Nowhere City

by Alison Lurie

  He should have explained himself to Ceci already, but this time everything had happened too fast. Still, the sooner the better; he told her now. He said that he loved his wife and that she loved him, in her own way; he announced—what he knew to be true—that she needed him very much and that he could not leave her.

  Ceci made no comment whatsoever. She shook detergent over the dishes in the sink, and turned the tap. A thin twist of brownish water came out of the tap. “Damn it.” She turned both taps back and forth. “Shit.”

  “What’s the matter?”

  “The water pressure’s gone off again. It’s always doing that; sometimes we have practically no water in the building for days. I might as well leave the dishes and get dressed.”

  Paul followed her into the bedroom. Why hadn’t he left it alone? “You didn’t say anything,” he finally burst out.

  “Say anything?”

  “About what I told you just now.”

  “What’s there to say? I heard you.” Ceci pulled up the sheet and blanket, her back to him. Then, as if relenting, she turned to Paul and smiled, a half smile. He felt immeasurably relieved, reprieved.

  Ceci took off her shirt and put on a black cotton jersey and a striped skirt. “Don’t you ever wear any underwear?” he asked.

  “Don’t have any.” Ceci smiled. “It saves money.”

  Paul laughed. But it also disturbed him. He thought of Ceci walking around Los Angeles, her secret parts exposed to the air and smog beneath her loose skirt. “Don’t you get cold in the winter?”

  “What winter?”

  “I keep forgetting.” Paul smiled. “This is winter, here.”

  Or waiting on tables in the Aloha Coffee Shop, he thought, with her full pink naked breasts rubbing against the sleazy starched uniform. It made him feel nervous, almost jealous. If he were married to her he wouldn’t like it at all.

  “What if you were caught in an accident?”

  “Big bang for the cops.” Ceci grinned, looking up from fastening her sandals.

  Paul saw a car smashed and smoking by the side of a freeway. Ceci was lying beside it, her eyes closed, her striped skirt wrenched up, her streaky gold hair loose at both ends, surrounded by gaping, leering policemen.

  “Let’s see,” she went on. “Today is Saturday, tomorrow must be Sunday. Next week I’m on from eight to two every day. What’re you doing Monday afternoon? Can you get off early?”

  “Sure, I can get away for an hour or so. But I have to be back by four; there’s a meeting. Why don’t we meet for coffee, about two-thirty?”

  “Uh-uh. That’s no good. You know we can’t make it here and back in an hour and a half.” She stood up. “Two-thirty Tuesday?”

  “All right.” Paul was bothered by her tone of passionate practicality. If they weren’t going to make love, didn’t she even want to see him?

  Ceci opened the door. On the outside was printed in black crayon:

  O’CONNOR

  WONG

  TOMASO

  Paul looked at this as he went past. “Who’s Tomaso?” he asked. Ceci did not seem to hear him. They began going downstairs. Paul decided that he really wanted to know. “Who’s Tomaso?” he said again.

  “This used to be his pad.” Ceci did not look at Paul. “Damn, I forgot the garbage.”

  She ran back up the steps; Paul continued to descend them slowly. O’Connor, Wong, Tomaso. What had he got himself into?

  An odd aching feeling had begun in his stomach, and his hands felt tense and nervous. What was the matter with him? He was both excited and worried. What the hell was it? The feeling wasn’t exactly physical; he remembered it from before, years before. But it had something to do with Ceci.

  He stood still on the second step from the bottom. Yes. Now he recognized it: it was intense physical jealousy.

  “Okay!” Ceci called out, hurrying down the stairs.

  “Okay,” Paul called back, in an even more casual tone. After all, the whole thing was casual, uncomplicated. What he had always wanted. He stepped out on to the sidewalk and waited, smiling. As Ceci reached him, she looked up briefly out of her round, deeply fringed brown eyes.

  No. It was no use pretending. Somehow, when and where he had least expected it, he had been caught.

  8

  ONE A.M. ON AMBROSIA DRIVE, high in the dry hills above the Strip. Glory Green went through her house turning out the lights. She should have been in bed hours ago—she had to be at the studio at eight—but she was too restless and depressed to sleep.

