by Jessica Jiji
“I didn’t. She thinks you’re the plumber. Well, hurry along. And don’t call me back until you get that check.” Vanessa turned to leave.
“Wait a minute!” I protested. “At least tell me what this charity’s all about so I can convince her.”
“The less you know, the better,” she replied. “She’s not going to give because she likes the charity.”
“So what will make her give?”
“That, Laurel, is for you to figure out.”
The doorman regarded me suspiciously when I said I was the plumber, but when I added, “For three hundred dollars an hour, we figure our customers deserve a little leg,” he winked lecherously and let me up.
Trying to prepare in the elevator, I imagined Yelena’s apartment: ceiling to floor bookcases, no doubt, filled with the greatest works of literature ever written; her own books translated into dozens of languages—Mon Mari Idiot and Mein Idioter Mann—maybe a silver samovar in the corner, and perhaps a few Fabergé eggs here and there.
My intimidation only grew when I approached her apartment door and heard the obvious sounds of a domestic dispute emanating from within. It was muffled but vehement. That was just like Yelena to have great passion in her life. Tumultuous relationships were her muse.
More intimidated than ever, I pressed the buzzer, trying desperately to come up with a plan of action. I decided I would appeal to her great depth of humanity, well-known love of children, and abiding sense of responsibility for the next generation.
“Come in,” she yelled.
I opened the door and stood crestfallen. The apartment was bare, save for a giant portrait of Yelena and a large-screen plasma TV tuned to the Real Housewives of someplace or another.
My literary idol was slouched on a beanbag chair, screaming at the dysfunctional stars of a trashy reality show.
“You slut! I didn’t have nine lovers in nine years, and you had them all in one week!” Noticing me, she said, “It’s the bathroom sink. It should only take you a minute or two. So don’t try charging me an arm and a leg.”
Having dismissed me, she turned back to the staged train wreck and continued her rant. “You freaks! In my country, you would get proper psychiatric care.”
My head was spinning as I tried to reconcile this crass old loon with the literary genius I had worshipped for so many years. But although my illusions had been shattered, I was no longer paralyzed by a sense of inferiority.
“Your sink is the least of your problems,” I began.
She muted the television as a commercial came on. “I know,” she said, turning to face me for the first time. “The water pressure is like spit around here.”
“No, I was talking about the children of this city. Our future. Are you aware of the latest study showing that forty-nine percent of all high school graduates can only read at a sixth-grade level?”
“What kind of plumber are you?”
“A plumber of souls, so to speak,” I answered.
“You’ve got to be kidding me. Get out or I’ll call the police.”
“Who was it who said, ‘Each child is a star in the sky waiting to light the way for mankind’?” I asked calmly.
“Ah! I see you read above a sixth-grade level. That was my character Count Boris. But I never liked him.”
“What about the family Krasnipolsky? Their dynasty ended when their neglected children squandered the estate.”
“It was fiction,” she said. “Brilliant fiction, yes, but still fiction.”
“But it’s no fiction that right here in New York City, youngsters hungry for knowledge are unable to get the spiritual nourishment they need from books.”
“Ach, let ‘em watch TV,” she said, turning off the mute button.
I grabbed the remote and muted it again. “How can you call yourself a humanitarian and not care about the world’s children?” I asked, growing exasperated.
“Just because I call myself a humanitarian doesn’t mean I care,” she countered. “You called yourself a plumber, but I don’t see you fixing my sink.”
So the great Yelenovich was just another fraud. It was time to play the game by her rules.
“Well, I suppose you could ignore the world’s children, but there’s a heavy price to pay,” I warned.
“What? Another generation of idiots? Good, more episodes of ‘Real Housewives,’” she said.
“I’m talking about a financial cost. To you. I happen to know that New York Magazine is working on an exposé of the cheapest humanitarians on the planet.”
“No kidding? I bet that miserable Children First goodwill ambassador from Ukraine is number one on the list.”
