What Is This Thing Called Love?

by Gene Wilder

  One woman in particular caught his eye: a very attractive redhead sitting alone at the bar. Her red hair was streaked ever so lightly with a hint of blond, and her face—if not what Buddy would call “a real looker”—was very attractive. There was also something exotic about her looks and the way she dressed.

  He couldn’t tell if the woman was waiting for someone, but Buddy assumed—as good looking as she was—that she wouldn’t come to this beautiful restaurant alone. Still, he could test out his Clark Gable hair and platform shoes, and at least he wouldn’t be much shorter than she.

  What’ve you got to lose? he said to himself, and walked over to her. Willie Nelson’s romantic standards were floating softly through the speakers.

  “How ya doin’? I’m Mark Silberman, the Hollywood producer—remember me? Didn’t you read for me and my director a couple weeks ago?”

  The redhead looked at him, flattered by what he said but a little confused.

  “I’m sorry, Mr. Silberman. I’m afraid I don’t remember,” she said with a smile. “I wish it had been me.”

  “Oh, no—please—I’m the one who’s sorry! I didn’t mean to disturb you; it’s just that—with your face and body, you’d be a knockout on film.”

  “You’re very kind Mr. Silberman. Thank you.”

  “No, I’m not kind—I just always tell the truth. Anyway, sorry again for disturbing you.”

  Buddy started to walk away and then stopped—as if he had just thought of something.

  “By the way, are you alone? I mean—would you like to have a drink with me? I’m sitting right over there, at that little table across the way.”

  The redhead looked at Buddy’s eyes, as if she were not quite sure how to respond.

  “Well . . . I was waiting for someone, but it seems I’ve been stood up,” she said holding back the hint of a tear.

  “Well, the hell with that schmuck,” Buddy said with growing confidence. “Why don’t you let me buy you a drink?”

  “You’re very kind, Mr. Silberman. Thank you. That would be nice,” she said.

  She started to pick up the remains of her frozen daiquiri when Buddy said, “Forget that honey—we’ll get you a new one.”

  They walked over to Buddy’s table just as the music changed to Harry Nilsson singing “What’ll I do?” With

  Buddy’s platform shoes, the redhead was only about an inch taller than he was. Buddy helped her into a chair.

  “What can I get for you, honey? A drink, a shrimp cocktail, a steak, a lobster? WAIT! First of all, what’s your name? I can’t go on calling you ‘honey.’ ”

  “Charlotte. Charlotte Butler,” she answered.

  “Great name! What’ll you have, Charlotte?”

  “Another frozen daiquiri would be wonderful. Thank you, Mr. Silberman.”

  “Oh, please—now that we’re pals, just call me Buddy. That’s what half the world calls me.”

  “How sweet. I love that for a name,” Charlotte said. Buddy waved as a waiter walked by.

  “A frozen daiquiri for the young lady and another Absolut for me, please.”

  Buddy turned to Charlotte. “Now then—tell me about yourself. NO! I take that back. That’s what all producers say and I hate it and I don’t wanna be like them. May I ask how long you’ve been living in L.A?”

  “I came here four years ago and—”

  “From where?” Buddy interrupted.

  “A small town in Iowa,” she answered. “You wouldn’t have heard of it.”

  “Test me!” Buddy said.

  “Keokuk,” she answered with a little smile.

  “Two movie theaters, one so-so restaurant, no bars, and a helluva lot a corn.”

  Charlotte put her face into her napkin to cover her laugh.

  “Right on, Buddy. That’s why I left,” she finally said.

  “How in the world could you know Keokuk, Iowa?”

  “Oh, I used to work that town when I was in a whole other business. The Bible Belt! Right, Charlotte?”

  “You’re telling me,” she said. “That’s why I left.” Charlotte smiled at him softly as she looked at his eyes.

  “You’re awfully nice, Buddy. You’re not married, are you?”

  “Not on your life,” Buddy answered. “I mean—not yet.”

  “Do you have a steady?” Charlotte asked.

