He hailed a taxi and held on to the leather strap desperately as it raced through the transverse, jolted by potholes. At Charlotte’s brownstone Peter got out, climbed the stoop, and opened the heavy wrought-iron door of the vestibule. He unlocked the inner door, which opened onto a small hall with a dirty carpet. After passing through this space, he mounted the stairs; he put his hand on the thick, elaborately carved banister, which, leading from that mean little hall, always seemed so out of place. He reached the door of the apartment, unlocked the big bolt and the latch. Stepping in, Peter noticed that the apartment seemed very quiet. That should not have been surprising. Charlotte wouldn’t be back from her German lesson yet. But for some reason this silence had a different quality from the typical one. Peter walked into the living room. There was certainly nothing out of the ordinary there: the paperback he had left open on a chair had not moved; a book of photographs that Charlotte had been examining lay on the love seat; the little pile of clippings, opened mail, scribbled-upon notepad paper, credit-card receipts, and superannuated invitations lay on a side table as it had for days. Peter stepped into the kitchen. The tea things had all been put away and there was nothing out of the ordinary. Peter found nothing amiss in either the bedroom or the bathroom. In a way Peter could not precisely define, though, they both did seem different: lightened of their cargo, in some fashion. Still, Peter could not for the life of him say what the missing objects might be. He returned to the living room. There was something about the apartment. It had the air of a place that had been abandoned rather than of a place to which someone had not yet returned.
Peter at this time noticed an envelope propped against one of the candlesticks on the dining table. He approached the table. On the envelope was written “Peter” in Charlotte’s semicalligraphic script. She had used her Rapidograph, Peter could tell, and her thick, creamy Italian writing paper. Peter looked at the envelope for a moment. All the signs suggested that she had written this note in order to say something more significant than that she would be late, so please start cooking the rice since (after soaking for two days) it was ready.
Peter picked up the envelope, carefully tore it open, removed and unfolded the single sheet inside, and held it before him. It felt like cashmere.
Here is what Charlotte had written:
Dear Peter—
—My darling—
—By the time you read this—I shall be preparing to board a flight to Charles de Gaulle—
—I am deeply in love with Maximilien-Françis-Marie-Isidore—I saw him—I know that now—
—He is deeply in love with me—
—Dear, darling Peter—
—Please forgive me—
—Farewell—
Charlotte
Peter read the words over several times, then refolded the sheet and dropped it on the table. For a few moments, he stood there thinking nothing. He stared ahead, seeing nothing. So Charlotte had bolted. Peter found this impossible to believe, so he picked up the letter and read it over once again. It yielded to no other interpretation. “Farewell.” Farewell was pretty definitive.
Now more thoughts and emotions emerged, like photographs developing. His primary response was happiness for Charlotte. He must have been more of a romantic at heart than he realized because he was proud of her. She had thrown off all the supports of her conventional life in order to be with the man she loved. Good for her, Peter thought. Bien fait, Charlotte! And then he felt ashamed: despite all her complexes, Charlotte had shown a lot more nerve than he. Peter found himself tearing up, the sentimental old fool. He cared about Charlotte, the poor kid, and here she was setting off to grab all the love and happiness she could get. He hoped she would succeed. Whenever good people who were weak and timid showed strength and got the things that bad, arrogant people always had handed to them, Peter was moved, and this was especially true in a case like this one, when the heroine of the story was someone he loved.