  She stood in the archway of the long sunken living-room, her hand on the switch. The ten-foot artificial Christmas tree, pale pinkish blonde (it just matched her hair) had been put up and trimmed that morning by a professional interior decorator. Maxie had conned him into doing it gratis, for the plug. The tree was loaded with pink and silver balls and trinkets and candy. Three dozen little pink electric candles kept bubbling and winking off and on, and a music-box concealed in the stand tinkled “Silent Night,” over and over again.

  Glory didn’t go for it. In the first place, it was three weeks to Christmas, and by that time the whole set-up would be dirty and everyone would be sick of it. Besides, the silver angels’-hair that Maxie’s gay-boy had spread all over everything in a last burst of inspiration, leaping from ladder to chair in his suede shoes, was too spooky. It reminded her of the scene in that old English movie—what was its name?—where the crazy old lady burns up in her room. Because long ago her boyfriend stood her up on her wedding day, and she flipped, so ever since she’s been holed up in this same room waiting for him to come back to her, in her ratty old-fashioned wedding dress, and spiders’ webs over everything, especially this great big wedding cake. It was with Jean Simmons.

  Glory had been photographed under the tree that afternoon, in a silver négligé. If Maxie was lucky, she would come out in one of the Sunday papers the day before Christmas: “Miss Glory Green, opening some of the hundreds of gifts she has received this year from friends and fans around the world.” (The fag had brought the prop presents too, all done up in pink and silver.) “The two lovable puppies, Castor and Pollux, are a special gift to Glory from the Suharaja of Banipur. They are Manx Spaniels, one of the rarest and most expensive breeds of dogs in the world.”

  The Suharaja had wanted very much to be in the picture too, but Maxie wouldn’t let him. It wasn’t only because she was married now; the straight dope was that the Suharaja sounded a lot better than he looked. He was a dim little brown man with gold neckties who didn’t speak English too good. It was just like the Suharaja of Banipur to give a girl something stupid for Christmas like two rare expensive dogs that weren’t even house-broken.

  He didn’t have all that fabulously much loot either, ever since Banipur didn’t need him any more. He wasn’t really Suharaja of anything now. The way Glory understood it, he went and let his country have an election, and they didn’t pick up his option, and now Banipur belonged to some people called the Christian Marxists. So he was out of a job. He was always hanging around Hollywood; Glory had dated him a couple of times before she met Iz, and now he was back again. Probably eventually some girl who wasn’t making out too well professionally would marry him. If he was lucky it would be some decent kid that would really like him and give him a good time. But you couldn’t count on the Suharaja’s being lucky. More likely he would pick up a real little bitch.

  Glory looked round the room, and sighed. She turned off the tree; “Silent Night” and the candles stopped. Then she turned off the other lights. The room became a long cave of dark, soft shapes—spooky really. It was kind of scary living up here in the hills all alone.

  She walked down the hall and through to her bathroom, turning out lights as she went. She had already taken off her make-up and put five different kinds of skin conditioner on different parts of her face and body. Roger, the make-up man at the studio, would have been proud of her. He was always yakking at her about something she ought to use regularly every
night, and mostly she never paid any attention. All that stuff interfered with a girl’s private life.

  She took a roll of toilet paper out of the cupboard and began wrapping it round and round her head to protect the pink-blonde bouffant hair-do that had taken three hours in Mr. Gene’s place that morning. Round and round, until she had used up half the roll and constructed a bulging paper turban. She pasted the edges of it to her face and neck with Scotch tape. Now, if she slept carefully, it would keep till tomorrow.

  She glanced at herself briefly in the bathroom mirror, quite without vanity. For Glory, beauty was a dress she could put on whenever she wished to, and after twenty years she was tired of it. Since kindergarten she had worn it, walking through the city like a child wearing a golden coat, and people had grabbed at her as she passed, greedily, but only because she was stuck inside the coat. Now it was her working clothes, her uniform, and when she was at home she took it off, quite deliberately. In the mirror shiny patches of pink, greased face alternated with dry patches of white and blue medicated lotion, so that she looked like a freakish clown.