“Quite right,” I replied. “It’s going to ruin his career when it’s published.”
“Ha!” she said, letting out a belly laugh.
“Unfortunately,” I said gravely, “you’re number two.”
“Me?” she said, looking shocked. “I grew up in wartime. We could last for a month on what you people waste in an hour.”
“But now you’re a multimillionaire,” I reminded her. “Your past suffering doesn’t exonerate you in the eyes of these reporters. They’re planning to smear you with a two-page spread.” I knew it was blackmail, but I figured only the children would stand to gain.
Yelena was silent.
Feeling guilty, I decided to soft-pedal. “I’m sure they’ll change their minds if you give money to a wonderful charity like the Author’s League for Children’s Literacy.”
“Ach, sign me up. I’ll brag about my generosity in the press, sell another hundred thousand books, and Las Vegas, here I come.”
The whole thing took ten minutes, and I came out waving a check between two fingers. Vanessa was delighted. “I know it may have been a dirty job,” she said, “but with this money we can finance tutoring for up to thirty children for a year.”
It was some consolation, but it didn’t make up for the fact that I’d just lost one of my heroes.
“I thought she was one of the most open-hearted people in the world, and she turned out to be one of the least,” I said.
Sensing my confusion, Vanessa drew out the moral of the story. “It just goes to show you, these people who you think have all the power are as weak and human as the rest of us.”
I leaned against a mailbox and tried to take it all in. “But that’s so depressing,” I said.
“Unless you use it to create good,” she said. “I look at you, and I see a brilliant author just waiting to be discovered. And then I hear about this Anderson Gallant who intimidates you so much even though he’s nothing but a spoiled trust fund brat who doesn’t have a fraction of your creativity.”
There was no denying the truth of Vanessa’s words, and I saw where she was leading. “But it’s different when it’s my own book,” I said.
“Why should you be any less deserving than that illiterate child out there?”
“Anderson has this way of cheerfully ignoring me like I’m nothing but the hired help.”
“Well,” Vanessa challenged, “Yelena Yelenovich thought you were just a plumber…”
I still felt tainted that evening and decided to visit Mrs. Lilianthaller to cleanse my conscience. “Oh, darling, you’re a saint,” she said. Her cute puppies Bogey and Bacall licked my face with so much joy that I almost believed her.
At the Union Square dog run, with my charges happily prancing around inside, I lapsed into my usual habit of daydreaming: Lucien kissing my neck over drinks at a jazz club on Bleeker Street . . . Anderson Gallant unable to put down my book . . . my always-riveting appearance on the “Today Show.”
While watching Bacall run around, I remembered that time so many weeks ago when I’d decided to give up on my dreams. That was before Vanessa taught me that dreams are great as long as you have the nerve to do what it takes to make them come true.
So I started to plan, step by step. Lucien wouldn’t stand a chance, and Anderson Gallant would be putty in my hands.
&nb
sp; - 9 -
On my way to the San Remo the next morning, I flipped open my cell phone and dialed The New York Arts and Entertainment Review.
“Laurel!” Lucien sounded thrilled to hear from me. “What a great surprise.”
“How was the concert?”
“Incredible. It was six hours long, including three and a half hours of these amazing monotonal beeps.”
I felt a pang of regret that I hadn’t been there with him, but I knew I’d made the right decision when he said, “I really missed you.”
“So how about giving me another chance?”
“Totally! Tonight this major sculptress from Williamsburg has an opening, and I’m the reviewer. Think you can make it?”
“I’d love to,” I said.
“Should I meet you at, say, eight o’clock at our regular spot?” he asked.
How romantic, I thought. We already had our own corner. “Definitely,” I replied. “By the way, sorry to disappoint you, but you didn’t make the Thinking Girl’s Beefcake Calendar. Don’t feel too bad, though, because the competition was really, really hot.”
“Why, did you meet them all?” He sounded morose.
