I met Tamara one late afternoon coming home from work. I had noticed her further down the line at the bus stop: dark wavy hair to below her shoulders; complex features that managed to be both softly round and strongly aquiline; a large mouth; full lips; a brownish-olive tint to her skin; tall and svelte, yet with a pronounced curve at the waist. I thought, she’s Andrei’s type. Gorgeous. Glamourous.
The bus was crowded. She sat down next to me. My throat dried up. I was suddenly overwhelmed with desire for this woman. I knew that Andrei would have no problem initiating contact with this beautiful stranger, but I lacked his grace and confidence.
As the bus took off, each of us dug a book out of our bags.
We were reading the same book, Bestial Acts. Probably buoyed by the film’s cult celebrity, the author had written a sequel to The Door to Lost Pages, expanding on the events and characters emphasized in the film, but this new volume wasn’t very good.
We looked up at each other, and we both laughed. I don’t remember who started talking to whom, but we fell into an easy, friendly conversation and ended up eating veggie burgers and gourmet fries on St-Laurent, and then walked down to a cocktail bar in the Gay Village that played postmodern lounge music in a colourful high-kitsch decor.
We laughed easily with each other, and she frequently touched me, letting her hands linger just long enough for me to know she meant it.
It was nearly two in the morning when I walked her home. She gave me a firm hug; I felt her breasts press against my chest, and she surely felt my erection. She grinned as she disengaged, and, while holding both my hands, she kissed my cheek – the contact with her lips made me shiver.
I watched her climb the stairs to her second-storey apartment. I stood there for a couple of minutes after she closed the door behind her.
I don’t remember walking home, so lost was I in my reveries of seeing her again.
Next thing I knew, I was lying naked in bed, prudishly fighting the impulse to masturbate while replaying moments of my evening with Tamara.
And then I remembered that I had promised to meet Andrei that evening.
Ten years after Andrei’s death, I still have no other friends. I have no lovers but Tamara.
My days are always the same.
I wake up at six. I work until noon. Often that consists of editing Andrei’s large inventory of unpublished manuscripts. Sometimes, I work on my own writing.
I go out for lunch. There’s a wonderful pressed-sandwich shop on St-Denis. If it’s too crowded, I go for noodles. These days, there’s a noodle shop on almost every corner.
In the afternoon, I catch a matinee movie, then I go shopping – books, CDs, DVDs, clothes, food – hoping that something, anything, will bring me pleasure or elicit any kind of reaction. Nothing ever does.
I drop my purchases at home. I check for messages. Then I go out for dinner. Usually Indian. Sometimes Thai. Or something new I read about in the newspaper.
I come back home around eight in the evening, put on some music, make some tea. I read until I hear Tamara come home. Then I get ready for bed.
If the weather’s bad, I just stay in all day.
It’s the middle of the afternoon, and it’s still raining. It’s as dark as dusk. It’s been like this for five days straight, and it’s been having a languorous effect on me. I’ve noticed that Tamara, usually less sensitive than I to the weather and light, has been somewhat morose of late. I do not pry. We never pry into each other’s affairs or emotions.
But today I’m feeling a bit better. I’m just off the phone with my agent. She had good news for me. Dardick Press had made a six-figure offer for my new novel. Not that I really need the money, but they want the book. My book.
To the outside world, I’m the author of a wildly successful thematic trilogy of Proustian ambitions; of an allegorical fantasy novel the Washington Post welcomed by trumpeting: “Finally, an English-language writer whose depths of empathy and imagination surpass Márquez”; of an immense thousand-page short-story collection praised for its cross-genre audacity, the precision and beauty of its language, and its parade of heartbreaking characters; of a poetry collection that stayed for more than a year on the bestseller lists; and of a blockbuster philosophical novel – adapted once as a film and once as a television mini-series.
