So, refusing to give way to disappointment, he changed the nature of his goals. He would content himself with keeping his perfect (perhaps near-perfect) sentences solely in his dreams. It would no longer be a question of losing the sentence by not writing it down or recording it with voice. The sentence was there, living and breathing, unseen, unread, unheard, unwritten, in the ether of his dream. It was purer that way, more perfect (if perfect could be improved upon). And his alone, untainted by accommodation to the world outside himself, that world of potential readers that inevitably fell short of his expectations. And so those nights when, taken to heart by dreams, he revisited his oeuvre and reworked his sentences, he would be achieving a kind of nirvana unavailable to anyone else.
And one day, to which the above attests, he would write it all down, as he has, a lesser version of course of the improved sentences in his dreams, and whoever cared to look would be there to confirm the process and himself in the bargain, though probably not.
THE NEW YORK REVIEW OF LOVE
Unequivocally adorable, aesthetically attuned, lifelong student of the arts, authentic, unpretentious widowed academic with an enchanting manner. Sometimes shy, sometimes daring, almost always delightfully unpredictable. A real head-turner. Fun-loving, though with the inner strength to keep afloat in good and bad times. Seeks attractive, fit, intelligent man with similar interests to share dinners, theater, opera, travel, the romance of life.
[email protected]
Dear Unequivocally Adorable,
This is my first response to a personals ad and I confess to not knowing how to begin. I am, and I say this without irony, a bit in awe of your credentials. I have tended in the past to be wary of great beauties. In my youth, it was my practice to seek out the second-prettiest girl in the room, assuming she’d be easier to get along with than the reigning radiance. As you might imagine, this practice did not always yield what I was looking for. As I’ve gotten older, always a student of my experiences, I’ve developed greater respect for head-turning presences, realizing that outer attractiveness speaks, often eloquently, to the beauty within. You might say that I am a recent convert to the appreciation of someone who, like yourself, is “aesthetically attuned” and “unequivocally adorable.”
I share some if not all of the interests you cite. I am a creative writer and intellectual who has recently retired from a successful career in advertising. I don’t like to blow my own horn, but some of the wittiest and most compelling ads you’ve seen on television are my creations. Anyone who knows me knows that my true aspirations run deeper than the handiwork of my livelihood. Like you, I am a “lifelong student of the arts,” theater and opera-goer, afficion of classical books on tape, reasonably fit, financially solvent, more than less charming with perhaps some of the same “inner strength” that has also kept you “afloat in good and bad times.” Over the years, I’ve been happily married twice for extended periods of time, both marriages ending, unhappily, in divorce. Casablanca and Realm of the Senses are my two favorite films.
If I’m at all what you’re looking for, I’d appreciate getting an e-mail from you at the above address. I’m looking forward to continuing our dialogue.
Sincerely,
Jack
Hi Jack,
I am pleased to report that I found your e-mail letter mucho simpatico and I’ve placed it high on the list of intriguing respondents. You were one of the few who didn’t request a photo, but of course I’d be willing to send you one. We might, in fact, exchange images, if that’s your pleasure. I am not someone who is attracted particularly to opposites, so I would be interested in knowing what plays you admire, what books you read for pleasure, the music that inspires you, your favorite museums, etc. If you had a weekend where you could do anything you want and do it wherever you wanted—a dream weekend, so to speak—what would be your choices? Also, please let me know how tall you are. Height is not in itself a requirement, so you might interpret this request as a symptom of curiosity and interest. Is Jack your real name or a nom de plume?
Cordially,
Deidre C
Dear Deidre C,
I was pleased to get your response to my response, and I can honestly say that you are also high on my list of prospects. As for my height, I am a shade under six feet, though I give the impression of being taller. If I had to choose a favorite playwright (twisted arm and all), I’d probably stick with Shakespeare, while giving a tip of the cap to Neil Simon. My tastes in music are quite various—classical, jazz, folk, rock and roll, opera, pop, almost anything by John Coltrane and Bob Dylan. And you? The dream-weekend question is harder to negotiate. I try to take every day as it comes, so as a rule I don’t put off living life to the fullest for special occasions.
Okay—back to the wall, I’ll give you an answer, which would probably be different tomorrow and different again the next day. My so-called dream weekend would take place on a well-equipped sailboat somewhere off the coast of Maine not far from, say, Islesboro, with an adorable and intellectual woman much like yourself and no other obligation than to take pleasure in the bay breezes and the incomparable sights and the sharing of affectionate companionship.
I’d be happy to exchange photos with you, but perhaps we ought to talk (through e-mail) a little longer before taking that next step. Is Deidre a real name?
Warm regards,
Jack
Hi Jack,
You must have been hanging out on my wavelength when you conjured your “dream weekend,” and if I didn’t believe you were an honorable person, I’d accuse you of reading my mind without a “by your leave.” If you added “gyring in the waves” from this wonderful sailboat of yours, your proffered weekend would seem unbearably perfect. If I knew you better, and didn’t have a care in the world, I’d have my bags packed in a trice and take the plunge.
