Returning from the restroom to discover that the white-haired gentleman had left the Mon ey Bar. Adjacent to the bar was a hotel restaurant, a dim-lighted steak house with leather-cushioned booths and plush crimson walls, out of curiosity, Juliana went to the doorway to look for the white-haired man, but she didn’t see him. The Commodore Steak House was expensive, pretentious, the only good restaurant in town, to which visiting parents took their undergraduate offspring when they stayed at the Commodore.
She’d felt the loss of the white-haired man, strangely. He’d have smiled at her, she was certain, if she’d been friendlier to him. If she’d approached him, not discouraged by his blank expression, his rude stare. Hi. Do I look familiar to you?
She might have done that. Juliana sometimes surprised herself, speaking boldly to strangers.
Next morning a call came from her mother, informing her that her father, from whom her mother had been estranged for years, had died “suddenly” of a massive heart attack the previous night …
Juliana listened, stunned. Her temples felt as if a vise were tightening against them.
The parents had been separated for years but had not divorced. The mother, the father. Couldn’t give each other up because it would be (Juliana guessed) giving up their shared past. But much of the time Juliana hadn’t known where her father was living. He’d rarely called, he’d become sensitive to slights, self-defensive, quarrelsome. He would mail her a check now and then and became furious if Juliana never got around to cashing it.
Told of her father’s death, she was taken utterly by surprise. Rocked back on her heels. “What am I going to do the rest of the day?” she asked her roommate, who winced and laughed.
No funeral, Juliana’s mother said. Isn’t that just like him.
Her father had willed his body to a medical school for dissection. Therefore no funeral, not even a cremation. No commemoration. Leaving his “earthly remains” to a medical school had been Juliana’s father’s plan for years; it should not have been a surprise to anyone and yet Juliana was surprised. Called back her mother to say, sobbing—But we didn’t think he was serious, did we?
After Juliana had called to ask the question several times, Juliana’s mother said irritably—Yes. I did.
It was at the Mon ey Bar where Juliana met Nathan Gertler, a visiting professor from UC-Berkeley, gaunt, bearded, polysyllabic, a film scholar who published criticism in The New Republic. He’d been attracted to Juliana’s sunny, uncomplicated manner, her resolute good cheer, sweet but knowing smile; he’d initiated her into a new drink that quickly became her favorite: vodka seltzer with lemon.
Gertler was amused by Juliana. Entertained by her. Doris Day chirpiness, Ava Gardner eyes. When she told him that she rarely saw movies, he’d been genuinely shocked: “Good God, girl, what do you do?”
Juliana had wanted to lift her glass, to hint. But Doris Day would never so expose herself. Nor would Ava Gardner.
Gertler complained to Juliana that his students, who were graduate students in film, lacked “visual” eyes. They reduced art to clichés, they stared without seeing. They could sit through an entire film and not once “hear” the musical background, let alone describe it. Gertler told Juliana of the films of Jim Jarmusch, about whom he was writing a book for Yale University Press; soon then, he took her back to his apartment, sparely furnished, university housing, an address Juliana would not recall afterward, where they saw Down by Law, Night on Earth, Mystery Train, Broken Flowers, and Only Lovers Left Alive on Gertler’s console computer, in a blurred marathon of days blending into nights and nights into days, punctuated by red wine, bourbon, dope, sleep on a rumpled bed, but not lovemaking—not exactly.
Waking to discover her wrists, ankles bound with twine. Laughing though she was frightened, telling Gertler this wasn’t funny, she wanted to be released, she had to leave, but Gertler shook his head—Sure. But not so soon.
Misunderstanding, possibly. Too much dope. (What smoking dope does to the temporal lobe Juliana had learned in one of her psych classes, or maybe it was crack cocaine, so potent you were better off not ingesting it at all.)
Gertler fed Juliana by hand, fork, spoon, a paper napkin neatly at her throat, pungent dark wine lifted in a glass for her to swallow, dared not not swallow, the front of her shirt would have been wetted. Juliana did not beg, did not cry, did not betray fear, did not betray outrage, allowed Gertler to bring marijuana cigarettes to her mouth, pretended to be inhaling, thinking—Daddy help me. Daddy, I’m sorry. In Juliana’s bound state she and Gertler watched films Gertler predicted she would love—“screwball comedies”—by Preston Sturges. Though paralyzed with fear, Juliana managed to laugh at young, slender comedienne Barbara Stanwyck in The Lady Eve—a little spasm of laughter that seemed to convince Gertler that Juliana wasn’t unhappy with him, it wouldn’t be a mistake to let her go.
