“Sorry,” Claire smiled not too apologetically, “he’s very protective.”
“Good thing he is! This isn’t the safest place in the world anymore.” The man stared intently into the foliage. He, too, wore those trendy pastel togs.
Claire nodded sympathetically. What was that accent? “Czech?” she asked.
“Pardon?”
“Are you Czech?”
“Ah! No. Close, though. Polish.”
“Really!”
“You have a good ear. And you are … wait … let me guess … German?”
“I’m American, but I did live there for years.”
“Ah!” He was sweating, wiping his hands on a snow white handkerchief. “And now?”
“Right past Park Lane South. Directly on the wrong side of the tracks.”
He laughed and then frowned. “The Jamaica Avenue el?”
“No,” she rushed to assure him, reminding herself distressingly of Carmela, “—the other one. The trestle. The Long Island freight.”
“Oh, yes. That’s still very pretty there. Quaint.”
“Mmm. Lots of pigeons, though.”
“It’s lovely in here now, isn’t it? I like it so much better than Central Park. It’s really a virgin wood, isn’t it?”
“Yes.”
“And there are stables,” he went on. “The horses are all nags, of course, but it’s great fun all the same. Do you ride?”
“Not lately.” Even the nags cost twenty bucks an hour.
“Do you jog every day? I’ve never seen you before.”
“You’ve caught us on our first day out, hasn’t he, your honor?”
The Mayor didn’t bother to look up. The idiot reeked of patchouli.
“What’s your name? May I ask you that?”
“Claire Breslinsky. And yours?”
“Stefan. Stefan Stefanovitch. I’m living just off the park myself.” He fell into step with them. “I’m sorry. Do you mind if I walk with you for a bit? I’m all in. Why do you laugh?”
“I’m just thinking of my sister. She’d kill me if she knew I was talking to a perfect stranger in the woods.”
“The proverbial protective older sister—”
“No, younger. But she’s a police officer.”
“And you? I don’t expect that you are anything as … uh … rudimentary as a police officer.”
“That’s a very condescending way to put it and you obviously don’t know a thing about the complexities of the New York Police Department, but, no. I’m a photographer.”
Stefan Stefanovitch had broad, narrow lips. They broke into a wide grin. “I knew it! I knew you were an artist, the minute I saw you!”
“Eee, I hate that word. I just bungle away with my camera, really. I don’t create as much as point and hope for the best. How about you?”
“Diplomatic corps. In town. Over at the UN.”
“That sounds like something to do.”
“Not really. It’s frightfully boring. Listening to dreary speeches all day long and suffering through endless stuffy cocktail parties at night. Being a photographer sounds like much more fun.”
Without looking at him, Claire silently agreed.
“What sort of photography do you go in for?”
“You mean who do I like? Oh, Mary Ellen Mark. Diane Arbus.”
“Arbus?” He scratched his head. “Wasn’t it she who said, ‘Nothing is ever the same as they said it was. It’s what I’ve never seen before that I recognize’?”
Claire whirled around. “Word for word!”
“I saw her work in London, years ago. When I was up at Oxford. Platonism, wouldn’t you say?”
“More like metaphysical idealism,” she argued, pleased. “Well. Here’s where I turn off.”
They both hesitated.
“Nice having met you,” she said.
“Yes. Awfully. Will you run tomorrow?”
Claire stopped. “Gee, I don’t know. Let’s see how my legs feel after today. Maybe I’ll be covered with Ben Gay. I’m not particularly sporty.”
“Wait, I have an idea. I’m having a mob at my place tomorrow night. Perhaps you’d like to come?”
“Oh, I don’t—”
“You could bring your sister,” he fumbled through his pocket, “—the policelady. I have nothing to write my address down on but you could find it easily enough. It’s the first house on Park Lane South with a tile roof. The only one between Mayfair and Grosvenor that faces the street. You can’t miss it. Eight o’clock. Dress however you want.”
“I don’t know. I—”
“Don’t say no!” he insisted, taking her hand in his own slender one and kissing it. He was already off. “See you then!” he cried.
