“Hey, this is Russia, guys.” Marty had an alternate plan B. “A good dinner—You gotta have a little vodka to wash it down. Everybody’s gotta have a coupla shots.”
So up he gets—while they’re still shoveling down their steaks—and over to the in-room bar that comes with all the penthouse thousand-dollar suites. Four shot glasses in his hands, and the bottle of Stoly that he’d ordered earlier in the day, just in case the wine struck out. He fills each one right to the rim, then sets them, one in front of everybody at the table, and says—“OK, drink up, kids. Down the hatch.”
His goes down real fast, Maria’s goes down a little slower, and as for me, Kenny here, I take a little sip—And I’m, like, gagging! Shit! Just like drinking gasoline right from the pump—Not that I ever drank gasoline from a pump, but the smell’s about the same. And Liliana?
“Come on, Liliana. You gotta join us—Hey, I’m gonna make a toast, and it’s not polite if you don’t drink up and toast along.” Marty’s flat-out pleading, for whatever his friggin’ pleas are worth.
“Toast? It is like bread you are saying?” Liliana looks at him quizzically: beautifully, fetchingly, but quizzically nonetheless.
“No, no, ‘toast’ is like—How do you say it in Russian, Maria?”
Maria curls her lips downward toward the immaculately bleached white tablecloth and shrugs.
“OK, well it’s like wishing somebody good luck, or good health, or—What do you say in Russian?—Nazdrovia? Did I say it right?”
“Da. Nazdrovia. Is correct to say with thank you. But you got to roll more letter ‘r’ in way you say it. Like na zdr-r-rovia. You hearing difference?”
“Yeah. Yeah, I do. So drink the little glass I gave you and then I’ll fill everybody’s up again so I can say it right before we toast again.”
“You drink, Mr. Marty. You take my little glass also if you like. I do not taste vodka. I never do.”
“That’s not very polite, though—is it?”
“Izvenite. I am sorry not to be polite. Perhaps I go. Perhaps it best that I should leave hotel, take Metro home and go.”
“After I fed you that great dinner? Eat and run? It’s very rude for a person to eat and run.”
“I have no desiring to be rude. But if no activities are planned after finish eating, what are purposes for remaining here in room?”
“Purposes?” Marty stops to think “OK, how about this? How about giving me a Russian lesson. Teach me how to say some things I’m gonna need for the trip—Will you do that at least? Can’t you do that before you go?”
“Which kind of thing you wish to learn?”
“OK, well let’s move over to the couch and get more comfortable, and I can watch your lips a little closer while you say the words—Can we do that? That’ll help a lot for me to concentrate.”
He doesn’t wait for a response—Marty never waits for anything—He just gets up, moves around the table, helps pull back her chair, takes her hand, and leads her over to the couch facing the TV. That Liliana, she’s a sweetheart, alright—sweet enough to go along with this dumpy, horny guy, at any rate—although she looks a t-e-e-n-s-y bit uncomfortable; a t-e-e-n-s-y bit reluctant. This’d be the proper time for him to intervene, thinks Kenny. But Marty seems restrained—restrained for him, at least: I mean, at any other time, with any other girl, he’d have his hand half up her blouse by now, and more than half the other girls would play along. Six years of hanging out with Marty teaches you that girls like money just as much as Marty likes the girls.
But nothing to object to yet, so it’s safe enough to sit and watch—For now it is, at any rate—And while Kenny does just that—while he sits and watches eagle-eyed and Maria cracks the crusting of her crème bruleé, Marty over on the sofa says to Liliana:
“OK, well teach me how to say ‘You’ve got beautiful blue eyes.’”
“This is phrase you need to know for travel?” Liliana frowns and moves her body half a foot away. But Marty doesn’t follow. Marty’s still respectful, in his way. He answers:
“Sure. This is part of my traveling, isn’t it? Sitting here with you, I mean?”
“Lot of better things I teach you maybe, like ask directions or buying ticket for to taking train.”
“OK, sure, we’ll get to that later. But let’s say I meet a pretty girl, and I want to ask her for a kiss. How would I say, ‘I want you to kiss me’? How would a Russian guy say that?”
