Girl in the Moonlight

by Charles Dubow

  The wedding was to have taken place in June. There would be a marquee at the Baums’ compound just like at Izzy’s birthday. Bigger. In the end it never happened. Cesca called it off. She returned the Astor ring that had started everything. Izzy took her to lunch again and told her how proud he was of her. She smiled at him and told him she was taking karate; there were scabs on her knuckles. She had never felt better.

  Independent again, she became more social than ever. There were late nights at Max’s Kansas City, where she became a regular. The celebrities who frequented the place quickly accepted the beautiful girl, her shirt unbuttoned to her waist. She possessed the same qualities they did. She played by her own rules, made people laugh, didn’t ask for anything and didn’t take.

  One night she would sit at Warhol’s table, another night at Larry Rivers’s. She saw the New York Dolls perform and then partied with the band after. Also Iggy Pop, the Talking Heads, the Ramones, Tom Verlaine. One night Mick Jagger came in, and she sat on his lap. Much more. Cocaine. Casual sex. She almost went home with Lou Reed. She never went to bed with anyone she didn’t want to—except for a few times. In the mornings, she slept late, past noon. She was taking a leave of absence from Barnard.

  8

  IT WAS THE FOLLOWING AUGUST WHEN I NEXT SAW CESCA. I was seventeen now, she nineteen. Once again I was working as a carpenter.

  Over the course of the year Aurelio had sent me several letters and postcards from Spain, the spelling appalling but the handwriting exquisite. In each one he asked how I was, told me his latest news, filled the margins with charming drawings and doodles. The last one said he would be back in Amagansett for several weeks at the end of the summer, giving me the dates and telling me that it was important I come as soon as he returned. “I have a surprise for you,” he wrote. I marked the day in my calendar and when it arrived drove over after work to the compound in an old Ford pickup I had bought for $500 at the beginning of the summer.

  I did not know if Cesca would also be there. Since Memorial Day I had wondered if I would run into her, but we did not move in the same circles. Hoping to see her, I visited places where we had been together. A bar in Amagansett where they played live music and where she knew the owner. The beach at Louse Point. But not once did I attempt to contact her directly. She had made it plain that our brief romance was just that, as relevant as the pages of last year’s calendar.

  I had tried to forget her. Taking her advice, I’d dated several other girls over the year, but none of them was as exciting as Cesca. They were all attractive, privileged. There was a field hockey player from Grosse Pointe. Another girl whose father was a senator. Others whose details now escape me. But they all bored me, and I broke up with them. Cesca had spoiled me. I was like the heir whose first taste of wine was Margaux: Every other vineyard would only suffer in comparison.

  And now, in the days leading up to Aurelio’s return, she was more in my mind than ever.

  I parked the truck and walked across the wide lawn toward the studio. It was a beautiful summer day. Hot. The sky solid blue. Butterflies flitted in the meadow. “Hello,” I called, knocking on the studio door. Inside, it was darker, cooler, smelling of linseed oil and turpentine. There were two figures in the room. Standing next to her brother, laughing, wearing an orange bikini, was Cesca.

  I had fantasized about this moment for almost a year. Rehearsed it over and over again. I had prepared what I would say, how I would stand. I remembered none of it at that moment, of course. The reality of her obliterated everything else.

  What I did remember was her beauty. She was another year older and, if anything, even more beautiful. Her long, brown, sun-streaked hair. Her tanned, taut skin. The strength in her legs. The golden hairs at the declivity of her spine. The small mole just above her navel. Her hands on me. Moments of intimacy, the secret jokes of lovers.

  They both stopped talking when I entered and turned to look at me.

  Cesca spoke first. “Wylie,” she said with her bewitching smile, as though nothing could have made her happier than to see me.

  I was unable to speak. All I wanted to say was unsayable.

  “Welcome, amigo,” said Aurelio, stepping forward and embracing me. He had grown a beard. If anything he was leaner than before, the smile more beatific. He looked like one of Zurbarán’s monks. “I am so glad you could come. I have much to show you.”

  “How are you, Wylie?” asked Cesca.

