The Little Clan

by Iris Martin Cohen

  “Oh no, I know how shy you get. We don’t want to bore everyone.” She stopped, thinking. “And where is Sam Bates?”

  They looked around and spotted him immediately, standing by the windows and reading the spines on the shelves nearest to him with a self-conscious concentration. At the same moment, the same thought occurred to both of them. “Oh god, there aren’t any other black people here,” Ava said with a feeling of acute shame on behalf of herself, Stephanie, the Lazarus Club, the world at large. “What happened with your mailing list?” she asked.

  “I tried. I swear. But my friend Sasha was busy.”

  “You only have one black friend among all these people?”

  “It’s not like you’re any help,” Stephanie hissed back.

  “Yeah, but that’s because I don’t have any friends at all,” Ava said, feeling it sounded a little thin. “And I spend so much time at the Lazarus Club...”

  “Well, we don’t have time to worry about it now.” Stephanie dragged Ava over to where Sam Bates was standing. “Sam,” she exclaimed, embracing him with two loud air-kisses, “you made it. Ava, this is Sam Bates, Brooklyn’s hottest young author.”

  Ava waved shyly and thought she managed to say “hi” but wasn’t sure, and maybe just kind of bleated. Since she was looking down, she noticed Sam Bates was wearing beautiful chestnut wingtips with light blue socks.

  “This is a cool space.” He paused and his tone was ambiguous. “Different, I mean.”

  Stephanie laughed. “Oh, I know, it’s not your scene.” She leaned in to whisper, “This crowd is totally not our usual crowd either, but it’s so great to be able to use a place like this to promote real talent like yourself. There’s going to be a lot a press here tonight, so the publicity should be stellar. Vanity Fair’s here,” she added, while Ava wondered if Stephanie had ever felt ashamed about anything in her whole life.

  Sam Bates looked around, interested. “Photographers?” he asked.

  “Of course. Come on, let’s get you a drink. I want to hear all about this project of yours, this magazine. It sounds amazing.”

  As Stephanie, still chattering, led him away, Ava saw him adjust the strap of his shoulder bag across his chest defensively, then find the knot of his tie with a quick resigned touch.

  Someone bumped into Ava, distracting her, and she remembered she had an introduction to write. These social affairs were Stephanie’s concern; Ava’s job was thinking and writing and talking about books. She looked around for a pen to jot down some notes. What should she say about Nabokov? His weariness, his elegant nostalgia, his contempt for everything obvious and vulgar and stupid, that he sent forth in perfect, hilarious, uncompromising sallies of wit and satire, but satire etched with a razor blade, not a thing out of place, not an unnecessary word. Oh, this was going to be so much fun, she realized. Faces rustled by, crowding, jostling, laughing, their physical proximity adding to Ava’s happiness, the impression of collective purpose. This was why they were all here, and she would finally give voice to her rush of deeply held feelings about literature and authors and style and books. For one glorious moment, she would fulfill the frustrated dictates of her deepest self and connect with a room filled with other people about the things she cared most about.

  * * *

  She sat by the record player, scribbling notes, while the room around her quickly filled. Tipsy models and publicists leaned against each other, cooing in mutual appreciation. Gallery owners and book agents chatted with the strident cheer of salesmen. Well-dressed women tolerated their dates with an air of leisurely distraction, checking their phones for other, more essential parties. Somehow Stephanie managed to corral the mob toward the lectern and got them to be quiet as the overture from Tristan and Isolde began lugubriously booming yet again. After some urgent waving, Ava silenced it, and as she started to push her way to the front, she heard Stephanie take the microphone.

