The Seducers

by Martin Shepard

  They left the theater at six-thirty, walked east to St. Mark’s Place, stopped at the Five Spot and had some beers. The first quenched their thirst. The second revived. The third brought them back to the level of lightness and lunacy they had shared at P.J.’s. The musicians would not be arriving for at least another half-hour. Hungry and restless, they decided to walk to Chinatown.

  The sights, smells and bustle in the Chinese quarter were captivating, leading them in endless circles; faces pressed against restaurant windows, wandering through groceries to ask about odd-looking vegetables and unrecognizable strips of flesh, browsing in the gift shops, purchasing matching kimonos.

  “I’ve got a question for you,” said Arlene.

  “Anything,” he answered.

  “Why did you call me last night? I mean, why me of all people?”

  “I suppose because you’re kind of special to me.” He blushed, surprised at the school-boy level of his response.

  “Oh. I see.” She nodded with obvious pleasure.

  “And why,” he asked, “did you accept me?”

  “You’re kind of special, too.”

  11

  Nostalgia, which had waited unobtrusively through the weekend, had become more insistent since Sunday. Daytimes were hardest. In the evening there was Arlene. Accepting and affectionate. But even her presence couldn’t prevent the eruptions of emptiness, starting somewhere deep down in his belly, bloated like an air-filled balloon, moving through his body, creating hollow spaces.

  If tasks lessened time’s heaviness, the knowledge of having to construct diversions underscored his anguish. Too much like occupational therapy—basket making, rug weaving, clay modeling—busywork for the mentally disturbed that promised to interrupt tortured, circular thoughts and feelings.

  Monday and Tuesday morning were spent at the Tennis Academy, a series of rooms occupying the upper floor of Grand Central Station. He practiced using the ball machine the first day and hit with a young instructor on the second. The workouts were good but he found himself making critical comparisons. Fluorescent lamps and the drone of air conditioners were not the same as sunlight and wind-rustled leaves. Nor did a fiber-covered floor have the feel of green clay. Changing in the paint-peeling locker room on Tuesday, he missed his good leather sneakers and his favorite racket. They were out in the country with his family. Another hole in the pit of his stomach.

  Then there were the visits to his office and his home. Jonas planned to avoid the place for several reasons. He didn’t want to see his neighbors, explain why he was back, speak to Phoebe if she called, or be discovered with Arlene. But clothes, books, papers—the stuff and trappings of his life—were there. A trip each day would have sufficed yet he found himself stopping much more frequently. At first he attributed this to forgetfulness: not remembering a pair of socks, his checkbook, a particular address he needed. Still, absentmindedness was not his style. Yesterday, in the late afternoon, checking his telephone recording machine for the third time, there was another rush of emptiness and he resolved to put a stop to such ludicrous yet understandable behavior.

  And it was becoming ludicrous, for he had overcome the initial shock and outrage by Friday. Poised, currently, upon an edge where he could no longer distinguish between pain and playacting, his intellect stood back, dispassionately judging the moods and actions of his body. Simultaneously he was director and male lead in a not-untypical domestic drama. Would his torment melt a cheating wife’s heart? Could he find love and contentment with someone new? Tune in tomorrow, folks, and watch the next installment of “Mary Hartman, Mary Hartman.”

  It bothered him that Phoebe waited until Saturday before trying to contact him. The message she left on his recording device was terse and matter of fact.

  “When are you coming out? If you get a chance, give me a call.”

  No hint of apology in the voice. No hurry. No explanations. No remorse. Just the assumption that he’d go back to life as usual. What incredible conceit. She could damn well cool her heels; realize he meant business. That, too, he knew was preposterous for, in fact, he did want something from her. Just what was not so clear. And he yearned for another summer of sun, old friends, meals of weakfish caught in local waters and fresh corn grown on nearby farms. But it had to be on terms that seemed reasonable. No more abject beggary.

  It was getting so rococo, so studied, so theatrical. At the same time, it was quite real.

