Beginner's Greek

by James Collins

  There were a few more questions. “In your first novel, when Sam drowns in the drinking game, did that really happen?” “Where do you get the names for your characters?”

  Jonathan called on another young woman. “Hi,” she said. She was dark-skinned and slight, and she wore a thin, peasanty blouse. “I just wanted to ask, you seem to be able to write about women so well, from their point of view. I wonder if you would tell us something about that?”

  “Oh, that’s kind of you, very kind.” Jonathan smiled thoughtfully. “Let me think. I don’t really know what to say.” In truth, Jonathan had been asked this question at every reading he had ever given and in every interview. “If I’m able to get into the heads of women I guess it’s because women have always seemed so much more interesting to me than men, frankly. Women are more powerful, and I’m interested in power. So maybe I’ve watched women more carefully.” Jonathan paused. He looked down and swallowed. He seemed to be collecting himself. Then he spoke.

  “But . . . but I guess there’s a simple explanation. It’s not something I usually mention, but something about tonight . . .” The heads of loosely gathered hair canted forward. “You see . . . my mother died when I was quite young.” Jonathan paused again, remembering. “In the last memory I have of her, we were at the shore and we were playing in the waves, and she was holding me.” He fell silent. The room was silent. The salt water, the sun, the smell of his mother’s suntan lotion, the feel of her body against his, the thrilling surf — everyone in the room believed that they were sharing Jonathan’s recollected sensations. “So of course I’ve spent my whole life trying to get her back and a lot of time trying to get close to women, studying them, trying to figure them out.” He laughed. “Trying to get them to love me!” The audience laughed, then sighed, then applauded.

  Jonathan signed books for a while, chatting with members of his public. They said things to him that they had obviously been rehearsing in their minds. “Thank you for telling the truth.” Bashful Jonathan would reply, “Please — no. Well . . . thanks.” Peter hovered outside the eddy of admirers. Finally Jonathan had given his last humble smile, the smile of a servant unworthy of his mistress’s praise, and turned so that his eyes lit upon Peter, which prompted a different kind of smile. He signaled Peter over with a nod. Jonathan stood up and they shook hands.

  “Hello, my friend,” he said. “Thanks for coming.”

  Peter looked at him for a second.

  “When did you get so green?”

  “Me?” Jonathan said. “Why, I’ve always been that way! You remember — I drove that guy’s hybrid once.” Then he began to chuckle. His eyes narrowed and he grinned, pleased with himself.

  “How did you like the thing about my mother?”

  “I thought it was asinine.”

  Jonathan chuckled.

  “Your mother lives on a golf course in South Carolina.”

  “Oh, come on,” Jonathan said, “nobody’s going to write an exposé. Anyway, if I ever became famous enough for anyone to care, it would just cause a fuss about how I mythologized my past. That’s always good copy.” He laughed and shook his head. “Maybe I’ll try a dead little sister next time, ‘the bravest person I’ve ever known’ . . . Oh, Christ! Hold on a second.”

  Two women were approaching, one in her forties, the other in her twenties, and Jonathan moved to greet them.

  “Sasha! Allison!” Jonathan said. He embraced them both. “Thanks for being here. It makes it so much easier to get through these things.”

  You were terrific, it went great, they told him. Jonathan made the introductions.

  “Sasha Petrof, Allison Meeker, this is Russell Peters, one of my good friends. Russ, Sasha is my editor, the person who has almost convinced me to share her delusion that I can write. And Allison’s her assistant, and she’s — well, she’s the person I depend on for everything.”

  Both women were very good-looking. Sasha was lean and tall, chicly dressed; Allison was shorter and more voluptuous, a quality that seemed to embarrass her, and dressed more like a kid, but expensively. They both carried the same costly bag (Sasha was married to a Wall Street guy and Allison was the daughter of a Wall Street guy). Peter shook hands with them. Sasha’s fingers were narrow and he could feel the bones and knuckles. The skin was moisturized, but a little rough nevertheless. Shaking Allison’s hand, in contrast, was more like grasping a ripe plum. Peter noticed how in chatting with Jonathan they both had the same coded look, a look that was intended to be understood by Jonathan but not the other person standing there.