  “Naw, nothing that I would call ‘steady.’ Not yet, anyway. But who knows?—I could get lucky,” he said, looking at Charlotte in as romantic a way as he knew how.

  When their drinks arrived, Buddy raised his glass and said, “Here’s lookin’ at you, kid.”

  “Here’s to you, Buddy dear.”

  Buddy was as happy as he had been for months. Charlotte reached under the table, placed a hand on Buddy’s thigh, and gave it a gentle squeeze.

  “Buddy . . . have you ever had sex with a transvestite before?”

  Passion

  I’ve always thought of passion as an uncontrollable desire—I mean a feeling that so clouds your mind that it makes you forget where you are and even who you are. Anyway, that’s what I thought when I was thirteen year old and that’s what I always thought I wanted, but I’ve never experienced it except in my imagination.

  My name is Max Baer and I have a small but very good business in Darien, Connecticut, called Chauffeurs Unlimited—We Drive Your Car. Our rates are almost half the price of the big limo companies and I drive most of the clients myself, although I have two men who help me out if things get very busy. Most people want to go to the theater or the airport, but some women just want to go shopping in the ritziest places in New York.

  On a sunny day in April, when the ice and snow had finally disappeared and the daffodils and tulips were starting to show signs of life, I was asked to pick up a woman at 2:00 p.m. from a house on East Hunting Ridge Lane, in Stamford, which was close to where I lived. With that address I was hoping the lady wouldn’t be another ritzy-ditsy snob.

  The house turned out to be a beautiful old-world farm house, nineteenth century I would guess, made of stone and wood. An Oldsmobile was waiting in the driveway. I parked my Chevy, straightened my tie—I always wear a suit and tie when I’m driving clients—and rang the doorbell.

  The door opened and I was confronted by a stout, gray-haired lady who looked as strong as an ox. Her arm was wrapped around a small young woman—perhaps twenty-three or -four—who had a stupid expression that seemed like it was frozen onto her face because it didn’t move or change. She was wearing a red beret that covered half of her beautiful red hair, and she wore an overcoat that was way too big for her. I’m sure it was a man’s coat.

  The stout lady gave me the key to the Oldsmobile and gave the young woman a kiss on the cheek, mumbling something in a foreign language, and then turned to me.

  “You take good care of my girl, yes?” she ordered.

  “I’ll take very good care of her,” I said.

  The young woman didn’t look at me. The bottom of the large overcoat she was wearing dragged along the driveway as we walked to the car. I thought it was getting dirty and I tried to take her arm, but she pulled away and mumbled something like “is good, is good.” The winter chill still hung in the air, so perhaps she was wearing this man’s coat for warmth. When I opened the backseat door for her and started to help her in, she pulled away and said, “No, no, fine,” without looking at me. I wondered if she didn’t want me to see her face.

  As I was about to start the motor, I saw that the stout lady was still standing in her doorway, looking at us. I waved politely and turned to ask the young woman where she wanted to go.

  “New York,” she said.

  “Yes,” I answered, “your mother—or whoever that nice lady is—told me that. But where in New York?”

  “One . . . five . . . three . . . East Fifty-three Street,” she answered.

  “One fifty-three East Fifty-third?” I asked, to make sure I understood.

  “That’s why I just say it,” she said.
r />   “Fine,” I said, and drove off.

  While we were on the Saw Mill River Parkway, well on our way to New York, I thought I’d try a little conversation, just to be friendly.

  “By the way, my name is Max Baer.” But there was no answer.

  “Excuse me,” I said, “but what do you want me to call you? I was never given your name.”

  “Katarina Nováková,” she said.

  “Wow! Well, I might be able to handle that,” I said, trying to lighten the atmosphere.

  “You don’t have to handle. You just say it.”

  “No, I mean—would you mind if I just called you Miss or Ma’am?”

  “You mean you want to be more friendlier?”

  “Well, yes . . . but not if it bothers you.”

  “Call me Katka,” she said.

  “Katka?”

  “What?”