Although I am a “can do” person, my life has not been a walk in the park. I’ve known my share of sorrow and I am on the whole a stronger person for it. I’ve mentioned in my published profile that I am a widow. In fact, and this is not information I give out to just anyone, I’ve been widowed twice. Again, let me say, I do not dwell on the unfortunate hands I’ve been dealt, but on my ability to triumph over adversity. As a child, I had an extremely minor case of polio, which has left me with a virtually imperceptible limp. My friends see it as a sexy adjunct to an otherwise adventurous and sensuous persona. Yes, Deidre is a real name but it is not exactly mine. My intimates call me Didi. What do your closest confidantes call you?
In friendship,
Didi
Dear Didi,
The voice in your letters, for whatever reason, seems uncannily familiar, as if I’ve known you without actually knowing you for as long as I can remember. For that reason, I want to strip away some of the artifice of the public self and give you a glimpse of the private person that lurks beneath. Sorry to say, I don’t own a sailboat, not at the moment, but it has been a lifelong aspiration. No matter the word on the street, I am not without a few marginal deficiencies myself. I have never actually been to the opera, though if it’s any consolation it is not an omission that I’m proud of. On the other hand, I am proud to say that I have persistently fought and virtually conquered my various addiction issues. I’ve not had a drink or whatever, social or otherwise, in eleven months and three days. Scout’s honor. If, as has been said, I am a work in progress, isn’t that what living is all about? As for my signage: I have been called Jack by my friends, but in the cause of total honesty I am compelled to say it is not actually the name on my birth certificate.
If the above revelations remove me from your radar screen, I’ll make an effort, though not without a smattering of regret, to understand your position.
Best wishes,
Oliver
Dear Oliver,
I don’t want you to think I’m as off-puttingly artsy and gorgeous as my original personals presentation may have signaled. My mother used to tell me ad nauseam, “Dorothy, always put y
our best foot forward.” And I have, I believe, aspired to do just that. If one doesn’t reinvent oneself every seven years or so, one can very easily disappear from the main stage. I was not, I confess, a natural beauty. Nor was I, as a teenager, the second-prettiest girl in the room, the one your younger self would have pursued. I was, I say without false modesty, somewhere in the middle of the pack. As I’m sure you know, intelligence and charm can more than compensate for nature’s oversights. Also, I should say that I’ve always been attracted to men who are not in the least vain about their looks. I have generally held being “authentic” in the highest regard. So don’t lose heart, Oliver. I await with pleasure the receipt of another of your lively, unassuming communications.
Your friend,
Dorothy
Dear Dorothy,
Is Didi short for Dorothy, or was Didi a different reinvented self altogether? And I do prefer being called Jack to Oliver, if you don’t mind, the latter offered basically in the spirit of unmitigated honesty. That I tended to go after the second-prettiest girl in the room didn’t mean I was always or often successful in that pursuit. I was not averse on occasion to settling for the second-homeliest girl in the room if she had a winning personality (as you seem to have) and was suitably affectionate. This is not to say that you are less than beautiful, though if you are it would not be a deal-breaker between us. Most men (and I don’t exclude myself) like to have a beautiful woman on their arm not so much for the woman per se but for the macho statement it offers to the casual observer. With maturity, I’ve grown beyond that. What I’m looking for in a relationship is not just an adorable companion with whom to go to cultural events or the occasional Knicks game. I’ve come to believe that eros is also a vital component in any lasting relationship.
If we’re not on the same page, I’d appreciate being so informed before we take our blossoming friendship to the next level.
Best wishes,
Jack
Dear Jack,
Whatever else I may be, I am not squeamish concerning sex. I’ve been known to call a fuck a fuck, the consequence be damned. If I’m no longer the intellectual sexpot of my younger days, when I was thought to be the Tuesday Weld of the academic set, I have learned a thing or two about love over the years. That you don’t sail is not a problem; sailing, if the truth be known, has always made me seasick. Shall we meet, my friend? And if so, where?
Yrs,
D
Dear D,
How about the coming Friday at five at the Cedar Bar?
Yrs,
J
J, my friend,
I believe the Cedar Bar no longer exists. How about meeting in front of the former Cedar Bar, which is a short walk from my apartment. I have shoulder-length white hair and I’ll be wearing a red sweater. And you?
Yrs,
D
My dear D,
I’ll be wearing a black turtleneck and a gray tweed jacket. I have pepper and salt hair, what there is of it. To avoid confusion, I’ll be carrying a black cane with an elegantly baroque handle. “This could be the beginning of a beautiful friendship.”