The Mayor looked at Claire. Oh, yuck, was she smiling? Could she like that hideous man? Of course, she wouldn’t go to his stupid party. Preoccupied, they picked their way through the overgrown roadway entrance and didn’t notice the unmarked car in the bush. Johnny Benedetto slumped down in the seat and urgently folded one more stick of Doublemint into his mouth.
CHAPTER 5
“Come on!” Zinnie hollered down the cellar stairs. “If we’re going to this dumb party, let’s go!”
“All right, all right,” Claire muttered to herself. “Be right there,” she yelled from the fuzzy red interior of the makeshift darkroom. “Just finishing!” She scanned the last sheet of black and white as it materialized. Oh boy. Beauties. Real beauties. She inspected them with her loop. The foliage of the woods blended with the Yiddish faces and then, pop! you saw them … camouflaged but distinct all over each picture: oval, ancient portraits like gnarls in the trees.
“Clay-er!! Come on!” Zinnie’s irritated voice bellowed. “It’s eight a’fucking clock! Are we going or not?!”
Claire hung the last sheet up on a wire over her head, rinsed her hands, and switched on the light. She’d go over the last ones later. With one last wistful look, she left the darkroom and climbed the stairs. Zinnie was sitting at the top, Carmela was slouched along the wall.
Zinnie pursed her lips. “I told her she couldn’t come.”
“Of course she can come,” Claire smiled, her heart sinking.
“I don’t care. I mean, if it’s a private party or something just say so and I’ll stay home.”
Claire looked at the two of them. Zinnie was thoroughly annoyed, the way she always was if Carmela was involved. Carmela’s cheeks were two bright patches of insulted apprehension. She was all decked out. The funny thing about Carmela was, as meticulous as she was in her dress, the room she left behind looked as though an army helicopter had flown through. It was always the same: the better she looked, the filthier her room. What state it was in now Claire could only imagine, because Carmela looked terrific.
“Oh, come on,” Claire laughed. “If he doesn’t want all three of us he can—”
“Ought to be glad to have three extra women,” Carmela pushed the screen door open with a burst.
“That’s right,” Claire didn’t hesitate. The minute you made Carmela feel you didn’t want her around, she’d stick like glue. It was some perverse insecurity that made her that way—who knew why? Claire had left Freud back in Germany where she hoped he’d do her Teutonic folk some good.
Zinnie, taking stock, decided to let it drop. “Lock the door,” she hissed. “Shall I take my car?”
“Oh, let’s walk,” Carmela said. “Then we can all drink.”
Claire stood still. The Mayor watched her with those heartbreaking liquid eyes. Her parents had taken Michaelaen to McDonald’s and then on to Crossbay Playland for a treat, so there was no one around to see.
“Oops,” Claire said. “He just slipped out.”
“Claire!” Carmela crowed. “He’ll get another ticket!”
“No, he won’t,” Zinnie said. “Who are they gonna give it to? Him?”
“And who’s going to pay if they follow him home?”
“Shut up. I’d like to see one of them
follow him home. They’d be worn out.”
“Wait till Mom finds out—”
“Who’s gonna tell her, miss goody two tits, you?”
The three of them watched as the Mayor headed off in the direction of Lefferts Boulevard. He looked once over his shoulder, furtively, then skedaddled fast as he could away from them. There was no stopping him now.
They climbed the hill with the same suspicious optimism with which all women over twenty-five start out for parties. Zinnie was in a good mood. Carmela too, for once. She’d always wanted to get in with the diplomatic set. This was as good a chance as any, even if the opportunity had presented itself through Claire. As for Claire, she was thinking about those pictures she’d left down in the cellar. Something about them … like a word on the tip of your tongue …
It was pleasant along Park Lane South. The houses changed to villas and the sun was pink above the woods. That meant good weather for tomorrow as well.
“Why didn’t you wear my sundress, Claire?” Carmela asked, looking her up and down with disapproving eyes. “Aren’t you hot? You know you could have borrowed it.”
