The Seducers

by Martin Shepard

  She no longer loved Jonas, of that she was finally certain. But if she left him, would she be able to feather her nest as well? Would he provide as nicely for her if they parted? Probably not. What would she do?

  Liza was part of her nest. What would she tell her? “I’m leaving your daddy because I no longer love him?”

  “Why?” she could picture her asking.

  “Because.…” But nothing seemed to justify her feelings. Jonas tried. Jonas was decent. Jonas did all the right things. He didn’t abuse her. He wasn’t stingy. He always attempted to be understanding. So why didn’t she still love him? Why did he disgust her so?

  Was it fair to separate Liza from her father for such arbitrary feelings? Probably not.

  And would her love for Carlo prove any more durable? Could passion, for a man fifteen years her senior, last? Probably not.

  But if she believed happiness might be guaranteed with another man, would she have the courage to look Jonas in the eye and say, “I’m leaving”? Would she be able to endure the hurt bewilderment in his eyes, the pained catch in his voice as he asked for explanation? Probably not.

  Probably not. Probably not. Probably not. Everything probable. Everything not. Damn her hesitancy. Damn his goodness. If she could only disappear. Be reborn. Have it resolved for her.

  Two gulls soared out to sea. Must one travel in twos? Couldn’t she make it alone? Exist without any man for a while? Or simply commit herself to her lover? Anne Kauffman had the courage to leave her former husband for Ned. That certainly worked out well. Several times during the last few weeks she resolved to have it out with Jonas; to tell him how she felt and what she wanted. But her self-made vows proved to be empty promises. Where had her courage gone? These unfulfilled pledges served only to increase her feelings of self-betrayal.

  An end to these circular thoughts was what she needed. That was one thing she could see clearly, for her indecisiveness had produced a bitterness of spirit. She needed to think more positively.

  Jonas was back in New York. That was good.

  The sun was now directly overhead and Phoebe was nearly back to her starting point. She would return home, make lunch, and see her daughter off. The Kauffmans had invited Liza to join Ginger and them on a three-day sail to Block Island and beyond. That would be a good thing, too. So would another quick swim.

  She walked slowly into the water, enjoyed the cool wetness against her body, appreciated the suppleness and purpose of her movements as her arms stroked out and her long legs knifed strongly and silently up and down. The waves rose and then they fell. They didn’t seem to care. Neither would she. At the very least she could resolve not to resolve anything just now. That was a promise she could make to herself and keep.

  5

  Carlo Fabbri knelt above the fresh basil plants in his garden. He was a tall man, but so slim that he gave the impression, in this position, of being considerably shorter than the six feet he stood. An abundance of curly white hair and pale green eyes added contrast to his dark complexion, producing a distinguished and intriguing look that was heightened by his present labors. Gathering a few sprigs, he moved two rows over, bent again, and plucked some leaves of lettuce and arugula. Next came the tomatoes, the first of the season. The two ripe ones were all he needed. A few tiny string beans, a small zucchini, one step over the rabbit fence, seventeen measured paces more and he was back at the kitchen door.

  He had promised to prepare a lunch “that had a touch of grace,” and so he was. Placing the salad ingredients on the wooden countertop alongside the sink, he washed and tore each leafy green separately and put them to dry in the colander which was suspended from a hook above the window. He opened the oven, removed the lid from a terra cotta casserole, delighted in the smell of “Rabbit à la Carlo,” reached in with a long ladling spoon, and sampled. “Eccellente!”

  Actually, the rabbit was finely cut chicken, cooked in butter and olive oil, flavored with fresh garlic, rosemary, sage, nutmeg, and bay leaves, then baked in a dry white wine sauce to which he added tomatoes, pignola nuts, salt and pepper. Hare or chicken? Little matter. The recipe was so artful that the most discriminating diners were regularly fooled. Particularly since Americans, unlike Italians, rarely ate rabbit.

  When he was not cooking, Carlo worked at becoming detached. Life had repeatedly taught him not to hold anything too dearly; not possessions, ideas, nor even people. For whatever he valued, he always seemed to lose.

