by André Aciman
Clara, I don’t want this to tailspin—I want to save it—help me save it before my ego or yours gets the better of it.
Clara, do you read me?
“Don’t go now,” I said.
“You don’t want me to go?”
“I don’t want you to go.”
“You don’t get it, do you?” Was she about to tell me? “Listen, last night was last night. As you said: Too soon, too sudden, too fast. It ends there.”
“I don’t want it to end. This is not just about last night. It’s what we both know is bigger than either of us—it’s about our life, I don’t know how else to say it. You are my life.”
“You are my life,” she repeated—clearly not the sort of thing one said in Clara’s world. It went with not singing in the shower, not rhapsodizing over sunsets, what else?
I hated her.
“Do you enjoy making me sound stupid? Maybe I am stupid.”
“Maybe I am stupid,” she mimicked. “Two home runs in a row, Printz. Now it’s my turn—and I don’t know if you’re going to like it.”
“With or without tea,” I interrupted, reaching for humor, however lamely.
“Teatime is long past. Here is what I have to say, and live with it as you please.”
“Shoot.” A touch of fading irony in my voice, but I was buckling up for the worst.
“The truth is this. And I’m not the only one who says it. The sooth sayer woman said it too. I care for you. Call it what you will—love, if it pleases you. You, however, just want to get me out of your system, and if mistaking this for love helps you, you’ll call it love. I want you in my system, not out. I know what I want from you and I know what I have to give for it. You haven’t got the foggiest idea what you want and certainly not what you’re ready to offer. You haven’t thought that far, because your mind isn’t really interested—your ego, yes, and your body, maybe, but the rest of you, not a clue. All you’ve been giving me so far is the hurt, sorry puppy face and the same unasked question in your gaze each time there’s a pause between us. You think it’s love. It’s not. What I have is real and it’s not going away. That’s what I have to say. Now can I go?”
She had so persuaded me that I started to believe her. She loved me, I did not love her. She knew what she wanted, I had no idea. Made perfect sense.
“Just stay, will you? Don’t go yet.”
“No, I can’t. I promised I’d meet someone.”
“Someone? Is this a friend of the friend who lives all the way downtown?” I was trying to show I was mimicking her.
“No, this is another friend.”
“Do you care for him too?”
She gave me a withering glance. “You want war, don’t you?”
“That’s not what I want at all.”
“What do you want, then?”
She was right. I had no idea. But there was something I definitely did want and it had to do with her, or it was through her that I would find it. Or it was her I wanted and all my doubts were just my last-ditch way of avoiding seeing this simple truth. That I wanted her. That I was destined to lose her. That I had shot my wad and didn’t have a single card left to play.
“I want you to give me another chance.”
“People don’t change, you certainly won’t. Besides, what does another chance mean? Is this something you picked up at the movies?”
“You’re always tweaking and putting me down.”
“That’s because you’ve been giving me palaver. When you’re good and ready, I want this,” she said, suddenly putting her right hand on my crotch and grabbing everything I had there in her palm, not letting go, all the while doing something that felt like a squeeze. “I want you—not the puppy face, not the snide antics, nor your evasive asides. I want you in the moment, here and now. For this, I already told you, I’ll go the distance and do anything you want, anything, anything. When we’re good and ready.” She stopped squeezing me without letting go yet. “But don’t ruin it. You ruin it with your silly games and your cold feet and your other nonsense, and you’ll never live this down—this much I can promise you.” With that, she put her hand inside my trousers and reached for my cock. “You want my breasts? I want this.”
“Now can I go?” she asked, as if I were holding her back with my cock.
I nodded.
“Are we going to the movies this evening?”
I hated my voice.
“Yes, we are.” Why? I asked, not knowing why I’d asked her why.
“I thought I just told you why.”
“And what are you doing now?” I couldn’t help myself.
“Now I’m going to meet someone who’s been kinder to me than I deserve.”