“I’m fine,” Claire smiled, hot. She was glad she hadn’t worn the lavender sundress. She almost had. She’d stared at it on its hanger and held its skirt up to her cheek. It had had the same feel to it as a shawl she’d had once, and as she’d stood there in Carmela’s closet she’d remembered that shawl whipping around her in the breeze and how she’d walked happily, innocently through the forest outside Rishikesh and how it was so fine that she’d kept right on walking, past the sunlit temple and the perfect mossy fields. She’d relived the shock of seeing the back of her lover’s neck as she’d turned from the shelter of the trees, recognizing that neck first, his back to her, his face to the lovely young Indian girl. He’d put out his arm to capture a strand of the girl’s windy hair that covered her eyes and he’d anchored it kindly to her small, seashell ear. Claire had walked up to them, smiling brightly, consciously oblivious to their sudden discomfort, pretending (for whom?) that nothing had happened.
And she’d walked away from the lavender dress. She believed in the vibrations of clothes. She had things, beautiful things that suited her, that she would never wear because of something that had happened to her while she’d had it on. Such as a woman in the store not approving of her while she’d tried something on and she, thinking nothing, buying the item anyway. Those feelings were recorded forever in the fiber of the fabric, and Claire would relive that dislike every time she put it on. No. She was glad she hadn’t worn that beautiful dress.
They walked and walked.
“Where is this place?” Carmela demanded finally. “My feet are killing me.”
“Serves you right for wearing my shoes,” said Zinnie.
“Your feet were always bigger than mine! When did your feet get smaller?”
“Probably when you put on all that weight.”
“What weight?”
“Let’s not talk about weight tonight,” pleaded Claire, who had camouflaged her figure very nicely beneath a powder blue Afghani sheath. “Let’s have a good time, all right? This is it.”
“This?!” Carmela dropped her purse.
“Who is this guy, Claire?” Zinnie gave a low whistle, “—a king?”
“Don’t be silly. He’s a diplomat. It’s not his.”
“It wasn’t Marcos’s either,” Carmela checked her nose inside her compact. “What’s the matter, Zin? You’d rather have the acreage in the back of the house? You don’t like money? You think if money could buy happiness Franco Bolla would have his teeth fixed?”
“I wish I’d worn something else.”
“You just miss your gun.”
“I’ve got my gun.”
“You look adorable,” Claire said.
“I don’t.”
“You do.”
They tripped up the cobblestone path that led to the side of the villa. There were yellow-and-white-striped tents set up along the yard, well hidden from the street by tall privet hedging. Lanterns twinkled, as early as it was, and groups of people stood chatting here and there, sipping what appeared to be champagne.
“I thought Poland was communist,” said Zinnie.
“Don’t we pay for diplomatic housing?” Carmela ruminated on a thoroughly new sort of column. A political column.
“I think so,” said Claire.
“If I drink too much,” Carmela said, “don’t bother to carry me home.”
“No, we won’t, dear. You stay right here and check out our good tax dollars. Da?”
“They’re so damn operatic looking,” Zinnie complained. “Oh, hell, Carmela, what are you doing putting on gloves?”
At that moment, Stefan spotted Claire. Silkily, he glided across the tilted lawn. “Don’t tell me!” he stretched out his dinner-jacketted arm, “—not one policelady, but two!”
“Wadja, tell ’im I’m a cop?” Zinnie glared at Claire.
“No, this one is a writer. This is Carmela and this is Zinnie. I hope you don’t mind my bringing the whole family.”
“Mind?” Of course Stefan didn’t mind. Three beautiful sisters were an asset to any party, weren’t they? They all agreed they were. Stefan guided them over to the canopy and settled them each with a glass of champagne.
“He looks like a sun-bleached Count Dracula,” Zinnie whispered in her ear.
Carmela fluttered her eyelashes at Stefan. “One thing that women forget nowadays to do,” Claire remembered reading in one of Carmela’s articles, “is flutter their lashes.”
“I’ve always been dying to see the inside of this house,” Carmela was telling Stefan. “Can you believe that I’ve lived practically around the corner most of my life and I’ve never been inside! Do you collect anyone in particular?” She steered him away.
Claire felt the wine whiz right to her head. “Count Dracula seems to have found his bat.”