  On the mantelpiece in his living room, warmed on cold winter evenings by a well-lit hearth, sat a gilded wooden Buddha; an artifact he picked up while working in Thailand. Above it, in carefully blocked letters, he had painted a slogan that appealed to him.

  “Life Is a Rose Garden. The Petals Wilt and the Thorns Remain.”

  He was born in Rome in 1923. By 1933 his family had lost their considerable wealth through the combined forces of world depression plus the rampant inflation that raged throughout Europe. In 1943, fighting with the partisans, he was captured by the Nazis and spent time in three concentration camps, where he lost his belief in basic human decency.

  The year 1953 found him losing the Eternal City, as he followed a young American student to Alexandria, Rio, and then Los Angeles, where they eventually married. After the chase, he unfortunately lost his love for her, too. Unable and unwilling to endure a hollow relationship, he saw no alternative but divorce.

  In 1963 he remarried and lived in a fool’s paradise for ten years. Two children were born to this union, Tina and Johnny. He treasured them both. In 1973 the architectural firm he worked for moved to eastern Long Island. He went ahead, purchased a small Victorian home in East Moriches, sent for Emily and the children, but received a “Dear John” letter instead. Except that it was addressed to Carlo.

  “I’ve fallen in love with another man and have gone off to live with him. I know you won’t miss me that much. Not seeing the children will be a great deal more difficult. But I could never live without my babies.

  “It is unjust of me to deprive you of them, I know. But as you’ve often said, ‘Who ever said life was fair?’”

  He immediately flew back to Los Angeles but, as he feared, nobody knew where they had gone. On the return flight he sat next to a professor at Cal Tech. After his second martini, Carlo launched into a four-hour mathematical and philosophical monologue in which he attempted to prove to his bemused and bewildered traveling companion that the Gregorian calendar could be greatly improved upon if years ending in the number three were eliminated.

  Emily’s prediction had proved an understatement these past two years. Losing his children was the most painful loss of his entire life and he dealt with his desolation the only way he could, involving himself in work. Days were spent designing buildings. Evenings and weekends were given over to serious painting and remaking his new home. Through these efforts he created an external aesthetic that distracted his vision from contemplating inner emptiness and anguish.

  He stripped the turn-of-the-century house of its latter-day modernizations; tore away cabinets and linoleum flooring, removed paint from the oak bannisters, chipped plaster off the brick fireplace. Altarlike shelves were built out of driftwood and tiles and adorned hallways and living areas alike. The dining room was converted into a studio where the oil- and acrylic-covered canvases that hung throughout the house were created. A rustic and supremely efficient kitchen was crafted from old siding and butcher block tops that provided ample storage and working space.

  And then there was his garden. The hours he had spent with his children were, in the spring and summer, given up to planting, weeding, and growing the finest produce. When he saw friends he routinely offered them squash, cucumbers, eggplants, or spices that he was equally happy to cook for them in his home or theirs.

  There was Carlo driving from Central Islip to Sag Harbor, visiting one person or another, a liter of Bardolino, a jar of pesto and a package of old-world linguine in a large enamel pot alongside him upon the passenger
seat. He would be invited to dinner, “but I wanted to contribute something.” And what he contributed was a course that would do credit to a cordon bleu chef.

  “I always carry a little spaghetti in my car,” he once said. “You can never tell when you’ll need it to cook your way out of a difficult situation.”

  So that was his solution. To paint, to build, to create visual and culinary delights, to serve others, and to remind himself of the teachings of Buddha: If suffering is a result of unmet desires, the way to end suffering is to end desire.

  He opened a cabinet, looked inside, and selected a bottle of Valpolicella which he placed in the freezer for a quick chill. The Seth Thomas wall clock read 11:30. Phoebe would be here within half an hour.

  A wave of excitement ran through him. He recalled his preparations: canceling his appointments for the day, dusting and straightening the house, hanging a recently completed triptych, putting fresh linens on the double bed (and turning down the bedsheet), planning the meal. Yes. It was all leading up to a perfect moment. But when the full realization of his mental checklist hit, he experienced a disappointment in himself.

