What Is This Thing Called Love?

by Gene Wilder

  Shirley’s eyes like a puppy who knows it has done a bad thing.

  Shirley leaned over and kissed him gently on the cheek.

  “Thank you for a wonderful time,” she said, then turned and walked down the ramp to her plane.

  Three months passed. This time someone in Milwaukee did die—Buddy’s oldest school chum and fellow gambler, Lenny Fisher. Buddy decided to go to the funeral.

  While he was packing his suitcase, the memory of Shirley passed through Buddy’s mind several times, quickly, but so pleasantly that the memory reached his heart. Why not call her while I’m in Milwaukee? he thought. Either she wants to see me or she says get lost. All right, I wouldn’t blame her if she did. But I want to see her. No porter house steak and wine baloney—I really do want to see her again. And I’ll tell her I’m not lying—not to her or myself.

  Buddy called the beauty parlor. His heart was thumping loudly as he waited for her to come to the phone. Then he heard her voice.

  “This is Shirley.”

  “Shirley, this is Buddy Silberman.”

  “Buddy! What a surprise. Where are you?”

  “I’m still in Los Angeles, but I’m leaving for Milwaukee today. This time somebody did die—my old friend Lenny Fisher.”

  “The fat man who smoked three packs a day?” Shirley asked.

  “That’s the schmuck. Fifty-eight years old. Anyway, I just want to let you know that I’ll be in town for a few days, and—I don’t know how to say this, but if—”

  “Buddy, I’m married. Do you remember the man who owned a bicycle shop on Burleigh Street?”

  “Near the Sherman movie theater . . . David somebody?” Buddy asked, trying to sound normal.

  “That’s right . . . Davey Putman. We went together for two months and then he suddenly popped the question. I really like him, Buddy. I mean, I love him, but I also like him so much, and I’m very happy.”

  “Well . . . I . . . I’m bursting with happiness for you, Shirley. The two of you should make a great couple, and . . . well . . . you’ll finally learn how to ride a bicycle, won’t you?”

  “Yes, I will. I’d better go now. There’s a whole crowd waiting for me to do their hair. Take care of yourself, Buddy.”

  “You bet,” Buddy answered. He waited a few seconds after Shirley hung up and then slowly placed the phone back into its cradle.

  The Anniversary

  Today is September eighth . . . our seventeenth wedding anniversary. Diane and I were supposed to meet at six thirty at La Notte—our favorite restaurant in New York.

  Maybe I arrived forty minutes early because I’m so anxious to give her the little anniversary present I bought for her. That’s all right. No customers yet, so I have the whole place to myself. It’s a nice feeling. The “whole place” is just twelve tables, which suits me fine. It’s where Diane and I had our first date.

  As soon as I entered, Nick, the owner, opened a bottle of Pinot Grigio, which he always has ready for us. He started to fill my wine glass.

  “A little wine, Mr. Bellsey?”

  “Just two drops, Nick. Let it get nice and cold.”

  “Certainly,” he said, as he poured an inch or two of the Pinot Grigio and put the bottle into an ice bucket that was standing nearby.

  I didn’t want to drink very much before Diane got here. My surprise present is the delicate amethyst earrings that she admired weeks and weeks ago. I know that when she arrives she’s going to rush up and give me a long kiss before she sits down. Then we’ll click glasses, take a sip of wine, and say “Happy Anniversary, darling” at the same time. I’ll hand her the present and wait for the look on her face when she sees that I remembered those earrings she admired so long ago.

  Nick began to light tiny candles in the small glass holders that rested on each table. He wasn’t Italian—although he pretended to be. He was actually Albanian, but he certainly knew what he was doing if it was romance he was selling. Each table also had a small chandelier above it, covered with faded orange lace. It gave the restaurant a warm glow.

  As I took another sip of wine I heard the door open and looked to see if it was Diane, but it was the laundry ser vice delivering clean napkins.

  I looked at my watch: twelve minutes after six. It won’t be long now, unless she’s tied up at the hospital. She’s a speech therapist specializing in aphasia, mostly for people who’ve suffered a stroke recently and have to learn how to talk again. She’s awfully good at what she does. I think the way she speaks the English language is one of the things that attracted me to her. There were also one or two other things.

