The Other Side of the World

by Jay Neugeboren

  “So let’s get to it, Charlie,” he said as soon as he’d poured wine for me and Seana. “Tell us about Nick, since, except perhaps for poor Trish, you knew him better than anyone. Tell us about our boy: was he happy near the end?”

  “Not especially,” I said.

  “He drank a lot, didn’t he.”

  “He drank a lot.”

  “The man from the embassy said that his alcohol level at the time of death was off the charts.”

  “Probably.”

  “Then tell us something else: Are you glad he’s dead?” he asked, and before I could answer, he pointed a finger at me. “The truth now, Charlie. Don’t dissemble with me. Is it a relief ? Were you glad when it happened or, in the immediate aftermath, let’s say, when the actuality—its irreversibility—hit home?”

  “No.”

  “You’re a liar, but a credible one,” he said. “Nick always admired that quality in you—your ability to fool people into thinking you were just an ordinary, okay guy. ‘My friend’s a regular good-time Charlie,’ he used to joke. You were the only person he knew whose way of being was a refutation of the truism that one cannot both be sincere and seem to be sincere at the same time.”

  “I miss Nick more than you can know,” I said.

  “I intend no criticism,” Mister Falzetti said. “We’re all upset, each in our own ways, but I’ll tell you this: you did make a terrific team, you two—like Tom Sawyer and Huck Finn, I used to think—Nick ever ebullient, risk-taking, wild, and so shrewd he ultimately did himself in, but in love with life, my son was!—and you, almost as smart as Nick but with an essential—what shall we call it?—naïveté? reserve? timidity?”

  “Call it sleep,” Seana said, and walked by us, to a large bay window on the south side of the room.

  “That’s Henry Roth, of course,” Mister Falzetti said. “He lived not too far from here, on a shit-ass farm plopped down between villages named Freedom and Liberty. The way I see it, he fled New York and came here to live so he could teach himself not to write and not to be a Jew.”

  “He didn’t succeed at either,” Seana said.

  “Correct,” Mister Falzetti said and, moving across the room to Seana, pointed to the lighthouse. “Now take poor Wyeth,” he said. “The son of a bitch timed his death all wrong—packed it in three days before they inaugurated that young black tennis player, so he didn’t get anywhere near the press and publicity he craved.”

  “Tennis player?” I said.

  “The young Ashe boy, he’s in the White House now, isn’t he, even though he has AIDS? I call it a miracle.”

  “Arthur Ashe is dead, and has been for some time,” Seana said.

  “Perhaps,” Mister Falzetti said. “But what difference? I admire the cool athleticism and affect, the way he rope-a-dopes his opponents, plus—all-important—the fire within. The man’s a worker—I refer to our president—and he’s a fighter too, you just wait and see. Plenty smart—smarter than Wyeth, who chose to live under his father’s thumb his whole life. That’s where the rage came from, of course.”

  “We were hoping the two of you would stay for dinner,” Mrs. Falzetti said. She sat by a stone fireplace, in a narrow wooden chair, her hands clasped on her lap. The fire was low and bright, and drew the chill from the air. In the floor-to-ceiling bookcases that surrounded the fireplace I saw what looked like the same books that had been in the living room in Longmeadow, and that Nick bragged were not just there for show: The Encyclopedia Britannica, The Harvard Classics, The Great Books and Syntopicon, and uniform sets of novels by nineteenth and early twentieth century authors: Dickens, Twain, Hardy, Trollope, Scott, Stevenson, Eliot, James, Cather, Dreiser, Howells, Forster, the Brontës…

  “It would please us if you would,” Mrs. Falzetti said. “We could talk about Nick, and look through old photo albums. And if you haven’t yet found lodging, we have a small guest cabin out back you’re welcome to use.”

  “Thanks but no thanks,” Seana said. “Perhaps we can raincheck the invite, and join with your husband’s desire to dance on graves on some other occasion.”

  “I understand,” Mister Falzetti said. “I can be irritating at times—offensive, some say—but I’ve read and admired your books, as I said, and there’s no lack of offense there for those so inclined. Your work’s marked by what I’d call a grim severity, and I like severity, admire it in prose as much as I do in people.”