  He returned to the counter and cut the zucchini and tomatoes into small, precise sections. Then he snapped the string beans, took the dried leaves from the colander and placed all these ingredients in the wooden salad bowl which then went into the refrigerator. Later he would add some oil, lemon, and vinegar.

  They would have some wine, make love, eat lunch. That much he could count on. And afterward?… “No. Don’t desire. Don’t set the stage for the pain of disappointment,” he could hear Buddha whisper from his perch above the fireplace.

  At eleven forty-five, Carlo ambled into the living room and tried to read The New York Times. No use. He could not follow any story for his eyes kept wandering from the newsprint toward the front window.

  In Manhattan, Jonas Lippman had just finished making love to Arlene Lewis for the second time when the forest green Mercedes pulled into Carlo’s East Moriches driveway. He leapt to his feet and strode to the door. Phoebe had arrived.

  6

  They would have another week together, on and off, before that damned husband of hers came out for the summer. Ah, well. Forget tomorrow. The moment is what counts. Today he would see her at the Benson Gallery.

  It was the last Saturday in July—another opening—and a large crowd filled the tastefully redecorated barn and garden, examining the canvases and sculpture. Carlo was pleased to be included in this show. Rather like a six-month anniversary, for he had first met Phoebe when she attended a group exhibition he participated in at the Gallery Zorat, on Madison Avenue, just after New Year’s Day. Shortly afterward, they became lovers.

  Knowing her as he did, he wasn’t too surprised by her late arrival. But catching sight of her through the milling and noisy crowd, he was puzzled at her apparent failure to notice him. They never went in for exuberant displays of recognition or public affection. That would be too great a risk. But friendly conversation had always been acceptable. So when she approached the wall where his paintings hung, he stepped behind her and playfully whispered in her ear, “Booo.”

  “Oh!” She wheeled about, a genuine look of fear in her eyes.

  “Phoebe,” he smiled. “It’s so good to see you.”

  “Uh … yes.… You, too. I just love the show.”

  She quickly released his hand, reached out, and placed hers on the shoulder of a man standing with his back to them.

  “I’d like you to meet my husband.”

  Jonas turned. He does not look like a psychiatrist, was Carlo’s first thought. Too meek, too simple, too fashionable, too friendly.

  “Jonas, this is Carlo Fabbri. He’s a painter I met at the last opening here.”

  “I was just admiring your work,” said Jonas. “And the gallery, too.”

  “First time here?”

  “Yes. Phoebe comes often. I prefer to be out sailing. But I’m glad for the small craft warning today or I’d never have made it. I don’t know what I’m enjoying more; the people or the show.”

  Phoebe groped for something safe to say.

  “These openings are always so fascinating.”

  Carlo had, by now, recovered from his shock and decided to test the water.

  “And here’s to the most fascinating woman in attendance.” He toasted his half-filled glass to the empty air as Jonas raised his to complete the ritual.

  “Flatterer.” She lowered her eyes, intertwined her arm in Jonas’ and leaned in, cozily, against him. Jonas beamed, enjoying both Phoebe’s warmth and Carlo’s easy charm.

  Carlo was disappointed. And jealous, despite his composure and past protests to the contrary. Knowing your lover has a husband is much different from meeting him face to face. His toast to her was painful to them both, he was certain, and he felt bad watching her snuggling up to Jonas when it was Carlo she’d rather touch. Someone backed into Carlo, causing him to spill a few drops from his glass, and Phoebe seized the opportunity to change the subject.

  “What chaos,” she exclaimed.

  “Yes,” Carlo answered, his penetrating stare bringing a flush of color to her face. “But we Italians love chaos. In fact,” he turned to Jonas, “we need chaos and anarchy to function effectively.”

  “Oh?”

  “Certainly. That’s why we do so poorly under strong authority and thrive when it is weak. So we always work at undermining authority.”