He had met Maximilien-François-Marie-Isidore (he had to look at the note again to get the name right) and remembered that his soles were suspended by threads from the uppers of his boots, that nicotine had stained his teeth and fingers the same shade of yellow, and that his thick, black, unwashed hair rose up in several multidirectional arcs like a curvilinear modern museum. His appearance aside, it was clear that he was quite mad. He spoke very rapidly and urgently, no matter what the subject, but especially when he was describing his current literary endeavor (he was taking poems by Baudelaire and rewriting them, using exactly the same words and punctuation marks). Nevertheless, Peter could see his appeal. Part of it was his intensity. The rays emanating from him were very strong. Living with him would mean living in the final act of an opera, day in and day out. He suited Charlotte very well, if you thought about it. However much she may have once believed she did, Charlotte didn’t like being calm and settled. Her temperament was too jumpy, and it was probably better to be living amid real drama than to be making dramas out of things that weren’t. Max-etc.’s utter (mad) assurance might help take away her fear, and maybe her caution would temper his unruliness; the two of them took everything very seriously and were almost tone-deaf to pleasure. And if any of her parents’ society friends were disparaging, well, he had one of the most ancient titles in France!
Peter had to ask himself if he didn’t really feel hurt or angry or embarrassed. The event didn’t touch his amour propre because Peter felt no vulnerabilities or jealousy with respect to his rival. Then Peter laughed, thinking about how he should behave. Of course, he would adopt a very civilized attitude. As a man of the world, he understood these things. He imagined the manly, openhanded talk he would have with Max-etc. “See here, my dear fellow, there’s nothing to explain. The vagaries of the heart, you know. Of course I understand. Now, shall we have a glass of port?”
These considerations related to his ego, Peter thought. But what about his feelings? Was there no grief? In truth, not really. This made Peter worry about himself. It seemed so inhuman. He assumed that sorrow and disappointment would come later, as he came fully to accept what had happened. Charlotte had been his companion for almost three years; surely he would miss her; surely her removal would sadden him as he went about his daily life and slept alone. He would miss the little things about their life together, yes? Surely he would regret the waste of all the time they had devoted to courtship and marriage, the efforts to become intimate, the blending of their lives, even the trauma that was their wedding. Wouldn’t Peter feel lonely and sad?
Peter picked up Charlotte’s note once again. She had centered the text perfectly, and she had made no deletions or corrections. Charlotte was good at that kind of thing. Her descenders curled gracefully and the F in “Farewell” looked like a colophon. The ink had been etched into the paper, not merely applied to the surface. Charlotte’s letter was an impressive object; even, or especially, under these circumstances she followed certain instinctive principles of aesthetics.
Charlotte. Peter wished her well. And now he felt as if he had been carrying a tremendous weight without acknowledging it to himself; suddenly it had been lifted from him, and both his body and his mind went limp with fatigue. He had been standing as he ruminated, but now he sat down in one of the dining chairs and rested his chin on his hand. He thought about nothing, it seemed. But in time a single word did enter his consciousness: Holly. He found that he could not move off the single thought of the name itself. Then, very slowly, the gears began to turn. Charlotte is out of the picture. If Charlotte is out of the picture, then I am free to become romantically involved with someone else. If that someone else is unmarried and otherwise unattached, then she is free to become romantically involved with me. Holly is unmarried and otherwise unattached. Therefore, Holly and I are free to become romantically involved with each other.
Peter nodded thoughtfully. If only his mind were not so dull! He felt the way you do in the early evening when you have sobered up after having gotten drunk during the day. He gras
ped that there was reason to be happy, but that was not his emotion. It was all too momentous. He was going to have his chance with Holly, after all. What should his next step be? What should he tell Holly? He didn’t want to cry on her shoulder and receive comfort from her. He wanted to use the power of the revelation to vault them from one kind of love to another, the more exciting kind. When should he tell her? Where?
Then he had an idea: the dinner at Arthur Beeche’s was on Thursday. Charlotte was to have accompanied him, but apparently she had made other plans. He would ask Holly. He would just say that Charlotte had to go out of town unexpectedly. Wouldn’t that be something? To be at Arthur Beeche’s house, the most beautiful house in the city, all dressed up, and to be escorting Holly? Peter was electrified and now shook off his torpor. He wouldn’t tell Holly anything about Charlotte until that night, when, on their way to the party, he would say that he had to talk to her about something and would ask if they could go back to her aunt’s afterward. Once there they would go over the party with great animation. It had been thrilling! But then they would grow quiet, and she would ask him what was on his mind, and he would tell her about Charlotte. And then—Uh … Then … Peter suddenly lost his momentum. What did come next? He wasn’t strong on this sort of thing. Should he declare his love for her? Should he enfold her hand in both of his as a calyx enfolds a flower—and then declare his love? Holding her chin as one holds a tennis ball when serving, should he guide it toward him and simply kiss her, and let that say everything? He’d work all of this out later.