  I drained the last few drops of wine in my glass. Nick snuck in quickly and gave me anther two inches of Pinot Grigio. I looked at my watch: six twenty. Ten more minutes—

  she’s never late. I began touching the real but very tiny fresh flowers that were in the miniature vase on my table.

  On our first date she had long auburn hair. Now she has it cut much shorter and the auburn needs a little help from the beauty parlor, but I’m hoping she’ll let it grow again this winter. That’s a man’s point of view, of course, but I fell in love with her when that beautiful hair framed her face.

  The first time we made love she smiled almost the whole time. We had a small glass of port beforehand and lamb chops and Château Beychevelle after. I didn’t find Diane until so late in my life, and now, seventeen years later, I honestly don’t believe I could live without her.

  The restaurant is beginning to fill up.

  Each time the phone rings I’m afraid it’s Diane, telling Nick that she’s going to be late. But it’s always someone who wants to make a reservation.

  Twenty minutes till seven. It’s not like her to be late, not without calling. Nick saw that I was getting anxious and rushed over.

  “Would you like to order a little something, Mr. Bellsey?”

  “Thank you, Nick. No, I’ll wait till Mrs. Bellsey comes. I’m sure she won’t be much longer.”

  Nick stared at me with frozen eyes.

  “Are you . . . making a little joke, Mr. Bellsey?”

  “No, what do you mean? Why would I joke just because my wife is a little late? She’ll be here soon, Nick, I promise . . . Why are you staring at me like that?”

  “Because . . . I’m so sorry, Mr. Bellsey . . . I thought you were waiting for some friend. Please forgive me, but . . . Mrs. Bellsey died last year . . . on your anniversary . . . remember?”

  I heard what he said, but I didn’t understand.

  Nick put his hand on my shoulder and stood next to me for several seconds, then left to greet an English couple who had just walked into the restaurant. Nick seated them a few tables away from me and walked to the back of the restaurant where he kept his CD recordings of Italian and Mexican piano music that his clients liked to hear while they ate. The first song he played was “Intermezzo.” It was Diane’s and my favorite . . . so romantic . . . first date . . .

  Tears began to pour in my heart. I saw Nick looking at me and I wondered why he would do such a cruel thing, playing that particular sosng.

  The English couple got up from their table and both of them hugged me.

  “Haven’t seen you since we got back from England. Sorry, Richard . . . both of us . . . We’re going to miss her.”

  His wife kissed my cheek. “We loved her, Richard. She was a beautiful woman.”

  “Thank you,” I said.

  “We don’t want to bother you—but if you should want to join us, just come right over.”

  After they went back to their table, Nick came over to me.

  “I’m so sorry, Mr. Bellsey.”

  “Thank you, Nick.”

  I held his hand until he had to greet a party of four who were just walking in.

  Tango Without Music

  “I had a little haberdashery—shirts, ties, pants, you know—but when I started investing in real estate I made enough money to sort of retire.”

  A self-conscious silence ensued as Charle
y Sugarman brushed off imaginary crumbs from his clean white shirt. He sat nervously on the edge of a sofa, as if he were watching the final minutes of the Super Bowl.

  “My wife says I have no sensitivity, so after twenty-three years she ups and leaves me.”

  Sugarman stared at Laura Bailey, a woman in her late forties with wild black hair, who was sitting in a large leather chair in colorful summer slacks, staring back at Charley Sugarman, waiting for him to speak.

  “Okay . . . okay . . . my wife says I don’t sing, I don’t dance, I don’t go to the theater, concerts, opera, or ballet, and she said that in the last eight years I’ve turned into an old codger. So now—would you please tell me what you think?”

  “Does she want a divorce?” Laura Bailey asked.

  “No, she doesn’t want anything.”

  “Do you want a divorce, Mr. Sugarman?”

  “No, I don’t want a divorce. I love her.”

  “What’s your wife’s name?”

  “Georgia.”

  “Where is she now, do you know?”