  “It really would be no trouble at all,” Mrs. Falzetti said. “And we needn’t talk about Nick if doing so would make you uncomfortable.”

  “And I’ve read interviews with you,” Mister Falzetti said. “The few you’ve allowed, that is—quite shrewd to minimize them and keep the mystery going, which is something Wyeth, for one, never understood—and I’ve noticed that you never mention your family. So a question for the author: How come no mention of family?”

  “Because I have none,” Seana said.

  “Oh?”

  “I excommunicated them at an early age.”

  “But—let me guess—you did have a mother and father. Most of us, I’m told, have mothers and fathers.”

  “Maybe,” Seana said. “Depends upon how you define your terms.”

  “There’s something to be said for that,” Mister Falzetti said. “For example: if you think of that young black man’s strength of character and the fact that he only knew his father for a single month of his life, and if you then consider the lives Nick, or even Charlie here, have had—young men who’ve never had to dream up their fathers, it tells you something.”

  “Tells you what?” Seana asked.

  “That’s correct,” Mister Falzetti said, and he refilled Seana’s wine glass. “But tell me about Shulamith, if you will, since it’s a middle name you’ve chosen to keep. Are there Jews in your lineage?”

  “There are Jews everywhere,” Seana said.

  “True enough,” Mister Falzetti said. “There may even be Jews in my family, from a time when the Moors overran Southern Europe and mingled with the Italians and Spanish. Did you know—forgive the tangent, but did you know that the Roosevelts—Franklin, Theodore, and Eleanor—were descended from Dutch Jews named Rosenfeld? Rosen-veldt, to be exact.”

  Seana sat down next to me and squeezed my arm. “Oh Charlie, let’s blow this joint, okay?” she said quietly, mocking me affectionately with my own phrase.

  Mister Falzetti poured himself more wine. “Now, your father’s short story about The Protocols of the Elders of Zion coming true, is, in my opinion, his single most brilliant creation,” he said. “It rivals the best in Roth—in any of them: Henry, Philip, or Joseph—and it’s a damned shame he only wrote one novel, because that novel is a real knockout. I always thought he could have been another Nabokov, the mind and gift he had.”

  “Has,” I corrected.

  “Ah—your father’s still alive then, which makes me happy for you both,” Mister Falzetti said, “although it cannot but be hard on you at times, Charlie—to be in the presence of his unrequited ambitions. Or did he live vicariously through your books, Ms. O’Sullivan?”

  “Did you live vicariously through your son, Mister Falzetti?”

  “Of course not. If anything, the reverse is true—Nick admired me more than was good for him.”

  “A shame, for if only you’d emulated him…”

  “You’re quite good at repartee,” Mister Falzetti said. “But then words are your métier—the unapologetic and cruel wit of your characters is often the most endearing element in your novels. Now Nick could be word-clever too, of course, even if he never—”

  “Nick’s dead, Mister Falzetti,” I said, finding myself unable hold back—to keep my irritation from showing. “So why don’t you just give it a rest, okay? Nothing any of us can do will bring him back.”

  “Oh I know that,” Mister Falzetti said. “But I was told that you let him go, Charlie—that you held onto him for an instant before he made the plunge.”

  “Hey—come on!”


  I started to stand, but Seana pushed me down, stood, and lifted her wine glass so that it was only an inch or two from Mister Falzetti’s nose. “Now I bet you’re the kind of guy who puts himself to sleep some nights by imagining there’s a touch of evil about you that makes you truly fascinating,” she said, “when the truth is that you’re really just a creep.”

  “And you’re the kind of woman Evelyn Waugh might have adored—a mean-spirited Catholic fabulist,” Mister Falzetti said and, very gently, he nudged Seana’s glass aside and moved past her to the fireplace. “The reason I preferred Plain Jane to Triangle,” he continued, “is because it was utterly lacking in conscience, or in anything called conscience, as the poet would have it.”

  “Yeats,” Seana said, “‘The Tower.’”