“OK, if you need to know such thing, then Russian language, it say, ‘Ya hochu chto vuy menya tselovayetye.’”
She spoke the words and that was it. You almost couldn’t blame him for doing what he did, any more than you could blame her for what she did reflexly in response. A girl like her? Man-oh-man! That face, that figure, the perfect eyes, the perfect nose, the perfect lips. Even with that stupid baseball cap on, blocking half the beauty of her face, a girl like her just flat-out asking you to kiss her, in whatever language—Hell, what could Marty do but do his typical Marty Corman thing?
So he does; the crazy bastard does it! He puts one hand behind her neck, pulls her over to him and makes his move to kiss her until….
Whack! Wow! Right across the cheek, she slaps him hard! Like, hard, I’m talking—like hard enough to leave this, like, bright red handprint on his skin—Man-oh-man! you can almost see the outline of her fingers there, all white around the red—Then before the poor guy can react, she gets up from the couch, leans over him, and slaps him hard again—Wham!—right in the same red spot she slapped before, saying something in Russian that you can’t make out so well, and can’t so much as hope to understand (which is probably a good thing, all considered), and then she says in English:
“This is way you treat young woman in America? Like this? You do not wait for girl to be agreeing to let you kiss? Studitsa! STUDITSA!—You must to be ashame to do such thing! Ashame! I leave right now. I go.”
And she would have walked out too, she would have split as fast as frantic white-tails running from a forest fire, if Maria hadn’t left her crème bruleé resting in its dish half-eaten to catch the gorgeous Liliana just before she made it out the door.
Hey, you’ve gotta do what you’ve gotta do, don’t you? thinks Maria.
Not everybody’s got a face like Liliana, or a shape like hers, or her charm, or her talent—or her morals (thank God for that!)—And if you’re not like her—and practically nobody in the real world is—then you need to do whatever it takes to make a name for yourself, to get ahead. And Maria Fenton decided long ago that that was precisely what she was going to do.
So what if she played up to Marty a little more than she’d planned when the night was young? Her whole darn program was about to fall apart, wasn’t it? OK, he’d been a little too pushy, no denying that. But did Liliana have to slap him the way she did?—Not as hard as she did. And not just once, either, but then that second time—that’s what really made the evening slither south. When you just up and humiliate a guy like that, what can you expect back from him but anger first of all, and then resentment; then finally the resentment turns into what?—into resentment against everyone who happens to be anywhere around when the humiliation goes down, that’s what—Which would have meant her too—Her, Maria, the innocent bystander, the girl just sitting there eating her crème bruleé in peace—And then, over on the couch behind her back (she isn’t even looking at the time)—Whack!—Meaning: poof!—up in smoke go all your dreams and aspirations, everything you’ve worked for all your life. No auditions in New York, no introductions to the honchos of ballet, no nothing—zip; over and done with; you and your dance career are through.
So sure, she did what she had to do to salvage what she could. She didn’t regret it; she wasn’t ashamed. Maybe Liliana thought a little less of her, but, hey—a month or two from now, Liliana probably wouldn’t even remember this so-so dancer Maria Fenton who’d been in Moscow and tried to be her friend. That’s the way things are in the real world. That’s the way it goes.
Kenny had taken them down to get a cab, since Marty wouldn’t come out of his room while Liliana was still there. Fifty dollars cash to take the ladies where they had to go, paid up front to the cabbie. At least Marty Corman showed them that much consideration, and that much of his casual wealth.
Or shown her, anyway; the taxi was for her—As for Liliana, he didn’t ever want to see that frigid bitch again; that’s what he said when she ran into the bedroom to smooth his ruffled feathers, to rub that crimson cheek of his with her fingertips, to salve his wounded pride with a bunch of gentle words and a bunch of nice wet kisses—And then to really comfort him in the only way a sympathetic girl can devise to comfort a guy with severely wounded pride. That worked, though—Wow! had it ever! Nighttime in Moscow is middle of the day in New York, and as soon as she was finished with her comforting, good old Marty had paid her back in the only valid currency that could help a dancer’s cause, and the only kind she would accept—namely a phone call to his dad.
