However, I did like Isabelle straightaway. Her eyes suggested a tragic sense of life, but she walked up the stairs to the apartment on the third floor with a kind of buoyancy, as if she was happiest when her body was in motion. She had an olive complexion, a wide romantic mouth. Twice, Isabelle touched my wrist, and, overall, she seemed friendly beyond the usual subterfuges of saleswomanship. What a special cozy place this is, she said, as if we were looking for a home for the two of us. Then she arched her luxuriant brows and asked Will you be living here alone?—to which I said Oh God, yes, letting her know my previous life was in shambles—to which she responded by walking quickly to the window and beckoning me to her side, so I could see the view of the street, with its dark dripping trees and somberly painted Federal houses, with their red wooden doors, all of it so melancholy, dignified, stable, and lush in the rain.
After she showed me the apartment, Isabelle suggested we have a coffee at a nearby café. She said I find the things you want to ask about a place always come to mind after you walk out, so this way I’ll be right here to answer your questions and we can scoot back over if we need to. I’m not much for scooting these days, I said, going back to that idea of myself as a wounded man, which for some reason I thought she might find appealing, but then, from the look of her, I realized she thought I was turning the coffee idea down so I quickly added I could really use a cup of coffee. Isabelle put two sugars and a lot of milk in hers. She stirred it with the spoon in the cup’s dead center and moved it in circles with great care, making sure there were no potentially nerve-racking clinks of metal against ceramic. Everything she did was modest, melancholy, and warm. I could feel my brain coming back to life, as I searched for clues to her character, as well as any indication of what she might be feeling toward me.
THE NEXT DAY, Andrew Post called and said he had so far gotten one call from a publisher. The initial offer was $375,000. I thanked Andrew, quickly hung up, and stood in front of the windows looking out onto Seventh Avenue and pumped my fists in the air and shouted. Then, that phase of my joy disappeared in a heartbeat and I burst into tears. I was simply overwhelmed by my good fortune. The sort of thing that had always happened to somebody else was now happening to me.
As I wept for joy, misfortune and confusion struck in the form of Deirdre walking in. Seeing me dissolved into tears, she quite naturally assumed I was grieving. She was wheeling in an empty suitcase, which she intended to fill up with her summer clothes, and she stood there for a moment, with her hand on the long handle, and our eyes met. Mine were no doubt small and scarlet, while hers were wide with apprehension. She said my name and moved slowly in my direction, pushing her valise in front of her like a vacuum cleaner. I put up my hand, which I had meant to signify that I was all right, despite appearances, but Deirdre thought I was asking her to leave me alone, and she said my name again, soothingly and imploringly, practically insisting that I accept the solace she was prepared to offer.
I see you’ve come to get more of your stuff. She shrugged, as if to leave open the possibility of somehow denying it. May I assume you are living with your Russian friend? She shook her head No, not trusting her voice to communicate the obvious lie. I dried my eyes with the heels of my hands, and heaved a deep, steadying sigh. It was starting to dawn on me that the chance to tell Deirdre I was about to strike it rich might be every bit as satisfying as the major score itself. Well, help yourself. I’m still sleeping on the sofa bed, so the old bedroom might be a bit musty, but you’ll find everything as you left it, I trust. And then, with a desiccated little laugh, I added If trust has any meaning. I sounded arch to myself, a little nutty, but I couldn’t help it. To adopt the persona of a British stage actor, some sadly wronged fellow in a quilted jacket, whose heart has been broken by someone not really worthy of him, was a comfort, for some reason. It just wasn’t a moment I wanted to be exactly and unanimously myself. There were things going on in this room I didn’t even want my self to know about. If you’d like, I’ll give you a hand organizing your gear, I went on. After all, I do appreciate your taking the initiative and giving me a little time to sort things out. Are you all right? she asked. I’m fine. And you’ll be glad to know that it looks like I’ll be getting my own place to live. I’m buying an apartment. Deirdre nodded. I had expected her to say something like You are? and to be filled with amazement that I could manage such an amazing fiscal feat. But, of course, in Deirdre’s world down payments were no more fantastic than subscriptions to Vanity Fair.