Yrs,
J
APPETITE
First of all, don’t believe what you’ve heard about me. Given the stories circulating, you would think I was some kind of retrograde chauvinist, but unless I’m suffering from amnesia or have been in a psychotic state for the past month, I know I’ve done nothing to warrant the current fuss. My lapses, such as they are, proceed from what might best be described as passionate excess.
When people refer to me as “larger than life,” I don’t think it’s size alone they’re referring to, though I am well over six feet and tend to weigh between 250 and 300 pounds depending on a nexus of variables. I have an oversized personality and an immense appetite, the one having only incidental connection with the other. This may sound like a rationalization, but I try to strike a balance between my needs—I am no stranger to restraint—and my underrated sense of decency.
Most women find me charming and that gets me in trouble. Four years ago, I was pressed to give up a tenured position at the University of Washington for having “inappropriate relations” with several of my women students. In fact, I never pursued a woman who hadn’t made herself available to me first. The first of the women who complained about me to the authorities did so after I called an end to the affair. And though she lied about much of what happened between us, she never said I forced myself on her. One of the others—they came out of the woodwork like dust bunnies to testify against me—one of the more shameless others, said I had imposed myself on her against her will. It was her testimony and not the original complaint that turned me into a pariah. They gave me the opportunity to resign with the promise that my stigmatized behavior would not be broadcast elsewhere. I had no choice, my craven lawyer insisted, but to accept their terms. Anyway, even if I hadn’t been pushed out, I was ready to leave Seattle, which was like living in the afterlife.
After the Seattle debacle, I took a slightly less prestigious job at one of the city colleges in New York.
There was this woman in my Life Drawing class, who tended to hang around my desk after the bell, chatting me up. An instinctive diplomat myself, I distrusted flattery in others, though this child-woman, Octavia, quite sexy in an unassuming way and probably the most gifted student in the group, had circumvented my alarm system. In fact, she reminded me of myself some years back, when I was starting out.
With Nora away for ten days, visiting her parents in Vancouver, I felt lonely and a tad deprived. Still (and I insist on this), I had absolutely no intention of getting involved with a student again.
On the other hand, I am an impulsive person, and one Friday when the saucy Octavia showed up at my office—ostensibly to discuss her progress in the course—I found myself inviting her to a weekend party at my country house, recently purchased and still in the process of renovation.
—That sounds fun, she said. Is there some kind of bus that goes there?
—You can ride up with me, I said. I’ll come by and pick you up at nine on Saturday, if that’s agreeable.
She accepted my offer with undisguised pleasure. It was only after she got into the car and discovered she was my only passenger that she asked who else would be there.
—Sam and Annie, I said, both of whom Octavia had met. They’re driving up later in the day. Nora, unfortunately, is visiting her parents on the left coast and won’t be able to join us.
I should mention that Nora and I, though not actually married, have been living together for twelve years.
Octavia rolled her eyes charmingly, withheld whatever rude remark passed like a shadow across her face.
—Anyway, small parties are the best, don’t you think.
She glanced slyly at me as if taking my measure and I smiled back reassuringly.
She was mostly silent for the rest of the trip, and occasionally surly, preoccupied with whatever, so I told her some jokes, one of which provoked a laugh.
—You’re impossible, she said.
—Yes, I said, and isn’t that a good thing, which provoked further giddiness, all of which seemed a positive sign. In matters of the heart (or hard-on), I’ve always been a partisan of the implicit.
When we got to the house, we were the only ones there—actually Sam and Annie were not expected until much later (I was beginning to hope they wouldn’t show up at all)—and noting Octavia’s uneasiness, I made a point of being reassuring. I said that unlike some of my fellow shmearers in the art department, I was not the kind of man who sought affairs with his attractive female students. I let her know that the main bedroom was hers for the night and that I would put up in the airless guest room above the garage.
In the makeshift scenario of my imaginary movie, she would have said, Don’t put yourself out on my account, but Octavia defeated expectation, thanking me in her sassy way for being a gentleman. I could understand that she didn’t want to seem too available.
&nb
sp; The house was a mess—we had left in a hurry the previous weekend—and Octavia seemed put out by the disorder. The first thing she did after checking out her room and changing into her bathing suit was wash the dirty dishes that had been left in the sink. I would have dried but I couldn’t find a dishtowel, so I stomped about impatiently in the living room, cleaning off the couch, rearranging the clutter.
—You’re very domestic, I said, but you’re here to enjoy yourself. That’s the point, isn’t it? So let’s have a swim and then we’ll go to town for lunch.
—I can cook, she said, if you want to bring food in. Is there a dishtowel somewhere?
—Just leave them in the drainer, please, I said.
When I could finally get her away from the sink, we walked through a wooded area to the pond, which is at the far end of the property.
—How can I be sure you’re not leading me down the garden path, said my witty flower.
—Is that what you think of me, I said, playing at being offended.
—I never know what’s expected of me, she said. You’ll have to tell me.
The Pavilion of Former Wives Page 11