“She’s great, Dad; she’s a fantastic dancer, and we need to give her career a little boost.”
Then he put her on the phone. No questions about her ability, no work experience required. All dear old Daddy Corman asked her was:
“What kind of position are you looking for, young lady? And give me a target date. When are you heading back to New York?”
So the comforting was worth ever slobbery minute of it—Not that Liliana, with all her beauty and her talent, would ever understand.
And then, not a word since they got in the taxi, but Maria Fenton is patient enough and she’s got time—She’d told the driver to drop Liliana off first, and her flat was still a good fifteen minutes away, figuring for the traffic and all.
“So? You’re not talking to me? Not even on my last night here in Moscow?”
“No, Maria, you are wrong what you say. I am not upset what you do. I feel sorry that you need to do it. It is my fault. I am sorry.”
“Well, anyway, thanks for staying around and waiting. I didn’t really want to be up there with both those guys alone.”
“Yes, I know. I stay because I not wanting that you be alone. And also, that paren Mr. Kenny. He was very nice for me to talk to. He was very, umm sochuvstvenniy—how you translate? Sympathizing?”
“‘Sympathetic’ is the word. So—you guys talked the whole time me and Marty were in the bedroom?”
“Yes, whole time. I hear all about europayski trip and Mr. Kenny, his life. Very nice paren, very simpatichni—‘pleasant’, you say, I think. He make lot of apology for his rudeness friend.”
“So—you don’t look down on me for doing what I did to smooth things over? You don’t think what I did was wrong?”
“You are dear friend to me, Maria. Nothing you can do for me it’s wrong…. But, more important than every other thing … will he help you get good placement in New York?”
“Yes, I’m sure he will. We called his dad tonight and he—his dad, I mean—kind of promised that he’d help me make connections. And when I make them, and, hopefully, get accepted in a major company—or even a Broadway gig—some good feature part in a play, I mean—what I’d like to do is this: Look, if I get the money and can make the arrangements, would you consider coming to the States to visit—all expenses paid, I mean—Would you consider that?”
“I cannot say for certainly. I have my mother I must look after her, as well as duties to ballet.”
“Well what about that girl you said they matched you with on FaceMate? Wouldn’t you like to meet her? Wouldn’t that be nice?”
“Oh yes, I would. I really would! Tuy znaesh, Maria—You know? It is very close resemblance. I show my mother and she cannot even believe this thing she see. But something strange I notice. The girl they send for match, old-style way she keep her hair, old style way she wear her clothes—almost like old picture. I hope she send more beside just name and photo so I can learn why this matching it seem so strange.”
25
“So what are you planning to do then, Eddie?” asked Charlotte over breakfast. “Have you decided yet?”
He had decided. I mean, look: what other option did he have? Twenty-four hours now, and big-mouth Greg would have blabbed their FaceMate private business to the world if not the whole fucking cosmos! Everybody would soon enough know about the matching and the photos and the responses—Everything! Everyone!
Not excluding Ben.
Which meant it was time to have that dreaded little talk. And have it soon—Like sometime today. That’s what Eddie thought as he polished off his eggs; and he vowed to get it done.
So first thing that sunny Monday morning, he made his call to Cindy—Hi there, Cindy, how are things?—Hey, hi there, Mr. P., everything’s just fine—Umm, look, uh, Cindy: Can you get Ben to meet me for lunch today?—Cindy asked him where? Did he have in mind to eat at Albert’s again? To which inquiry Eddie made a puckered face. Cindy couldn’t see that puckered face through the telephone connection, but if she had caught a glimpse, he wouldn’t have had to tell her: No!—Hell no! Not Albert’s—Christ almighty!—anyplace but Alberts. I mean, Greg is gonna be there, Cindy—don’t you realize that? And if there’s one thing this private meeting doesn’t need, it’s blabber-mouthing Greg hovering over the table asking more questions, prying, and sticking his two cents into some pot where his pennies don’t belong. So Not Albert’s—definitely not Albert’s—but … well, how about that little Italian place on Fourth—what’s the name? Do you remember, Cindy? Sure she did; of course she did. If there’s one thing Cindy knows better than practically everybody else living in Red Bank, it’s the restaurants. After all, she’s gotta work real hard to maintain her fighting weight: She liked the saltimbocca there, she told him; and the gnocchi’s pretty decent too, and…. Anyway, the name of the establishment he was asking about was ‘Carmine’s’. And according to Cindy, if they got there by eleven-thirty or so, they’d have their privacy, alright—the place up till twenty-after-twelve would be absolutely dead.