Although all of these appeared under my byline, none of them are mine (well, I snuck two of my own short stories into the collection; I still feel guilty about that). I did edit the manuscripts into their final format – I was certainly familiar enough with much of the material from my years with Andrei – but they were his works, not mine.
Despite Andrei’s immense posthumous success under my byline, my own work has been consistently rejected by publishers: “Let’s not oversaturate the market”; “We’re not sure how to categorize this one”; a litany of insulting excuses . . . until today, that is.
I feel like celebrating, but I can’t think of anything appropriate. Take Tamara out for lunch? I fantasize further: maybe we could even go on vacation. Spend a few weeks in Venice. I’ve always wanted to see Venice. We can certainly afford it.
But we never travel. We never do anything together. We stay here, slaves to our habits and our grief.
Besides, I would never dare upset the fragile equilibrium of our tacit agreement with even anything as mundane as a lunch invitation.
Just then, Tamara walks into my study. She’s dishevelled, clearly having just woken. She’s wearing black panties and a white camisole that contrasts vividly with her skin. I’m still visited by images of our fantasy holiday; seeing her – so beautiful, so subtly out of my reach, the constant pain that haunts her imbuing her with an aura of delicate fragility that I find, despite myself, overwhelmingly arousing – I catch my breath in admiration.
She doesn’t notice, or she ignores me. Does it really matter which?
Nevertheless, for a second, I even half convince myself – both fearing it and desiring it – that she’ll propose an outing or even converse with me. But no. The inevitable words, full of mournful loss and despairing love, come out of her mouth: “Read to me.” Not even waiting for a response, she heads towards the living room.
I rise from my desk, my hand resting for a moment on the third volume of Andrei’s Proustian trilogy, but then, emboldened by my agent’s good news, I mischievously and pridefully grab a copy of my novel manuscript instead. Tamara won’t know the difference.
I join Tamara on the couch, and she snuggles up to me. She smells delicious. I nibble on her bare shoulder, and she moans, grabbing my hand and rubbing it against her breasts. She nuzzles my neck and whispers, “Read.”
Momentarily, I feel guilty for deceiving her. But I start to read my novel, and I quickly get seduced by the allure of my own words, my own characters.
I’m only a few pages into the manuscript when Tamara suddenly gets up.
She mumbles, “I’m tired . . .” – heading back to the bedroom, not even glancing at me, shutting the door.
For the next five days – after I stood him up for Tamara – Andrei didn’t answer my calls. Was my friendship ultimately as meaningless to him as his dalliances with his glamourous girlfriends? Had I finally suffered his inevitable rejection?
Tamara called me, and we saw each other once. We went for a walk on Mount Royal. She held my hand. She sensed my dark mood and did not push.
Her goodbye hug conveyed less promise than her first; she asked me to call her soon. Translation: if you want me, show it.
I mumbled that I would, knowing that I’d made a mess of what should have been a great evening. I had been much too distracted by my anxiety about Andrei.
Finally, I showed up at his apartment without calling. He hated it when people did that.
When I got there, there was a girl with him. She was stunning: the kind of face that stared back at you from magazine covers; long, shapely legs; delicate toes; toenails painted bright orange peeking out from elegant high-heeled sandals. She was c
rying.
I ignored her. I didn’t say anything. I stood firm and did my best to stare Andrei down. I needed to prove to him that I aspired to be his equal.
He surprised me. He smiled at me, turned towards the girl, and said, “Get out. Can’t you see that my friend is here now?”
She opened her mouth to say something, but then closed it sharply, visibly trying to hold on to some degree of dignity.
She didn’t even glance at Andrei, but she shot me a disdainful sneer as she hurried past.
The rain never lets up. I stay in all day. Tamara never leaves the bedroom. I hear her use the adjoining bathroom a few times.
Finally, at midnight, I open the bedroom door. I get undressed and slip into bed.
Tamara is feigning sleep. I know her body language and the rhythms of her breathing too intimately to be fooled.