  Sasha addressed Peter. “Allison and I were talking before. We hadn’t known that Jonathan’s mother had died when he was so young. Is that something he’s ever really talked about?”

  “No,” Peter said. “No, he never has.”

  “Did you know?”

  “If you had asked me, I would have told you Jonathan’s mother was living.”

  “Really? Jonathan, you’re so private, not even your friends . . . ?”

  Jonathan glanced at Peter. “No, I don’t talk about it . . . well, the cancer. I’ll tell you about it sometime, Sasha. I’m not sure what came over me tonight.”

  They chatted a little bit more about Jonathan’s publicity schedule. Then Sasha made a whoop. How could she have forgotten! The review in the paper! She had called Jonathan but hadn’t reached him.

  “Oh, that,” Jonathan said bashfully. “I guess it was okay.”

  “It was just terrific!” said Sasha. “Some wonderful things. Really insightful.”

  “Just so long as there’s a money quote,” said Jonathan, skillfully making the cynical crack of a noncynic.

  “Oh, there was! There was!” said Sasha, laughing. Allison, her lips moist, glowed with awe.

  After some more talk, Jonathan said, “Well, we need to get downtown for dinner. I guess we should get going.”

  “Yes, I’d better run home,” said Sasha. “You were great, Jonathan. Really great. We’ll talk.” She embraced him and gave him an all but undetectable extra squeeze.

  “Bye, Jonathan,” said Allison. “You were great.” She embraced him and gave him an all but undetectable extra squeeze.

  In the cab downtown, Jonathan leaned his head against the seat and let out a sigh of exhaustion. He started talking. “Do you have any idea how hard it is to be screwing both your editor and her assistant? Christ, it’s complicated. Allison . . . God . . . Allison. She has this way of lifting her legs up and putting her heels on your back and sort of massaging it with them. The thing about Allison — God. She’s young and not that experienced, but it’s the enthusiasm. The zest. She just loves it. Though, of course, in the hands of the master . . . She’s such a kid, unsure, and I so dig that, you know?”

  Peter, actually, didn’t know.

  “But then when Sasha is tough and businesslike it’s also one of the most exciting things. ‘No, Tom, I will not give him a two-book contract!’ I remember once we were, uh, in conference and she was running late. She had herself completely put back together in about two minutes and was all business. I just wanted to grab her and start all over again. I love the way her hands feel, sort of corrugated.”

  The cab proceeded down Park Avenue South, with its disturbingly narrow “parks.”

  “But, you know, there have been some real close calls, with both of them. And it’s not only that. I have to remember which one I’ve said what to, and when all three of us are together, there’s the chance that somebody is going to make a slip. I mean, usually it’s only two people out of three, but here it’s all of us! Then when I call for Sasha I get Allison, and of course I’ve got to give her some of the old okeydoke. ‘Oh God, Allison, you are so beautiful.’ And then she switches me to Sasha, and immediately I’ve got to go through it with her. ‘Oh, God, Sasha, I just can’t stop thinking about you, I think it’s the backs of your knees . . .” Jonathan looked over at Peter with a leer. “All true by the way,” he said before continuing. “Then back to Alli
son to make the appointment, and I have to hope she won’t be mooning when Sasha brings her something to type or some damn thing.” He shook his head wearily. “Yep, it’s hard. Especially with Mags, too, you know, that chick from the fancy soup place? Old Maggie Mae. Catholic girls. Jesus. There’s nothing like seeing the crucifix bouncing around their collarbone. Sometimes she clenches it in her teeth.”