  “She’s staying at the Chesterfield Hotel for Women on East Sixty-third Street. Her father left her some money so she doesn’t even ask me to pay. How do like that?”

  “How do you like it?”

  “I wanna know how you like it, Laura. I’m paying you, you’re not paying me.”

  “All right, Charley—what do you want me to tell you?”

  “I want you . . . to tell me . . . why, after twenty-three years of marriage, she walks out and leaves me all alone.”

  “Why do you think she left you?”

  “I don’t know. That’s why I came to you.”

  “Well, if that’s all you want to know, you’re wasting your money. She’s already told you why. She has a husband who isn’t sensitive anymore and has started to act like an old codger. Seems clear to me.”

  “But . . . I mean, to leave me all alone . . . why would she want to hurt me this way? She never wanted to hurt me before.”

  “Probably because she loves you.”

  Tears started dripping down Sugarman’s cheeks. He covered his face with his large freckled hands, as if he were ashamed that a grown man would cry in front of another person.

  “Sit back, Mr. Sugarman. Please. You don’t have to be embarrassed in front of me.”

  He sat back and wiped his eyes. His breathing slowed down.

  “How old are you, Mr. Sugarman?”

  “Fifty-three.”

  “That’s not very old. Do you feel like an old codger?”

  “Only from seven to ten in the morning and from seven to ten at night,” Sugarman answered sarcastically.

  “You think you’re being cute, but I think you’re actually telling me the truth. May I ask when you usually don’t make love with your wife? . . . Seven to ten at night?”

  Sugarman tried to talk, but the lump in his throat wouldn’t allow words to come out. Finally, he spoke in a half whisper.

  “Something seems to have dried up in me. Would you help me, because I’m lost? Please tell me what you think I should do.”

  “Do you dance, Mr. Sugarman?”

  His voice suddenly came back loud and clear. “What the hell does that have to—Sorry! I’m sorry! Yes, I used to dance a little, but that was a long time ago.”

  “I want you to try something. I’m going to give you the address of the Ballard Studio, on Eighty-seventh and Broadway. I want you to take tango lessons.”

  “TANGO LESSONS? ARE YOU NUTS OR SOME—Sorry! I’m sorry. Please forgive me. If that’s what you want, you’re the doctor, Laura.”

  “I’m not a doctor, Charley.”

  “That’s right, you’re the other thing. Okay—Ballard Studio. Would you write it down for me, please?”

  As she was writing the address, she said, “Ask for Antonio and tell him I sent you.”

  “How much do I owe you, Laura?”

  “We’ll see, Charley,” she replied. “First take a few tango lessons.”

  The next day, Sugarman called the Ballard Studio and asked for Antonio. He waited nervously until the receptionist connected him.

  “Hullo, Antonio Rosa here.”

  “Hi, my name is Charles Sugarman. I’m . . . well, Laura Bailey said I should ask for you.”

  “She is a very good friend. Please tell me what I can do for you, Mr. Sugar.”

  “I just want to take a few tango lessons with you.”

  “For sure! When is good for you, Mr. Sugar?”

  “It’s Sugarman. Well—how about today? I mean, almost any afternoon would be okay, but Mondays and Thursdays are always good, if it’s okay with you, Mr. Rosey.”

  “Today is fine. Three o’clock is good for you?”

  “Yes, that’s good.”

  “Okay! You know where my studio is?”

  “Yes, I do! Laura wrote it down for me.”

  “Wonderful! I see you today at three. And by the way, you can call me Antonio.”

  “Thank you.”

  Sugarman arrived a few minutes early. The Ballard Studio was a pleasant and clean room, about the size of a small ballroom, with mirrors on three sides. Antonio greeted Sugarman cordially but asked if he would please have a seat for a few minutes.

  “I be right with you,” Antonio said.

  While he was waiting, Sugarman kept looking at a large framed photograph that hung on one of the walls. It was of a dancing couple who seemed very serious and intense, and also very romantic.

  After a few minutes Antonio walked up to Sugarman, holding the arm of a lovely, shapely lady in, perhaps, her forties or late thirties or early fifties. You couldn’t tell her age from looking at her beautiful body. She was dressed in a casual but magnificent black skirt that flowed back and forth as she walked. Her low-cut blouse was lavender.

