The Other Adonis

by Frank Deford

  Next, his eyes traced the rest of her form, past the arc of her bust, down the elegant arm that lay outside the sheet, along her legs to where he could even see where her toes curled, at the last of her every golden inch.

  For twenty years he had dreamed of this night with this woman. For the last few months, the idea had consumed him. But never had he dared imagine that it—sex…love…passion…a woman—could be like this. Surely, only feelings that had lay restrained for centuries could account for such a raging surge of rapture. And surely, there was more even than that, for had not he and Constance both been the other—she the man, he the woman? Surely, that is what made it so perfect and exquisite, beyond what any mere man could ever feel, beyond what any mere woman could ever know. Only they, together, could experience the fullness of time and person. Only they, reincarnated in love, could be closest to God.

  So, Bucky stared at Constance in wonder, reveling in the even grander dream that soon enough, she would be his forever, as he hers, as they theirs. His heart raced, and all around, the world was silver again.

  But then as he kept his gaze upon her, contemplating these wonders, one more feeling crossed Bucky’s mind, one that surprised him and baffled him all the more that it could possibly crowd into his radiant consciousness. And that feeling would not go away. But how? How did it linger, even in the midst of this incredible ecstasy? But it did. Bucky would not even allow himself to give the feeling a name, even as it kept nagging at him. But he could not deny it, could not dispute that, deep within him, in some place that Constance could not reach, it was there.

  And that feeling was doubt.

  And now the silver was gone.

  27

  Constance, the next morning, talking to a cab driver: “Do you know this address?” She shows him a slip of paper that she’s copied out of the phone book.

  The cab driver takes her downtown to the address that is Jocelyn Ridenhour’s apartment. Constance rings the bell by Jocelyn’s name, but Jocelyn isn’t there because she is at work. Constance, to herself, curses, “The nosy bitch.”

  She walks about in the heat, this way and that, purposelessly. This is so unlike Constance. At last, she returns to the Sherry-Netherland, packs, and goes back to Chicago. And back to trying to be Constance, altogether, once again.

  Constance, a few days later, talking from Jackson Hole on the phone to Bucky at his office: “I love you.” Constance’s daughter, Elise, is working this summer at a resort in Wisconsin. Carl plays golf every morning. This is when Constance is all alone and calls Bucky. They are billing and cooing over the phone. It is driving them both crazy.

  Unlike Bucky, Constance at least has the opportunity to get some of the frustration out of her system. She can ride all day. She’s found a favorite horse at the stables, named Paradox. He is a huge stallion, dark bay (almost, in fact, black), powerful and independent. The stable hand, Simeon, didn’t want Constance to ride him. Simeon saved Paradox for men—for strong, experienced men. But Constance demanded Paradox, and she showed Simeon that she could indeed handle the stallion.

  So every day now, she rides him over the range and trails, galloping full out across the wildflowers. And Constance herself grows steely, stronger. Paradox can feel this domination upon his back, the sure control of the rider.

  Always, too, back in the stable where there is a beam about seven feet high, Constance jumps up and grabs it and does pull-ups. Then, when she returns to the cottage, she strips before the bathroom mirror and studies herself. Curiously, though, Constance does not look at herself as a woman usually would, as she always has before. She does not peer in to study the beauty of her face, or to check and see how firm her breasts, how trim her waist. Instead, Constance seeks evidence of her new strength. Sometimes, even, she makes a muscle and flexes, reveling in her greater power.

  Behind her own body, there in the mirror, she also sees Ollie. It isn’t quite Ollie himself, for Constance can’t fully realize a vision of him. But, she can see Ollie as Adonis, as Rubens painted him, draped in orange; she can see that magnificent form, that great rippling back, the tensed, powerful calves, the whole glorious body. And that lapidary handsome face upon it. Oh yes, Constance can see Ollie in the mirror—almost as well as she sees herself.