Eighteen hours, captive in the sparely furnished apartment in a seedy university residence. Eighteen hours, just a single glass of tart red wine in all that time. Why he’d decided to let her go, Juliana never knew, unless that had been his plan all along, a plan he’d executed previously with other undergraduate girls. Just joking, Gertler explained—“kidding around.” Laughing heartily, as in a screwball comedy, and Juliana was able to laugh too, probably yes it was just funny, most things were funny when you examined them closely. And this, a scene out of a film. (Wasn’t Gertler working on a film script of his own? Of course.) Juliana went away by herself, grateful to be alone, thinking that she’d liked Gertler well enough, wouldn’t report him to university officials, she wasn’t a snitch. He hadn’t actually harmed her, what the hell.
Now Juliana could speak knowledgeably of Jim Jarmusch, what she could recall of the films was dreamy, seductive, and then startling, unpredictable. Her favorite?—Only Lovers Left Alive.
5.
And again in the Mon ey Bar. Juliana’s final evening there.
Strange and unexpected: in the blurred spring of her senior year at the university she’d become engaged. It seemed to have happened in a dream. But not a neon dream, just an ordinary dream.
The fiancé was several years older than Juliana, graduating from the university’s business school with a master’s degree in corporate finance. Juliana had no idea what that entailed, and not much interest. Money in itself held no interest for her, except the Mon ey Bar intrigued her as red-flashing neon words.
Mon ey Bar. Juliana had no doubt, these words had entered her sleep.
Out of nowhere Gordon Kechel seemed to have come. Someone told Juliana he was the son of rich parents. Why he liked her, Juliana had no idea. Doris Day sunny smile? Ava Gardner sexy-sloe eyes? In his presence Juliana smiled often, no reason not to smile, she scarcely heard what Gordon was saying, but she found his sand-colored hair attractive, wavy, always combed, the serious eyebrows, tawny, intelligent boy-eyes.
Juliana knew she could trust Gordon. She could trust Gordon not to know her.
Though older than Juliana by six or seven years, Gordon was an anxious lover, inexperienced, grateful (it seemed) that she didn’t ever suggest that she was less inexperienced than he, that she expected anything of him or by him other than what he did, or tried to do; she anticipated nothing beyond what was.
Essentially she was untouched, uninvolved. Lying with the panting man in her arms, so grateful for her, the most mild of kisses, the gentlest of murmurs, of the sort one might make to a child to placate him—Yes. I love you, too.
Though Gordon and Juliana had known each other only a few months, Gordon soon began to press for an engagement. He needed the steadying of a permanent relationship, he said. Juliana was touched, and slightly embarrassed, that any man should speak to her so candidly, acknowledging his weakness.
Gordon was distracted, beset by worries having to do with his academic work and his relations with his father, as by gnats fluttering about his head. Juliana had never met anyone so obsessed with family and family history. His litany of worries, re
sentments. His hopes, plans. His jealousy of an older brother. His preoccupation with grades. (Unlike Juliana, Gordon could not bear any grade lower than A minus. And even an A minus, he confessed, made him feel as if he was slipping down a rock face, desperately grasping at the rock with his fingertips, tearing his nails.) His anxiety about the future had much to do with the fact that after he graduated, he would be working with his father in the Kechel family business, subordinate to his brother.
“But why?”—Juliana asked.
“Why—what?”
“Why should you work with your father? And why would you want to be ‘subordinate’ to your brother? You don’t get along with your brother.”
“Because—that’s how it is.”
“How what is?”
“How—how my life—the business … How it is.”
Juliana was touched, if mystified, by the rich man’s son, so dependent upon his father’s opinion of him. Often entire evenings of their lives were devoted to Gordon compulsively repeating his father’s remarks, and Gordon’s replies, whether from telephone conversations or from emails; always Gordon was anxious to know how Juliana interpreted certain remarks, indecipherable to Gordon.
