Quid pro quo! Since I had neglected him, Hadj had upped the ante by being cruel. What had I expected, Mother Teresa? Grateful to have a plane ticket, I packed up the last of my things, minus all the gifts—except one— that I had so prized. The Old City’s walls, formerly so protective, now felt claustrophobic.
Flying the next night, as the walls of the Old City receded, so did the anguish at leaving under such bitter circumstances. I couldn’t wait to see my husband again. A passing dalliance, no matter how absorbing, could not compare to a relationship that had sustained me for so many years. How could I have been so intent on staying longer?
Idly, I opened the pages of Singer’s Stories from my Father’s Court. These short stories, chocked with aberrant, loveable characters, made me chuckle aloud until my seat mate wondered if I were daffy. Reading about devils, golems, angels and crazy butchers full of delightful eccentricities, distracted me from thinking about Fouad. Doses of this pungent literary medicine began a healing process.
In New York I progressed from Singer’s short stories to his novels, then two biographies. His tales of Jewish renegades on the Upper West Side encouraged me take plenty of subway rides there in hopes of catching him in a cafeteria noshing on a cheese blintz. This confirmed downtowner attended all his local lectures, even those at the 92nd Street Y on the Upper East Side —a world away from my customary haunts.
Eventually, I wrote Singer a letter explaining how much his writing meant to me. Today, his reply wishing me Mazel Tov and a long life, along with every book he wrote, are treasured possessions. In 1978, after he won the Nobel Prize, I toasted him in absentia with champagne—then ate an entire package of egg matzos. When he died in 1991, I wore black.
Embracing Singer’s writing caused me to appreciate the richness of my Hebrew legacy, a process that began subliminally as I trod the hallowed stones of Jerusalem. Singer’s influence dispelled prejudices that began when my family forced me to attend Seders and other rituals that seemed meaningless to a young girl at odds with old-fashioned ways.
When I run my fingers along the ridges of a gold hand of the Fatima, an Arab good luck charm, I remember Fouad. He hung this treasure, a small diamond in the center, around my neck while Abdul served a lunch of escargots and red wine from Provence. This souvenir also connects me to the multi-layered Arabic culture that Fouad, despite his French affectations, represented.
One day after lounging in bed, putting on a yarmulke, Fouad delivered a lecture on the futility of war in Israel, or anywhere on earth. His eloquence, references to Bertrand Russell and the French philosophes, astounded me. At that moment, I believed him to be sincere. Now, I am certain, on some level, he was.
In these days of suicide bombers, I often ponder my good fortune to have visited Israel when Arabs and Jews could enjoy each other’s company. That an Arab would give me a book by a Jewish writer showed a tolerance that helped me to forgive him for misleading me. Hindsight has brought me to the conclusion that, sensing my vulnerability, Fouad beat an appropriate, well timed retreat. I thank my Muslim lover for an unforgettable fling. And for introducing me to I.B. Singer, an enduring love.
Back in Figaro’s back room with the Club, Marilyn offered a few half-hearted criticisms of Fouad’s character. But had she also blushed with envy? Our club followed Chloe, who chose a table nearly in the house band’s lap. A regular, she waved to people she knew. Meanwhile she chatted with a voluptuous female Israeli doumbek (drum) player whose braids hung down to her waist, a mustachioed Turk on the oud, and a skinny, dark-skinned fellow rattling a tambourine inlaid with mother of pearl.
Sitting down, Chloe confessed in a whisper that, among this veritable united nations of musicians, she had slept with two of them—but not the woman, she clarified. Who needed to visit the Middle East? Greenwich Village had its own funky version of a belly dance scene. Looking around I saw that the room had filled up with aficionados and tourists indifferent to the roasting temperature.
Three different dancers swathed in layers of chiffon hovered beside an old fashioned espresso machine. Each barefoot performer did a twenty minute set, which ended with a theatrical finale. Afterward, the audience applauded and showered them with money. Once the last dancer had finished, the band leader invited everyone to join in. Leaping to her feet, Chloe plunked herself in the midst of a belly-bobbing free-for-all, which soon mushroomed over the entire floor into the front room. Chloe had never looked so radiant, so bacchante-like.