  Bucky, talking on the phone to Constance, telling her: “Hey listen, sweetheart, you can’t call me for a few days because I’m taking the kids on a sailboat trip.” He is concentrating on spelling out the itinerary to her—up the Long Island Sound, stopping first at the Thimble Islands, then Fischer’s Island, over to Block Island, then across the ocean to Cape Cod—because, of course, it is not just “the kids” he is taking. Rather, it is also Phyllis, the whole Buckingham family. Just like old times. But he doesn’t have to be distracting, because Constance is barely paying attention. She has a different destination in mind. For them.

  Constance, whispering, breathlessly, “Antwerp, darling. We must go to Antwerp and see where we were.”

  “As soon as we can, Connie. Promise.” And just hearing him agree, Constance touches her nipples and she is all Constance again, all woman, all Bucky’s.

  Constance, dialing Jocelyn’s number. Again. She never reaches Jocelyn, but this time, there is a message on the phone machine. Grimacing, Constance listens to: “Hi, it’s Jocelyn. I’m gonna be away for, oh, a coupla weeks, and I will not be calling in for my messages because that’s why I’m taking off, to get away from my messages. And look, if you’re a gangster, don’t try and rob my place. One of my friends, who was Bluebeard in a prior life, is staying at my apartment with some other bloodthirsty pirates, and he’ll run you through, matey. Okay, till then…love ya.”

  Constance makes a very sour expression and hangs up.

  Constance, the next morning, speaking politely to her travel agent, back in Chicago: “I need some help with a quick trip.” Afterwards, she rides Paradox further than ever, way up on mountain trails that Simeon specifically warned her to avoid. The horse has total confidence in his rider by now, though, and he manipulates steep, dangerous terrain with confidence. Far from the resort, Paradox and Constance come across a small lake.

  As Paradox munches on some grass, Constance strips and swims in the icy water, then lies naked in the sun, drying herself and dreaming of Bucky, of the two of them in Antwerp.

  That evening with Carl, Constance telling him, “I got a call from the office today, and Schulbach wants me to attend an analysts’ convention in Vegas the day after we get back. I made the reservation.” Carl looks up from his paper and says he certainly understands these things. He is doing very well in his baseball Rotisserie League, and is studying the statistics of his players in USA Today. Altogether, it has been a good vacation for Carl, even if Constance has stopped giving him blowjobs. But he will return to the operating room with renewed energy, and although Elise will still be working in Wisconsin, he certainly can manage a few days alone at home while Constance will be stuck at that convention in Las Vegas.

  That is not, however, quite where she would be.

  Nina, sitting alone, despite herself, in gallery twenty-seven. She feels odd and helpless, but duplicitous too, because now she is absolutely cheating on her promise to Hugh. Often. She comes so regularly that all of the guards in European Paintings know her so well that they cast a wary eye upon her even as she merely sits on the bench. Nina looks left and right, staring at Adonis and then at the Madonna, wincing as she hears Bucky scream “…owwwllllleeeeeee…” in her head, always glancing back then at Adonis, knowing that incredibly handsome man was a murderer. A serial murderer, we would say now. What did they call such men then? A demon? An ogre? A monster? Words were better then, when they were more visceral and not so damned technical.

  Ollie was a monster.

  Nina needed to tell Bucky that. But how could she, if she didn’t tell Constance, too? And she couldn’t bring herself to tell her t
hat she’d been a monster in another life. And it was wrong to conceal that truth. It was professionally wrong. It was ethically wrong.

  But now Nina accepts the good news: Bucky obviously has taken her advice and isn’t going to call again. And since she’d promised Hugh that she’d never call Bucky, then there’s no more problem, is there? Well, she’d also promised Hugh she’d put the whole matter out of her head, but here she is once again, sitting in gallery twenty-seven. So, there still must be a problem.

  Nina, returning from the Metropolitan, asking Roseann, “Are there any messages?” Asking much too anxiously, are there any messages? Hoping it is Bucky. That one message. So, yes, there is very much a problem.

  Nina, late one afternoon after Roseann has gone, speaking on the phone to a receptionist (so very casually): “Is Mr. Buckingham there?” But the receptionist explains that he’s still on vacation, till August 3rd. Nina gives her name and asks if he might call, at his leisure, whenever it is convenient, because it isn’t important, and when he has the time, etc., etc.

