“It may interest you to know that farmers pay money for them.”
“Are you planning to supplement your allowance? Look, I don’t care how useful or how beautiful they are.” Amalie draws Stewart’s robe around her and stalks out of his room, slamming the door.
He opens the door. “This happens to be my house too.”
“No, you live here. I pay the rent.” The bottom line. She never imagined she’d stoop so low. “We observe certain minimal hygienic standards in this apartment. If you don’t like them, you’re free to leave.” As soon as the words are out she regrets them. Never, never reject your child has been graven in her mind since infancy, usually in the form of an academic lecture. Now she has scarred her son for life. Add another five years to his analysis. Suppose he takes her literally and decides to leave? “What I mean, Charlie—” giving in as usual. Motherhood is a totally impossible occupation. But now he’s slammed the door.
Amalie loosens the belt of the mangy robe. Don’t stifle me, Stewart, she thinks, knowing he would handle this differently. And she would have let him. She would have deferred as she so often did. Stewart made all the important decisions. He even wanted to be consulted in the matter of buying household items. The damn can opener! They almost had a screaming fight over the one she brought home without checking with him first. But she’d been so happy as Stewart’s wife. Loved, coddled, protected. Stewart saying, “I’ll take care of it” and “Leave it to me.” Music to her ears, the harmony of the universe as Charlie would say. Avoiding argument if possible, peace at any price. If she had doubts about their bank accounts or insurances or spending for vacations, all she had to hear were Stewart’s magic words: “That’s my job…don’t worry about a thing.”
How could I be so—quiescent? Amalie asks herself. Charlie wasn’t the only one who sat at Stewart’s feet. But the truth is that if you do sit at someone’s feet, you’re liable to be stepped on. She is suddenly frightened at what she sees. Was she ever truly a whole person or just an outline, waiting to be filled out by the man she married? The image repels her. She needs to get away from it, away from herself.
She presses her forehead to the grimy kitchen window through which, a few weeks earlier, she caught a glimpse of a masturbating man. Demolish the building, she thinks. It isn’t worth saving. The wrecker will arrive and the site will morph into a red brick co-op with a health club on the roof and faux palms in the lobby. But who cares? If cancer doesn’t get me, someone in Washington will, just by pushing a button. And if that happens, I won’t be able to protect my kid.
I should have been driving the car, not Stewart. Then he could have been the one to worry now. And maybe I would have given him something to worry about, like a man’s denim shirt in the front seat. So what about that chiffon scarf, Stewart? I thought you were allergic to perfume. Oh you bastard. Amalie begins to cry. Didn’t we have a pact about other people? No, we agreed it wasn’t necessary. The only condition we set was that we would die in each other’s arms at the age of eighty. Stewart had broken their pact.
Charlie missed his father. He wouldn’t miss her in the slightest. Wallow, wallow…Who do you think you are, Sylvia Plath? Are you going to set out milk for your kid as she did before ending her life? Let’s try drafting a suicide note as an exercise. The thought cheers her up and she dries her eyes. “Dear Charlie, It’s not your fault.” What else? “Defrost the refrigerator on Thursday and call the lawyer—under ‘L’ in my address book.” Amalie reads it critically. It needs more. “P.S. I love you. But nothing seems to be working for me now.” Including this note, she thinks, crumpling it up and aiming for the basket, which she misses.
She has an urge to get some air, talk to a friend. She dials. “Julie—? Evan? Oh my God, I meant to dial someone else. I hope I didn’t wake you.”
Evan is delighted. “Must be telepathy. I was just thinking about you. Are you doing anything now?”
Just contemplating jumping off the George Washington Bridge. “Actually no. Funny you should ask.” She was feeling reckless. In need of diversion and—yes, comfort.
“I hate having brunch alone,” Evan said. “Take a walk over. I’ve got good stuff from Zabar’s. No dress code.”
Amalie laughed. Just what she needed. See, Julie? I’m following your advice.
