by Ira Levin
He went into the bathroom. Dropped the tissues into the black bowl, flushed it. Shook his head, sighing.
It was going to be hard just watching her . . .
Now that he’d seen her live and in color. . . .
3
WALLED WITH DARK-GRAINED wood and curtained with tiers of chain rippling up toward its three-floors-high ceiling, the Grill Room of the Four Seasons is where editors and publishers, those who haven’t moved downtown, lunch with one another and their or someone else’s cherished writers. At midday on that spacious stage (hung upstage right with a cloud of brass rods), dark-suited men and varicolored women settle in twos and fours at the good and the less good tables, on the good and the less good levels, like the birds convening on Hitchcock’s jungle gym. They peck at who’s with whom and who looks how, who’s moving where, who’s buying what. Bobbing waiters bring them food, artfully arranged, in portions far too large for birds.
Seating herself on a banquette on the good level, at a less good table, Kay saw, up on the less good level, a rawboned cheek and a sandy mustache. The man seated in profile looked like the jogger in 9A, but she’d only glimpsed him once, nearly a week before, and some thirty feet separated them. He was with a white-haired man, an editor whose name and current house escaped her.
Her bearded guest Jack Mulligan had written, under a pen name, sixteen romantic thrillers; she had edited the last four, best sellers. He overwrote—jungles of entwined and floriferous prose; she cut paths through branching metaphors, chopped away vines of adverbial clauses, changed profusions of viridescent foliation into masses of green leaves. He had followed her from Random to Putnam to Diadem. Publishing is played like checkers.
Lately he had become a media celebrity; people stopped at the table to congratulate him and shake his hand. “Right on, Jack!” they said, and, “It’s about time someone got even!”
“No, no, really,” he said, beaming. A month or so earlier, he had claimed and then denied responsibility for a computer virus, ultimately untraceable, that had laid low a noted journal, stripping its data banks of all names and words containing the letters F and Y. The journal’s review of his Vanessa’s Lover, though a quote-studded rave, had thoughtlessly given away one of the book’s surprises. He had faxed four pages of fury at the editor; the customary short whine from a reader had been published.
When the journal howled with its wound, Mulligan’s friends had believed his swear-you-won’t-tell phone calls. He had three sons in computers, pioneer hackers grown and working in artificial intelligence and security-systems design; and furthermore, at about the same time the journal lost its F and Y words, the author of the careless review had vanished from the memories of more than half the commercial computers that till then had known and trusted him. To representatives of the District Attorney’s office and the FBI, however, Mulligan had said—flanked by Paul, Weiss, Rifkind, and others—no, no, he’d spoken in jest, he’d said he wished he had done it, he deplored vandalism, and so on and so forth. His twinkling eye had subsequently appeared on Live at Five, A Current Affair, and Nightline’s panel on computer insecurity.
The upshot of the matter, as the journal and the reviewer struggled to reorder their lives, was exactly what one would expect: booming sales for Vanessa’s Lover and a request from Mulligan’s agent for a cosmic advance for a two-paragraph outline of Marguerite’s Stepfather. It was in the faint hope of reducing that request that Kay, with her chief’s wholehearted endorsement, was lunching Mulligan at the Seasons.
“Do you know the white-haired man on the mezzanine?” she asked when they were finally left to themselves. “He used to be with Essandess; I can’t remember his name or where he is now.”
Jack scratched his ear, turned, scanned the walls and the ceiling, turned to her. “That’s the same table where Bill Eisenbud had his heart attack,” he said. “Wasn’t he a dear man? What a shame. We had a house next to them on the Vineyard the summer of ’seventy-three. No, ’seventy-four. A lovely house with a big screened-in porch. All incastellated with wisteria vines.”
She said, “Do you know him?”
“No, it was ’seventy-three,” he said. “ ’Seventy-four was South America.” He shook his head. “No,” he said. “I wonder if Sheer is writing another book. He said he wasn’t. He’s odd about money. We shared a cab afterwards and I gave him a five when I got out—there was a little under seven on the meter—and he insisted on calculating my exact change to the nickel.”