I think I’ll buy this place down on Perry Street, I said. Deirdre nodded, looked sad. I love it down there, she said. Yes, I said. It’s all very nice. So when? Deirdre asked. When does all this happen? Her eyes were slowly reddening. The wings of her nose were trembling, and it took some effort for her not to turn away. I couldn’t have been more surprised if she had pulled a gun on me. I thought you’d be relieved. It means the apartment’s all yours. Why would I be relieved? She was suddenly angry. Her voice, usually a serene alto, rose in volume and pitch. Did you ever stop to think why any of this was happening? Jesus Christ, Avery, do you think this is what I want?
Deirdre’s flare-up had a strangely tranquilizing effect on me. Maybe not at this very moment, I said. But, yes, I do, I think this is what you wanted. Why else would you sleep with that idiot? It was a mistake! She almost screamed it, which only made me more composed. Really? Then why did you tell me about it? Jesus Christ, Avery, I told you about it because I’m an honest person and I didn’t want there to be any lies between us. You can’t use that against—she stopped suddenly, looked at me with a mixture of concern and dismay. Why are you smiling? Am I smiling? I asked. I’m sorry. You have every right to be annoyed. After all, what right do I have to smile? I leaned forward, cupped my chin in my hand. It’s just that I notice you’re saying Jesus Christ a lot, and you never did before, so I’m guessing that comes from Osip. Am I right? Is he one of those Russian true believers, with his little painted eggs and his corduroy jacket stinking of incense?
Deirdre looked crestfallen. Her broad shoulders heaved upward and then slumped down; she let out a little gasp and shook her head. What is wrong with you, Avery? You’re making way too much of the whole thing. Don’t say that, don’t fuck somebody and then tell me I’m making too much of it. You don’t get to set the parameters of my reaction. Okay? You broke my heart.
I admit I made a mistake, she said. I’ve already admitted it, and I’m admitting it again. If you must know…She stopped, walked around her suitcase, and sat across from me at the table, with its litter of newspapers yet to be taken out of their blue plastic pouches, toast plates, coffee cups, and various scraps of paper upon which I did fantasy sums, calculating how much I might receive for my book, and how much it would buy me, and how long it might last. Avery, she said. Deirdre, I answered. Listen to me, Avery, okay? He’s a Russian. I never would have slept with him otherwise. Think of it like this: if I were your friend, a man, and I told you that, you’d understand. You’d say, that’s a little weird, but I do understand. I was so curious, all the years studying Russia, and I had never really known a Russian. It really will never happen again. How do I know that? I said. What if you meet some other type of man you haven’t had intimate knowledge of? What if you meet a Tibetan or some great Patagonian guy? But it’s my major, she said, her voice rising plaintively, as if I were unreasonably withholding my compassion.
I’m going to pretend you didn’t say that, I said. I only slept with him once, she said. Really? I said. You mean once today? She shook her head. Well, that’s just a total lie, I said. Have you forgotten that I read your diary? As soon as I said that, I wondered if I had fallen into a cleverly laid trap. Had Deirdre just tricked me into reminding myself that I wasn’t operating on a higher moral plane than she was? No, I haven’t forgotten. But if you had read it more carefully you would have realized that we’d only been together once. I did read it carefully, Deirdre. I read it very, very carefully. And you slept with him many times,
in many ways…I don’t want to go into it; I can’t even think about it. And, anyhow, it doesn’t matter how many times. Nabokov said One is the only real number; all the rest are variations. Na-bow-kuff, she said, correcting my pronunciation. And then she lurched forward, grabbing her forehead and massaging it.
You always kept me at arm’s length, she said, very softly. I loved you, I truly loved you. I loved your face, the sound of your voice. I loved how you never gave up on your dreams, no matter what. (I could have done without that, the portrait of me as the dogged little dreamer, the plucky little guy who no matter how many times he gets smacked down always dusts himself off and gets up again.) You never intended for things to work out between us, she said. She was composed again, confident in her despair. Just the way you always talk about our age difference.