  “Mr. Sugar, this is Margarita, who is going to be your dance partner.”

  “Buenos días,” Margarita said as she shook hands with Sugarman.

  “Wow. Yes. I hope so.” Sugarman said. “Are you both Spanish?”

  “No, no” Antonio said. “I am from Puerto Rico and Margarita is from Colombia. But when you feel her in your arms and when you see how she moves, you will want to learn Spanish quickly.”

  They all laughed.

  “So . . . the tango!” Antonio exclaimed. “Please face Margarita . . . yes, like that . . . but step in a little closer.”

  Sugarman moved closer and then gleefully put his arm around Margarita’s waist, trying to look sexy as he jiggled his hips, waiting for Frank Sinatra to start singing.

  “No, no, no,” Antonio said with a little laugh. “We are not going to fox-trot, señor. Just face your beautiful partner, stand straight but not rigid . . . good . . . and now take a slow, deep breath.”

  Sugarman took a deep breath, wondering why on earth Laura Bailey sent him here.

  “Now put your right arm around her back . . . higher up . . . raise your left hand, slowly, and offer it to your partner.”

  Sugarman did as he was told. Margarita cupped her hand into his. He looked like he was still at his high school prom, waiting for the band to start playing.

  “Mr. Sugar, don’t look into her eyes—even though they are very tantalizing. Just look a little bit off to one side of her face. You can still see her . . . you can feel her . . . but you don’t do anything yet.”

  Sugarman put his hands on his hips in exasperation.

  “But what am I waiting for? I mean, when is the dancing part?”

  “When you are ready, señor.”

  “I’m ready! Where’s the music?”

  “Mr. Sugar, first you have to create your own music . . . even without the music,” Antonio said with a smile.

  “I think one of us is not dealing with a full deck here.”

  “The music gives you energy, yes, for sure. And that’s good. But when the music is very fast, like, da da da da, you don’t really have time to think. But in the silence—I mean the tango without the music—y
ou start to feel the passion in your body. Then you dance. You understand?”

  “Sure! You want me to look at her, but don’t look at her. Be close, but not too close. Do some heavy breathing and wait till I feel the passion in my body—which I can tell you right now I felt as soon as she walked into the room—and then, when I’m ready, I start doing something, even if I don’t know what I’m supposed to do.”

  “That’s it,” Antonio answered. “Perfect.”

  Sugarman took seven tango lessons, reluctantly, on Mondays and Thursdays at three o’clock. His partner was always Margarita.

  Antonio was playing tango music now and Sugarman grasped little bits and pieces, here and there, of what Antonio was saying. But when he left the studio, he was always frustrated.

  Each night as Sugarman tried to sleep, his brain kept hearing tango music. He kept visualizing where his feet were supposed to go and which one of Margarita’s knees was bent. After the seventh lesson, he decided that enough was enough. He’d go back to the studio one more time, and then, after his eighth lesson, he would explain to Antonio that he had to go out of town on urgent business. “What do I owe you? Thank you very much,” and that would be it.

  But during the eighth lesson something extraordinary happened. He was facing Margarita in the usual way . . . he took a slow, deep breath, put his arm around her back, held up his hand for her to take, and, as he stood very still for a moment, he was suddenly overcome with passion. He began to dance.

  Margarita followed, but Sugarman didn’t think about the steps anymore—he began to improvise every movement and sudden pause. He felt the warmth of Margarita’s body, and, at the same time, fleeting images of his wife sailed through his mind. He didn’t know if the music had just started or was about to end . . . he just wanted to go on dancing.

  When the music came to an end Margarita squeezed Sugarman’s hand and kissed him on his cheek. He turned to Antonio, somewhat in a daze.

  Antonio smiled. “Mr. Sugar,” he said, “you begin to understand the tango a little bit. Congratulations.”

  That night, Sugarman picked up the phone and called the Chesterfield Hotel for Women. When he heard his wife’s voice he said, “Hi, Georgia . . . how are you?”