We do not press hands against each other’s chest tonight. We do not whisper absurdities to each other. We do not touch. We do not have sex.
We’ve never skipped our ritual before; in sickness and in health.
A despairing loneliness chews on my innards, chasing sleep away.
Tamara gets up in the middle of the night. I hear her bustle in the kitchen. When she’s done eating, she climbs back into bed, carefully not touching me, and falls asleep immediately.
I stay awake until dawn.
I realize that the rain has finally stopped, the clouds finally gone. Sunlight hits Tamara’s bare shoulder. I yearn to kiss it, to taste her. But I dare not.
I didn’t know whether or not to believe Andrei, but I didn’t question him, didn’t push my luck. I was too relieved, thrilled, exhilarated that our friendship was still intact. He claimed not to care that I had stood him up. He hadn’t been in touch because he’d spent the last few days with the woman he’d just thrown out of his apartment. He had known it would only last a few days.
Suddenly, it seemed so egocentric to think that Andrei would have been affected by my absence the other night. I chastised myself for my arrogance and self-importance.
Nevertheless, I told him all about Tamara. Was it him or me who suggested that we all three get together for a meal? I did, I think, but was it only because he wanted me to?
I called her from his apartment; we would meet there on the weekend, and he would cook for both of us. Already, my mouth watered. Andrei was a fabulous cook.
We spent the rest of the night as usual: we pored over his latest writings until sunup.
I am running. The morning sun spurs me on. I am exhausted from my sleepless night. My muscles are complaining because of the days of inactivity I imposed on them during the recent rains.
But I run, nevertheless. I don’t even notice where. I just run and sweat.
I come back home. I look at the clock. It’s nine fifteen. I’ve been out running for three hours. I walk through the bedroom to get to the shower although I don’t have to. I could use one of the other bathrooms. But I want to gaze at Tamara.
She’s not in bed.
I call out her name, look through every room.
She’s not here. She’s never awake this early.
I go out again.
I run.
I run until the pain and exhaustion is all that I can feel. I just run; and sweat – so much that it’s impossible to distinguish the tears from the sweat.
I knew, of course, that whatever spark I ignited in Tamara’s imagination would be dimmed by the greater conflagration that Andrei would provoke. I was not wrong.
They were beautiful together, but I also knew that Andrei would soon tire of her.
Pathetically, I fantasized about consoling her after Andrei inevitably broke her heart. Fearfully, I never spoke to Tamara – about my feelings, about Andrei who discarded lovers like flakes of dead skin. Boldly, I imagined telling Andrei he had no right to use Tamara like a disposable mirror, when I could love her more truly than he ever would. Stupidly, I confronted Andrei in such a way.
It would be inaccurate to say that we had a fight. I said my piece, and he just laughed at me. I got angrier, and he just laughed harder.
“You’re my friend,” he said, between guffaws. “But go home now. When you get over your anger, come back, and we’ll work on one of your stories.” He was still laughing.
I left his apartment, melodramatically slamming the door, feeling self-conscious for doing so, but unable to express myself any other way in the face of Andrei’s dismissal.
There are messages from my agent. Details to work out. Contracts to sign.
So what? It’s not like I need the money.
Am I betraying Andrei’s legacy by publishing my own work under my name? Should I use a pseudonym? Or maybe scrap the whole idea. I’ll never be the writer he was.
I lie on the couch all day. The phone rings. Again. And again. I let it ring. Tamara wouldn’t call, and there’s no one else I want to talk to, even if, as I fear might now happen because of my transgression, we never see each other again.
When Tamara wakes me by caressing my cheek, I realize that I had fallen asleep.
Andrei’s relationship with Tamara lasted a full year, months longer than any of his previous affairs. I had barely seen either of them since I’d stormed out of Andrei’s apartment like a bad actor. After a few weeks, I visited Andrei twice, but my resentment was too overpowering, and the encounters were forced and awkward. I was physically unable to be around Tamara without feeling nauseous. So I stopped calling them, and I never heard from either of them. Occasionally, I’d spot them downtown, but I always managed to creep away unseen.