  All the while that Jonathan spoke, Peter had been staring at a tear in the back of the taxi’s front seat. It was vaguely K-shaped and had been covered with dark red tape, a shade lighter than the rubbery purplish seat back itself. The edges of the tape were gummy and dirty. The cab, making the usual sudden starts and stops, jounced Peter around, but he kept staring at this cicatrix. His brow and lips and nose and chin were all shut up like a drawstring pouch. He really had no thoughts about what he was hearing, or rather his many thoughts formed an undifferentiated, scowling black cloud in his mind. It was all disgusting and infuriating. This was not because, in general, Peter was puritanical about such activities as Jonathan described. Over the years, he had listened to his friend’s accounts again and again, and while they were often repellent, Peter could not help but find it fun and exciting to hear them, and to admire Jonathan in the way that all men, in truth, admire another’s promiscuity.

  For some time, though, Peter’s reaction had been more judgmental when Jonathan talked like this. “I don’t suppose,” he said finally, “that the fact that you’re married makes it any more complicated.”

  Jonathan said nothing for a moment and then looked over at Peter with a kind, condescending expression. “Ah, Peter,” he said. “When you’re older, you’ll understand these things better.”

  Peter continued to study the ill-repaired gash.

  “Don’t sweat it, old sport,” Jonathan said, putting his hand on Peter’s shoulder. “Nothing’s going to happen. Nobody’s going to get hurt.” He laughed. “I’m going to be sent to hell, is all.”

  Peter and Jonathan entered the restaurant. It was small and crowded, with stark décor and very large windows.

  “You are the first to arrive,” the maître d’ said. “Would you like to sit at the bar, or shall I escort you to your table?”

  They went to the table and ordered drinks, a martini for Jonathan and a beer for Peter. Jonathan asked for the wine list, and as he studied it he made a running commentary. Sipping his beer, Peter began to undergo the physiological changes that he always experienced when he was anticipating the appearance of Jonathan’s wife: his heart began to pound, his arteries throbbed, he felt pressure in the hollows of his hands, he swallowed several times, his stomach did flips. He imagined that he would feel the same way just before his first skydiving lesson. What was ridiculous was that he had been in this situation a thousand times, so it made no sense to still have these reactions.

  “Incredible,” Jonathan was muttering, “two hundred bucks for that piece of crap.” In restaurants like this, he always ordered the cheapest wine, and it gave him a nice feeling of satisfaction to see what the suckers were buying. As Jonathan spoke, Peter was looking toward the door. He could see the maître d’s back, partially obscured, and the top quarter of the door. The door opened, and Peter caught a glimpse of blond hair. His heart leapt into his throat. She had arrived. He could see the maître d’ lean forward to talk to her, and nod, and then turn and lead her toward the table. As she walked behind the maître d’, Peter saw a part of her face, her shoulder, her arm.

  “Here you are, miss,” the maître d’ said, stepping aside. “Gentlemen, the other member of your party has arrived.”

  She was wearing a pale green sundress; the color brought out her green eyes. Her long brown arms were bare, and she had her hair pinned up, exposing all of her long brown neck. She was not necessarily the most stunning woman in the restaurant; she was not someone who would cause a stir just by walking in. But she was so pretty. Her reddish blond hair was thick and sleek, although exhibiting a little frizz on this muggy June night. The green eyes were large and set far apart and her jawbone made a beautiful curve from her ear to her chin; her nose had a delicate little knob at the tip. She was on the tall side and nicely formed, slender without noticeable hips (unless one made a point of noticing them), with fine shoulders, wide, level, smooth, rounded. Her collarbones looked like arrow shafts.

  She was smiling and she looked flushed and bright-eyed from having hurried to arrive without being too late, and from the pleasure of seeing them both.

  “Hello, boys,” she said.

  Jonathan and Peter stood up.

  “Hello, luv,” said Jonathan. They hugged and kissed, more than just a token public peck.

  “Hi, Holly!”

  She gave Peter a kiss on the cheek, and in returning it Peter had to put his hands on her bare shoulders.

  As they settled into their seats, Holly apologized for being late (“It took me longer to get ready than I expected”; she and Jonathan exchanged conjugal looks, mock sheepishness on her part, mock exasperation on his), and she told Peter that it was so nice to see him but that she was so sorry Charlotte couldn’t come.