  Iz should have been in the photo. Maxie had wanted her to call him up and ask him over, if you can imagine, but she wouldn’t. So Maxie phoned Iz himself. He couldn’t reach Iz at the apartment he’d taken over in Westwood, or at the University, where he was working on some research thing, so he called the office in Beverly Hills.—Did Glory tell you to call me? Iz asked. (She was listening in on the extension.)—Uh-uh, Maxie said, it was my idea.—I thought so, Iz said. It’s the kind of thing I would expect from you. You really believe that I would come back just to pose for a picture so you can prove to everybody, the newspapers, that Glory and I are still living together.—There’s been a lot of unfavorable comment, Maxie said. It’s been now a month; people are speculating.—Well, screw them, Iz said. Tell them to hedge their bets.—You want to ruin this girl’s career? Maxie asked. Is that what you want to do? All right, don’t answer me now; think it over. Only why don’t you have some consideration for her? It’s a little thing, it’s a nothing to you, a few minutes of your time. So why be a louse?—I have a patient waiting, Iz said. I can’t discuss it with you now. Is Glory there? I’d like to speak to her. Glory shook her head violently.—Glory’s not here, Maxie answered.—All right. Let me give you some professional advice, Maxie, Iz said. I’ll give you this advice gratis, absolutely free. Go fuck yourself. He hung up.

  Glory extinguished the bathroom light and went on into her all-white bedroom. Her bare feet sank into thick white carpeting and white fur rugs; the opaque glass lamps threw soft fans of light along the white walls. She had always gone for this room. Iz dug it too; he had helped her shop for all the kooky white or near-white plants that stood along the sliding glass doors to the patio.

  Iz had never liked Maxie in the first place. Before he met him he already didn’t like him, because of Maxie’s profession. Maxie had a more open mind; he liked Iz fine until he met him. And you couldn’t blame Maxie, the way Iz treated him, like he was some kind of bug. When he heard they were getting married he kept shaking his head.—What are the fans going to think: a psychiatrist? he said. “Whatsa matter, is she sick? Or maybe she’s becoming an intellectual.”—What’s wrong with that? Glory had protested. Jill St. John is an intellectual, I read all the time. Monroe married a writer.—Yeah, Maxie said, and look what it did for her. Anyhow, for you I don’t see it.

  Glory took off her white silk bathrobe. Her spectacular body was a very pale, glowing pink—she avoided suntan, because it photographed badly and dried out your skin. (The hair between her legs also matched the Christmas tree. Like her girlfriend Mona said, you have to keep up the property: never know when you’ll have guests.) With her weirdly painted face and paper fez, she looked like one of those Egyptian gods who wear the heads of beasts.

  Naked, she crossed the carpet, got into the huge bed, and turned out the light. Now the room seemed even larger than it was; funny-shaped shadows moved on the curtains, advanced and retreated across the walls. Glory got up again, went over to the closet, and after some searching found and put on a pair of pajamas which had never been worn except in publicity stills. It was dumb, of course, because if anything bad wanted to come and get her tonight a pair of white silk pajamas wasn’t going to stop them. She lay down in bed again, on her stomach, her paper turban disposed to one side.

  Ever since Iz walked out on her, Maxie had been giving her trouble.—What am I supposed to do, he kept asking. What do you want me to say to the papers? Have a little consideration for my problem. Make up your mind: it’s over; it’s not over.—Why don’t you ask Iz? Glory finally shouted. Because I don’t know! As far as I’m concerned, we’re still married! I’m merely simply waiting for him to come home.—Aw, now, Maxie said. Don’t give me that. You threw him out, you got to ask him back. A man has his pride.—Listen, Glory said. He knew perfectly well I was putting him on when I said to split. I have some pride too. Any time he feels like it he can—

  What was that? Glory raised her head. From outside came a noise like someone walking up the gravel drive. Wait. No: everything was quiet now. She lowered her head carefully again, turned on her side, and crossed her arms over her breasts.

