by Min Jin Lee
Charles slipped his hands under her panty hose and pulled off her undergarments. He positioned himself squarely above her and lowered himself. “Leah, oh, Leah. My beautiful Leah.. . .”
Leah shut her eyes tight, unable to say a word. She wept, and her jaw trembled. This was her fault. She should not have gone to the restaurant with him alone. He must have known that she found him attractive. That she was in love with him and thought of him at work. He was a man who had been all over the world and known many women. He must have sensed all this, and she couldn’t stop him.
When it was over, her face was wet. Charles dried her tears with his hands.
“There’s no need to cry. You can come home with me. I will take care of you,” he said. “Everything will be all right. I don’t care what people think. And you mustn’t, either. You are an artist. I can get money. You could leave your husband. We could move away. Anything is possible. I must have been waiting all my life for you.” As he said these things, Charles began to believe they were true. It was possible to imagine a future with Leah. He could imagine a happy life with a person like this. She would make an excellent wife for a composer. They could go to his house right now, and he could keep her there. He would make love to her properly on a bed. He didn’t want to wake up alone anymore.
Leah looked at him in horror. What was he saying? She licked her lips because they felt so dry. She wiped her eyes with the backs of her hands. “I have to go home,” she whispered. She pulled up her panties and hose and hooked her brassiere. She reached behind her to zip up her dress, and Charles helped her. He kissed her forehead again. He felt so happy.
“You mustn’t be upset,” he said. “We made love tonight. Yobo, when can I see you again?”
“I—I don’t know,” she said, unable to think.
“Come early on Sunday,” he said. “As early as you can. You can call me any time you like.” She was the purest thing he had ever touched. He loved her. It made sense that she was frightened, but he believed that she loved him, too.
Leah returned to the driver’s seat. Charles stood by the car and stuck his head in the car window to kiss her. At the mouth of the subway station, he waved good-bye.
When Leah got home, Joseph was asleep in bed, and she showered. She soaped her breasts and pubes thoroughly. She wanted to forget what had happened. It would have been a relief if someone shot her dead. When she got into the bed, she lay there and said her prayers. In the backseat while the professor was pushing into her, words had blurred in her head like crazy muffled pleas to God to save her. But in that time, whether it was five minutes or less, she couldn’t say for sure, no one had passed by or come for her.
6 MODEL
HER EYES SHUT, Ella could picture the notes seeping into her body. She wanted to rest her head but feared falling asleep—not because she was bored, but because she felt secure and peaceful sitting here. Ensconced in her dark red seat at Carnegie Hall, she put out of her mind the custody hearings, the letters of character reference required by the court-appointed social worker, and the image of her sharp lawyer, who made her feel naive at best and at worst plain stupid. Ella was also tired. At night, she worried about losing Irene, who’d already started to string words together last month. Her baby’s favorite breakfast this week was steamed rice, chicken fingers, and apples—Irene called food “bop-bop” and milk “oo-yew.” When she was in bed alone, Ella stared at Ted’s old pillow. How could she have missed all the obvious things about Ted? How much did a man change after he married? Was she dumb, or had he concealed his true self? What had she done wrong?
But right now she was on a date, sort of, with David Greene. Since he had broken up with his fiancée less than a month ago, they had gone to dinner twice, seen each other at school, and spoken on the phone almost nightly, but they hadn’t done much besides. He held her hand during dinners, and they always hugged good-bye. He asked her to go to the movies and parties, but after work, Ella preferred to fix Irene’s dinner and give her baths. She didn’t like being out during the week. She’d never brought David to her home. He said he understood. Ella was lousy at saying no, but when it came to Irene, she found it easier to do so. But it was Radu Lupu playing Beethoven, he’d insisted earlier that afternoon. You can’t miss this, he’d said, his blue eyes darkening. “Call the sitter, please, Ella. You must hear him play. And these are such good tickets.”