•
I had already purchased our tickets and was waiting outside the movie theater, drinking my large cup of coffee to keep warm. I was doing penance, and she was late. Something had already warned me she’d be late. I was trying not to let it bother me. I knew that five more minutes of this would make me more anxious, that anxiety might upset me, that I’d try hiding being upset, but that it would all leak in so many oblique and treacherous ways that were sure to draw her fire and finally erupt in allout war. I tried keeping my anxiety in check. Please don’t stand me up, Clara, just don’t stand me up. But I also knew that it wasn’t the fear of being stood up that had caused the surge in anxiety. It was the image of her doing to this other friend what she’d done to me, her hand squeezing and caressing his cock, making the same speech. No, not the same speech. She’d make love to him, totally and completely, then hop in a cab headed uptown and show up at the movie theater, all wired and frisky, didn’t want to miss the credits, have been thinking of you all afternoon, not upset, are you? Who knew what she’d been doing on the afternoon of our first movie.
But if I was sincerely worried about her someone, it was also to avoid thinking how she’d touched me, or at least not use up the thrill of that moment by thinking too much on it. I wanted to dip into it, take furtive nips, and then run to safety, like a bird nibbling tiny tidbits. I was a leave-some-for-later type, she the here-and-now, guzzle-all-you-can-in-the-moment. No woman had ever put her hand there without first knowing that she could. Even my caresses last night, for all their boldness when we leaned against the wall of the bakery at three in the morning, had none of her nerve. I wondered if hers was a merely symbolic groping for a man’s balls, which explains why she rubbed my crotch somewhat before letting go of it, as if to make light of the package, or whether she had pressed me with the heel of her palm to tease me, to feel me, to turn me on, to show what she was capable of?
In between the worrying and the fading memory of how her hand had held me hovered hazy reminders of what had happened earlier outside the Met, things I didn’t want to think about, and could still manage to banish, but that were still there, like an enemy waiting for the gates to open, but equally capable of breaking them down or of digging under them if he wished. This morning I’d almost buckled on the ground—the tourists, the stands, the children, the crowd milling everywhere, the sandwich men dressed as playing-card kings and queens, everyone sucking the air till I seemed to be floating on helium. I’d never forget this day. It had started bursting with desire, my hands off Signor Guido, and look at me now, sipping coffee, which I wasn’t even supposed to drink, humbled, crushed, vulnerable, prone to new setbacks as soon as the Xanax wore off. I did blame her.
Why had I allowed this to happen? Because I had hoped, because I had trusted? Because I’d failed to find something to hate in her? Because everything, just everything was beautiful and promised to take me to that one place where I felt I belonged but had never seen, and that my life would be one big nothing without it?
“You didn’t think I’d come,” she said, after stepping out of a taxi in front of the theater.
“Well, maybe you wavered a bit. Did you want me to worry?”
“Stop.”
She took the second coffee from my hand, no doubt in her mind tha
t it was hers.
I also produced a roll of Mentos, which made her ecstatic. Or perhaps she was making up for not thanking me for the coffee by throwing profuse thanks for the candy.
“Want one?” she asked, tearing open the package. The first one was red. She always loved the red, hated the yellow. “I want the red,” I said. But she had already put it in her mouth with a teasing you’re-not-getting-this-one-unless-you-come-and-get-it-if-you-dare smile. I would have kissed her in the mouth, found the candy, stolen it with my tongue, and, after playing with it awhile, given it back to her. Suddenly, with our imagined kiss racing through me and the thought of her fingers passionately combing my hair, something arrested me: they may not have made love this afternoon, but they got very close, almost too close.
Meanwhile, not a word about where she’d been or what she’d done. Her silence on the matter confirmed my worst doubts. I stewed in them all through both of Rohmer’s films, poisoning both films.
By the time we were out at midnight, it was impossible not to sulk. “What’s eating you?” she asked. My “Nothing” was not even trying to be dramatic or visibly cryptic; it was a glum “Nothing,” and I didn’t care to hide it.