Evan’s apartment was one of those palatial spaces reserved for tenured faculty at Columbia, and faced Riverside Drive. She hadn’t been there since his divorce. It looked as though most of the furniture had gone, along with his wife. There was loud music by Piazzola playing on the stereo. Evan greeted her wearing an impressive apron and wielding a mammoth tool more suitable for an outdoor barbecue than for spearing the smoked fish laid out on the table. “Great music isn’t it?” he said. Makes you want to tango.”
“Let’s do it, damn it!” Amalie said boldly. She allowed herself to be encircled and held. God, that felt good.
They began a slow tango. Just as she suspected. He was a marvelous dancer. He drew her closer and began to breathe more quickly.
“I read somewhere that it’s not good to tango on an empty stomach,” Amalie said. This was going too fast. “Is that plain tomato juice or is there vodka in it?” She slithered out of his grasp and drank down half the glass. “Wow! You should have stopped me. I love this kind of food. Oh Evan, don’t look at me like that. You did invite me for brunch.”
He laughed and sat down opposite her. “For a skinny girl you can sure pack it in.”
“First of all don’t call me a girl…”
He smiled and began to tell her about his share in a Fire Island house and then about a trip he was contemplating to Chichen Itza. He didn’t ask how she was, so she decided not to say anything about chasing after Charlie last night and all the agony she went through.
Then he surprised her by asking where she would move to when her building was demolished.
“Oh but I sent in papers to reassess the situation. Nothing’s certain yet.”
He laughed. “I know, you told me. But those papers have a way of disappearing in the bureaucracy. I wouldn’t count on any follow-up.”
“We’ll see,” she said stubbornly.
Her head was buzzing. It wasn’t like her to drink in the middle of the day. Evan certainly looked good in that gauzy open-necked shirt.
He put on some fado music, Amalia Rodriguez, unbelievably soulful. “This is for us,” he said and pulled her up.
The couch they tumbled onto was enormous, something out of a Freudian consulting room, with a heavy tapestry back and cushions. It reminded her of a couch in the office of a Viennese internist she’d seen many years earlier for a vaginal infection. He’d called her vagina, “your flower” and gave her sulfa pills.
“I still know how to do this,” Amalie thought, amazed at how quickly she was out of her clothes. It was great to be looking at the Hudson River at the same time. But she wanted to get up and turn down the music and also to lower the shades just a bit. With Stewart she always had to control the environment when they made love, part of her always wondering if it was too warm or too cold in the room, too bright, too dark. She tried not to let Evan see that she was distracted. Let go, let go, she told herself. Don’t think about Stewart.
She sighed and murmured and caressed this new body over her, under her, top and bottom. How different yet familiar. And how lovely. A man.
After a while she stretched and extricated herself.
“You know how long I’ve wanted to do this?” Evan asked, watching her dress.
Suddenly Amalie remembered the note she had written, the suicide note. Had she picked it up after missing the wastebasket or was it still lying on the kitchen floor where Charlie might find it? No, it was against his religion to pick up something from the floor. But what if, just this once—
In a panic she seized the phone. “Sorry, Evan, I just remem-bered—”
The phone rang and rang at the other end. Finally a sleepy grunt.
“It’s me, sweetie. Lis
ten, did you go into the kitchen yet?”
“I’m sleeping. What time is it?”
“One-twenty pm.”
“Where are you?” he asked with huge yawn.
“Uptown. Never mind. If you go into the kitchen, don’t pick up anything from the floor.”
“What are you talking about?
“Nothing.” A narrow escape. “Go back to sleep.”
“I’m tired…Mom? Please get some chopped meat for them, for my praying mantises.”
“You mean they won’t eat tofu?”
“Please…”
“What was that all about?” Evan looked amused.
“You wouldn’t understand. But you’re sweet. Thanks for brunch.” Amalie kissed him hastily.
“Hey!” He grabbed her arm. “My mother always said it wasn’t polite to eat and run. When can I see you?”
“I’ll call you.” Amalie ran out of the apartment.
She took a taxi home, stopping first at her local supermarket. The note was where she left it and Charlie was asleep again.