Impelled by excitement over his plan, Peter bounded to the telephone, picked it up, and was about to dial Holly’s number. Then he gulped and hung up. He was in no condition to have this conversation. He had to calm down. Maybe it would be better if he waited and called her tomorrow, when he could be more coolheaded. But what if between now and the next morning Holly accepted another invitation for Thursday? Or committed herself to something at the school? Or scheduled elective surgery? He had to call her now. He took a couple of deep breaths. Okay. Here goes. He got Holly’s voice mail and, with as much composure as possible, left a message.
On his own voice mail at work the next day, Peter heard Holly say that she would love to come to Arthur Beeche’s party. Now Peter had to inform Miss Harrison, in Beeche’s office, about the change. He was worried that she would want to replace Charlotte with someone else, and he toyed with the idea of not telling her at all; that was discourteous, though, and could cause embarrassment. So he wrote Miss Harrison the most polite note he possibly could and sent it through interoffice mail; later in the day he received a call from her. She had a low, purring voice, as if she were talking from a soundproof room. It was fine to take Mrs. Speedwell, she just wanted to ask a couple of questions, for seating, you know, trying to balance the tables. What was her background? Was she an easygoing, congenial type of person, enjoyable to talk to? Oh, yes! said Peter. Very! And if he didn’t mind, would he say what her marital status was? A widow. Oh, I am sorry. She asked for a photograph—security. Fortunately, Peter had one he could e-mail her.
Then Miss Harrison mentioned something surprising. She understood that Peter knew a Miss Isabella Echevarria de Sena. Yes, actually, she had been a bridesmaid at his wedding. Miss Harrison explained that Miss Echevarria de Sena was going to be a guest at the dinner and would be seated with a table of some important people; she could certainly hold her own, but it might be nice for her to see a familiar face, so would he mind if she seated them together? Not at all! Peter answered. After he got off the phone, Peter wondered who had invited Isabella. Probably some big shot with whom she was involved, his wife notwithstanding, who wanted both to show her off and to impress her.
Peter organized his evening clothes; he consulted with Holly on what she should wear and was not very helpful; he ordered a car; he checked the time and address on the invitation hourly. He did not tell anyone about Charlotte, nor did he hear from her. He was grateful for that, since talking to her would probably have complicated his thoughts, tangling the simple line he intended his actions, arrowlike, to follow. He waited.
9
Thursday evening finally arrived. Peter was in his office, changing his clothes. He felt excited, nervous, hopeful. Holly and he would have dinner in a house that, by all accounts, contained objects of fantastic beauty and that was itself an example of the highest expression of human art; the dinner and the wines would be exquisite, as, by all accounts, they always were; the guests would be powerful, rich, good-looking, beautifully dressed; Holly and Peter themselves would be beautifully dressed. The artwork, the setting, the food, the wine, the crowd, their own and the others’ costumes: the combined stimuli from all these sources would engorge them, causing a giddy delirium and putting Holly into the same state of heightened sensation that the heroine of a novel always experiences after a ball. So then, when they returned to her aunt’s apartment, and Peter told Holly his news about Charlotte, and then his feelings for her, their sentiments, their hearts, their very souls, would be primed for a climactic fusion.
Maybe. Conceivably. Anyway, it was worth a shot.
There was a full moon. Peter noticed it walking to the car: a full moon, shining like chrome on this cold, clear night. Cold orb, passive and chaste, how have you earned the worship of lovers? You are the sun of the lover’s day, which is the night. It was a good omen.