“You didn’t like the films?”
“I liked them.”
“You don’t feel well?”
“I’m fine.”
“It’s me.”
What lay ahead was a field of nettles that I wasn’t eager to cross barefoot.
“Did I say something wrong?” she asked. “Let’s have it. Let’s just put it out there.”
It took me a few moments to find the courage.
“I just wish you hadn’t left this afternoon. I felt terrible.”
“I had to see someone.”
I tried to put on a placid, indifferent face, but I couldn’t resist.
“Do I get to ask who?”
“Whom? Sure, ask away.”
“Who, then?”
“You don’t know him, but he’s a very dear friend. We talked about you. About us.”
I was trying to find my bearings, but didn’t know how.
“Everything confuses me. I’ve never been this confused. Nor have I ever told anyone I was so confused. Ever.”
This was the most honest thing about me that I’d ever managed to say to her. This way of speaking was new to me, and I wasn’t sure I liked it.
How was I going to let down my guard with her tonight and ever attempt to recapture last night’s kisses with this plague standing between us?
•
When we arrived at the bar, things couldn’t be worse. A man wearing a dark blue suit, a white shirt, though without a necktie, was sitting at the table next to what had become ours, and no sooner had he seen Clara than he stood up and embraced her. No introductions, of course, until he turned to me and introduced himself. On his table were what looked like loose galleys of a book of black-and-white photographs.
He was nursing an oversized martini with a bunch of olives skewered on a long toothpick that he hadn’t touched. There followed an awkward moment, during which Clara and I were trying to decide our seating arrangement. It only made sense that she should sit next to him on the banquette, which spanned from his table to ours, but this precluded my sitting next to her, as had become our habit. She would be in between us, but the men would be sitting too far apart. So I did the obvious: I sat across from her, facing the two of them. She hesitated for a moment, which I took as a positive sign, but then she opted to sit so close to him that we found ourselves occupying his table. I was furious with her for not insisting that I sit next to her. Yet Clara’s hesitation had pleased me, as had the waitress’s histrionic enthusiasm: Here they are! The man, whose name was Victor, didn’t seem to pick up on Clara’s momentary hesitation or on the waitress’s clamorous greeting.
I wondered what he knew about Clara and me. Were we just friends? More than friends? What were we anyway? And what were they? He explained he had decided to come here for a drink after spending the evening with his assistant. He wanted to go through the pictures one last time before turning them in in the morning. Somehow he wasn’t pleased. He’d just come back from two shows, one in Berlin—grand, just grand!—the other in Paris—sensationnel!—and London and Tokyo in three weeks—could you ask for more? What was the subject? I asked, trying to make conversation. Manhattan Noir, which, given his French accent, he pronounced Manattàn Noir. Clara threw me a quick squint. There was mirth and collusion in it. We knew we were putting this on hold for parody and demolition later on.
Victor, dapper blue suit and starched white shirt, French cuffs, couldn’t be happier with the project. Next year’s Christmas coffee-table sensation, he explained, trying to make light of the project. But he was clearly pleased with himself. Even the gleaming white shirt and wide-open sans cravate louque was going to be the subject of ridicule once we were alone together, to say nothing of his name in bold letters on the cover: Victor François Chiller. The initials made me want to laugh.
Talk of Manhattan Noir kept us animated and laughing way past midnight. Everyone had a theory about Manhattan Noir. We took turns: The noir city in each of us, even if we’d never seen a film noir before. The noir city we love to catch glimpses of, because it takes us back to another Manhattan that may never have existed, but exists by virtue of films and their afterimage. The noir city we sometimes long to live in. The noir city that disappears the moment you go out to find it. The noir city that is more in us than it is out there in the real city, I threw in. “Well, let’s not get carried away,” he said.