  “No, I mean—you really want me to call you Katka?”

  “That’s why I say it.”

  “Of course! Thank you.”

  She must have seen my puzzlement in the rearview mirror.

  “Is short for Katarina,” she said, “which is maybe too complicated for you. I don’t mean to insult—is just that nicknames are more friendlier, yes?”

  “Absolutely,” I said. “Thank you.”

  “And yours?” she asked.

  “My name is Max, but . . . a few people call me Maxie, if you should ever want to use my nickname.”

  “For sure, Maxie.”

  This is an interesting woman, I thought to myself. And smarter than I expected. I wonder why I didn’t think she was smart . . . just because of that frozen grin on her face, which still hasn’t changed even when she talks pleasantly?

  The East River looked beautiful in the late afternoon sunlight. We didn’t talk very much for most of the trip, but when we passed the UN building I saw her gazing at it with bright eyes.

  “You know Czech Republic?” she asked.

  “Of course,” I said.

  “Is where I’m from,” she said.

  “Oh. Was it Czech you were speaking with your mother?”

  “Eva’s not my mother—she was my father’s mistress. I never saw my mother, but Eva takes care of me like I’m her baby.”

  “And does your father live with you?” I asked.

  “My father is dead five months.”

  “I’m sorry.”

  “He goes to Brooklyn to visit Russian film director friend—my father was beautiful designer for movie posters, Czech films, foreign films, all kinds—and some Russian punks shoot him when he doesn’t give up his wallet.”

  “I’m sorry, Katka.”

  “Me too,” she said.

  Silence for a minute, but I didn’t want to leave things on that sad note.

  “May I ask if that’s your father’s coat you’re wearing?”

  “Yes. You think is too big for me?”

  “Well, it’s just that—”

  She started to laugh. “Of course is too big for me. But I like to wear it—not always, just sometimes—when I’m little nervous. It makes me feel like my Papa is still holding me. You think I’m silly woman?”

  “No, I don’t think so,” I said.

  We approached East Fifty-third Street.

  “We’re almost there, Katka.”

  “Is two more blocks, on left side.”

  When we reached 153 I saw a sign in bold letters that read: Walton Gallery.

  “Is this where you want to go? The gallery?”

  “Yes. Go into parking,” she said.

  As we entered the dark underground parking floor that was next door to the gallery, the parking attendant seemed to know the Oldsmobile, and when he saw Katka he immediately waved and opened her door. They spoke together for a few seconds in what must have been Czech. Then she took off her father’s coat and placed it gently on the backseat.

  Without her father’s coat, I was surprised at what a beautiful figure she had. She was wearing a flowing white skirt and a white blouse that was trimmed with pink around the collar. When she straightened her beret, I could see how pretty her bright red hair was that crept down her forehead.

  “You want to come in, Maxie?” she asked. “They’re going to hang me.”

  “You don’t mean ‘hang you,’ Katka,” I said with a smile, assuming that her English wasn’t quite what she intended.

  “Yes, for sure. They promised. Come, you don’t have to fix your tie—you look nice. You are handsome man, Maxie.”

  I followed her up a small staircase and through a metal door and we walked into the Walton Gallery. A distinguished-looking gentleman came up quickly. He and Katka kissed each other on both cheeks and spoke in Czech. Then she yanked my sleeve to come closer.

  “Karal Straka, this is my friendly Mister Max Baer.”

  We shook hands. “So pleased to meet you, Mr. Baer. And now, Katka—are you ready to see your room?”

  “Yes, please,” she said.

  Mr. Straka led us to a room at the end of the hall.

  “I’ll leave you to be with your work, Katka, and I’ll keep other people out of the room for as long as you wish. I hope you like the way we hung your two beauties.”

  I realized, of course, that she was obviously a painter. She was telling the truth about being hung. The joke was on me.

  “Just open the door and wave to me when you’re done,” Mr. Straka said. When we were inside the room he closed the door.

  I followed Katka, expecting to see some pleasant country scenes, but the two enormous paintings that hung in front of me took my breath away.