  Nina, in Washington, showing her ring to Lindsay. “Ohhh, Motherr!” They talk about a wedding on the beach. Nina’s office is closed so Roseann is on vacation, but still, Nina calls the answering service every day. She goes to the National Gallery, and even though there is a special Velázquez exhibition, Nina is only interested in the Rubenses. The drapery in his portrait of the Marchesa Brigida Spinola-Doria is more of a scarlet than Adonis’s orange, but it is so reminiscent. Nina just sits in the National Gallery, staring. It makes her feel at home. And, sitting there, looking up at the Marchesa, it gives her an idea.

  Nina, having taken a Metroliner Club Car back to New York, is taking a cab crosstown, to an address in the thirties, on Third Avenue. It is the Belgian Tourist Office, where Nina speaks to a young woman named Paulette, saying, “Would you be interested in making some extra money translating?”

  Paulette would, so Nina gives her a list of questions which she asks her to translate into Dutch. She also asks Paulette for a few everyday expressions—hello, how are you, thanks; that sort of thing—and she asks how much difference there is between Dutch and Flemish. Paulette says, “Really, only the accent. At the extreme, it’s like someone from Maine talking to someone from Mississippi.”

  “And how much has the language changed since, oh say, since Rubens’s time?”

  Paulette answers, “Certain constructions, a few words, some spelling. I suppose about as much as English has changed since Shakespeare.” Nina nods, thinking, not all that much. But Paulette adds, “Funny you should ask. There was another lady in here not long ago, asking the same sort of questions. I gave her all the pamphlets on Rubens and Antwerp.”

  “Do you remember what she looked like?”

  “Oh yes, very distinctive.” Paulette screws up her nose, recalling the outfit that didn’t quite work. But, politely, she only says, “Lovely pearl earrings. I remember. Rather tall lady. Intense. Very pretty, and big busted, too, you know.”

  Nina nods. “Yes. A colleague. We’re involved in the same project. It’s a historical, a, uh, history.”

  “Yes,” says Paulette. She promises to get the questions translated quickly. In fact, Paulette gets the questions translated too quickly.

  Nina, walking into her apartment that evening, cooing, “Oh, darling” at Hugh.

  Her arms are full of groceries. Hugh has not moved in because Nina’s place isn’t quite big enough, but most nights, he comes here or she goes there, and then he stays here or she stays there. Tonight, back from Washington, she is going to fix him a terrific dinner and tell him all about the plans for the wedding on the beach at Rehoboth.

  Hugh, brusquely avoiding a kiss, only takes the grocery bags, and brandishing a slip of paper, snaps, “I have two messages for you that your answering service thought were important.”

  Nina’s body slumps. She can imagine. “You know, Roseann’s away,” she begins, as if that matters.

  Hugh only reads off the paper. “A Paulette, from the Belgian Tourist office, has faxed over that translation you requested, and she also said you’d be pleased to know—you’d be pleased to know—that she included some alternative translation, as it might have been in—surprise!—Rubens’s time.”

  “Hugh, I—”

  “My, how helpful.” Nina steps toward him, but he holds up a hand. “No, no, just a second. I said two messages, Doctor.” Never has Nina heard his voice drip with so much sarcasm. “The other is quite simple.” Long, long pause. “Mr. Buckingham returned your call.” He holds out the slips. “Is that correct, Nina? You called him?”

  “Yes, I did. I’m sorry.”

  “I want to make sure I understand. You initiated this?”

  “Yes, I did.”

  Hugh says, “Jesus H. Christ.”

  Nina says, ”Isn’t that a lovely thing for a minister of the Lord to say?”

  “Oh, I coveted my neighbor’s wife. I committed adultery with her. I might as well take the name of the Lord God in vain, too. Three commandments down, seven to go—”

  “All on the Jezebel’s behalf.”

  Hugh simply drops his head, pinching the top of his nose to contain himself. When he looks back up, he merely says, “I don’t know whether I wrote it down. Mr. Buckingham will be in his office till six.” He knows exactly what time it is, but he glances at his watch for effect. Cheap pulpit trick, Nina thinks. “You’ve still got twenty minutes.” Then he walks past her to the door.