Well, Cindy, as expected, performed the needed function with her customary flair, and, however she managed to do it, she managed to get Ben in through Carmine’s entry door at eleven-thirty on the nose. Eddie was waiting at a quiet table in the back. He waved, and the maître d’ escorted Ben to where he sat.
“So what’s the occasion, Eddie? Cindy was suspiciously mysterious when she shoved me out the door.”
“No special occasion, Benny, I just thought it would be nice for the two of us to have a little lunch on the company dime.”
Ben looked skeptical, not even close to being convinced. But he parked his carcass on the adjacent chair and smiled and patted Eddie on the arm in his uniquely friendly way.
“So? Carmine’s, huh? What’s good here—anything? What do you and Cindy recommend?”
“I can’t say from personal experience, Ben, but Cindy says the gnocchi’s pretty good.”
“Yeah, too many calories, though—way too rich for a business lunch. But look, Eddie, I know you, pal, I know you like a book. You didn’t have me meet you here for the gnocchi. That look you get when you want to talk to me about something—That’s the look you’ve got right now on that weather-beaten face of yours. So? You want to tell me straight off the bat, or you want to eat your gnocchi first? Is—I hope there’s nothing wrong with you and Charlotte, is there? Health I mean, or….”
“No, Benny, nothing like that. It’s really not about me so much as…. But look, Ben, why don’t we get a couple of drinks before we get into what I want to say. I’m gonna need a drink anyway, and I think that you maybe’ll need to have one too—Hey waiter!”
A little early for bourbon or scotch, but a couple of vodka martinis would go down reasonably well, so Eddie ordered those. Bennie didn’t object. The bar was empty, the service was quick, Ed was a little thirsty and maybe Ben was too after the four-block walk down Sixth. They downed their potions in a minute or two, and the moment he felt the surge of liquor in his bloodstream, Eddie’s ton
gue was lubricated sufficiently to begin:
“OK, well Bennie, you were right when you figured that I needed to talk to you about something. And it’s something that, if I don’t tell you about it now, you’re gonna hear it from someone else, so now’s gotta be the time, and I gotta be the guy to tell you.”
Ben shook his head and frowned: “You’re kind of scaring me, Eddie. Is this something I’m going to be not so glad to hear?”
“No, it’s not like that, it’s not like that at all. Nobody’s sick or dying or getting a divorce. But the thing I’ve gotta tell you is personal and emotional in a way, and it’ll bring back lots of ancient memories. And since it isn’t always good for you to have a lot of ancient memories brought back, I was reluctant to bring it up, but….”
“It’s about that picture you gave me, isn’t it?” Bennie asked him. “You know? I did get a little sad at first, the first time I looked at it. But now—I’ve kind of gotten over that. I look at it a lot these days. I keep it in my desk drawer, right up top, and—God!—I probably open that goddamn drawer twenty times a day to take a peek inside. It’s funny, you know? I’ve got a lot of awful memories, Eddie, but there are plenty of wonderful memories too—I’d almost forgotten how wonderful they really were. And—I don’t know—Maybe I’m past the point of grieving after all the time that’s passed. Lizzie was a beacon in my life. But Carole’s been an angel too. I wouldn’t have made it a week without her hovering and mothering and all. And as far as Carole goes, I think I owe it to her to get past these morbid moods of mine and dwell primarily on the good. So—anyway—if it’s the picture that you feel the need to comfort me about, don’t worry that kindly head of yours, Eddie: I think the worst of my cycles of depression are through.”
“That’s great, Ben; that’s wonderful. But—here’s the thing: What I need to talk to you about has to do with the picture indirectly, but it isn’t exactly what you think.”
FaceMate Page 20