Amalie smiled. Sleep my child. Little do you know where your mother has been and how she has been disporting herself.
Chapter 6
Marshall Berger feels good when he dresses in white. That Hong Kong suit has done wonders for him. His beard makes him look distinguished. Bibliographers lie down for him. The head of acquisitions at Penn State couldn’t keep her hands off him. The chief of Colgate’s collection development had to be thrown out of his motel room at the last convention.
White was Gandhi’s color and Gandhi is Marshall’s hero. White is the color of leadership and Marshall considers himself the shepherd of these sheep at the company, especially now that Warwick is at death’s door. From time to time they need to be prodded gently to keep them in line. Many of them owe him something but he never reminds them. When he springs the news of the company’s relocation to Vermont at Thursday’s staff meeting, he can bet that many will want to follow him even though it might be a hardship for some. In six months, this office will be history. Ed already knows about it. In fact he contributed to the whole notion.
Marshall had been complaining about the burdens of being an employer. It wasn’t easy to reconcile a socialist upbringing with being a boss. “So turn the place into a cooperative,” Ed said. “An employee-owned company, share the wealth.” He was sitting in Marshall’s office, both men had their feet up on the desk. Like in the old days when they were buddies. “You’re such a hot one on democracy and consensus—in theory anyway.”
Marshall was insulted. “What do you mean, ‘in theory’? Don’t we have staff meetings? Don’t I consult on decisions?”
“Sure.” Ed laughed. “Would the staff prefer red or blue tiles behind the water cooler.” He wasn’t very vehement. Marshall knew that as long as he kept Hannelore out of the editorial office, there wouldn’t be any serious trouble.
Marshall is a little afraid of Hannelore. She mustn’t catch on that he’s interested in Amalie. He can’t afford to antagonize her to the extent that she’ll leave the company, especially at this time of transition. He thinks he keeps her happy. It doesn’t take much: an apartment, a car, new colored pens and fancy vinyl folders, and a good screw once a week. Hannelore is one of those women who feel sex is a duty. She lies there, closes her eyes and thinks, not of England as Queen Victoria counseled her daughter, but maybe of Kaiser Wilhelm, Victoria’s cousin. “What would your father say if he knew you were sleeping with a Jew?” he likes to ask.
“I don’t care. He is dead.”
If this is how Hannelore wants to atone for her father’s sins, Marshall thinks, it’s okay with me. Her ruthlessness toward the employees sometimes alarms him. But he leaves the dirty work to her, his hands are clean. He did reject her suggestion that they install a time clock. Hannelore is better than a time clock because she doesn’t break down. Her biggest complaint is that the staff has no loyalty. But for Marshall, loyalty is as nothing compared to credentials. He grew up in a household that revered achievement, with little distinction made between famous comedians and Pulitzer Prize winners.
Marshall reveres anyone with an advanced degree, like Ed. He was gratified when Ed thought his idea was brilliant—the transformation of the company into something resembling an ideal community, like Brook Farm or New Harmony. Beautiful, Ed said. He’d write the mission statement. You had to have one. He knew the site in Vermont. Even if his wife balked, Ed assured Marshall, he would pack up and go. In fact for them a commuter marriage might work better than the present arrangement.
What a great staff I have, Marshall thought. Irina was married to a former Hungarian Freedom Fighter, the book–keeper was related to the hippie student leader who was now a Wall Street broker. He was a little worried about Frank McCullough’s buying spree for new equipment but didn’t want to interfere. The man supposedly knew everything there was to know about cameras and printers.
Amalie’s résumé had knocked him off his feet. There was something sexy about those Greek letters, Phi Beta Kappa. They evoked Greece itself. The Aegean Sea, whitewashed houses, gauzy robes. Sinking down into a flokati rug…
Marshall loosens his tie. What is it about that Amalie? He’d like to pour his heart out to her. He doesn’t really have anyone. When he and his ex-wife speak by phone, they discuss his daughter’s teeth and summer camps.