  “She was really sorry to miss you both,” Peter said.

  “Well, say hello to her for me, will you?” said Holly. She ordered a glass of wine. “Oh, Peter, weren’t you supposed to be giving some kind of presentation today?”

  “Did I mention that?”

  “Yes, I think so, when we were arranging dinner. I think you said that tonight would be good because you’d be done with that, or something.”

  “Oh.”

  “So how did it go?”

  “I killed,” Peter said.

  “Really! That’s great!”

  “It wasn’t a big deal at all.”

  “I’m glad it went so well,” Holly said. “Jonathan, did you hear? Peter killed.”

  “Yes, I heard. Congratulations, Peter. What was it all about? Debentures?” Jonathan thought it was funny just to say the word “debentures.”

  “Oh, it was nothing worth talking about.” Peter shook his head dismissively.

  “Okay,” said Holly, looking at Peter with a tiny frown.

  “And how was the play?” Peter asked. Holly taught eighth- and ninth-grade Classics at a private girls’ school, and she had helped with the eighth-grade play, which had been performed that night.

  “It was wonderful!” Holly said. “The girls were great. They were so funny! The boys too. And boy, let me tell you, there is nothing quite as intense as a thirteen-year-old Hermia who really is in love with her Lysander.”

  The girls had performed A Midsummer Night’s Dream with students from an all-boys’ school. As the rehearsals progressed, complicated romantic dramas had, of course, arisen among members of the cast.

  “Well,” said Holly, nodding at Jonathan, “and how about Anton Pavlovich here? Did you see the review?”

  “Oh God,” Peter said. “Charlotte read only part of it to me. Don’t tell me it made that comparison.”

  “It did. And I have to live with him.”

  “Please,” said Jonathan, “you know me. Unworthy as I am to receive such praise, I accept it with the deepest humility and gratitude.”

  Holly asked about the reading. It went well, they told her.

  “So we all have something to celebrate,” she said, and they talked some more. Then the waiter came over and started describing the specials, ingredient by ingredient, and at about the third appetizer (“fava beans . . .”) Peter’s mind began to wander. It drifted back . . . back . . . back to that fateful night three years before . . .

  After he graduated from college, Jonathan lived in a one-bedroom apartment far downtown, but then his stepfather died (as Jonathan’s father had before him) and his mother inherited an apartment in a hotel on the Upper East Side. She and her husband had used it only on visits to the city, but she decided to keep it — more accurately, Jonathan convinced her to keep it — as an investment. While it appreciated, it only made sense for someone t
o live there — Jonathan, say. He could not afford the monthly maintenance, so she handled that as well as the room service charges, which the hotel simply sent her as a matter of course. The apartment consisted of a bedroom, a library, a dining room, a sitting room, and a kitchen (which saw little use). Meanwhile, Jonathan kept his old place to use as an office (and it didn’t hurt his social life to have some geographical diversity). It was from these precincts that his tales of human struggle issued forth.

  One day Jonathan called Peter and said that he was having a few people over that night and that Peter should come. It was an invitation Peter readily accepted, for the people Jonathan had over were usually women whom Peter found very attractive; of course they were pretty, but they were also either smart or a little tragic or rich or minor geniuses at something or other — or all of these. Beautiful, taken-seriously painters who came into a vast fortune as infants when their parents were murdered, these were Jonathan’s specialty. Moreover, at Jonathan’s, a fume of amorousness always hung in the air, and, so, well, who knows?

  “Sure,” Peter said. “What time?”

  “Around ten or whenever.”

  “What can I bring?”

  “Just your fascinating self, that’ll be fine.”

  Peter asked who was going to be there and Jonathan mentioned a few names. “Oh, yeah,” he said, “and this girl I met at a campus thing.” A prestigious university had invited Jonathan to spend a term in residence. “We’ve kind of been hanging out a lot together up there.”