  “Good. You?”

  “Great,” she answered, coming toward me and presenting each cheek to be kissed in turn. “You look so handsome. Doesn’t he, Lio?”

  “Down, girl,” laughed her brother. His teeth were white. “He came here to see me to talk about art, didn’t you, Wylie?”

  Turning to me, she said, “Have you been painting, Wylie? I remember you had talked about it. Did you do it?”

  I had been painting. In the art studio at school. The teacher, bored and probably a drunk, preferred painting scenes of duck hunting. I knew I could learn nothing from him except what not to do. So instead I worked alone on weekends or after study hall, whenever I could. I had brought some of my canvases. They were in the truck.

  I nodded. “Yes,” I said. I knew they were terrible. But I had brought them to show to Aurelio the way you consult a doctor. It hurts here. Can the limb be saved? What course of treatment do you recommend?

  “Good for you,” she said. “Would you let me see them?”

  I hesitated. My mouth opened but no words came out.

  “Really, Cesca,” said Aurelio.

  She laughed. “Don’t worry. I can wait. Anyway, I have errands to run.” As she walked by me, she passed her hand under my chin, casually, knowing that I could be had at a touch, a glance. “I’ll leave you two boys alone. Bye, Wylie. Nice to see you again. You’ll come back, no?”

  I watched her leave, longing but unable to follow. Nothing went as I had hoped. Already I was trying to think of a way to see her again. I don’t know what I expected. Apologies? Unlikely. Tears? Kisses? It would be like asking a clock to run backward. A few moments later I could hear the sound of gravel scattering as she drove away.

  “Ignore her,” said Aurelio, shaking his head, as though reading my thoughts. “Come over here and let me show you some things. And, remember, you must be honest with me.”

  I SPENT THE REST OF THE AFTERNOON LOOKING AT AURELIO’S canvases. He had brought back many but left even more in Barcelona. “I am very happy there,” he confided. “Everywhere you look, there is beauty.”

  The paintings were wonderful. I told him so, but he demurred, saying, “No, no. I am not there yet. But I am getting better.” His smile of modesty. He meant what he said. Always.

  At his request I showed him my work. Compared to his paintings, mine were crude, obvious. Flat. Derivative, inspired by plates in books, not real life.

  Aurelio studied my three or four canvases seriously. If I recall they were vaguely modeled after Picasso’s sad harlequins and acrobats. There was also one self-portrait. Moody and adolescent. In some way, they were all about Cesca. “Here’s what I think,” he said after a while. “You have talent, but you have no idea how to paint. It is like you were raised by wolves. I am taking you to see a painter,” he said. “A real one.”

  A day or so later Aurelio called to say he had arranged it. We were going a few miles inland to Springs, to the studio of a great painter. I knew the name, had seen examples of his work in books and museums. “Paolo and his wife, Esther, are old family friends,” said Aurelio. They had met at art school and fallen in love. Esther was a Jew. In 1939 they were forced to flee from the fascists, first from Milan, then Paris. Finally they had come to America shortly before the Fall of France. Destitute, living in a cold-water tenement on Eighth Street, Paolo at first was only able to support his family by selling hand-painted postcards on the street, while Esther looked after their infant son, Gianni. Through the community of other exiled artists they met gallery owners and patrons. The end o
f the war coincided with a flowering of the New York art world. Paolo’s work was soon in demand. There were one-man shows, articles in magazines and newspapers. He enjoyed success, if not stardom. “It was a great time to be an artist,” sighed Aurelio.

  I was to come by the house on Saturday morning and pick him up. Aurelio was a poor driver and did not possess a license. He had failed each time he took the test. For a while there was an old bicycle he rode, but he gave it away or lost it. For longer trips he was dependent on his family and friends. Over the course of our friendship, I would drive him many times, often quite out of my own way, but I never regretted a single trip. He was always such good company that I actually looked forward to his phone calls, saying, “I need to go to New York” or “Can you take me to Montauk?” If no one was around, he was just as happy hitchhiking. Sometimes, he told me, he even preferred it because it allowed him to meet so many new people.

