will …’
She had fumbled into clothes, not looking at him, and fled the house, running to a public phone. Wolfi. She had to speak to the cardinal.
He told her to come. ‘Take the next train. It’s absolutely impossible for me to leave now, or I’d come to you. But we cannot talk about this on the phone. Go home to Justin and tell him that you have to think, and that you need to be away for a few days.’
‘Shall I tell him I’m coming to you?’
To her surprise he said, ‘No. I don’t want anything to come between Justin’s and my friendship, and this might. But come quickly.’
Why did it hurt so much? Why wasn’t it a reasonable suggestion? Why did it still hurt?
She turned over in bed. The heat had returned to New York, and she took a corner of the sheet and wiped her face. It was being a bad night. Memories were not healing.
When she told people that Justin had been a wonderful father, it was true. Often, when she had been on tour, he had been father and mother to the children. He had adored them. She thought that he sometimes forgot that he had not been part of their conception.
Was it the fact that it was pride which had brought about the original demand (for it was not a request) that still hurt? And why, when love had overcome pride, and so soon …
But the past still hurt. And the present hurt.
Who had made that repellent phone call?
Elective Affinities
1
For the next several days, she was restless. Whenever the phone rang, it was a jolt. But it was always something innocuous, a rug-cleaning service, a wrong number, and, finally, Felix asking her for dinner.
She felt restless enough to accept unhesitatingly, and for a moment he overwhelmed her with gratitude. Then he made plans calmly and considerately. He would come down to the Village and take her to a small northern Italian restaurant which had been there when they first knew each other.
She did not remember it, although as they walked up MacDougal Street he assured her that they had been there several times. The restaurant was down several steps and felt pleasantly cool as they entered. On the wall above the bar was a life-sized photographic portrait of an exquisitely beautiful young woman.
“It was her restaurant,” Felix said after they were seated in a quiet corner and given menus. “She wasn’t that young when we first started coming here, and she was an old woman when I was elected Diocesan and returned to New York. One of her sons and one of her grandsons are carrying on. They’ve kept up the quality of the cooking; everything is made on the premises.”
As a waiter came by, Felix asked for the wine list. “Wine, I think, all through the meal, rather than cocktails. All right?”
“Fine.” She unfolded her napkin and relaxed into the comfortable chair; the chair itself spoke well for the restaurant.
“I’m so grateful you could come, Katya. I’ve had the screaming meemies all week. I’m grateful not to have to be alone tonight when I’m so out of proportion.”
He, too? “Why are you disproportionate, Felix?”
“Oh, Katya, I wish I could tell you. I have too many secrets, and I wish there could be no secrets between us—”
She tried to calm him. “We’ve both lived such long lives that if we tried to tell each other everything we’d die of even older age before we finished our tale.”
“You’re right, of course you’re right. Do you have secrets, too?”
“A Bluebeard’s closet full.” A small tremor moved through her.
He peered over the large menu at her. “Has something happened to disturb you?”
Why was she telling him? “Nothing really important. I had a poison-pen kind of phone call the other night, accusing me of sex with both you and Mimi.”
“How dare they!” His reaction was so violent it surprised her.
“Who?”
He studied the menu, then put it down, his voice calm. “Nobody in particular. Anyone who makes obscene phone calls.”
“You don’t have any idea who?” She peered at him in the dimness of the restaurant light.
“No.”
“Felix, you’re not telling me the truth. Who is it?”
He looked again at the menu. Then, “I don’t know. That’s the truth.”
“Have you had similar calls?”
“Heavens, yes. I can’t count how many through the years. This isn’t your first, ever, is it?”
She shook her head. “But the first in several years. And the first since I’ve come home to Tenth Street.”
“I’m so sorry …” He stetched his hand across the table toward her. “I’ve had them increasingly in the past couple of years. For someone who’s knocked around, I find them amazingly distressing.” He was not telling her everything he knew.
“Have you had one recently?”
“No,
no …”
“Felix.” She drew her hand back, away from his.
The menu trembled in his hands. “I had a call this evening, just before I left to come downtown. Someone threatening to tell about Allie and me.”
“To tell who, what, about Allie and you?”
He put the menu down on the table and placed his hands on it to stop their trembling. “Katya—after Sarah, after the war, I was, to put it mildly, a mess. As I’ve told you.”
“Don’t be so hard on yourself, Felix. What about window cleaning?”
“Thank you. Sometimes I tend to forget that there was ever anything good about me, back then. I don’t know why I didn’t end up the victim of one of those sordid murders one reads about in the scandal sheets. God knows I didn’t deserve to live.”
“Felix, don’t,” she said softly.
The waiter returned with wine in an ice bucket, and waited while they ordered. When he left them, Felix said, “Katherine, I need your friendship, your counsel.”
She sighed. “I am a pianist. I cannot be your confessor.”
A thin laugh. “Don’t worry. I’m through the nasty part. Sarah gave me some money, but not enough. I got a job as a waiter, since I didn’t appear to be making much of a living with the violin, first in a crummy hash house. I was good at it—people liked me, because I listened to them, even when they swore at me. That’s how I discovered I had a gift for the ministry. I moved on to a better restaurant and ended up, although I find it hard to believe, at the Pierre. I used to bring breakfast to a Dutch couple who were there for the winter; they were textile people, traveling to various mills, but they made the hotel home base. They read a lot—all the tables and chests were piled with books and magazines—theology mostly—and they’d give me articles to read, I used to come talk with them on my off-hours. The amazing thing is that I fell in love with both of them, Pieter and Wendele. And they with me. Did you know that kind of thing could happen?”
A Severed Wasp Page 20