  “Good evening. I would like to thank you all for coming to the inaugural night of the House of Mirth Literary Society and Library.” The microphone sputtered quietly. “I know that you are all here because you share a common passion for literature. But literature doesn’t exist in a vacuum. It must be cultivated and nurtured. At our soon to be not-for-profit literary salon and writers’ club, we have created an environment where literature is paramount. Not only will we be presenting more impeccably curated cultural events like this evening, in addition we provide this beautiful space for writers to work in during the day, complete with wireless internet and printing free of charge.” There was some appreciative looking around. “Not to mention our bar, where our celebrity-curated wine list and rare whiskey selections from around the world will provide just the right amount of inspiration.” A faint “Whoo!” escaped one of the tipsier models. “We are an exclusive membership society with several tiers of VIP, patron and platinum levels. If you are interested in applying, please see our membership director.”

  The broad backs of two pin-striped suits blocked Ava’s path, and she waved to let Stephanie see that she was coming. Stephanie turned away from her and addressed the audience. “But literature would be nothing without its men of genius. Tonight, I am thrilled to introduce one of today’s master wordsmiths, Phillip Goldman.” Despite mounting evidence, Ava still thought Stephanie might be about to call her out of the crowd and hand over the microphone. Her notes wilted in her damp hand. “Tonight he will be honoring us with selections from his new novel, a forbidden romance between a brilliant man and his young student.” She paused and Ava waited with one last, fading hope. “Controversial, yes, but that is why we look to our writers to be truly brave, to have the courage to tell the stories that make people uncomfortable, to speak the great truths, to challenge all of us. A sexy book for a sexy space—who says that literature has to be boring? We think it can be sexy as hell.” There was a mild cheer. “Please join me to give a warm literary welcome to Mr. Phillip Goldman.”

  Ava slid to the back of the room, hoping no one would notice the crestfallen expression that she wasn’t able to hide. There was a sprinkling of clapping that got more assured as the eminent reader stood and ascended toward the front of the room. Accepting the microphone, he clasped Stephanie’s hand, kissed it and brought it to his chest while Stephanie smiled and tried to gracefully disengage. In a corner by the coat closet, Ava faced the wall and tried to compose herself. It was such a small thing, no big deal, why did it even matter; she tried to contain hot tears, embarrassed. “Our charming hostess. You can’t have her,” Phillip Goldman reprimanded the audience. “She’s mine. I was here first.” Stephanie laughed uncomfortably and clapped before retreating to a seat in the front row.

  Ava found George in the bar and stood next to him, finding comfort in the familiar slump of his posture. He frowned. “I didn’t realize this guy would be such a pompous ass. Although, thinking on it now, it seems rather obvious that he would be.”

  Ava just sighed.

  Mr. Goldman pulled a pair of silver-rimmed glasses from his breast pocket and, placing them on the far end of his nose, shuffled a few pages. He began. “To lose everything to a goddess is no shame. A goddess who walks into your office in a damp sundress who carries with her the breath of spring, and strawberries just going to rot in sun-warmed furrows, and who says hello with the same sweet exhalation of a woman cuming softly against your face; there’s no shame at all. It’s a fucking mitzvah and you grab it and thank the gods you’re still alive and that your cock still works, at least for this week. Lacrimae rerum.”

  Ava decided to rest, her forehead pressing into the musty fabric of George’s shoulder, for just a minute longer.

  A side door next to the bar opened with a loud creak, and Ava turned to scold whomever it was, only to meet eyes with Ben. Scanning the room with a bewildered expression, he looked like an envoy from a different planet. Incredibly glad to see him, Ava turned just as George tugged at her sleeve. “We’re
out of wine, by the way. And there’s supposed to be a reception after.”

  “Okay, okay. I’ll figure it out.” She slipped from his grasp and crossed to Ben. He was wearing a tie and the narrow rear tail dangled several inches below the front.

  “How’s it going so far?” he whispered, leaning in close to her. “You look nice.”

  “Thanks.” She had become so accustomed to seeing him in his dirty work clothes that this new cleaned-up person in front of her felt like a stranger, and it made her feel shy. Scrubbed of some of his comfortable familiarity, the fact of his maleness suddenly felt more noticeable, pushing itself between them, reminding her of his essential otherness. This new perception of distance and the slight fear that accompanied it made it hard for her to look him in the eye. “The bar looks good,” she said, pointing, wanting to reassert the common interest that had fostered their previous safe friendliness.