The driver opened the door for Peter and he got in the car, a black Lincoln. Having settled himself in his own seat, the driver looked at his clipboard.
“You are Mr. Russell?” His accent and appearance indicated that he was Indian.
“Yes.”
“Good evening, to you, Mr. Russell.” The radio was playing. “Do you mind, sir, if I listen to the game?”
“Oh, no, that’s fine,” Peter said.
After a moment, Peter realized that it was the Devils game. When the other team scored, the driver cursed unintelligibly. The announcer gave the goalie’s statistics for the season, which were terrible.
“This Marcotte, he is no good,” the driver said to himself. “Son-of-a-bitch.”
“Especially since they traded Bjornlund.”
The driver looked at Peter in the rearview mirror. “Exactly, sir! You are exactly right!”
The driver and Peter began chatting and continued their conversation during the whole trip uptown. As they talked, Peter found that they were establishing a deep spiritual bond of the type that sometimes does inexplicably arise between oneself and a driver, or teller, or cashier, or waiter. On these occasions, Peter sometimes imagined that sprites had been sent out into the world to occupy unassuming positions where they could observe and protect him. Here was another good omen.
Holly was waiting downstairs at her aunt’s building. The driver leapt out of the car and opened the door for her. She got in and she and Peter kissed, chastely.
“You look beautiful,” he said.
“Thank you. But I have my overcoat on. How do you know?”
“Uh, well, you know, the from-the-neck-up part.”
It was true. Holly had her hair gathered up in a way that made it look especially sleek, and she wore more makeup than usual and had applied it differently, so her cheekbones looked higher, her eyes bigger, her lashes longer, her lips more full. She wore no earrings, and given the beauty of her soft, pendent lobes, they would have been an unwelcome distraction.
“I borrowed some things—well, everything—from my aunt,” Holly said. “She was the clotheshorse. I hope my dress will be okay.”
“It’ll be great.”
“What a beautiful lady,” the driver said, looking in the rearview mirror. “You are a lucky man, sir, to be with such a beautiful lady. You are married, yes? Or she is your girlfriend?” Peter and Holly exchanged amused, mildly abashed looks, and Peter said, in what he hoped was a friendly and confident way, “Neither, I’m afraid. We’re just friends.” The driver pulled down the corners of his mouth and nodded slowly. “Aha. Friend
s.”
Believing, as one so often does when one is self-conscious, that he owed this complete stranger a fuller explanation, Peter offered it: “My wife was unexpectedly called out of town, and we were going to this big party, so this lady, who is a friend of both of ours, has kindly agreed to accompany me.”
The driver nodded. “Aha. That is nice.” Peter could see his eyes moving back and forth in the rearview mirror as he looked at each of them. The driver watched the road for a moment and then looked back into the mirror to address Peter. “Your wife, she knows about this, yes?”
This question caught Peter off-guard, and it was only after a suspicious delay that he managed to force out a laugh and the answer “Of course!”
“Well, I will tell you something,” said the driver. “You are a lucky man. My wife never lets me go out with a beautiful lady like this lady when she goes away. To tell it as the truth, my wife never goes away!”
They all laughed at this. For the remainder of the ride, they had an engaging conversation with the driver about his youth, his immigration, his children. Two were in college and another was studying to be a pharmacist.
When they were nearing Beeche’s house, Peter turned to Holly and said, “Um, Holly, there’s something I wanted to talk to you about.”
“Of course, Peter. Is it something important?”
Peter smiled drolly. “I guess you could say it’s pretty important. I thought that if the dinner doesn’t run too late, when I drop you off I could come up and tell you about it.”
“Of course,” Holly said, her eyes searching Peter’s for some clue as to what this was all about.
They arrived, and the driver scrambled to open the door on the sidewalk side. Peter spoke to him about what time he should pick them up. “No problem, my friend,” the driver said. “I will be waiting around the corner for anytime when you want to leave.” He had soulful eyes and a huge smile. “You and the lady, your friend, you have a good time.”
Love In the Air Page 29