Juliana perceived early on that Gordon’s father was a cruel master, manipulating both his sons into rivalries that fed his ego, but Juliana was too shrewd to tell Gordon anything like this. Instead she said, “It’s very clear, your father is impressed with you. He trusts you. That’s why he seems to be critical sometimes—he wants to motivate you.”
“Is that it! I see.”
And Gordon really did see, once Juliana pointed out to him a possibility that was not exactly a probability but that strengthened his dependence upon her as well as upon the father.
Lazily Juliana thought—If I try, I can become the wife of a rich man.
Smiling to herself—But do I care enough? Is it worth it?
It remained a mystery to Juliana why Gordon cared so obsessively about his father’s good opinion. He didn’t really care about money, he had no reason to care whether his father hired him in the family business. Gordon was an impressive young man; in fact, all his grades were high, he could get work elsewhere, perhaps where he’d be more valued. Nor did he care about social standing, whatever that was.
Clothes, possessions—not of much interest to him. Most of his clothes were purchased at Brooks Brothers, not because they were fashionable and attractive in a preppy way, but out of a failure of imagination. He didn’t own a car, he took taxis when needed. Why he had fallen in love with her—Juliana could not fathom.
Well, to the superficial/male eye, Juliana was highly attractive. Chestnut hair, wide-spaced eyes, strong cheekbones, even, white teeth. Her laughter was startled-sounding, childlike. Nothing particularly amused her, and so everything was funny. Though she was not an alcoholic (she was certain) she’d acquired the blurred affability of the alcoholic, to whom not much other than alcohol matters, an air both self-reliant and seductive. Juliana could not become emotionally involved with anyone; thus it seemed to others that she was no risk, she exhibited no needs, hunger. She would not break down in tears over a misunderstanding, she would not demand more than another could give, she would not succumb to moods. Other young women, recognizing Gordon Kechel’s (literal) worth, had pursued him; Juliana had not.
Though she did not love her fiancé, still less was she in love with him, Juliana had come to depend upon Gordon Kechel. He was one of those who would never discover her secret, essential life—he wasn’t that perceptive, or curious; certainly, he wasn’t possessive. And Juliana was flattered by his interest in her, his apparent devotion. The rich man’s son, interested in her.
She did not want a relationship that was emotionally draining, with a more vital, inquisitive man. She did not want a profound sexual experience. Why was wanting a desirable state?—Juliana could not comprehend. But she was happy in Gordon’s presence, as in the presence of a protective older brother. She felt elemental, less duplicitous. He would never even notice alcohol on her breath, if she had time to disguise it. He takes me for what he thinks I am. He doesn’t look further.
She told her fiancé neither truth nor lies but what he wanted to hear, and what he told her, she scarcely heard except to murmur Yes! I see.
“My father wants to meet you, Juliana! He’s making a special trip.”
Juliana smiled as if happily. Telling herself it was only natural, no need for alarm.
And inevitable. Inescapable.
Mr. Kechel was staying at the dignified old Commodore Hotel downtown. A suite, for two nights. He wanted to take Gordon and Juliana to dinner in the hotel, meeting them for drinks at the hotel bar beforehand.
This would be the Mon ey Bar. Juliana felt a moment’s panic.
Gordon had never been to the Mon ey Bar. Gordon never heard of the Mon ey Bar. Gordon rarely drank, he had no interest in bars, student pubs. As an undergraduate at a small liberal arts college, he hadn’t belonged to a fraternity. Juliana would not have thought to mention the Mon ey Bar to him, but Gordon’s father had stayed at the Commodore previously, and he insisted on having drinks in the Mon ey Bar before dinner.
Steeling herself for entering the Mon ey Bar with her fiancé and his father and being greeted by the bartender in a way to embarrass her, but—of course—Juliana’s bartender-friend knew to betray no recognition or surprise at seeing her with them, as if Juliana were a total stranger.
Thinking, with relief—Invisible in the Mon ey Bar!
For wasn’t that the promise of all such neon-lit places?—invisibility, anonymity.