Then one day I found a handwritten invitation in my mailbox. I recognized Andrei’s precise, feminine script. There were no details, save for a time and the name and address of a restaurant. I dreaded some sort of wedding announcement. Or that he’d finally shooed Tamara out of his life like all the others before her. I didn’t know which of the two I feared more.
Of course, I went. I was lonely, bored and miserable, and I missed my friend.
I’d never heard of the restaurant, so I was unprepared. I’d dressed casually, and this turned out to be an intimidatingly swanky establishment. I was sure they weren’t going to let me in. True to my expectations, the maître d’ sneered at me when I stepped through the door, but when I said Andrei’s name he repeated it almost reverentially and instructed a waiter to escort me to Andrei’s table.
Andrei’s table turned out to be a private room, lushly decorated with museum-quality reproductions and fresh flowers. I recognized Debussy’s String Quartet – a favourite of Andrei’s – playing at just the right volume. The table was set for two; there was an empty chair waiting for me. Tamara sat in the other chair.
Tamara asked, “What are you doing here? I mean, where’s Andrei?”
I shrugged. “Andrei sent me an invitation. I didn’t know you’d be here.”
“But it’s our anniversary. Where—?”
I knew, then, that Andrei had left her. And indeed he had, but that wasn’t the whole truth. That came later.
Before either of us could say anything more, the waiter brought in the hors d’oeuvres.
Tamara said, “But we haven’t ordered anything.”
We learned that Andrei had arranged our evening’s menu in advance. We ate in silence, but not even that tense awkwardness could mask the heavenly taste of the food.
We finally spoke to each other when it came time to argue over who would get the bill, but we were informed that Andrei had already paid for everything, and that not even a gratuity would be accepted from either of us.
Befuddled, we walked out together. We glanced at each other, and we both laughed at ourselves. Still chuckling, Tamara took my arm, and we walked together through downtown, all the while talking like dear old friends. We didn’t utter a word about Andrei.
When we parted, she gave me a chaste kiss on the cheek, but there was genuine warmth in her smile. Silently, I cursed Andrei for what I believed he was doing to her.
/> The next day, I received a couriered letter, requesting my presence at the law office of Laurent Tavernier the following Monday at nine in the morning. Not a little alarmed, I called to know what this was all about. The attorney’s secretary told me: “We can say nothing of this matter until the appointed time.”
Tamara called me every day. She was worried about Andrei’s disappearance. More than once, she cried over the phone. As much as I wanted to, I couldn’t bring myself to tell her that I thought Andrei had deserted her. I grunted non-committal responses and sidestepped any suggestion that we should meet. I refused to follow Andrei’s transparent script, no matter how much it matched my own desires.
The following Monday, I was startled to see Tamara sitting in the attorney’s waiting room. A few minutes later, we were both ushered into Tavernier’s office, wondering to each other what Andrei had planned for us this time.
This is what we learned: Andrei was dead, had poisoned himself on the day he’d set us up to meet at the restaurant; Andrei was wealthy, worth millions of dollars, all of which was now ours . . . in a joint account, no strings attached. Tavernier needed our signatures to make this official.
In addition, Andrei bequeathed all of his writings to me, with instructions that I seek to publish them under my own name only and that, with his blessing, I should edit his works as I saw fit.
There was a letter addressed to both of us; the attorney read it. It was terse.
I had nothing more to write, it said.
But that wasn’t true. In death, Andrei was writing the script of my and Tamara’s lives, and we followed every stage direction like fawning understudies.
I almost speak, but Tamara shushes me. I can’t decipher her expression.
She’s sitting on the floor, next to the couch. She looks away from me and into her lap. I hear the rustle of paper.
I look down and see that she’s holding my manuscript. My novel.
The Mammoth Book of the Best New Erotica Page 50