Playfully, Chloe pulled our Confessions Club, as frisky as the Twelve Dancing Princesses from Grimm’s fairy tale, onto the packed floor. I watched Marilyn move with a mixture of grace and verve as though she were from an Arabic country. Fortunately, none of us were potato-shaped, or dried-up like brittle flowers, or clumping around in orthopedic shoes. So what if Sarah grumped and soon returned to her knitting. Diversity, in our group as in the natural world, kept the earth fecund.
Candy shimmied to her own disco-style beat in stilt- size heels. Out of the blue, she ripped open her blouse to bare very ample breasts. Black sequined pasties, tassels dangling from them, highlighted her nipples. First she jiggled both boobs, then one independently of the other as though each had a mind of its own. Like an animal capturing its prey, Chloe pounced upon her. Since Candy faced a corner, only a few customers got an eyeful. Buttoning her blouse up again, Chloe dragged a reluctant Candy back to our table.
“Hey, what’s wrong?” asked a wide-eyed Candy. I’ve taken a few courses at the School of Burlesque on Coney Island. They taught me to shimmy like a pro. “
“The manager’s conservative; he’s worried about offending customers. Many come from Brooklyn with kids.”
“Who cares?” scoffed Candy. “Okay, so I won’t dance on the table either like I planned to celebrate your birthday, or show off the artistic penis tattoo on my stomach. Hey, do you like my fun name, Candy Boobs? Or is Candy Barr, or Candy Floss more attention grabbing?” A bemused expression on her face, Chloe ignored the question.
Winded, after showing off our charms to the assembled guests whose applause rewarded our efforts, we crash-landed back at the table. At ten P.M. the magic carpet was rolled up and Aladdin’s cave changed back into a pedestrian restaurant again. Even if the intoxication of Chloe’s birthday night was over, I expected more of the same and wilder at future meetings of our Confessions Club— zipping along in a zany, productive fashion.
Sometimes sophisticated and elegant, other times down and dirty, I appreciated my sister bacchantes for their tolerance. And for paying rapt attention to stories of my globetrotting erotic adventures. I hoped that they would respond equally well to those that happened in my adopted hometown.
PART THREE
If you can only have one great love, then the city just may be mine.
Carrie Bradshaw from Sex and the City
THIRTEEN: JANUARY 2005, IN MARILYN’S LIVING ROOM
For the red gods call me out and I must go! Rudyard Kipling
“No, not anal sex! Are we a Confessions Club or a bunch of horny sluts run amuck?” Tiffany clucked her tongue in disgust.
“Next we’ll spend our meetings watching “fuck and suck” films, or ask Larry Flynt to be a guest speaker.” Tiffany, sitting on the couch, slammed down her Chanel handbag. The impact awoke Robespierre, most distinguished of the three pusses, dozing contentedly. Demeter and Miss Mops, sensing trouble, paced back and forth. Tiffany glared at them as though they were villains responsible for bringing up the topic of anal sex. The cats’ fur ball heads drooped from the evil vibrations directed toward them. Leaping on to the windowsill, they huddled together a beleaguered family. In a vituperative mood, Tiffany reminded me of a fire-breathing dragon.
“Where’s Sarah?” asked Chloe. “‘Till she comes, we shouldn’t make any decisions.”
“Sarah called,” replied Marilyn. “I expect her later. Meanwhile, have some chrysanthemum flower tea, our flavor of the day. In Vietnam they wrapped a poultice of chrysanthemum flowers round
Jane Fonda’s broken foot. Trust me, it balances the hostile energies of the universe.”
To mitigate the January blahs Marilyn filled our meeting room with yellow daisies, blood red anthuriums, and myriad shades of lavender orchids. Elegant calla lilies preened in vases and floated in bowls of water. Subtly these blooms, and others in cool and warm colors, performed aromatherapy—an antidote to Tiffany’s tirade. Demeter and Miss Mops leaped down from the sill and gracefully rubbed against flower petals or padded around inhaling the sensuous fragrances.
As Marilyn poured tea, a sleepy Robespierre, whose black fur contrasted with his white face, wound himself in the curtains. Holding them with his paws, he played peekaboo, then jumped down from the sill. An Art Deco cat, he curled up in Marilyn’s lap to hide from the rampaging Maoist.
“Who brought up this smutty subject anyway? Why wasn’t I informed during the last meeting?” Tiffany panned our faces to discover the culprit.
Noticing our reaction, Tiffany said, “Seriously, I’m concerned that we’re thumbing our noses at feminists like Catharine MacKinnon who crusades against pornography degrading to women.” Since Marilyn’s apartment was cold, Tiffany wrapped herself up in her new full-length chinchilla coat of mysterious provenance. Opening and closing her mouth she resembled the elegant rat that she wore.
