He lay a hand on his heart, lightly lifting and lowering his fingers, registering its beat. “Are you open for business?” he asked softly.
Something stirred in my memory. Jordan and me—in Paris? And a cloaked man. Yes, it was Meyerhold . . .
“Yoo-hoo,” said Stuart, lifting his hand off his chest and passing it back and forth before my eyes like a windshield wiper.
“I’m just remembering a dream I had last night,” I said. “A Russian director was in it—Meyerhold. You know who he is, right?”
“Please, Camilla. My bookshop is devoted to theater, remember?”
“Sorry. So in this dream, my father and I were in a city, I think it was Paris—”
“Another father dream?”
I paused. “Recently, all my dreams have involved my father,” I said.
“The ones you remember, that is.”
“Are you finished?”
“Mais oui. Do go on.”
“Jordan and I were having a fight—not like boxing, more like wrestling—and then this guy showed up, wearing some sort of cape. He introduced himself as Meyerhold, and his accent was Russian, so I knew he was the Meyerhold.”
“Well, that’s original,” Stuart drawled. “Better than Peter Brook! So what happened?”
“At one point I’d actually climbed onto my father’s chest, and he was leaning backward, and I was about to knock him over, when all of a sudden Meyerhold started scolding us as if we weren’t following his instructions properly. I’m not sure about the rest—something to do with a trampoline. Then my father disappeared.”
“Majorly trippy.” Stuart took a long, loud pull on his beer.
“You’re making disgusting sounds,” I said.
“Deal with it,” he said. “I think I’m still waking up, actually. Carl and I had raucous sex last night. Didn’t sleep much.”
“Keep your sex life to yourself.”
“What good would it do me then?”
“Spare me.”
“But I do, my dear, I do! Can you honestly say I talk frequently with you about sex—mine, yours, anyone’s? I’m a paragon of privacy. So if once in a while I make a tiny, trivial allusion—”
“All right.” I caved in. “Of course I don’t want you to feel like you can’t say anything about it.”
“Oh, I don’t feel that.” His voice sounded soothing, but I waited for the sucker punch. It came, not too hard but well aimed. “What I feel is, you’d mind less my saying something about my existence as a sexual being if you had something to say yourself. Lately you’ve been rather, um, withheld—”
“Discreet is maybe the word you’re looking for.”
“Like most adulteresses. But I believe the word is withheld. Anyway. Funny you should ask about Meyerhold.” Stuart was signaling an end to putting me on the spot and a return to a familiar, easier topic: theater. “Some books arrived in today’s mail, postmarked Paris. I’m on the mailing list of a theater bookstore over there, and occasionally we send each other titles. One of the books in the batch they just sent is a biography of Meyerhold—in Russian, no less! I’ve seen books about him in English, and I’ve heard there’s one in French, but I didn’t know about any Russian bios. This one seems to be a reissue of a volume originally published in the mid-1950s. With some amazing photos.”
He took a swig of beer. “Anyway. So tell me what you know about Meyerhold. I know the basics, not much more. He started out as an actor, right? And he did very cool things with sets and lighting.”
“Yes. And then he went on to revolutionize the theater in Russia. The Communists couldn’t deal with him, though. Way too quirky.”
“When did he die?”
I had to think for a moment. “In 1940. They tossed him in jail for a while, then shot him.”
“Nice.”
I paused to sip first my beer, then Stuart’s. His was definitely tastier. “The funny part about my dream is that Jordan’s and my movements came straight from Meyerhold’s system of biomechanics.”
“Biomechanics?” Stuart said. “One of my mime teachers talked about that, years ago. Refresh me.”
“Meyerhold invented a set of training exercises for his acting students, to loosen them up physically and mentally. Biomechanics was a lot like mime training, actually.”
“How did it work?”