  Today was Wednesday, the anniversary of Cuckold’s Eve, and he opened his eyes wearily. Too many drinks and cigarettes last night. Arlene was in the kitchen. The smoky salted odor of frying bacon tantalized, beckoning him to rise, luring him from the small bedroom. He stretched, yawned, shook his head, shuffled down the hallway and peeked around the corner.

  “Good morning.” Arlene smiled, taking two cups out of the dish drainer and pouring their coffee. “How are you feeling today?”

  “Dragged, except for you. It’s the wrong time of year to leave your wife. Too much time on my hands and too little to do.”

  “Is there ever a good time? Breaking up a marriage isn’t as easy as tossing out a used condom. It’s a big step. I still think you ought to talk with her.”

  Her unpossessive understanding was welcome and he thanked whatever fate had decreed their meeting. But he wished for September. Work would certainly help fill the void.

  Arlene couldn’t tarry, for there was an important sales conference this morning to discuss next spring’s book lists. After cleaning the breakfast dishes, inadvertent idleness was the order of the day. Jonas dressed, drifted to a bench in Washington Square where he read the Times, looked for a movie he might see, and watched the students tumble out of summer session classrooms located in large, austere, brown and gray stone buildings on the east side of the park. Then it was window shopping in the Village, followed by a long, slow walk uptown.

  He lunched on margaritas, gazpacho, and salmon mousse at the outdoor café in Central Park. Leisurely sipping his coffee, watching couples walk arm in arm over the stone-paved plaza, viewing the fountain, he felt like some tourist in a distant city. Nor was the imagery amiss. Not seeing friends or visiting his usual haunts, he was, truly, in a strange place, picking up sights, smells, sounds and textures. Where was it? What did it remind him of? A piazza in Rome. Spring of ’67. Bernini statues, young people sitting on the stairs, vendors selling leather belts, bags and jewelry, Phoebe beside him.

  He frowned, asked for the check, paid, and left.

  The day was too perfect to spend it indoors. The film could wait for tomorrow. What else to do? Here … in the park. The zoo? Rowing? A boat it would be. Oars instead of sails. But he could still drift, dream, feel a gentle rocking under him, and stare at sun-splashed water.

  At three he docked, knew there were two or three hours left before Arlene returned from work, and ambled eastward toward his home. He’d see if there were any calls, read his mail, and take the week’s accumulated wash to the laundry. He’d weathered another afternoon. Tonight, good wine and a good woman would provide a more tangible euphoria.

  Jonas crossed Lexington Avenue and headed down his block. He was about to climb the front stairs when someone called out his name. Before he could turn, a firm hand grabbed his shoulder. He moved about, slowly, to confront his unexpected visitor.

  A meaningless smile masked his speechlessness. It was Carlo Fabbri.

  12

  “I want to talk to you.”

  Stunned, Jonas just kept smiling and remained rooted to the spot. Carlo continued:

  “It’s important.”

  “I’ve nothing to say to you.” His lips tightened as he removed Carlo’s hand from his shoulder.

  “That’s irrelevant,” Carlo snapped, looking him squarely in the eye. “I said that I want to talk to you. And what I have to say is no easier than it is for you to listen to it. So I think you should ask me in.”

  Jonas considered, for a moment, what he ought to do, then reached into his pocket, r
emoved his key, nodded curtly, and the two men mounted the stairway and entered the house.

  “I was beginning to wonder if you’d ever arrive,” said Carlo as they walked through the hallway toward the large kitchen. He removed a canvas bag from his shoulder. “I’ve been parked outside all afternoon.” Carlo reached into the bag and produced a half-finished liter of red wine.

  “Want some?” he asked in a cordial way as he held the bottle high. But Jonas was having none of these pleasantries.

  “No.”

  “Suit yourself. You have a glass, perhaps?”

  “In the cupboard.”