She corrected his pronunciation. Not Manattàn but Manhattan. Not aunting hower of ze nait but haunting hour of the night. He thought the joke and his English pronunciation very funny and, with confident hilarity, placed an arm around Clara’s shoulder, pulling her toward him each time he laughed out loud, which forced her to rest her head on his shoulder. Perhaps, sensing his arm around her, she had automatically leaned toward him as a way of being pardoned for joking at his expense. Or was it: press the touch button and she’s instantly yours?
His arm stayed there awhile. He caught me staring at it. I looked away and turned my eyes to her, only to sense that she too had caught me staring and, like him, had instinctively looked the other way. Neither of them moved; she didn’t lift her head away from his shoulder, and he didn’t remove his arm. It was as though both were independently frozen in that position, either because it was too late to undo the gesture or because they wanted to show there was nothing awkward or improper in it and that—come to think of it—they could do as they pleased, seeing they had absolutely nothing to hide or be ashamed of, and would stop if and when they were good and ready.
Were they, was she doing this to spite me—was she egging him on? Or was she too weak to stop him, or was this her message to me? You have no rights, no claims, and if I want to lean on his shoulder or touch his hand or feel his balls, well, I’ll do so in your face—live with it.
Was theirs perhaps the threadbare familiarity that lingers among ex-lovers?
Or was it a murky friendship between man and woman, the way ours was no better than a murky friendship between man and woman?
Was I perhaps misconstruing everything? Or had I not even scratched the surface? My doubts, like proofs of the Pythagorean theorem, suddenly outnumbered the stars.
Or, with the Xanax wearing off, was it this morning’s anxiety speaking again, making me spin these thoughts, all the while urging me to keep a straight face before them—in case I was making it all up?
Which was worse: making it all up and not enjoying anything, or watching them together and not knowing anything?
Tossing and turning. Not tossing, but turning . . .
Clara, I’ve disappointed you, haven’t I?
Oh, Hieronimo, Hieronimo, what have they done to your mind? Your thoughts are all scrambled, and the sedge is withered by the lake. I could feel it coming on again.
I excused myself to go to the bathroom. I
knew the bathroom would break my heart. I splashed some water on my face. I liked the cold water in the stinky bathroom. Dabbed my face again. Wet my nape, wet my wrists, the area behind the ears. I remembered the pressure of the steel nut against my head and how it had dented the skin on my forehead. Poor, poor scalawag. And my trying to cool things down a bit, thrilled to the marrow of my boner, me with my how-do-I-leave-graciously-after-we-go-at-it-tonight? Last night she’d lowered the collar of my turtleneck and kissed me there. Hands groping everywhere, all the while I’m reining in Sir Lochinvar, charger and steed, till we kissed by the blessed bakery of blessed memory. Happy, happy, happy hour. Tonight, her heart’s with another man. Turncoat. Clever trick, that, hesitating before taking a seat next to his. Ah, you think that would fool Printz Oskàr? Why wasn’t this last night, why couldn’t it be last night, turn back the clock, undo the bad dream, unmake every mistake, put time on splints, work things back to the point where I’d taken the wrong turn and found myself standing in the snow in Straus Park after we’d kissed and heard her say, “We met here this morning, here we are again.” Ach, Sir Tristram, you bald-pated simpering sop, I thought you were all glittering with the noblest of carriage, but you’re only a Guido. I thought you great in all things, you’re but a puny. Bear down, old fool, and sink hereunder.
When I came out, she didn’t see me approach. They were talking.
This was a party and I wasn’t invited.
They were about to order a second round. I decided not to. She was surprised. Didn’t I want fries with ketchup?
Was this her way of asking me not to go yet?
The question spoke so many good things.
It’s been a rather long day, I said. And I think I may be coming down with something. Bad, bad day.
He didn’t ask why. His reticence and the haste with which he wanted to return to what they were discussing told me she might have told him about my incident at Mount Sinai and he didn’t even want to pretend he wasn’t aware of it.
Nice work, Clara.
“Plus I really shouldn’t drink,” I added, remembering the young doctor’s recommendation.