  We drove down Springs-Fireplace Road, Aurelio chattering away happily, until we turned up a short driveway. I parked in front of a weather-beaten barn standing beside a small arbor decorated with abstract statuary. To the right across a lawn stood an old farmhouse, the shingles brown with age, the trim white. On the grass, there were two enormous cement apples, hip high, rounded like breasts. We walked across the lawn. Outside the door was a small ship’s bell. Aurelio rang it twice and called out. A voice answered from inside. “I’ll be right there!”

  A few minutes later, the door was opened by a tiny old woman, her long gray hair swept up in a bun. A light shawl around her shoulders even though it was quite warm. A cameo brooch was at her throat. Reading glasses dangled from a thin gold chain around her neck. She looked like an old photograph of an immigrant who had just come through customs at Ellis Island.

  “Ciao, Aurelio,” she said, as he bent to kiss her on each cheek. We towered over her. “I am so happy to see you.” Her voice was heavily accented, European, her smile broad. Her merry eyes sparkled with intelligence.

  “Ciao, Esther,” Aurelio replied. “This is my friend, Wylie. The one I told you about.”

  “Ciao, Wylie,” she said, grabbing both of my hands with hers. “Welcome. Come in, come in.”

  We entered the kitchen. The house was bright and welcoming. They had been here since 1948. The land, thickly covered with scrub and pine, extended back many acres. It had been a poor neighborhood. The modest houses were built by the local baymen called Bonackers. When they bought it, the old farmhouse, which dated back to the eighteenth century, was derelict. Paolo had restored it room by room with his own hands. He had trained as a mason in his native Sardinia. Knocking down walls, patching the roof, rebuilding the chimney.

  There was a long, yellow-painted kitchen floor that ran the entire width of the house. To the left, a simple wooden table surrounded by chairs, its surface smooth with the memory of many meals. On it rested an open book, the words in French, the title unfamiliar. Teilhard de Chardin’s Le Phénomène Humain. There were handwritten notes in the margins. “Sit, sit,” said Esther. “Would you like some tea?”

  Aurelio laughed. “Even if I wouldn’t, I know you’d bring me some anyway,” he said, squeezing her hand affectionately. To me he said, “It is impossible to leave here without Esther trying to feed you. If you’re lucky, she may have even just baked some cookies or a loaf of bread. And you can’t say no. She won’t allow it.”

  Esther grinned and said, “You are too skinny. You need to eat more. I’ll be right back.” There was a large black stove in the middle of the room. Next to it a red rocking chair. The rear wall was painted white, and on it hung several round baskets the color of wheat. Old sash windows looked out over the sides and back of the house. A steep flight of stairs, also yellow, led up to the second floor. The ceiling was so low Aurelio and I almost had to stoop. Esther bustled around the kitchen, reaching into various cabinets, asking Aurelio about his mother and father, his sisters, his brother. Aurelio had been coming here since he was a boy.

  “Is it all right if we go see Paolo?” asked Aurelio.

  Esther looked at the clock on the wall. “Wait a little. He is still working, but he will be coming in for lunch soon.”

  She placed a trivet and a teapot on the table, followed shortly by two mismatched teacups. The tea smelled sweet. “You still take it with lemon and honey?”

  Aurelio nodded.

  Esther then turned her attention to me. “So, tell me about you, Wylie. Aurelio says you are a painter.”

  I hesitated. “Not really. I mean, I like to paint but . . .”

  Aurelio, sensing my embarrassment, came to my rescue. “Wylie is very talented, but he needs some guidance.”

  “I see.”

  “I wanted him to meet Paolo. I thought it would be helpful.”

  “Good. Paolo is always interested in meeting young people.”

  We continued chatting for half an hour, drinking tea. It was now past noon. “Why don’t you show Wylie around?” suggested Esther. “I have to finish getting lunch ready.”