  He looked and shook his head against some internal reservation. “It’s not perfect,” he said sadly, turning away from whatever invisible mistake was chafing him, and messing with the buttons on his cuffs. There was a silence. Ava wondered if maybe the sudden shyness she was experiencing was actually a response to his discomfort. Maybe without the support of having something to build or sand or fiddle with, he was the one manifesting a social distress that she was merely echoing. For some reason it seemed a small but important point—to determine who was more uncomfortable.

  He indicated the other room. “The place looks packed.” George held a finger to his lips, shushing them, which Ava thought a little uncalled for. She and Ben turned toward the lectern. With her eyes facing forward, her other senses strained toward him, an acuity totally focused his nearness. Each time he shifted his weight, each measured exhale, the simple fact of standing next to this person absorbed her full attention. At one point he cleared his throat, and her whole body tensed in the expectation he was about to whisper something to her, so intent, she didn’t even notice that Stephanie took the microphone again to introduce Sam Bates.

  It was only in spite of herself that, when Sam accepted the stage, he called Ava’s attention away from Ben. He thanked Stephanie and the audience for gathering to hear him read “his little efforts,” and his resonant voice held a touch of laughter in it, a private amusement, one that he wasn’t going to share, and this small note of withholding seemed to draw the audience into a new measure of curiosity, a desire to ferret out the source of the small smile not quite passing his lips. “But I hate it when authors talk too much.” He again touched the knot before smoothing the plane of his perfectly uncreased tie. “No one has time for that.” He paused as though expecting a contradiction, or rather pretended for a minute that he did before resuming with a new swell of rising elocution. “To consume, to be consumed, an action that can exist in both the active and the passive construction. A duality tied to its very notion, a two-way street of ravening hunger. I consume my lunch. I consume my lover’s body. I consume art and movies and television and advertising and medication and all the fruits of the world, desperately trying to sate this hunger, the Hunger that only grows, while this obsession consumes me. Let us examine, for a moment, my lunch, a cheeseburger, this pullulated mass which already contains within the many levels of my own desiring but also the desiring that came before my arrival: the deliberate chewing of verdant grass, the calf suckling the milk that would then rot into gruyere, the layers and layers of consumption and consuming that bursting into my mouth will satisfy only one of my hungers leaving the rest that much more noticeable. I am starving. I grab her wrist and it yields beneath my mouth.”

  As he read, Ava and the rest of the audience remained slightly shocked, riveted, until he was done, after which he plugged his next reading, his book tour, his magazine and some collaborative design/idea/writing lab in Williamsburg that Ava didn’t quite understand but applauded mightily along with everyone else. In the roar of acclaim, she pushed Ben gently into the dim hallway and closed the door behind them. “It’s so crowded, we ran out of wine. Would you be willing to come with me to get some more?”

  “Sure.” He ran a hand through that rumpled daguerreotype hair and seemed relieved at the suggestion. “That was pretty awesome.”

  “Yeah, I guess it was.” A couple making out blocked their way downstairs. “Hi, would you mind heading back to the event? Our guests aren’t really supposed to be in this part of the club.” The couple untangled, annoyed. Ava shook her head and glanced at Ben, hoping for an acknowledgement of the couple’s rudeness, a passing moment of intimacy, of experiencing themselves as a pair in opposition to the rest of the world, but he was rolling up the bottom of his tie, and the awkwardness between them remained. “Sorry about that,” Ava apologized.

  He looked up, letting the tie drop. “What? Oh, sorry I got a little distracted. I guess I didn’t expect you to have so many people. I think I was picturing something different from the way you talked about everything.”

  “Yeah, I think I was, too,” Ava agreed, glad to have someone else articulating her vague unease of the party for her.