  Carlo stood still, as if expecting to be served, then moved deliberately, opening two cabinets before choosing the proper one. Jonas couldn’t help admiring the cool performance as his uninvited guest poured himself an ample glassful. Still, the bastard had pretended friendship while he’d been screwing Phoebe.

  “Did you come to drink or talk?” His face was somber, his eyes cautious yet curious, his tone brusque.

  “In time,” Carlo admonished, staring blankly into space while raising the drink to his lips. “That’s the problem with Americans. They’re too much in a hurry.”

  “Say what you have to and get out. I don’t need any lectures on behavior from you.”

  “Okay.” He wheeled about. “To begin with, you’re behaving like a fool.”

  “Oh?” Jonas asked dryly. “And whose assessment is that? Yours or my wife’s?”

  “That comment is what I’m talking about. You act like a fool because you play these little games. Pretending to be so composed and proper. But your snide remark betrays you.”

  “And what would you have me do, shoot you?” Jonas reached in his back pocket—as Carlo followed his hand—and took out a cigarette.

  “That would be an improvement. At least it would be honest.”

  “Perhaps so. But I prefer being civilized.”

  “Then you are a double fool.”

  “Oh?”

  “Yes. Because you are not acting maturely, either.” He finished his wine and poured himself some more. “A civilized man, you see, would speak with his wife, try to achieve some level of communication, see if things might not be worked.…”

  “Don’t tell me how to treat my wife, you cocksucker,” and with that he leapt across the floor, knocking Carlo’s glass away with his right hand and sending Carlo reeling backward with his left. The older man raised both arms before him to shield himself from this abrupt onslaught, but Jonas swung at him sideways, his fingers linked together, like a woodsman chopping at a tree, and Carlo crashed to the floor, striking his head on the edge of a chair.

  Jonas stood there, fists clenched, hovering over Carlo, waiting for him to rise. But he lay perfectly still, a trickle of blood oozing from his brow. Concern for both the fallen man and himself—for his sudden and reckless explosion—sliced through his outrage, whittling it down to containable proportions. He knelt at Carlo’s side in time to see him open his eyes, blink at the sight of Jonas, and pull back with a start.

  “It’s okay. Don’t worry. I’m all right. How are you?”

  “Strangely enough, better, thank you,” Carlo mumbled as he was helped to his feet and into the fallen chair which Jonas righted for him. “Good for you,” he added in a firmer voice as he was seated. “I didn’t think you had it in you.”

  Jonas went to the cupboard, took out two more glasses, and filled them.

  “I’ll have that drink now.”

  He handed one to Carlo, who took it with his free hand and a subdued “Thank you,” while holding a handkerchief to his bruised brow. Then Jonas swept and sponged away the broken glass and spilled wine from the floor, returned to the counter for his glass, pulled a chair from the table to face Carlo, and said:

  “So now let’s talk. Why did you come?” It came out as a soft command, full of the confidence of physical conquest.

  “To try to talk some sense with you.” Carlo was also more at ease, for Jonas’ blows had cleared the air. Now they could continue.

  “And what’s sense?”

  “Something other than what you’re doing. It makes no sense to end a marriage over an affair. At least, not until you talk about it. And I’m sure you exaggerate its importance.”

  “Oh?” Jonas asked, his tone dubious, his eyebrow arching. “And what’s your stake in this?”

  “I am the man in the middle; an unwitting catalyst of dissension. It’s a role I don’t enjoy, particularly when I care about the people involved.”

  “When someone you know sleeps with your wife, it’s hard to believe in his good intentions.”

  Jonas finished his wine, emptied the bottle in his glass, and quickly downed that, too. He would like to believe Carlo, wanted to take advantage of any break in the wall of alienation that separated him from Phoebe. But he was not going to accept any hokey explanations. A double fool? Perhaps. A triple one? Never.

  “Try to appreciate my position. When I first met Phoebe, you were of no significance to me whatsoever. She was a woman. We were attracted to one another. That was the only thing of importance. And so we became lovers. And then, good friends.