It occurs to him that Amalie is the kind of woman he’d like to go camping with. It’s crazy but that’s what comes to mind even though he hasn’t gone on a camping trip in ten years. She’s the sort of woman who seems to know what you’re thinking. Why is he so sure of this? She reminds him of rest, calm. And he needs them badly. An oasis. Preferably female. He’s nostalgic for the time they could have spent together when they were younger. She seems to shun attention. Maybe she was in love with her husband. What a concept, he thinks. It’s not true that men in their forties are after young chicks. He’s always admired maturity in women, starting with his first piano teacher. He sighs. Ah, those arpeggios. But then his father walked in on them. Molto doloroso. The old man was probably jealous.
Marshall is hoping Amalie will relocate with the firm. She did say her building was slated for demolition.
#
Najeed drops something on Amalie’s desk and gives her a shy smile. She is the person who does the lowliest work at the office. Iraqi, divorced, she speaks a halting English though she has a university degree. Her daughter, whom she sees twice a year, lives with her husband in Caracas. Najeed has just returned from one of her trips there. She speaks in whispers and tiptoes around the office. She is Hannelore’s slave. It’s not unusual to find her asleep on the couch at 8:30 on a weekday morning after a night of stuffing envelopes, unless Frank has spent the night which he has been known to do since his wife threw him out. In return for Najeed’s obedience, Hannelore doles out small favors like taking her to Bergdorf’s on a Saturday. Sometimes she gives Najeed her old dresses from Saks. She is the shadow in the doorway, darting out from behind a file cabinet, slipping out of the way, effacing herself. This could happen to me, Amalie thinks. My English is better, that’s all. I’ve got to figure out my life—or “trajectory” as Daddy would say.
“Najeed’s brother disappeared a few months ago,” Ed says, as he passes Amalie’s desk. “Because of his politics.” He’s noticed Amalie’s interest in the other woman. “Say, why don’t we have a bite together if you’re free?”
Amalie is delighted at the idea and begins to get up.
“I’ll meet you at the deli in twenty minutes.”
Now why can’t we just walk out of the office together at lunchtime, like normal people? Amalie wonders. She sweeps the papers on her desk to one side and puts her head in her hands, just as Hannelore appears next to her.
“I wish I had time to chitchat,” she says. “Don’t you have the rest of the classifying to do? If you don’t apply for CIP, we don’t get the LC number and it all must go to MARC when the subscription expires
. Then what happens to the ABI’s, did you ever think of that?” Like Amalie’s father who has a fondness for words ending in t-i-o-n, Hannelore is enamored of initials. And when she seizes on a project her mind seems to encompass every possible ramification, past, present, and future. She is like the people in Herman Hesse’s book, Magister Ludi, in which there is a cosmic game, the Bead Game, an attempt to control life and all its possibilities. “We are terribly behind,” she continues. “The Library of Congress is waiting for us.”
“Surely they’ll find something to do in the meantime,” Amalie says, watching Hannelore rush down the hall as though to her rendezvous with that august institution.
This is not what I want to be doing with my life, Amalie thinks. I have to think about a better job, none of this low-level stuff. I’m smart. I know how to organize, how to delegate, I can manage people. It’s common sense. Use this as useful experience, pad the résumé a little. Make a timetable. And shouldn’t I be doing something to help mankind?
Amalie isn’t totally impervious to Stewart’s ideals. But at this rate, she’s going to get old without having done anything useful. It’s wrong to expect Charlie to carry on for her.
Her guilt is something she sees in very concrete visual terms, an insistent image she could paint if she knew how to paint. It’s like a heavy train dragging along behind her, composed of remnants in different shapes, weights, colors. A diaphanous one for future derelictions; ragged shreds for never having suffered from war, concentration camps, poverty. A reversible silk patch with stripes for having been happily married. Stripes for self-flagellation. Then the little squares suitable for patchwork guilt: punishment for reading a book in the middle of the afternoon, or slinking into a matinee. The one sturdy piece, hound’s tooth, not sharp and not very large, is lust for other men.
#
Amalie in Orbit Page 7