The waiter came, bobbed for their drink order, left.
“‘Sheer’?” she said. “You know the man with him?”
He looked at her across the table. “I thought you watched Nightline,” he said.
“I did,” she said.
“On what? That antique portable? Do you mean to say that’s still the only set you own?”
“He was on it too?”
“The doom-and-gloom man,” Jack said. “The one who wrote the book about computers making us vulnerable to all kinds of disasters. Like getting paid back for spoiling a story.”
She said, “Hubert Sheer . . . Of course, I remember now. He was hostile to you. . . .”
Jack chuckled. “Wasn’t he though,” he said. “But perfectly nice in the cab. He apologized sincerely for that ‘juvenile mentality’ crack. They dragooned him for the show at the last minute, somebody canceled. He doesn’t like doing TV, though Koppel certainly had a hard time cutting him off once he got started. He wrote the book years ago.”
“I think he lives in my new building,” she said.
“Oh, does he? Yes, he could, he was going on up Madison. . . .”
They looked at the menus.
She glanced up and he was watching her, Hubert Sheer. Sat smiling, his cheeks and forehead flushed, his thinning hair sandy like his mustache.
She gave him a low-scale smile and nod.
He nodded, redder.
The waiter put down her Perrier and lime, Jack’s Glenlivet.
They ordered—veal paillards, grilled salmon.
Jack offered his glass. “To Marguerite’s Stepfather.”
She touched hers to it. “To Diadem’s solvency.”
“Party pooper.”
They talked about a new best seller—good but not that good—the Washington scandal, the unpromising Broadway season.
The white-haired man came grinning; a few yards behind him, Hubert Sheer limped against a cane. “Kay!” the man said. “Martin Sugarman. How are you?”
“Martin!” she said. “How nice to see you!”
He bent and kissed her cheek. “You look wonderful!”
“So do you!” she said. “Jack Mulligan, Martin Sugarman.”
“A real pleasure!” Sugarman said, holding Jack’s hand in both of his, pumping. “It’s about time someone got even!”
“No, no, really,” Jack said, beaming.
Hubert Sheer limped up, red-faced, in tan tweed, a brown shirt, rust tie. His eyes, gray under sandy brows, shone with suppressed excitement. He smiled at her, braced against his cane.
“Kay, this is Hubert Sheer, who’s just signed to do a book with us. Kay Norris.”
“Congratulations,” she said, smiling, offering her hand.
He took it backhanded in his left, hot and moist. “Thank you,” he said. “We’re neighbors.”
“I know,” she said.
His gray eyes widened; he let go her hand, caught Jack’s. “Hello,” he said.
“Hello,” Jack said. “What happened to you?”
“I fractured my ankle,” Sheer said. “The day before yesterday.” He smiled at her. “My bike fell apart when I was on my way to make copies of the outline. Do you think God is trying to tell me something?”
“Maybe ‘Break a leg,’ ” she said.
He smiled. Sugarman laughed.
“I thought you were through with books,” Jack said.
“So did I,” Sheer said to him, “but Marty called me the day after Nightline with an idea that real
ly excited me.” His gray eyes swung back to her, piercing. “Television,” he said. “A complete overview of the way it’s impacted on society so far and will impact in the years ahead. Every aspect of it, from soap operas to surveillance cameras to the effect camcorders are having on world affairs. I’m even planning to—” “Rocky . . .” Sugarman said.
Sheer looked at him, at her. Went redder, smiled.
“I won’t breathe a word,” she said, smiling.
“Please keep it under your hats,” Sugarman said to her and Jack. “It’s very early stages.”
“It sounds fascinating,” Jack said. “And right in line with your other book.”
“Yes,” Sheer said, “I’m really excited about it. I’ve been taking a crash course in Japanese. I’m going over there next week to visit factories and interview manufacturers and designers.”
“It was kismet,” Sugarman said. “I got the idea in the morning, and that night, there he was on Nightline, the perfect writer for it. Oh look, Joni’s here.” He touched Sheer’s shoulder. “You go ahead, Rocky, I’ll catch up with you downstairs.”
Sheer looked at her. “Do you bike?” he asked.