“Well, I had to,” I said, feeling cheery. “But I was only a consultant. I’m off that gig now.”
By the time I reached Anderson’s apartment, I was feeling pretty hot myself. As in hot-shot. This time, when I stopped his treadmill, I pulled the plug.
“Hi!” he said, looking at me quizzically.
“Do you even know the name of my book?” He looked abashed. “Do you even realize what a masterpiece you have sitting on your terrace under that ficus tree? How are you going to feel when Napoleon’s Hairdresser wins the National Book Award and they interview you to find out why you never recognized the talent of your own dog-walker?”
“Napoleon’s Hairdresser? That sounds like a really interesting idea,” he said. “I love historical fiction. You say it’s under my ficus tree?” He got off the treadmill and went out to the terrace, returning with my manuscript. “What an outrage!” he said. “That damn maid is always mixing up my papers. But now that I’ve found it, I’ll read it right away.”
I’d been there before with Anderson, and I knew his promise wasn’t good enough. Only insecurity would motivate him. “You know,” my voice lowered to a confidential tone, “some people say you just inherited your position and that you really have no eye for literature.”
“They’re just jealous,” he said defensively.
“Maybe so,” I replied, “but if you’re the one who discovers Napoleon’s Hairdresser, you’ll shut them up for good.”
Anderson didn’t answer. He was too busy reading my Chapter 1.
It was the perfect afternoon. Leave it to Jenna to spoil it.
“Hey, sis!” She’d phoned me at home, just as I was about to sit down with the latest copy of Celebrity Style and savor my triumph. “Your writers group was really awesome, and I learned something about you. You’re not wasting your time; you’re cultivating your art! The rest of the family needs to know this, too.”
Just as I was cringing at the thought of Mom and Dad showing up in the Hell’s Kitchen basement, Jenna came up with an even worse idea. “I hope you don’t mind, but I’ve invited Mom, Dad, Mindy, Helene, Lewis, and Rob’s family to a little reading at my place next Sunday afternoon.”
“A reading?”
“Napoleon’s Hairdresser,” she said. “Your best chapter. It’s about time they learned what you’ve been up to.”
I was starting to believe I could find love and get published, but it was doubtful I’d be able to survive this one.
As always, Vanessa was completely supportive and explained the whole dynamic in a revelatory light when we next met at Café des Artistes. “You’re becoming more confident, and you’re changing the whole power balance in your family. Jenna’s trying to understand in a context she can control.”
I sipped the froth off of my cappuccino. “So what am I supposed to do?” I asked. “My family’s never going to get my book.”
“Look,” she explained, “it’s just not possible to make up for all the years that Jenna hogged the spotlight. Accept that, and enjoy your relatives for what they can offer.”
“But that’s not enough,” I said.
“The reality is that you’re going to have to find friends outside of your family for the kind of encouragement you really need.” Basking in the gaze of Vanessa’s warm brown eyes, I knew I’d already found the best one.
I was all decked out in my new off-the-shoulder black sweatshirt and torn jeans outfit, which had set me back three hundred dollars but was worth every penny for my first date with Lucien. Before I left, I just had to call Trish and check in.
“I’m so excited. If he’s half as sexy as you described, he’s gonna be great in bed.”
Trish had read my mind.
“We’re going to a gallery opening, not a love motel.”
“That’s just an excuse,” Trish said.
“Only if he likes me.”
“Just be yourself, and he’ll fall in love. You’re the warmest, prettiest, sweetest, sexiest, coolest girl I know.”
I was feeling pretty damn good after that, and then Vanessa called to check in. “Well, this is it,” I said, reminding her about my big night. “Any last words of advice?”
“Just this: Work with everything you already know about him.”
“That he’s a sexy, brilliant, single hunk?”
“There was one more important clue he gave us. Remember that day in his office? Think, think. He basically told us what he doesn’t like in a woman.”