  On the left was a painting of a completely naked man lying on a couch, apparently asleep. He was middle-aged, with short, dark hair, almost handsome but not quite. The shadows on his naked body emphasized his small feet, his long penis, his underarm hair, and the slight bags under his eyes.

  To the right was a painting of a completely naked woman.

  She was lying sensuously on a similar couch, facing the man. She had dark brown eyes and was thin, but with enormous breasts. One of her eyes was wide open, looking at the naked man. Both of the paintings had nondescript backgrounds of a soft peach color.

  I kept staring at the paintings and after several seconds tears came to my eyes.

  “So? What you think?” Katka asked.

  I tried to speak, but couldn’t get any words out at first.

  “Not what I expected,” I finally said.

  “Why you are crying? Please tell me.”

  “I went to art school years ago. I wanted to paint. It was the only thing I wanted to do in my life but I wasn’t really very good, even though I tried so hard.”

  “Okay, now I change subjects. You like big breasts?”

  “What do you mean?”

  “This is not difficult question. When you are with women, you like big breasts—like this woman in my painting—or you like small breasts?” she asked.

  “To tell you the truth, Katka . . . I’ve always been a little afraid of women with large breasts.”

  “Afraid they are going to bite you?” she asked.

  “No, I wasn’t afraid of that. But I always felt more comfortable with women who had small breasts.”

  “You mean, like with little woman, like me?” she asked with a lascivious look in her eyes.

  I started laughing and wiped the leftover tears from my eyes. “Well, I haven’t seen your breasts.”

  “Okay, maybe later,” she said. “Right now, I’m hungry. Oh! One more question. Are you married?”

  “Not any more,” I said.

  “Okay, good. I’m still hungry.”

  Katka opened the door and waved. Mr. Straka came walking to her with a bounce in his step.

  “Did we do all right, Katka?” he asked.

  She gave him a kiss on both cheeks again. “Fantastique!” she said. “Now we go eat.”

  We walked out the front door of the gallery and stepped onto the busy sidewalk.

  “Yo
u want to go to dinner?” Katka asked.

  “With you?”

  “No, with the garbage collector. Who you think I’m asking?”

  “Well, don’t get so huffy, Miss Czechoslovakia Nova Scotia. I’m your driver and I wasn’t sure if you wanted to do some shopping, or do something else while I went somewhere to eat.”

  “Hmm. Okay, forget logical. Praga is right around corner. Very good restaurant. You like Czech food?”

  “I’ve never had it.”

  “Good. Take my arm and I don’t push you away this time, and we go to Praga.”

  “Is that short for Prague?”

  “Yes, is a nickname,” she said as she winked at me.

  “Come, we walk all the way to Prague.”

  We were greeted royally when we entered Praga, which was made to look like an old-world Czech restaurant, I assumed, with its soft yellowish lights and shiny mahogany walls. A man who must have been the owner rushed up when he saw Katka and lifted her off the floor. When he set her down they kissed each other on both cheeks.

  “Max—this is owner of my stomach and also this restaurant, Mister Ivo Malek. Ivo—here is my good friend Mister Max Baer, who never in his life has eaten Czech food.”

  Mr. Malek shook my hand vigorously and then showed us to a somewhat private booth. He signaled to a waiter, who actually ran to Katka. They jabbered away in Czech and laughed about something Katka said while they were looking at me. When she introduced me to Ivan he, too, shook my hand vigorously.

  “You like lager beer?” Katka asked.

  “Oh, yes,” I said.

  “Two Krušovice, Ivan.”

  “Of course.” he answered, and, like Mr. Straka in the gallery, he skipped away.

  Katka looked at me with quizzical eyes.

  “How come you don’t ask?”

  “Ask what, Katka?”

  “About my stupid grin.”

  “It’s not my business.”

  “You have ever heard of the Bell’s palsy?”

  “Yes.”

  “I got it frozen onto my face for six months. But my dentist says this stupid grin will go away very soon and I will be beautiful again. What you think?”