As a previous guest at the Commodore, Mr. Kechel was familiar with the campy, crude cartoon monkeys on the walls of the Mon ey Bar, which he identified as thinly disguised representations of African Americans and found amusing; Juliana was shocked by the matter-of-fact remark, as by the amusement, and looking now at the cavorting monkeys, thick-lipped, with nappy hair and bulging eyes, she saw that Mr. Kechel was surely correct. Except these were ugly, racist caricatures, not amusing. (One of the grinning baby monkeys was even eating a large slice of watermelon …) Juliana felt a retroactive shame, so long she’d patronized the Mon ey Bar oblivious to the demeaning cartoons.
“You seem disapproving, Julie—that is, Juliana. Are you a civil rights person?” Mr. Kechel asked with exaggerated politeness.
If Mr. Kechel was being ironic, Juliana chose not to react.
“I am, I guess. Yes. That seems only common sense.”
“Common sense? How so?”
“Civil rights means ‘rights for all.’ Protecting us, too.”
“Us? Who is ‘us’?”
Juliana paused. A demon urged her to say white folks. Instead she said, with schoolgirl earnestness, “All Americans. All of us.”
Juliana’s earnestness was a rebuke to Norman Kechel’s playfulness, and momentarily dampening.
It was a surprise, and not an unpleasant surprise, to see that Mr. Kechel was nothing like his son. In the first instant you detected something playful, mirthful, unyielding in his manner, in the very ease of his smile. Here was a successful man. Here was a man who thought well of himself, who radiated an air of equanimity, secure in the knowledge that no one would contradict or oppose him.
He wore expensive, well-cut clothes designed to flatter his thickened body—by their look, Brooks Brothers. He was carefully groomed, with impeccably barbered hair, a smooth-shaven heavy jaw. White shirt, white cuffs. Cuff links. Not a handsome man, with a blunt face, large nose, close-set eyes, yet in his presence you looked at no one else; you wanted only to impress such a man, to make him smile, laugh, appraise you as a man appraises a woman—frankly, appreciatively. “You didn’t tell me, Gordon—she’s gorgeous. And the name is—Juli-ana?”
As if Juliana were not there, hearing such extravagant words. Mr. Kechel took her hand in his, squeezing hard enough to make her wince. His gaze level with her own. Juliana felt a thrill of weakness, passivity. That flash of cuff
links!—a muted sexual charge. Reminding her of Irving Hermann, of whom she had not thought in years.
Juliana wondered why Mrs. Kechel wasn’t accompanying her husband, for wouldn’t Mrs. Kechel want to meet her son’s fiancée also?—but Juliana would never have asked.
Gordon was both embarrassed and flattered by his father’s manner. He laughed as a child might laugh, teased, even ridiculed, yet grateful for the attention of an elder. His drink in the Mon ey Bar was a single beer that he scarcely touched. His father ordered Johnnie Walker Black, straight. “And what would you like, dear? Lime daiquiri? Strawberry?”
Juliana meant to smile and decline an alcoholic drink—No thank you. But heard herself say uncertainly, “Well—I could try that. Strawberry daiquiri?”
She’d have preferred a gin and tonic. But strawberry daiquiri sounded (and looked) more feminine.
As they drank, Mr. Kechel asked Gordon perfunctory questions about his coursework and pretended to listen to Gordon’s answers, sipping at his drink and devouring nuts. He was far more interested in interrogating Juliana, in a manner both intrusive and playful: what was Juliana’s college major, what did Juliana plan to do after graduation, where had Juliana been born and where did Juliana live, who were her parents?
None of your goddamned business, mister—she’d have liked to retort.
Instead Juliana stammered answers of a plausible nature, as a naturally shy girl might stammer. In fact she hoped to interest, intrigue the man. She hoped to forestall the glaze of boredom in his face when he listened to Gordon.
And his gaze dropping as if incidentally to her bare arms, her small but distinct breasts, slender waist. Like a child roughly tickled, Juliana blushed with pleasure. In the months she’d known Gordon intimately he had scarcely questioned her at all. He had never looked at her as Mr. Kechel was openly looking at her. However ordinary, even banal, everything Juliana told Mr. Kechel seemed to fascinate him.
He even asked what were her favorite films. Imagine Gordon asking Juliana such a question!
Night, Neon Page 23