Again I had to stop and think. “His students had to do everything in pairs, so they’d figure out how to respond to one another in an instinctive way,” I said. “Plus they would learn about rhythm and timing: pauses, rushes, and so forth. Meyerhold gave them funny names—the exercises, I mean. Things like Slap in the Face and Taking the Partner Aside. I remember the exercise my father and I were doing in the dream was Leap on the Chest. It’s supposed to force the pair of actors to coordinate their movements as the center of balance swings back and forth between them. There has to be mutual reliance for it to work. Otherwise, both people will fall down.”
I stopped, trying to assemble more memories of what I’d read about Meyerhold’s techniques. “If I’m not mistaken, that particular exercise usually included another one, called Stab with the Dagger. The person who’d been leapt upon had to arch backward and hang his arms down as if awaiting his own murder.”
“Well, well,” Stuart said. “Not sure what to make of that. But keep dreaming—and report back to me. This is starting to look like a Daddy mini-series!”
THE EVENING proceeded entertainingly. Danny showed up, Stuart bought her a drink, and she regaled us with tales from her workplace. I was struck by her poise. She wasn’t behaving at all like the distraught girl who’d lobbed things around my shop a few weeks earlier. Perhaps, I thought, the worst really was behind her.
The Wilson production was predictably long and provocative. Some members of the audience left partway through, and during intermission Stuart imitated their long-faced disapproval—to the amusement of the people sitting on either side of us, who were enjoying the show as much as we were. After the performance ended, Stuart, Danny, and I returned to the same bar at which we’d met and had a snack. I got home around two in the morning. Almost as soon as I entered my apartment, the phone rang. It was Nick.
“You all right?” I asked, entirely surprised to hear his voice. He’d never called me after midnight.
He was fine, he answered. Just awake, watching cable TV.
“And the wife?” I asked.
She was upstairs, asleep.
I tried processing this information. It computed at the fact level, but something wasn’t registering.
“And you’re calling me because . . . ?” I asked.
“Nothing urgent,” he responded. He’d tried me at midnight, knowing I was out with Danny and Stuart, figuring I might arrive home around that hour. When I didn’t answer, he’d tried again at one o’clock. He’d been about to give up on me but decided to give it one last shot. “Nothing urgent,” he repeated. “Just wanted to say hi.”
“Oh,” I said. “Bored and lonely?”
“Umm, something like that,” he answered.
The picture finally cleared. I saw him sitting in his living room, listless but not yet ready for bed, watching some movie but not paying much attention, thinking instead about fucking me. On the phone, that is, no other venue being possible, given the lateness of the hour. And the woman upstairs. A hot bedtime story, something to get him off: that’s what he wanted, though he wasn’t going to say so. He’d make me say so. And offer to do something about it, too.
On another evening, in another context, perhaps I might’ve had a different response. But on that evening, at that hour, I could find no way around my perception of our conversation as pathetic. Cornered, I was finally provoked.
“And what if I were with someone?” I asked. “And that’s why I wasn’t picking up the phone?”
Though the tone of my voice hadn’t changed, the words sounded like spat-out nails—to me, anyway. Nick, obviously taken aback, didn’t reply. We’d never aired anythin
g like this before; there’d been no reason to. It would have seemed like a waste of time. We both knew I was a woman without prospects: a disbeliever in them, which amounted to the same thing.
Are you open for business? Recalled, Stuart’s question had a knife’s thrust. Holding the phone receiver in my hand, I listened to the sound of no no no pelting in my head, furious as hail.
“Camilla?” Nick’s tone was steady, but I could hear his uncertainty.
I let my forefinger rest lightly on the receiver’s button. “Go fuck yourself,” I answered in the same mild tone I might’ve used to suggest he eat a sandwich. After listening for a moment to the sound of his speechlessness, I pressed the button and he was gone.
I SURFACED the next morning, blearily, to the buzz of my alarm clock. Though I tried, I couldn’t summon my exchange with Nick; it kept slipping away, refusing to cohere. I knew it had happened, it would have consequences, yet none of it came into focus.
I showered and dressed, then sat in my kitchen sipping strong coffee in rapid gulps to wake myself up. My thoughts wandered, not to Nick but to Danny. We’d take her car—Eve’s old Volvo wagon—to Ithaca. The Volvo, which had originally belonged to my father, was still in good running order. Its interior gave off an interesting scent: part potting soil, part leather, part something else—perhaps a trace of Jordan’s aftershave, with its pleasing strain of bergamot.