They were very fine seats. The pianist played sublimely. She and Ted had rarely gone to concerts. He’d preferred films and fancy restaurants. Ted was particular about food. He rarely frequented a restaurant with a Zagat rating below 22. Did Delia know how to cook?
In the past six years of being with Ted, she had forgotten what she preferred. The music that she was listening to now was unquestionably gorgeous. What upset Ella was that she had paid such careful attention to the things that Ted loved (Kurosawa films, Coltrane, lamb curry with naan but not basmati rice, and Relais & Châteaux hotels) and had submitted to all of his preferences. Was that why he’d left? Did he think she was a mindless pushover? Wasn’t that what her lawyer thought of her, too? From the few times Casey had answered Ella’s questions about Delia (Ella had masochistically begged Casey for scraps of Delia’s biography, and Casey had given her the smallest of portions), her husband’s soon-to-be second wife had the features of a pistol, a firecracker, a tinderbox. Explosives came to mind. Ella had failed to be stimulating enough to keep her husband at home. And she had gotten fat. Though she had ultimately lost the weight—every pound of it after Ted moved out. She was as thin as she was in college. There were stretch marks and loose skin across her abdomen, but otherwise she had the body of a slender twenty-five-year-old woman.
The piano music ceased, and the orchestra entered the final movement. Ella had played piano until the eighth grade but had stopped because she didn’t like her piano teacher, who used to put his arm around her and cuddle when she played well. He had smelled strongly of cloves and wore an old cardigan with holes on the elbows. Her father had let her quit without explanation, and she’d ended up taking more tennis lessons. Ella had liked playing the piano, and she used to love to play tennis, which Ted didn’t like as much as golf or skiing. The thought of not having done these things she’d loved made her feel foolish. And it hadn’t done her any good. Her husband had cheated on her, and people found her insipid. Ella felt her tears, and she wiped them away before David could see. It would be too difficult to explain them.
The music was done. The audience rose to their feet to applaud. Ella got up instinctively and clapped as hard as she could. There was a debt owed to a person who gave you beauty and feeling. A few dispersed to the exits, while most clapped thunderously for encores.
After two additional songs, David helped her with her raincoat.
“Dinner?” he suggested. Ella might say yes since Irene was already asleep.
Ella glanced at her watch. She felt terribly alert. “Where do you live, exactly?” she asked. All she knew was that he lived on the Upper West Side.
“Seventy-eighth and West End,” he said with a puzzled smile.
“Can I see where you live? Is it an apartment?” Ella fixed David’s collar and smoothed her hands over his shoulders. The gesture comforted him. “I mean, would that be all right?”
“Yes, of course,” he said. Lately she was difficult to predict. Ella hadn’t even wanted to come to the concert tonight. He’d had to cajole a little, ask her to call the sitter to stay later; he’d told her that she needed to make room in her life for the beautiful things. And now she wanted to see his house.
On the street, Ella wondered herself what had made her do that. David tried to hail a taxi, but there were none free. Let’s take a train, she said, and they took the 1 train to Seventy-ninth and walked. With David, she was allowed to make a suggestion about how to get to places and where to go. It was liberating, but she felt the added responsibility for his happiness. What happened if he didn’t want to do what she wanted? It had yet to happen
, but it would eventually. It was easier in life, then, to just go along.
As they walked to the house, he talked about his students at the prison. They wanted to publish their poems but feared their ideas might be stolen. David didn’t make fun of them, she noticed. “They shouldn’t be so suspicious, but isn’t it marvelous in a way that they’re proud of their creative ideas?” he asked. “That they think of what they made up as something subjectively and objectively valuable? They believe that their poems are good enough to steal.” Ella nodded, thinking this was right. What was valuable in her life? If Ted took Irene away, she’d have nothing.
“Are you all right?” David asked.
“Yes,” she said. It was unfair to think only about her divorce all the time. “David, your work is amazing. You’re making people believe in themselves. You do that for me, too,” she said. “Your friendship means so much to me.”