  Aurelio led me out behind the house. “Paolo made all this,” Aurelio said. It was a garden of wonders. Cypress trees. Sculpted fountains. Abundant shade. I had never seen anything like it before, like a dream come to life, but a happy dream, the product of a beautiful imagination. The outdoor space divided like a series of rooms. Here is the bedroom, here the kitchen. All open to the stars. Later in life I would visit similar gardens in Tuscany, Èze, but this was all new to me. This Mediterranean sensibility. The love of being outside, the harmony with nature. A long, freestanding wall covered in an abstract mural, another with a single window through which poked out the branch of an apple tree. The lattice of an arbor, strewn with knurled grapevines. A whitewashed brick oven, its aperture black with use. A solarium, painted in the colors of the sea, where Aurelio told me Paolo liked to sunbathe nude in winter. Wisteria. Wire chairs placed strategically where visitors could take their ease. Willows, pine groves. In the distance more statues, peeking from behind the trees like nymphs in a myth. The grass was sweet with the smell of fallen apples.

  “Pollock lived right down the road. He used to come here. They all did,” said Aurelio. “Esther was a sort of den mother for the Abstract Expressionists. They always knew they could get something to eat here. They would have parties that began at lunch and lasted all weekend. Guests slept on the ground. Can’t you just see it? Back in those days Paolo used to make his own wine. I understand it was pretty filthy.”

  I imagined the ghosts of the era. Who would have been there? Pollock certainly. His wife, who was also a painter. Maybe Rothko. Motherwell. The women in sandals and capri pants. Cat’s-eye glasses. Their arms bare in the style of the day. The men, earnest, smoking, drinking, arguing about art, the contemptibility of critics, the latest show. Money was never a topic. Instead they reveled in their freedom, their talent. Some of them would go on to become household names, others footnotes, and some disappeared entirely. It was a different Hamptons. There were no millionaires. At least not many.

  “Who are these two young handsome men in my garden? Cos’è questa cosa? Why aren’t they with pretty girls instead of an old man?” boomed out a voice, the accent thick yet amused.

  I turned and saw a short man with the face of a matinee idol walking up to us. He had rich black hair white at the temples and twinkling black eyes. He embraced Aurelio, who stood a foot taller than him. “I was desolato with you for not coming sooner,” he said. “But now you are here. You must tell me everything about Barcelona, eh? Did you bring anything to show me?”

  We had several canvases in the truck, wrapped in a tarp. Most were Aurelio’s, but he had insisted I include at least one of my own, which I did, as well as a few drawings.

  “E chi è questo? And who is this?”

  “This is Wylie Rose. He is the son of Mitchell Rose, my uncle Roger’s old friend. I think you’ve met him.”

  “Oh yes, the great businessman,” he replied, making a face and then laughing. He pronounc
ed it “busy-ness man.” “Your mother is molta bella, very beautiful, no?” His voice lilting, like music.

  “Yes,” I answered.

  “I once spent a charming evening sitting beside her at a dinner party. Alas, she wouldn’t go to bed with me, no matter how much I pleaded. Che tragedia.”

  I didn’t know what to say to that.

  “No matter,” he said, laughing again. “Sometimes it is much better to dream of love than to have it. That way you can never be disappointed. Come. Let us go and see what delicious thing Esther has made for us for lunch. Sono affamato.”

  We followed Paolo inside. The table was set for four. A loaf of homemade bread rested on a cutting board. Cheese. At each place a bowl of steaming soup. Red wine in thick tumblers.

  “Ah,” cried Paolo on entering and rubbing his hands together. “A feast! I knew it. We are only artists, but we dine like kings!” We sat, and Paolo turned to me and asked, “Wylie? Like the coyote? I love him. Always trying but never succeeding. He is very human. Très sympathique, non?”

  “I never thought about it like that.” Of course, I had been teased about the name my whole life. Children running up behind me and yelling “beep beep!” I was grateful to him for seeing it differently.

  “You should! It is a very philosophical cartoon, no?”

  Over lunch he drew me out. I tried not to talk too much, but I couldn’t help it. I was drinking wine, which loosened my tongue. I told them about myself, about wanting to be an artist. School. What I wanted to do. What my father wanted me to do. Paolo told me that being an artist was about more than talent. It was about dedication.