“Oh, he’ll be back,” Zinnie poked her between the shoulder blades. “Men like that want a little hard to get. You don’t think he doesn’t have women throwing themselves at him all day long? Anyway, who cares? He’s no big deal. Debonair. Tall. Witty. Rich. I’m so glad Freddy’s not here. He’d fall in love with him.”
“Stop worrying about Freddy. He’d want you to have some fun.”
“No, he wouldn’t.”
“All the more reason, then.”
“Jesus. Catch that old broad. Are those chandeliers or earrings? Everybody’s so rich!”
“And boring, I bet.”
“Yeah, well. You can’t have everything.” Zinnie looked about her apprehensively … eagerly. As though she’d found herself out on the tip of the high board and wasn’t so sure which course to take. She is so pure, thought Claire. No longer innocent, but pure.
There was a band of musicians in tuxedos circuiting the lawn. Claire finished her drink and when the waiter passed she took another.
“Look at this,” Zinnie sniggered in her ear, “a croquet mallet.”
Sure enough, there were half hoops and mallets sprawled across the lawn on the other side of the house.
“What bliss,” said Claire. “Bygone fragments of a more gentle era.”
Zinnie pirouetted across the grass and picked up a mallet. She swung it crazily around her head. “Game?”
“C’mon, Zinnie,” Claire looked around uncomfortably. “Cut it out.”
“Why? Don’t you want to play? You’ve been talking about getting some exercise. Let’s see a little action here.” She kicked off her shoes and held the splintered mallet in a batter’s stance. “Look. There’s a ball.”
“I can’t take you anywhere,” Claire griped jokingly. But she meant it. You never knew what Zinnie would do. She got so desperate and arbitrary sometimes. “I forget how to play,” she grinned unhappily.
Zinnie proceeded to line up the hoops. “This can be home base,” she dropped her curly blond head and nudged it at the first stepping stone. It was bordered in chamomile.
“You can’t use a slate for base,” said Claire. “And croquet has no base. I think.”
“What happened to the little champagne man? There he is. Yoo-hoo!”
“Zinnie! Stop it!”
“Why?”
“Everybody’s looking.”
“So? Let them see someone having a laugh, for once.” She swung her mallet. The ball traveled through several hoops and landed, perfectly round, at Claire’s long toes.
“Nice shot. Only aren’t we supposed to each have our own balls?” There was no sense in arguing. It would just make Zinnie worse.
“That’s the spirit!”
“Mademoiselle!” A Nigerian fellow in tails who’d been watching, ambled over with another ball. He presented it to Zinnie as one would a precious gift.
“Oh, hello,” she said. “Want to play?”
“Volontiers.”
“What’s he say?” Zinnie frowned.
“He’d love to. What’s your name?”
“René.”
“Okay, René, you’ve got second base.” She dragged him over to a far-off hoop.
“You’re a sick girl, Zinnie. This is croquet.”
“Queens rules. You can’t beat baseball. Or do you think you can?” Chips of green in her blue-flecked eyes lit up with challenge.
“No, Zinnie. I do not, for the last time, think you can. Now can we stop this?”
But several more officious types, curious and bored, had wandered over. They let themselves be bullied into position. This was all to the stern disapproval of the servants, but by now what could they do? The Tunesian vice-consul was having a smashing time in charge of third and one wouldn’t want to upset him. Nor any of them. What a muddle.
Zinnie had one team arranged on one side and Claire, absorbed now, the other. She continually checked over her shoulder to see what Zinnie was doing. Zinnie was, Claire realized, as natural a leader as she had ever met. If she’d have been a man … Claire thought before she caught herself. Why, nowadays, a woman could do anything a man could do. Why was it that even she, who believed this, still had trouble incorporating it into everyday thought? Because it had always been she, in each of her relationships, who’d done the dishes. That’s why. No matter how much money she’d made or hefty chores she’d shared. Christ, it was exhausting. The whole man-woman thing could make you ill. And so resentful. She didn’t want to be resentful. She took a deep, cleansing breath and tried to return to her previous bemused state. There, that was better.
Park Lane South, Queens Page 9