“Yes,” she said. “I don’t have one. . . .”
“Neither do I,” he said, smiling. “A bus got it. They rent them in the park, by the boathouse. Can I call when I get back?”
“Please do,” she said, smiling. “I hope it’s a productive trip.”
“Thank you,” he said, smiling, red-faced.
He said good-by to Jack, limped away.
Sugarman leaned closer. “Terrifically perceptive,” he said. “Makes all kinds of surprising connections. Did you read The Worm in the Apple?”
“No,” she said, “I’d like to.”
“I’ll messenger you a copy this afternoon,” he said. “Incidentally, he asked to be introduced, if that’s of any interest. He’s forty-three, divorced, and an exceptionally nice guy. Well, I’d have come over and said hello anyway. Wonderful seeing you, and meeting you, Jack. Congratulations. In all departments!” He turned and went toward the better tables.
She smiled after him, waved at Joni waving at her.
“‘Rocky’?” Jack said, cutting his veal.
“It beats Hubert,” she said.
She turned and looked over her shoulder, through gold-threaded glass, at Sheer’s tan back beyond the rim of the wide stairway, going down slowly, close against the left-hand railing.
Going down out of sight, slice by slice.
She brought the window measurements in to Bloomingdale’s custom drapery department and ordered white silk for the living room and green-and-white-striped chintz for the bedroom. On the way to contemporary furniture she spotted a high-style scratching post—brown cork doughnuts on a giant chrome staple. Only at Bloomie’s . . .
She worked out at the Vertical Club, sweating as she battled the biceps machine, the leg press, the stomach board. Pedaled an exercise bike awhile.
Came out of the elevator to Felice’s meowing and the hallway full of fat pink leather suitcases, a herd of them, blocking her door and butting open the door of 20A, where across the foyer, in her own kitchen flipped over, a young woman in a white coat said into the phone, “No! I meant exactly what I said!” Seeing Kay, she raised a spread hand, every finger ringed. Mimed a groan, looked to heaven, to Kay, shrugged piteously. She was model-gorgeous, slim, in her early twenties, with a cap of straight blond hair. The belted white coat was the one that had been on Elle. “Fuck both of you!” she said in a furry voice, and slammed the phone to the wall. “I’ll get those right out of your way,” she said, coming to the door. She opened it wider, kneed a suitcase to hold it. “I’m sorry, your poor cat’s going crazy. I guess he never smelled India before.” She corraled pink suitcases. “When did you move in?” she asked.
“A week ago . . .” Kay said, sidestepping past the stairway door.
“Let him out,” V. Travisano said, flashing a smile at her. “Give him a treat. I’m a cat person too.”
“She’s a she.” She put down her briefcase and the Bloomingdale’s bag, shifted a suitcase, unlocked the door.
Felice raced out and prowled a lightning cloverleaf where leather met carpet, sniffing, sniffing, sniffing, sniffing.
“Oh, she’s a beauty! I love calicoes. What’s her name?”
“Felice.”
“That’s a nice one. ‘Felice . . . .’ Mine is Vida Travisano.”
“That’s a nice one too.”
She laughed. “Thanks,” she said, “I made it up myself.”
“Mine’s Kay Norris.”
“That’s nice.”
“My parents made it up.” She picked up straining India-crazed Felice.
Vida Travisano hauled in the last suitcase. “You’re a big improvement over the poor Kestenbaums,” she said. Smiled in the doorway in her Elle white coat, a glittering hand on the jamb, white boots crossed at the ankles. “Did you hear about the Kestenbaums?” she asked.
“Felice! Stop it! No,” Kay said. “No. I didn’t. . . .”
“They were an interesting kind of couple,” Vida Travisano said. “He was American and she was Korean. Very beautiful; she could have been a model. They never mentioned what they did. Entertained a lot. Then he developed MS—multiple sclerosis?—and just started melting. And she’s pushing him in and out in the wheelchair. . . . And I mean, your heart breaks, but it’s so depressing. . . . You know? They moved out to this place in California where they’re doing advanced research on it. It looked like they wouldn’t be able to, she was crying about it a few months ago; it costs a fortune and their insurance didn’t cover it. Thank God they got the money from someplace. If you want to dish sometime, ring the bell. I’m going to be around till November ninth, then it’s—” The phone rang. “Oh, shit. Then it’s off to sunny Portugal. See you.” Backing inside, she waved at Felice. “’Bye, Felice!” She closed the door as the phone rang.