How old is Osip? I asked. She waved away the importance of the question but could not help herself—a part of her would always be the chubby third grader with her hand up in the air because she knows the answer. Twenty-five. And it’s not a long O, by the way, it’s an Ahh sound. And I don’t care how old people are, she said, with a little pause between each word. That’s your thing.
The phone rang, and I stopped myself from answering it. After the third ring the answering machine picked up. Deirdre and I were quiet and attentive for this minor technological event. As I had anticipated, it was my agent. Post here, call soon, he said, and hung up.
Then a voice came out of my laptop’s little speakers, announcing that I had just received an e-mail. I glanced at the bottom of my screen and saw it was from Andrew Post, and while it would have been rude to answer the phone, taking a look at the e-mail—I knew it must be urgent if he called and e-mailed within the same minute—seemed harmless. I clicked it open.
Avery, we’re at four hundred but it’s from _____ and it’s preemptive. We have one hour to respond or he takes it off the table. Please advise.
Andrew
What’s wrong? Deirdre said, with that slight hopefulness you can feel when someone with whom you are in conflict receives bad news, perhaps creating a little space into which you can insert yourself and offer comfort. Oh, nothing, I said, cat-and-mousing with the situation for a moment. Just a business thing. She nodded, either too disciplined to inquire further, or actually not that interested. I had to come out with it. It’s why it looks like I can buy an apartment, I said. I came up with an idea, and my agent is selling it right now, as we speak. You know, Avery, just because something is in a journal doesn’t mean it’s necessarily true. Did you ever stop to think I was writing those things because I suspected you might be invading my privacy and I wanted to teach you a lesson? No, I never thought of that, mainly because it’s not true. But guess what? This book that my agent is selling? My Piedmont chimed in again, announcing another e-mail. The electronic voice was strangely friendly, composed but enthusiastic, a noncompetitive male who wants the best for you, amiable but a little remote, like a neighbor’s dog. I glanced down at the lower-right-hand corner of my screen. A little flag came up telling me that Post had sent another e-mail. I didn’t dare open it—I was still digesting the last heaping portion of good news.
Yeah? Deirdre said. What about it?
It’s about an around-the-world sex tour, which I am going on. I leave tomorrow, as a matter of fact.
Deirdre was silent, unblinking, I wasn’t sure if she was even breathing. It was as if she were on the screen of a computer that had frozen. I waited. I wasn’t at all sure what her reaction would be to my news. In the moments she spent just looking at me, I succumbed to the temptation to see what Post’s last e-mail said and I clicked it open. My mind was going too quickly to tolerate any time without something new going into it, and if Deirdre was going to be quiet then I needed to hear from Andrew.
So?
A.
That wasn’t very informative.
I feel like I’ve just been kicked in the stomach, Deirdre said. It seemed as if her natural pigmentation had drained from her face, her throat, her arms, and gathered into her hands, which were suddenly bright red. Why do you hate me, Avery?
I don’t hate you. I said it with a sense not only of deep conviction but of discovery, as if I had just at that very moment come upon a map to my truest feelings. I loved being with you, I said, quavering. From the moment we met. There was nothing about it I didn’t enjoy. Enjoy! Deirdre said, as if I couldn’t have chosen a less substantial word. A paper cut of a word. Not only enjoy, I said. I loved watching movies with you, walking around, I loved going to bed with you. If you thought there was something wrong, something missing, then why didn’t you say anything about it? I did! she cried. In a million different ways. I’m sorry, then, it didn’t get through. I thought everything was okay.
When you told me you were with someone else—I’m not with him. I put up my hands, asking her to spare me the fine print. When you told me, I realized what a total fool I’d been. You could stay out late, you were here, you were there, I never asked a question. You think I didn’t worry? You think I didn’t picture it? But I never opened my mouth, out of respect, not once. Well, maybe you should have. Maybe I would have felt you cared. Please don’t say that, I advised. That’s just going to piss me off. You slept with someone else; I didn’t. Everything I wanted sexually was right here. I pointed at her—perhaps a little too vigorously, because she backed away, as if I were going to poke her in the chest. And you want to know something else? I said. I had no idea what I was going to say. It was just happening, on its own. Do you want to know what it’s been like, night after night and day after day, knowing you’re with your new friend? I’ve gone through the hamper so I can smell your clothes, just for the intimacy of it. I’ve been scouring the porn shops, looking for pictures of women who look like you. Deirdre made a face, as if she’d just bitten down on something spoiled. Don’t look at me like that, I said. I already feel grotesque.