  “I surely won’t attempt to compete with you in a literary duel,” Mister Falzetti said, “but I will complete my thought, which is that it’s the absence of conscience in your work that I find so endearing. Unlike Waugh, whose characters are ingeniously eccentric but whose dark humor, alas, is marred by his schoolboy Catholicism, or Patricia Highsmith, say, whose characters are often charmingly amoral—true psychopaths—your characters are quintessentially normal, and very American. It’s not only that your heroine gets away with murder—it’s her lack of contrition—her ease with what she’s done that delights. Plain Jane indeed!”

  “You know what?” Seana said, and she gave Mister Falzetti her most winning smile. “If I’d had a father like you, I’d have killed myself too.”

  “Oh but Nick did not kill himself,” Mrs. Falzetti said, her voice assured in a way that surprised me.

  “Eugenia’s correct,” Mister Falzetti said. “It was an accident. The embassy and the police assured us that it was an accident. Isn’t that so, Charlie?”

  “It was an accident,” I said.

  “That’s what I believe,” Mrs. Falzetti said, “although at times Lorenzo has other notions, and I trust I’m not talking out of school to say that ever since we received the news, Lorenzo has been living in a state of shock that has given rise to a prolonged and somewhat antic state of denial.”

  “And I believe we’ve overstayed our welcome,” Seana said.

  “Lorenzo worried about Nick more than he can admit,” Mrs. Falzetti continued. “He loved our son inordinately, and in his heart I believe he has always felt responsible for Nick’s troubles.”

  “Come, come, Eugenia,” Mister Falzetti said. “Let’s not bother these young people with our disagreements.”

  “What I’m saying does not excuse Lorenzo, of course,” Mrs. Falzetti said, “but it does help account for his behavior of late. That’s what I believe.”

  “It’s what you want to believe,” Mister Falzetti said, and he kissed the top of his wife’s head. “Eugenia is not the same woman she was before Nick left us. It may not seem so to see her on a day like this, but she can be a pistol. Can’t you, dear?”

  “I certainly can,” she said, “although I do not possess the potential to be quite as insufferable as you. Therefore, I apologize to our guests. Manners, please, Lorenzo. Manners must get us through.”

  “Manners, yes, but also surprises and shrewd purchases,” Mister Falzetti said. “I bought up lots of Wyeth early on—that’s not under the heading of ‘surprise,’ which we’ll get to by and by—but when we were friendly, and before fame rotted his brain, Wyeth sold me his stuff at bargain-basement prices, along with work from the father. He couldn’t get rid of his father’s stuff fast enough, and I knew back then what we’ve come to understand since: that the father’s work will last far longer than the son’s. Burned Andy’s cheap, arrogant ass when he found out what I was getting for my stash, one by one, father and son. So don’t you worry about us, no matter how far into the toilet this lousy economy goes.”

  “Which reminds me,” Mrs. Falzetti said to us. “Do you worry about what the recession has done to our economy?”

  Seana started to laugh, but covered her mouth. “I’m not laughing at you or your question, ma’am,” she said. “And the answer is no—I don’t worry about the economy, and neither does Charlie, though we appreciate your concern.”

  “I inherited Nick’s accounts,” I said. “I’m in good shape for a while to come.”

  “I’m happy for you,” Mrs. Falzetti said. “Nick did have a generous streak in him—he’s left everything to Trish, you know.”

  “We hope to visit Trish,” I said.

  “Trish is a fine young woman,” Mrs. Falzetti said. “She’s done a wonderful job with Gabe and Anna. Anna is seventeen months old and quite normal so far, I’m pleased to report.”

  “Ah—you’ve gone and said the magic word,” Mister Falzetti exclaimed. “Normal! And speaking of normal, I believe it’s time for our little surprise, so you will give me two more minutes, won’t you?”

  “Don’t,” Mrs. Falzetti said, but I couldn’t tell if she was talking to us, or to Mister Falzetti.

  “I can assure you it will be worth your while,” Mister Falzetti said. “A rare opportunity to see how we entertain ourselves up here, where the winters, as you know, can be long and dark.”

  I was ready to leave, but when Seana sat where she was without moving, I stayed put. I felt distinctly numb, though, in the way I’d feel after a long walk along the coast when the cold and the damp could seep into your bones.