  Where was Iz now? What was he doing? Glory stared into the dark. She felt ugly and rejected. Like a goddess betrayed by a god, it made absolutely no difference to her that temples still stood all over the land in which her image was worshiped nightly by multitudes, that praises and petitions arrived daily from the faithful.

  Two A.M. She wasn’t going to sleep; she would look a mess tomorrow. And it was too late to take a pill; if she did that she would be dopey and stupid at the studio next morning. It was too late to phone up anyone, and if she did, what would she—There it was again. Somebody or something was out there, around the corner of the house near the living-room.

  Hell, probably it was just some dog. But Glory knew that she would never sleep until she was sure. Without turning on any lights, she got out of bed and walked down the hall. Now that her eyes were used to the dark she could see the shapes of the furniture, the dim reflections from pictures and mirrors, the tall spider-web silhouette of the Christmas tree against the window, the—Oh God. There was somebody out there: a man, standing near the glass doors.

  In panic, Glory pressed the light switches in the hall. The rooms sprang up bright around her, the Christmas tree began to sparkle and play “Silent Night.” She was exposed as if on stage.

  She reached, fumbling, trembling, along the wall to turn on the patio lights, the pool lights, all the outside lights. For a split second as they went up she thought the intruder was Iz, because he had a beard. But Iz’s beard was short and neatly trimmed—this man’s was long and scraggy, and he had a pale, flat sort of Oriental face, like a villain out of the grade-B spy thrillers of her childhood. But the worst thing was the way he stared at her—totally without admiration or desire, rather with an expression of inscrutable disgust. For twenty years no man had looked at her that way.

  He stepped forward and put his hand on the glass door. Glory could see and hear the inside handle turn. She opened her mouth to scream, as the beautiful victims had screamed in all those thrillers; as she herself had screamed on cue before the cameras. Only nothing came out; her throat had turned to cardboard.

  But the latch held; the door remained closed. The man slipped off to one side. Wait. Wasn’t that him around at the window, trying to open the window! But it was locked too. Was everything locked?

  Now a nightmare chase began; Glory ran from room to room of her house checking the locks of the doors and windows, panting across her thick carpets, stopping to listen, afraid every time she pulled back a curtain that she would come face to face with that look of repulsion. He must be a pervert or something. Bathroom, bedrooms, dining-room, kitchen.

  Finished, she leaned against the wall by the front door, breathing hard, and listened. Every sound to her now was the enemy walking round her house, in every di
rection, rattling the doors. She ran back and forth aimlessly: a few steps one way, a few steps another. Down the hall in the living-room the Christmas tree went on twinkling and playing.

  The telephone! She could telephone the cops! She grabbed the receiver off the wall and dialed O. “Therth a man!” she lisped. “A man here, trying to get in. I want the cops.” Her voice began as a hoarse whisper, but it came back to her as she spoke.

  Ten minutes, they assured her. They would be there in ten minutes. But in ten minutes he could still smash a window, force his way in, and rob and rape and murder her. If only she had kept those dumb dogs; they might at least have barked. She was going to keep them in the first place so as not to hurt the Suharaja’s feelings, but then one of them made a mess on the rug, and she screamed at Maxie to get them out of here.

  Glory was still holding on to the phone, though now it was connected to nothing. Everything was quiet; she took a breath. She still didn’t feel as if she could scream: “There’s a man here.” The way the girls shrieked in the films was all wrong. It was much scarier this way. She must remember how she had said that, if she got out of this: “There’s a man, trying to get in.”

  She hung up the phone, walked down the hall, and looked out. A dark shape was hurrying away along the edge of the illuminated pool, which glowed green in the dark. He dodged round the chairs and tables, and then stopped for a moment in front of a fat rubber sea monster, a pool toy that Maxie had given them. Was he flippy enough to be afraid of that? No. He picked it up, and put it under one arm. Then he ran into the bushes, out of the light, and disappeared down the side of the hill. Thank God he didn’t turn round; she didn’t want to see that look again.