I was looking forward to being in the Volvo again. Pulling out my day runner, I jotted a reminder to myself to check the Web for cheap motels near Ithaca. We’d need rooms for Saturday night.
AS I was pulling on my jacket, the phone rang. Letting the machine pick up, I stood by the door, listening to Nick’s voice as he left a message. Just checking on you, Cam. Not quite sure what got your back up last night . . . Didn’t mean to offend. I guess I thought . . . well, anyway, I didn’t intend anything, uh, awkward. Hope I’m forgiven.
There was a pause before another word, spoken quietly but clearly: Love. Then the machine clicked off.
I locked my door, went downstairs, stood outside, and began to cry. My tears weren’t profuse, nor was I at all sure what was prompting them. I knew only that I wanted to grip Nick’s face between my palms and feel his stubbled skin, the glossy coarseness of his eyebrows. Wanted to order him never to say that word again. No pointlessness, I wanted to tell him. Just keep your hands on me. Play your part and I’ll play mine.
THE FOURTH Wall’s main source of light—a big chandelier from the set of a 1909 revival of The Importance of Being Earnest—didn’t work when I arrived and flipped the switch.
I got up on my stepladder and checked the bulbs and my fuse box, to no avail. The culprit, I decided, was either the lamp’s antiquated wiring or the outlet. In my back office, the fluorescent overhead was working fine, so I wasn’t completely in the dark. I called my electrician, Martin, who promised to come over soon.
Then I phoned Danny and invited her to stop by after work. She was in a cheery mood. Our night out, she said, had done her good. And had I managed to get a few hours’ sleep?
To this I answered yes, recalling Nick’s voice on the phone in the small hours of the morning, and wondering how long the unpleasantly constricted sensation in my chest would last.
MARTIN TOOK longer than promised. Waiting for him, I rummaged around in one of my display cases, looking for a theater program I’d been saving for Danny: the playbill for a performance of Threepenny Opera directed in 1976 by Joe Papp. That production had featured Raul Julia, not yet known as a movie star but already a talented stage performer.
After some hunting, I located the playbill and was relieved to find it in good shape—no tears or wrinkles, no smudges. Beneath a photo of the actor was his signature, a bold flourish. I’d bought this playbill right after the play closed, thinking it’d make a good gift for my cousin. After attending the first Broadway performance of Julia’s career (a clunky vehicle called The Cuban Thing), Eve had become an admirer. In 1972, when Julia was nominated for a Tony Award for his performance in Two Gentlemen of Verona, Eve was hugely irritated that he didn’t win.
Danny became a Raul Julia fan, too. She saw Kiss of the Spider Woman when she was in middle school, and the film made a strong impression on her. The first Addams Family movie sealed her high regard for Julia. He was Gomez Addams; nobody else could possibly play that part ever again, she stated.
I never got round to giving the playbill to Eve. Why not offer it to Danny now? She’d get a kick out of it. I put it on my desk, where I wouldn’t forget about it.
THE CHANDELIER was repaired by noon—just in time for a steady stream of clients, the last of whom departed at around five. I toted up my earnings. A few walk-ins had spent lavishly; I was ahead of my projected take for the month.
Danny showed up at six, having called beforehand to say she’d been assigned a last-minute task and would be running late. As soon as she came in, she pulled a map out of her backpack. Leading her to my office, I asked her if she wanted a shot of vodka and told her I’d reserved us two rooms at a motel on the outskirts of Ithaca.
“Good—and thanks for making those arrangements, Cam. Ching-ching,” Danny toasted, tapping her shot glass against mine. “Oh, before I forget: I’ve decided against letting Judy Deveare know we’re coming.” She drained her vodka and settled into the chair across from my desk. “It’s better if we just show up. Something tells me she’ll be there.”
“It’s your call,” I said. “Have you thought about what you want to say to her?”