  They left the club in silence. Ben seemed to be so much on the verge of talking that Ava kept looking at him expectantly, only to be disappointed and then confused. She was starting to wonder if now that their shared task of construction was over, maybe they just didn’t have much to say to each other. She touched her earrings, reassured by the smooth hardness of rhinestones.

  When they arrived at the store, Ben stopped, his hand on the brass handle of the plate glass. “You know this place is really expensive. There’s a cheaper one over on Lexington. I don’t know if that kind of stuff matters to you.” He smiled at her nervously, then looked away.

  Hoping this might be a pretext to draw out their walk, Ava nodded, glad to rest from the tumult of the party in his company. “Of course it matters. If we had a penny to spare, it would go to you first.”

  “Yeah, I spent way too many hours on that stuff for you guys. I’m kind of screwed.” They waited for a light to change. “You want to do something nice for someone and then you have to act like an asshole because you can’t pay your electric bill.” He kicked at an empty cigarette pack. “You guys are going to pay me for it, right?”

  “Of course. As soon as we start accepting members.”

  “It looked like a pretty fancy crowd,” he acknowledged. “I was doing some construction in a gallery today, and the girl there had heard of you. She was planning on coming tonight. I wonder if you would have even noticed if I hadn’t shown up.” He checked her reaction.

  “I would have definitely noticed,” she said, distracted by the information that a random gallerist knew of her and her plans. No one had ever recognized Ava for anything before. The idea that her name had a life outside of herself, that it had acquired a set of associations and interests that extended beyond her physical presence, felt like a violation, scary and strangely exciting. “What else did she say?”

  “Who?”

  “This girl you were working with.” Ava wondered that Ben could seem so uninterested in the amazing fact of her celebrity.

  “Nothing much. I guess Stephanie really does know a lot of people in this town. This girl was not a fan and had some pretty choice things to say about a gallery she used to run or something, but I don’t know the details.” His voice trailed off a little. “You just might want to be careful, I guess.”

  At each person she passed, she wondered just for a moment if they were on their way to her event, and if they knew that she was right here walking among them. She, who had built an idea, a salon, a real, tangible thing so alluring that strangers in art galleries wanted to visit it. Outside of a deli, a stack of newspapers rustled like applause. For the first time, she felt herself moving through the streets solid, consequential, not like the ghost she so often felt like, floating outside the web of interconnected lives and noise and motion. An empty soda bottle skidded out of her way.
“Stephanie’s got her problems, but it’s amazing what she can pull off sometimes. She’s the most driven person I’ve ever met.”

  “Yeah, driven to do what, though?” he asked and Ava couldn’t quite put it into words. Men always wanted such clear definitions of things. She felt she understood Stephanie’s blind need to make her mark on the world, in whatever capacity that took, to find in success, any success, the respect, the approval, in essence the safety otherwise denied her. “I just got the impression that maybe she’s burnt a couple of bridges at some point,” he said. “But maybe that’s not correct.”

  He was walking too fast, and Ava wanted to put a hand on his arm to slow him down, but she didn’t. She felt the need to keep defending Stephanie even though something about the conversation felt distracting, as though they were actually supposed to be talking about something else, but Ava couldn’t figure out what it was and didn’t want to risk another lapse into silence. “Being as pretty as she is can really mess with your head.”

  “You’re pretty, and you don’t seem messed up.” He looked back at her and, noticing he was ahead, slowed, suddenly causing Ava to bump into his shoulder.

  She snorted. “I’m not pretty like that. I’m the awkward best friend with her nose in a book, who no one ever notices.”

  “Yeah, that’s not quite how I would describe you,” he interrupted. A taxi brayed and accelerated past them with a lurch.

  Again, he got that look, a certain impression of immanence, like he was about to say something else, but he didn’t, so Ava just kept filling the space between them with words. “Well, I could never have done this without her. And it’s pretty amazing, like I might finally find someone who wants to talk about the Franco-Prussian War and Flaubert or something. That’s why I’m doing this.”