  “Undermining it how?”

  “By not paying taxes,” he began, emphasizing the political realm and avoiding the personal, “by paying no attention to the law, avoiding service in the army, and applying for benefits and pensions we’re not entitled to.”

  “Just like in this country,” Jonas ventured.

  “No. Here you do it with a sense of guilt. There we consider it a sacred duty. You take yourselves and your governments much more seriously than we do.”

  “You exaggerate, of course.”

  “Not at all. How do you think we could go from fascism to democracy overnight?”

  “Isn’t that being dishonest?” Jonas put him on, feigning his habitual innocence while actually enjoying Carlo’s rhetoric.

  “Sooo?” drawled Carlo, inhaling and regally puffing up his chest.

  Jonas didn’t know if Carlo was taken in by his bait or continuing the diverting banter.

  “What you say relieves me from the remorse I’ve felt ever since I overestimated deductions on this year’s tax returns. But,” Jonas continued, returning to the tease, “don’t you think it sets a bad example for conduct and morality?”

  “Honesty, my dear Doctor Jonas, is a convenience, not a virtue.”

  Carlo delivered the phrase cleanly, looking stern and wise. Then he winked and smiled. An easy grin, starting at the corner of his mouth, swept through Jonas. Phoebe looked at her watch, then at her husband.

  “We’ve got to get back fairly soon. I’ve got a roast at home.”

  “My dear Doctor Carlo,” Jonas bowed in formal but appreciative honor, “it’s been so pleasant to meet and talk with you. You must join us for dinner at our home tomorrow.”

  “Accepted,” Carlo affirmed, snapping his heels together and bending smartly at the waist. And before either he or Phoebe knew it, it was no longer an act, for Jonas was writing out driving instructions on his paper napkin.

  For much of that night and the following day, Carlo thought about the coming evening. He considered phoning them; saying he was ill, had work to do, or that his automobile wouldn’t start. Ultimately he chose to attend. Why? Curiosity, mostly, which he once defined as an intellectual’s attempt to justify what intelligence could not. But Carlo, for all his worldly experiences, particularly welcomed new ones. He’d see Phoebe in another setting; find another perspective from which to view their relationship. The inner Buddha told him he’d be able to practice detached observation. This could only be good.

  So here he was, sitting in the home of the woman he loved, sip
ping his second cup of coffee, finishing the ricotta pie that he had baked and brought, and making his observations:

  He discovered a vitality in Phoebe’s eyes that was never there before; the sudden recognition that intrigue, after years of domestic boredom, brought a special form of excitement.

  He saw that Jonas loved Phoebe, adored Liza, and liked him.

  He judged Jonas to be a good host, an appreciative listener—well-intentioned if somewhat pedestrian—and noted, to his dismay, that he liked Jonas, too. That was the unfortunate discovery of the night.

  The evening had certainly delivered its fair share of the unexpected.

  Later, driving back to East Moriches, came the most painful observation: Something had to change between himself and Phoebe. Despite his belief in “honesty as convenience,” he now felt a deep discomfort over being pulled into a net of duplicity. He could not, knowing the agony involved, simply duplicate for Jonas the experience he had lived through with Emily.

  7

  Arlene was bored. No. Bored and disappointed. Not exactly. Bored, disappointed, but grateful, too. Grateful that she could go through the motions without fear. Grateful to Jonas for his efforts.

  She could hear the hum from the desk clock; a fire engine wailing on some distant avenue. “No blaze to put out here,” she thought. “Barely a warm ember.”

  She was also annoyed. Annoyed with the clock and the siren for breaking her concentration. Irritated with herself for lapsing into daydreams. Angry with a destiny that led her to this very moment.

  The soreness in her hip took precedence over her resentfulness. It was bruised in a fall she took at home five days ago. A bluish discoloration began forming under the skin yesterday and any sort of pressure there caused pain. Shifting her weight so as to favor it, she realized that she was holding her breath. Dutifully, she inhaled deeply. Once. Twice. Three times.