Felice hit the carpet sniffing suitcase prints, berserk.
Dmitri came and put up the bookshelf supports in the living room, drilled the X’s she had marked low on the kitchen wall. She put the scratching post up and showed Felice what it was, rubbing her front paws against the cork doughnuts. Lots of luck.
She hung Roxie’s falcon in the foyer; both it and the Zwick looked better apart. She put books on the shelves while Claire Bloom read To the Lighthouse. Introduced herself at the Corner Bookstore on Ninety-third Street—it never hurts to get window space.
She called the folks and thanked them for the bowl, which had Art Deco lines and would look fine on the new coffee table when it came. Got into the usual argument with Dad when he told her to tell Bob to call.
She read the trade paperback edition of Hubert Sheer’s The Worm in the Apple, the first four chapters. Called Roxie. “And it’s terrific so far, he’s a very good writer.”
“So what’s the story?”
“There is no story,” she said, lying on the bed playing with Felice’s white ear. “We have a sort of a date to go biking after he’s back from a trip. I don’t even know how long he’s going to be gone. Japan. He’s leaving this week sometime.”
“It sounds kind of vague.”
“It is,” she said, watching Tiny and her teeny cat in the ceiling light. “I told you, there’s no story. But he’s awfully attractive and the book is great. What’s doing with you and Fletcher?”
She held winter dresses against herself in the bedroom mirror. Wasn’t thrilled.
Put books on the end of the top shelf, standing on the stepladder, reaching.
Felice, in the kitchen, stood watching the base of the below-the-sink cabinet.
Who would ever think, with all the restaurants in the city, thousands of them, that she and what’s-his-name, Rocky’s editor, would zero in on the same one for lunch? Incredible . . . Unless the Four Seasons had turned into some kind of hangout for writers and editors since he’d been there . . . But it still had class; the Steins were taking
Lesley’s parents there for their silver anniversary, Vida and Lauren suggested it to johns. No, it was just another of life’s amazing coincidences. . . .
It was a shame she liked Rocky. They’d be a good match, when you considered how much they had in common. . . .
He couldn’t let it make any difference though.
Not when Rocky had an appointment at eight A.M. Osaka time a week from Tuesday in the Takai Company’s showroom, and they’d probably made an extra light or two for display purposes or at least had some eight-by-ten glossies in the album. Wouldn’t any manufacturer, let alone a smart hot-for-more-business Jap?
Stay cool. Think. No time for panic. It’s Sunday night, no, Monday morning; Rocky’s flight leaves JFK Friday morning at eleven.
Think.
Maybe the bike wasn’t really a total washout. . . . Look at the positive side. It had left Rocky with his foot in a cast, limping around 9A with a cane. . . .
She usually worked at home one day a week—Tuesday or Wednesday, depending on her appointments and whatever meetings were scheduled—and got as much done, with minimal phone calls from Sara, as in two days at the office. She worked most evenings too, and three or four hours on weekends; read manuscripts in bed from six to eight each morning.
Her at-home day that week was Tuesday, the 24th of October, a day that at its end was declared by all the weathermen on all the channels to have been the most glorious day of that glorious season. Their stats were backed by footage of turquoise skies, fiery trees, and upturned faces—footage shot for the most part in Central Park.
To sit that glorious morning with a slice of fiery park and turquoise reservoir beyond one’s left shoulder and to be editing a book, even a fine book such as the one she was glad to be working on, was—work. Especially for a country girl . . .
She turned, lifting her glasses; looked out at a skein of geese flying down to the turquoise; leaned to watch the geese merge with geese flying up from beneath, feathering water between them.
She lowered her glasses, turned and read.
Made marks.
Drew in breath as papers stirred by the window, inches open. . . .