You were so wonderful to me in the beginning, she said. Always glad to see me and interested in me. Then it started getting the way you said it would, the way you said it was with the other women. I was thinking that maybe our beginner’s luck was over. She said this softly, almost interrogatively, as if she barely meant it, or was waiting for me to refute it with passionate force. But all that followed was a long, sad silence, until Deirdre asked Are there really women in porno mags who look like me? Not really, I said. You look more…comfortable. You mean fat? No, comfortable. Bourgeois. The women in the magazines are sort of tough. I just look for redheads.
And have you really been going through my laundry? I nodded Yes. Jesus Christ, Avery, is that supposed to be flattering? You’re sniffing my private clothes? I’m not going to feel bad about that, I said. I like the smell of them. It pleases me. What you like, she said, are very specific parts of me, but not the whole thing. Isn’t that the definition of pornography? I don’t know about that, I said. But I could feel I was on shaky ground. And this round-the-world trip? Is that true, too? I don’t need to be questioned, Deirdre. You don’t exactly have the moral high ground here. I’d been so eager to tell her about what was in store for me a few moments ago, but now, with the stage completely set, I found myself hesitant. I didn’t want to hurt her, nor did I want her to feel well rid of me. Is it true? Are you really going on one of those sex tours? What do you know about sex tours? I said. Everyone knows about them, she said. What are you going to do, go to Thailand and rape children? What is wrong with you, Avery? This isn’t like you.
No Thailand, I said. No children. No rape. It’s all very sedate and grown-up. All very first class. Private jet and all. We go to Nordic countries, for the most part. You know, the master race.
If this is supposed to make me jealous, it really doesn’t. To me it’s just sad. And kind of sketchy, too, morally speaking. Paying women to have sex with you? To which I said Thousands and thousands of dollars. I don’t care if it’s millions, Avery, it’s still—she didn’t finish the sentence, leaving it to me to fill in the b
lank. Well, if you must know, I’m going on the tour to write about it, not to have sex. I’m not going to have sex with any of them. I’ve never had sex under those circumstances, and I intend to keep my record unblemished.
There was no compelling reason to mention Chelsea or that my record owed its continued existence to a Town Car that happened to upend me on Fifty-sixth Street.
Just think of all the women you can tell your four fathers story to. That’s not fair, Deirdre, and it’s not very nice. Nice? Is nice a part of this? Is it nice to give some poor woman money so you can abuse her? What are you smiling about now? You look indecently happy. I’m sorry, I said, but more than one publisher wants to hear about the sex tour. We’re closing in on half a million dollars. Even saying this raced my heart; my blood zizzed through me like carbonated water.
I don’t get it, Avery. You read my diary; you’re messing with my dirty clothes; you’re looking for women who resemble me in porn magazines. I can only imagine what these women are doing. And now this? Just fucking for fucking? With no feeling, no conscience?
I’m sure there will be feelings.
Not real feelings.
All feelings are real.
She shook her head, reached out for me, took my hand. You’re a great guy, Avery. Thank you, I said. I just can’t see you on this kind of trip, doing those things. With all those gross guys—did you ever think of that? Who you’ll be with? Grist for the mill, I said. Avery. Really. Why are you doing this?
Because I can, I said. I was going to elaborate, maybe tell her about Uncle Ezra, his friendship with the guy who ran Fleming Tours; I was going to say there was something about having the power to do something that inevitably led to your actually doing it, like having a weapon, a bomb, you just can’t keep it under lock and key forever; I was going to say there was a ratty little part of every man’s brain that twitched and grinned at the thought of women easily available to him; I was going to say it was a rare man indeed who maintained his virtue if lack of virtue was easily accessible—but I left it at Because I can. There was something about it, a kind of no-frills truthfulness that made me leave it at that. As is.
Willing Page 7