David squeezed her hand. “You mean a lot to me.”
The house was an orange brick town house in a style Ella couldn’t properly name—an arched entryway, a dark-paneled door resembling a chocolate bar, and a sloping roof. Its facade was attractive and evidenced its good maintenance. When David opened the door, Ella was a little taken aback by what she saw.
The living room was beautiful, with old rugs on the floor, a high wall full of books, and heavy mahogany furniture from his family. Paintings that looked like Wyeths hung on the walls.
“Would you like a drink?” he asked, and she said no. “Hungry?” He offered to order dinner from a pizzeria down the street. “I usually have cereal for dinner or a sandwich.”
Ella shook her head no again. “I want to see the rest of the house,” she said. “It’s lovely.”
“Okay.” David was famished. Or at least he had been at the concert. Now, all he could think about was how to touch Ella, but he was afraid. Under normal circumstances, not that this had happened to him so many times, but if another woman had asked to come over to his house, he might have said no unless he was ready to sleep with her; but when Ella asked, he didn’t think it was because she wanted to have sex. There might have been something else, but he didn’t know what exactly. But now that she was here, he wanted to touch her, to be close to her.
“I have a record of his.”
“Who?” Ella glanced at the sofa. She’d been brazen enough to ask to see his house but felt that she needed his permission to sit down.
“Radu Lupu,” he said. “The pianist. From tonight.”
“Where’s he from?”
“Romania, I think.”
Ella shifted her weight slightly from one foot to the other. Feeling increasingly awkward, she finally sat down.
“I’m glad you’re here,” he said. “It hadn’t occurred to me to invite you—”
“I’m sorry.” She interrupted him, feeling even more self-conscious. “It was rude. I think I wanted to know how you lived. What you’re like outside of where we usually are. I wanted to see your house. I thought—I don’t know what I thought.” Ella opened her eyes wide, then closed them for a few moments. “Oh, good grief.”
“No, no,” he protested, smiling at her. It was a good sign, wasn’t it? She wanted to know him better. Ever since his confession the day she’d returned from the lawyer’s office, he’d been thinking about how things would be between them. He’d hesitated to bring it up. “You don’t understand. I’m so glad you’re here. Do you want to listen?” he asked.
“Hmm?”
“The record.”
“Oh, sure. Yes. I’d love that.”
David put the compact disc in the player. It felt good to have something to keep his hands busy.
“Okay, now I’ll give you the rest of the tour,” he said after adjusting the volume. They went downstairs, and David showed her the kitchen and dining room on the ground floor. There was a small garden outside that needed tending.
He pointed to the staircase and gestured for her to climb ahead of him. On the second floor, there were two large rooms: a guest room and the other, a kind of music room with a large piano and a cello. Two music stands faced each other as if in conversation. Ella sat on the piano bench and placed her hands on the keys. The song she remembered was “Clair de Lune” by Debussy. It had been a difficult piece for her, requiring a lot of practice. She began to play, stumbling in places, but she kept at it, and even in her awkward playing, she felt moved by its sentiment and loveliness. She remembered having to miss The Brady Bunch in order to practice her lessons, and her favorite had been Jan, the middle girl with the straight blond hair. She had wanted five siblings, too. Why hadn’t her father remarried? She might have had a family, something beyond the life she had tried so hard to create for her father by herself.
“When did you learn that?” he asked.
“A long time ago. I’m full of surprises today.” Ella stopped playing and touched her brow. “If I’d known that I’d be playing for you today, I would have practiced more as a girl.”
“You play very well,” he said. Ella had more feeling in her piano playing than in her words, he thought. She was more careful with the way she said things.
“No, I’m not good. But you know, I enjoyed that. Maybe I’ll try to learn again. Irene and I’ll take lessons together.”
David sat behind his cello and played something she didn’t recognize.
“What is that?”
“Debussy, too. Sonata in D minor,” he said. “I only played a little of the beginning.”
Ella smiled at him. “I never knew.”