  “When you saw me at the gallery, it was by accident. Your invitation to dinner was as unexpected as that punch you gave me. It was accepted before I could ward it off. After that, things changed. I could not go back to the same relationship. Nor have I slept with her since.”

  “But you asked her over while I was away.”

  “No. I did not. I phoned to ask both of you to come for dinner on the weekend. But Phoebe said she had to talk with me privately and wanted to come by. If you hadn’t come home.…” He shrugged, finished his wine, and looked expectantly at the empty glass.

  “I’ve got some scotch in the closet,” Jonas volunteered, fetching and undoing a bottle of Famous Grouse. He poured for the two of them, took an initial sip, and sighed as he felt the liquor warm his throat and gullet. “But tell me, did she need a diaphragm to talk with you?”

  “My dear Doctor,” Carlo answered, holding his breath, indicating the difficulty of trying to convince a skeptical listener. “Firstly, I have no more control over what Phoebe puts inside of her than I do over choosing the clothes she wears. And if she anticipated making love, why make such an issue over it? It’s not as if it were a novelty. You must realize that we really cared for one another. But—for whatever it’s worth—we did not come together that night. We talked, instead, about my change of heart.” He sighed, pursed his lips, held his palms up as if to indicate that the reasons would not become clearer no matter how much he talked. He took another scotch, then topped off Jonas’ glass.

  “Let us just say,” Carlo finished, “that I’ve never been able to sleep with the wives of men I know. The pretense required is too great—nor could I handle the consequences of discovery.”

  “But I’ve left. You can damn well do as you choose. I haven’t called Phoebe nor has she made any strong effort to speak with me. So,” Jonas ended, his tone probing rather than conclusive, “don’t let me stand in your way.”

  “It would never work out.” Carlo seemed reluctant to pursue the issue.

  “Why not?” Jonas was starting to feel the effects of the drinks—a light-headed expansiveness, a warmth that radiated from the inside out. He poured again for himself and Carlo.

  “Because your wife doesn’t love me.” His head was lowered as he idly fingered the rim of his glass.

  The news excited Jonas, pleased him, served as a perverse bond of kinship between the two of them.

  “And you?”

  “Like you,” said Carlo, “I loved her.”

  “Loved?”

  “Loved. Love. What does the tense matter. For me, the situation is intolerable. I know you. I know her. I know me. If I love a woman I want her with me all the time. This is not for Phoebe. So it is better for me to put this aside.

  “Phoebe is too uncertain. Before that day in the gallery I asked her to leave you; to
come live with me. But she could not. There were, she said, ‘too many unresolved questions.’ She wanted to give your marriage a better chance. She wondered if our love would last any better than yours had. She questioned my age; that I might soon be too old for her. She worried about the effect on Liza. All these reasons are painful when you want someone very much. And I don’t want to spend my life convincing someone to love me.”

  “And me?” Jonas asked. “Should I do that? If it’s not good for you, why do you suggest that for me?”

  “Because you’re her husband. Because she is very upset now that you’ve left, even though she is too proud to tell you this. Because you still love her and can share her bed each night.”

  “I don’t know.…” Jonas answered. “I just don’t know.”

  “Look,” pressed Carlo. “I’ve got to drive home tonight anyway. Why not come back with me and at least speak with her. Surely that can’t hurt.”

  Yes. Why not. Arlene said talk to her. And now Carlo. Two good excuses to do what he secretly desired.

  13

  “I’m sorry,” Phoebe said, composing herself after Jonas’ unexpected arrival. Actually, it was not all that surprising. She thought he’d return, but hadn’t quite calculated the time. Thankfully it was late, Liza was asleep, and that would make talking easier.

  “Are you, really?” His voice was laden with sarcasm. Not that she could blame him, but she didn’t want to appear the horrible wrongdoer.

  “Yes. I am. Not for what I did but for lying to you about it.”