Sipping tea and gobbling pistachio nuts Candy squirmed. Tossing a nut into the air, she faced Tiffany to give her the old one/two: “In 1972, with the re-release of Deep Throat, MacKinnon described ‘throat rape.’ If emergency rooms were full of these cases, like she says, why didn’t I ever wind up there for treatment? My throat’s pink as a baby’s. Take a gander.” Candy opened her mouth wide to insist that each of us peer down her throat. No wonder Tiffany and Candy clashed: the former was cold as iced, flat champagne; the latter hot as a chili pepper.
These days Candy went directly from Marilyn’s to her job in a strip club. Today a curly blonde wig, that left her delicate ears exposed, covered her dark hair. Candy’s slinky black dress, false eyelashes, bright red lipstick and cheap gold purse belonged on a “working girl” tricked-out to attract johns.
“Go ahead, make fun of MacKinnon without exploring the significance of her philosophy,” huffed Tiffany. “My god, our group sure needs an uplift. Listen to this poem by Mao about heroism.” Kicking off her Manolo’s, Tiffany headed for the writer’s chair, no text in front of her. “‘The mountains are dancing silver serpents. The hills on the plains are shining elephants. I desire to compare our height with the skies.’” Cheeks aglow, Tiffany lingered over each word to bring out its significance. “See what I mean? Mao’s poem is serious literature. First rate lyrical poetry too.” Tiffany, armed to rebut an attack, sat with fists clenched.
Wearing a powder blue suit and a white satin blouse with a large collar, Tiffany rubbed an enormous sapphire ring that matched her ensemble. Watching Tiffany drape herself decoratively across a chair, I was reminded of Yves St. Laurent’s comparison of fashion and style: “Any woman with the right clothes,” he contended, “could be fashionable. But few possess a sense of style.” Tiffany to a T!
Playing the peacemaker, Marilyn set out what she called snack plates. I purposely ate neither breakfast nor lunch to leave room for the heavenly edibles worthy of a multi-star restaurant.
“Think Italian! Try the green beans in hazelnut sauce, garlic shrimp, carrots in Marsala wine, and pumpkin ravioli.” Marilyn handed everyone a plate, then she dribbled Fancy Feast into the pusses’ bowls.
“Next spring I’d like to visit Rome, meet a Marcello on the Via Veneto, and both of us jump into the Trevi Fountain. Maybe have a romance with a sexy hunk who owns a palazzo in Venice.” Marilyn sighed. Petting and kissing a purring Robespierre, she checked out her reflection in smoky mirrors that ringed the room.
Shoveling quantities of green beans into her mouth, Candy resumed skewering Tiffany: “Why dredge up that ruthless Commie who persecuted intellectuals, killed millions, destroyed great art and burned books? The Red guards would have sent you to a remote collective farm for wearing nail polish!” Candy, her barrage delivered, resumed eating with gusto while Tiffany fumed.
“Soon, because feminist voices are silent, women will be forced to use coat hangers for abortions again!” countered Tiffany. “Terrorists at our front door and we’re wasting time on frivolous erotica! Shouldn’t our topics have, at least, a modicum of social significance?”
Then the bell rang and a breathless Sarah hurried in.
“In all our years together, this is the first time I’m late. Please forgive me.” A flustered Sarah, lips trembling, collapsed on the sofa.
“Have some Italian food Sarah before these ravenous creatures eat me out of house and home.” Thrusting a plate at Sarah, Marilyn winked at Candy—already on a third helping.
“Sorry, I’m not hungry. Something with my stomach...” Sarah said shaking her head. “It’s always been queasy since the days at the Sacred Heart. Anyway, I’m late because the Hudson is so polluted and those rascals in the State Legislature are reneging on their promise to provide clean-up money. Tiffany would you mind signing this petition?” Sarah thrust a paper at Tiffany.
Tiffany scoffed, “Should we discuss anal sex today, or any other day, Sarah? Doesn’t the prospect nauseate you?” Sarah turned red as tomato sauce.
“That’s how women get AIDS, plus a bunch of other sexually transmitted diseases. In Catholic school they taught me moral values.” Sarah pulled out her knitting and buried her head in strands of purple yarn beginning to resemble sleeves. She pulled her usual straight-backed chair closer to Tiffany. A new alliance I suspected.