“I never told,” he said, moving his bow away from the strings dramatically. “Okay, only one more flight, unless you want the attic tour to check out my air-conditioning system. But after, I am ordering a large pizza unless you disagree,” he said. “Or we could go out and eat something.”
Ella didn’t reply but followed him up the stairs.
They stood together on the patch of the third-floor landing, and Ella hesitated from entering the rooms, and he didn’t move, either. There were three bedrooms: one was the master—large, but almost empty of furniture except for a full-size bed and a single nightstand piled high with books. Another bedroom had been converted into a study. And the third bedroom was another guest room. In the corner window, there were a dozen jade plants in different-size pots.
“They’re all jades,” she exclaimed. “I have some, too.”
“They all came from the same mother,” he said proudly.
Ella studied the plants again. There was so much you learned from visiting a person’s house.
“It’s such a big house. And you take care of it so well.” Her own home was also large. That had been very important to Ted. For two people in Manhattan who worked in schools and earned modest salaries, their luxurious housing made no sense. Her own house was paid for by Ted and her father, but now she knew that David must have had family money, too, or investments.
“Did your fiancée live. . . here?”
“My ex-fiancée,” he corrected her.
“Sorry.”
“No. She never lived here. That hadn’t occurred to me. I’m a nice Catholic boy.”
“Oh? It hadn’t occurred to you?” Ella said, smiling.
“I’m nice, but I’m not a priest,” he said, clearing his throat. He wanted to kiss her. Ella’s mouth looked like a small red fruit.
“No, that’s not what I meant,” she said, her voice faltering. She’d been talking about cohabitation, and he was talking about sex, but she wasn’t really talking about that. Was she? They still hadn’t left the stairwell. They were both frightened by the idea of sex, but he was trying to say that he thought of her that way. And she was now thinking of how it would be to have sex with David. Then she remembered the herpes and how she had never told him, and perhaps he might never wish to be with her, and how she would, of course, understand.
“I have herpes,” she said. Just like that.
“Pardon?”
“Ted. He gave me herpes when he slep
t with Delia. He told me recently that she didn’t have it, but somehow we both do. And if I slept with you, and I had an outbreak, then you might get it. I read a few books about it since. I found out when I was pregnant with Irene. You wouldn’t necessarily get it, but you could, and, and. . . I’m not saying that you want to sleep with me. But since I am being nothing if not presumptuous today, I might as well just say it, because I may never have the nerve again— Oh God.” Ella turned around and walked downstairs.
“Wait. Wait. Come back.”
Ella turned around.
“Come back, please. Sit with me.”
Ella sat on a step. David sat beside her.
“I do want to sleep with you. I want very much to make love to you.”
“Herpes,” she said, and when she said it again, she didn’t know what he thought, because she couldn’t even look at his face when she said it. But hearing it from her own lips made it feel less awful. It didn’t sound like the plague, which was how she’d felt when the doctor had told her. Reading the books, having Irene be born fine, and David not looking horrified—it wasn’t the end, she realized. It was a disease, but it wasn’t as if she were going to die, and if he didn’t want to be with her anymore, then she would understand. It wouldn’t be love. Didn’t you go through anything for love? Maybe no one would ever want her.
“Does it hurt?” he asked.
“Not anymore. The first time, it was uncomfortable, but it didn’t hurt. And I don’t really have outbreaks anymore. I often forget that I have it. And if I don’t have an outbreak, then you can’t get it. But if I do get an outbreak, and if we”—Ella paused—“made love then, it’s possible.”
“So you don’t feel any pain because of the herpes?” he asked.
“No. It’s like a dormant virus that I can’t get rid of.” How could she explain that she felt contaminated? “I just feel like. . . there’s something gross about me.”
“You mustn’t feel that way. I’m sorry.” David frowned. “You must know that I don’t feel that way about you. I could punch Ted for doing this to you, but I’m glad he did what he ultimately did. I should thank him, really.”