She nodded. “I’m going to ask her what she remembers about Mom. Assuming she knows who Mom was. I just want her general impressions. I’ll also ask if she knows anyone else who’s still in Ithaca and might have some memories of Billy.”
“What if Judy doesn’t believe you’re Billy’s daughter?” I asked.
“I’m bringing that document from the hospital. But I doubt I’ll need to show it to her. I have a hunch that Judy won’t be all that surprised to see me.”
“Well,” I said, “we’re riding a bunch of hunches here.”
Danny fixed me with a stare. This trip would happen along the lines she’d devised, so I should stop suggesting otherwise: this was the message she was sending. “I’m also hoping for a short visit to Cornell. I’d like to see where Mom went to college,” she stated.
“Actually I’d like to see Cornell, too,” I said. “Because of my father.”
Jordan’s parents had both taught in the university’s math department. They’d died in a car accident when he was seventeen, at which point he’d been given a full scholarship for undergraduate study. He received a B.S. in chemistry and stayed on for a master’s degree, switching to Columbia University for his doctorate. Cornell retained a warm place in his memory, having served as his family at a critical time. Over the years he’d made several generous contributions to its chemistry department.
Jordan had also paid for Eve’s undergraduate tuition at Cornell. When he pushed her to apply because the university had a reputable horticulture department, she’d been happy to do so. Attending Cornell meant getting out of the family apartment, out of the city, out of sight of her parents. Dan and Sarah readily accepted Jordan’s offer to cover the bill. They couldn’t have handled it on their own.
“I FIGURED it’d be good if we could go to Cornell together,” said Danny. “You could see what your father did for the chemistry department. Mom told me they used his money to buy new measuring devices—you know, fancy scales and instruments and whatnot.”
“I always wondered where the money went,” I said.
“Mom was impressed by the chemistry labs when he showed them to her.”
This pulled me up short. “When Jordan showed her? You mean while she was a student there?”
“Yeah. During her junior year, when he visited. She told me she’d been eating nothing but lousy college food, and there was your father, plunking down for an expensive meal at the best restaurant in town.” Danny hadn’t yet
noticed my bewilderment. “Jordan must’ve seemed like a one-man rescue squad.”
My father had never mentioned to me any visits to Cornell during Eve’s college years. Even when young, I always knew where Jordan was traveling. He’d gone to Ithaca once, I recalled, for a reunion of Cornell chemists, and he’d probably seen Eve then—yet that was in the late 1960s, when she was long out of school and managing a gardening business near Ithaca. But before that?
“Are you sure Jordan visited your mother while she was in college?” I asked. “He made a lot of business trips during those years, but I don’t think any of them took him upstate.”
“I’m sure.” Danny was finally taking note of my disbelief. “I definitely remember Mom talking about that meal he treated her to.” She paused, considering. “Maybe he was en route to Montreal or something?”
“Maybe,” I echoed blandly.
Danny shouldered her backpack. “So how about if I pick you up at around eight on Saturday, Cam? Is that too early?”
“That’s fine,” I said. “Just ring. I’ll be ready with a thermos of coffee and some bagels.” I picked up the playbill that lay on my desk. “Here, I’ve been meaning to give this to you. Actually I’d meant to give it to Eve a long time ago, but I never did.”
Danny took the program and stared at it uncertainly, then flipped through its pages until she came across Raul Julia’s photograph. “Oh my God,” she crooned. She glanced again at the cover. “He was in this?”
“Yep. Your mother saw the play and said he was great. She always liked him so much more than any other male actor.”
“Where do you think I got my Raul Julia fixation? He wasn’t exactly a typical love object for the average ten-year-old girl! Remember when Mom took me to see Spider Woman?”
She paused. “Mom almost never took me to the movies. That was your job—yours and Sam’s. I remember the conversation she and I had after seeing that movie. She said it was a love story, about the kind of love that comes out of left field. You’re helpless in the face of it, she said—there’s nothing you can do . . . It’s like an accident.”
Thirty-three Swoons Page 11