After a pause, we said it at the exact same time: “An oversized ego.”
“Precisely,” Vanessa said. “Remember: Knowledge is power.”
Lucien looked better than ever that night, wearing black jeans, an authentic New York Dolls T-shirt, and, over that, a blue, unbuttoned shirt which brought out the color in his eyes.
He gave me a quick kiss on the lips, and I knew the action was only beginning. “You look beautiful.” Hearing it from Lucien sent shivers down my legs. “Glad you still have some time for me after interviewing all those beefcakes.”
“You were as good as any of them . . . mostly,” I said, trying not to let him hear the pounding of my heart. As if anyone could ever look better than Lucien Brosseau.
He placed his hand at the small of my back, and I felt the shivers reach further.
As we sped downtown in a taxi, we each answered those first-date questions that normally bored me but which were truly fascinating with Lucien. It turned out that he’d grown up on a collective farm in Nicaragua during the revolution after his father left France to support the Sandinistas.
“Wow,” I said. “That’s incredible.”
“The folk art of the indigenous population caught my eye at a young age, and my crude review fell into the hands of a professor from Oxford University. Two scholarships and a trek through North Africa later, I got my first paid job as a critic. But you don’t want to hear all of this—tell me all about you.”
I wasn’t about to confess that the highlight of my youth had been making cheerleading squad at Massapequa High, and remembering Vanessa’s advice, I demurred. “When did you start working at The New York Arts and Entertainment Review?” I asked.
“Well, that’s actually a really funny story.” He was halfway through telling me about how a Native American prayer shawl mailed to the wrong address had magically transformed his life when we arrived at the gallery.
The whole time he’d been talking I could barely stop staring at him. Those blue eyes were set against the dark waves of hair framing his face, and his cheeks flushed whenever our eyes met. His hair was so thick I just wanted to run my fingers through it, and his musky aftershave left me misty-eyed.
I’d never been to Lispenard Street before, and I’d certainly never heard of the Mahabharata Gallery. Lucien held my hand, and I glowed with gratitude for bring br
ought into this exclusive world. Everywhere I looked were fascinating people engaged in deep conversations. I recognized the fashion designer Takako Yamanashi, the famous photographer Marvin Saint-Jup, and Roland Butterfield, the real estate magnate, who had brought his latest trophy boytoy.
Without Lucien, I probably would have mingled only with the caterers, but he knew everybody and introduced me all around. “This is Laurel. She’s an up-and-coming writer.”
One tweed-jacket type wanted to know all about my novel. “It reviews the Napoleonic wars through the prism of a fictional female character who was closer to the general than his own horse,” Lucien said. “In Laurel’s imagined world, she’s the countervailing weight to his innate aggression.”
He hadn’t even read the book, and here he was describing it in more articulate terms than I ever could.
“Fascinating!” a woman with huge earrings said, joining our conversation. Pretty soon I found myself at the center of a small crowd of potential readers.
This was heaven—better than heaven—and it proved that my eight years of hard labor had not been wasted. Time and time again, my professors at Vassar had told me, “Write what you know,” but I was convinced, even then, that what I knew was boring. Would a crowd of New York’s premier intellectuals be standing around me if I’d been introduced as the author of I Was a Teenage Cheerleader? My decision to take the hard path of seemingly endless, tedious research and painfully difficult writing had finally paid off. I felt deliciously validated.
As we moved through the exhibit holding hands, Lucien admired the sculptures. To me they just looked like rejects from a Play-Doh factory, but he found great significance in their odd shapes. “These uneven textures reference the eternal conflict between spirit and flesh,” he explained. “Here I see a plane of calm next to declivities filled with angst,” he added, pointing to what appeared to be a mush on the side of a bump. I was rapt.
He was explaining the modern history of alloy castings when the taxi neared Fourteenth Street. “Well, I guess I have to get out, though I’d love to hear the rest,” I said hopefully.