“Then who wants to discuss this putrid subject?” Mystified, Tiffany the inquisitor stood on her feet and paced like a District Attorney quizzing a witness in a crime case.
“My suggestion,” I admitted. As I raised my hand, Tiffany plopped down on a chair as though something had hit her. “On the phone a few days ago, Marilyn encouraged me to share my story with the Club.”
“Who imagined you’re into porno? An avid reader, a librarian!” Tiffany gaped at me. “You never suggest a topic, now what a disgusting whopper! At Camp Louise, where we met, you were more thoughtful and refined than the other girls.”
“We two were odd ducks. That’s why we got along,” I said facing Tiffany.
“Correction, you were the odd duck. I had lots of friends. Granted I didn’t attend college but I’ve read Kant, Spinoza, Proust, all the classics— more books than everybody in this room combined! Meanwhile, I’ve mixed with the leading lights of the social register. In Palm Beach with my second husband, the real estate mogul, we entertained Trump, Pearlman and his then wife, the Paleys, and Prince Rainier—la crème de la crème.
I suspected that Tiffany—a scale in her brain—noticed that I had gained a few pounds. Extra weight in her lexicon equaled an unforgivable lack of refinement indicative of a weak character. To keep her figure, I suspected that she, dressed in a toga, used the Roman (finger-down-the-throat) method of weight loss.
“Nothing has been read and we’re nearing five o’clock.” Marilyn cleared the food away. “I propose we vote on whether or not to allow the anal sex story. I’d like to hear it. What about the rest of you?” Candy, Chloe, Marilyn and I voted “yay” and Sarah and Tiffany, “nay.”
“Ugh! I’m out of here,” snarled Tiffany. “Anyway, I’m allergic to these rat catchers crawling underfoot getting my clothes full of fur.” On her way out, Tiffany knocked over a flowering cactus plant. At Tiffany’s departure, even the walls seemed to breathe a sigh of relief.
Sarah, one knit sleeve in her hand, spoke up: “We must be tolerant of Tiffany because she really cares about people. Last Friday she spent all day feeding the homeless at Saint Marks Church. If she’s sometimes arrogant, it’s because she has such high standards.” Sarah again buried her face in her knitting.
“Ready to read?” Marilyn asked me.
Seated in the writer’s chair, I had
an epiphany: “Belladonna—my nom de plume—I saw it in a blinding flash like Moses receiving the Ten Commandments. Bella was the name of my Yiddish-speaking grandmother. Instantly donna had tacked itself on. Yes, Belladonna has a sexy, rhythmic sound that my boring given name entirely lacked. Colorful and mysterious too.”
I stopped for breath and noticed that everyone was paying rapt attention. For once, Sarah put down her knitting. Now I had a name suited to the erotic side of my personality. In viva voce feeling free and frisky I, the self-christened Belladonna, read the following story.
FOURTEEN: IN BED WITH THE MOB
I played myself in a naughty masquerade. Belladonna
“Your big butt’s gawrgeus with a real personality,” quipped a tall man I recognized but pretended not to. I was bent over a booth that sold Afghan jewelry at the Barrow Street Fair, an annual May event that, for me, marked the beginning of spring. Once a year tourists shopping, eating, and drinking invaded my neighborhood. Today I squirmed because unfamiliar eyes blatantly ogled my gluteus maximus.
“Name’s Danny. I live real close, on Carmine Street. When you walk it’s cute the way your cheeks bob up and down. Bet they’ve got sassy dimples.”
“They can whistle Dixie,” I shot back pretending to be outraged. Who knew I looked so good from behind!
A month earlier, at the Lucca coffee house on Bleecker Street, my friend Laura and I had watched this impertinent fellow and his “mean streets” cronies playing a card game for money piled on a table. He had frequently taken out a comb to run it through unruly black hair that needed a barber’s shears. That night he paid no more attention to us than the owner’s pussycat snoozing in its usual chair.
As he passed by to use the men’s room, Laura scoffed, “Ugh, thinks he’s starring in The Godfather. That tight black net tee shirt is an excuse to flex those greasy, bulging muscles. I’ll bet he rubs out people.” For Laura, a resident of the Upper East Side married to a CPA, men without jackets and ties were an affront. Once a month, we met at the Lucca to reminisce about college days.
Confessions of a Librarian Page 12