  A minute later Mister Falzetti twirled into the room. “Ta-da!” he exclaimed. He still had on his blazer, but was wearing bright red lipstick, and a wig of blond curls, a hair net pulled down over it. He put his arm around Mrs. Falzetti.

  “So what do you think?” he asked. “Honestly now. Wasn’t this worth waiting for?”

  “He usually only does this on Saturday nights,” Mrs. Falzetti explained. “I feel distinctly embarrassed, and once again I do apologize.”

  “Nothing to be embarrassed about or apologize for,” Mister Falzetti said. “We all have our quirky sides, but most of us are too shy—too timid—to show them forth. Think of the great pain people live with because of unexpressed desires! Think of the fabulous lives we might lead that we never get to experience. Think of Nick, and of how nasty, brutish, and short his life was—of all he hoped to do and never will.”

  I wondered if Nick had ever seen his father like this, and then realized: yes or no, what difference to who he was, or to his fate? I felt an urge to defend Nick—to say to Nick’s father what Nick might have said: that though his life had been short, he’d done what he wanted when he wanted, but when I imagined Nick chiding me for being romantic and sentimental again, I decided to say nothing.

  “Stop,” Mrs. Falzetti said. “Please stop, Lorenzo.”

  “Nasty, brutish, and short,” Seana said. “Doubtless true. Still, he wasn’t poor or solitary.”

  “Correct again,” Mister Falzetti said, and he licked a fingertip, wiped away an invisible hair from a corner of his mouth. “It’s one thing, of course, to imagine new and different lives on a piece of paper, but far different—far more tangible, wouldn’t you agree?—to let the imagination live in the actual world. Why not indulge ourselves, then, no matter how foolish and ridiculous our indulgences? Why not live the lives we desire, given that this is not a first draft—that this is all there is? Would you like to see me perform one of my music hall numbers? Would you like to kiss me?”

  “Sure,” Seana said.

  “I had a feeling, from your books, that you’d prove willing,” Mister Falzetti said.

  “Did you?” Seana asked. “Or were you hoping you could épater me just a wee bit?”

  “Perhaps,” he said. “Did I succeed?”

  “Who knows?” Seana said, and cracking her glass against the side of the fireplace so quickly that I hardly noticed the motion—my eyes were fixed on Mister Falzetti’s mouth, where the lipstick had been applied the way a little girl might have applied lipstick on her first try—and with part of the glass still in her hand, and with a swift downward movement, but without s
plashing blood on herself, she sliced his bottom lip open.

  “That should shut him up for a while,” she said. “You know what they say about having too much of a good thing.” Then she leaned toward Mister Falzetti, but instead of kissing him, she licked at the blood that ran along his chin as if, I thought, she were slurping ice cream that was melting down the side of a sugar cone.

  “Thank you, dear,” Mrs. Falzetti said.

  “You’re welcome,” Seana said, and then: “Duct tape.”

  “Duct tape?”

  “Duct tape,” Seana said. “Duct tape should seal things until an ambulance gets here. Do you have duct tape?”

  “Oh I’m certain we do,” Mrs. Falzetti said, her voice animated in a way it had not been since our arrival. “Lorenzo has an excellent workshop at the other end of the house. He’s quite handy, you know.”

  “And some gauze if you have it,” Seana said, after which she took her cell phone from her purse and dialled 911 while Mister Falzetti, his hand cupped under his chin, the blood pooling in his palm, smiled at us in a way that was not unlike the way Nick had smiled when, on his balcony, he’d charged at me: as if feelings of imminent triumph were being quickly replaced by childlike bewilderment.

  After we’d checked into the Ocean House Hotel in Port Clyde—an early nineteenth century rooming house for local fishermen that had been turned into a bed-and-breakfast, and that was a short walk from the boat landing where the ferry docked—Seana and I drove up Route 131 to Thomaston to visit Trish. I’d called Trish from Northampton to tell her I’d be visiting Nick’s parents, and asked if it would be all right to stop by, and she had responded with a typical Trish answer: “When have I ever denied you, Charlie?” she’d said, and in a low-key monotone that had been a turn-on for me once upon a time, but which I’d come to realize had nothing to do with her trying to be seductive or mysterious, and was merely an expression of her intermittent, ongoing glooms.