  “Are you really that angry?” Nina calls after him.

  “No, Nina. Worse. I’m disillusioned.”

  “You can’t cut me some slack?”

  Hugh turns back. “Oh come on. This isn’t some situation comedy just before the first commercial, and we’re gonna wrap it all up by the half-hour. You broke your promise to me, Nina. This damn nonsense has consumed you. This Bucky sonuvabitch is driving you crazy, so I asked you to promise me for your own good to give it up, and you willfully broke that promise.”

  “‘Willfully,’” says Nina. “Jesus H. Christ.”

  Hugh lets that go. “Try to understand me, Nina. When we met, I very quickly cheated on my wife, as you very quickly cheated on your husband. And for all the love, all the passion, all the romance between us, I know you as a liar, and you know me as a liar. I wanted to believe that we deserved another chance, because I hoped, I prayed—I prayed to God—that your fall from grace was as aberrational as I knew mine was, that we bewitched each other, so that we acted in a way that was not consistent with the rest of our lives. And finally, finally, I convinced myself that that was so. Only now”—he shrugs—“I don’t know, Nina. I just don’t think I can ever trust you again.”

  Nina almost cries because maybe he doesn’t love her anymore. And because certainly he thinks she’s a liar. But, damn it, Nina won’t cry. Instead, she crosses her arms over her chest and (sort of) counterattacks. “Is that it, Hugh? Is it really that cut-and-dried? Me?” He only puts his hand on the doorknob. “Or is it maybe you don’t know if you can trust yourself?”

  “Is this the Dr. Nina Winston one-size-fits-all analysis?”

  “No, I leave that for the clergy. This is cut strictly to your own pattern. Because you seem scared to learn anything more about Bucky and Constance—afraid that if you listen to me, it might leave you no choice but to reconsider your faith and consider reincarnation.”

  “Ridiculous.”

  “Yes. Excuse me. Leave you no choice but to believe in reincarnation.”

  “No, you’re the issue here, Nina—you and your wide-eyed gullibility.” She starts to protest, but Hugh makes a T with his hands—the time-out sign. That certainly serves the purpose of shutting Nina up—although not because he is requesting her to do so, but because she finds Hugh so damn patronizing that it shocks her to silence. But, pleased, he continues. “So, if
I mean nothing to you: go on, call this Bucky. Go see him. Hang out up at the museum and swoon, the two of you.” And, turning away, he opens the door.

  Nina is furious now, shouting, “You want your ring back?” She even holds up her hand—assuming, naturally, that he will tell her not to be a silly goose.

  Instead, coolly, Hugh replies, “Yes, maybe that’s a good idea.” He is so dismissive, it hardly seems to matter, like if somebody at the grocery store has asked him if he wants a receipt. Nina doesn’t have the opportunity to holler back at him, though, for just like that, he is gone.

  Nina is devastated. But as soon as she composes herself, she knows exactly what she is going to do. Maybe if Hugh could have seen her now, maybe he would have understood how obsessed she had grown with it all. Certainly he could have understood then that Nina’s involvement with Bucky and Constance had nothing to do with her love for him. Maybe. Certainly.

  Nina, tingling with anticipation and wonder, dialing, waiting just two rings, then talking and planning. “Wonderful, Bucky,” Nina sighs. “Just come by after work tomorrow.” She says that, even as she plays with Hugh’s ring that is still on her finger.

  No, Hugh couldn’t understand how much Nina wants to meet Margareta.

  28

  Bucky was not his old stuff. He was, in fact, almost timid. “Maybe we shouldn’t try this again, Nina,” he said.

  She was the adventuresome one now. “No, I’m sure—we gotta see this through.”

  “I guess,” he said in resignation even more than in agreement. He took off his jacket and moved to the couch.

  As for Nina, she picked up the papers off her desk—the translation to her questions that Paulette in the Belgian Tourist Office had made for her. Briefly, then, she opened the drawer, glancing in at Michelangelo, his hand of God. “I told you,” she said. “I think I’ve figured out a way to take you back—if, of course, you were ever there.”