by Ira Levin
“None of your business,” he said.
“Oh, fuck you . . .”
He kissed her neck.
8
“HALF AN HOUR,” she said.
He unlocked 13B’s door, and reaching in, switched on the foyer light. “I hope there’s something good,” he said, bracing the door open for her. “It’s liable to be just a few Jets fans.”
“I thought it was supposed to be continuous fascination,” she said, going in.
“Beautiful Sunday afternoons aren’t prime time. And it’s Thanksgiving weekend, don’t forget. A lot of people went home.”
She stood at the rim of the living room’s darkness, her hand going where her switch upstairs was. She pressed, and turned the green-shaded lamp up full, lighting the tan console, the gray screens.
“I’ll get a chair. . . .”
She stood surveying the wall-to-wall curve of green-glinting screens, six rows high from the console to near the ceiling, single rows passing over and under the mammoth center screens; six rows high on either side, pale digits glowing across the top and midline—2 through 11 on the left, 12 through 21 on the right, A’s above, B’s below.
She walked nearer, slipping her hands into her jeans pockets.
Stood behind the posture-back armchair looking at the console’s regiments of paired toggle switches and push buttons, patterned and plastic-labeled to match the screens. A center bank of knobs and larger switches; farther back, sunk in tan laminate, two VCR’s.
An inset face-up clock—blue digits, 12:55—a phone, a pad in a clipboard. A bowl of jelly beans. Luscious colors.
The door closed behind her.
She watched his pearly reflection in 1 and 2, the center screens, coming in behind a tall white chair, bringing it to her left. “Did you tape me?” she asked, turning.
He put down one of his white leather dining chairs; held its peaked back, looking at her. “Yes,” he said. “The night you moved in, in the tub, but it’s so dark you can hardly see anything. And the two of us, that first Saturday night.”
She looked away. “I don’t believe it,” she said.
“I set it when I came down for the champagne,” he said. Smiled at her. “Just in case. You don’t want to miss a major event. Don’t make me erase it; it’s super-safe and think what fun it’ll be when we’re old. We’ll probably be the only couple in the world with a tape of their first time together.”
She looked at him. Drew a breath. “I wouldn’t doubt it,” she said. Turned and sat.
He squared the chair toward the screens, bent over it, kissed her head.
He went and dimmed the green-shaded lamp; watched it, dimming it low. “I’ve got soda and stuff here,” he said. “Do you want anything?”
She shook her head, looking down, rubbing at the back of a hand.
He came and sat in his chair, rolled close to the console. Switched on a red gleam, a hum from the back of the apartment.
She sat straight in the straight-backed chair, crossed her legs, folded her arms.
“This’ll take a second,” he said. “I’m cutting out the bathrooms and Sam’s apartment.”
In the pallid light she watched his hand riding on its shadow, clicking along the row of toggles nearest her. “What’s the humming?” she asked.
“The power supply.” His hand clicked back along a farther row of toggles. “The voltage has to be stepped down and converted, from AC to DC. There’d be too much heat and noise in here with a separate transformer for each screen. I’ve got a big one in back wired right into the mains.” He clicked at the right-hand switches. “I’ll close the door if it bothers you.”
“It’s all right,” she said. Looked at his turned head. “It would really be super,” she said, “if you put this much effort and industry into something worthwhile.”
“Give me time,” he said. “I’ve got other projects in mind. Okay . . .”—he faced front, clicked switches—“welcome to the real Golden Age of Television . . .”
The screens bloomed blue-white in rows of rooms on both sides. The third row down stayed dark, and the bottom row except the screens under the large ones—the building’s entrance, the lobby, the mailroom, both elevators. “Let’s check out Felice,” he said, touching buttons. The center screens ballooned with all-around overviews of her living room, her bedroom.
“Good Lord,” she said.
He touched knobs on the console.
She looked at her furniture, her patterned rugs, her Times scattered around the bedroom, her books, her plants, her ornaments.
“You’ll get used to the perspective,” he said. “Here she is. Hi, Felice.”
Felice walked past the bed on the right-hand screen, newspaper rustling under her. She walked to the window at the top of the screen, hopped to the sill. Lay down in the sunlight, lifted a hind leg, licked it.
She smiled in the blue-white light.
“Oh shit, I forgot,” he said, “we should have waited till three. Ruby’s having a seance and it’ll be interesting. Ruby Clupeida, with the perfume.” He touched a button before her, one before him. “She’s into spiritualism.” On the left-hand screen, Giorgio, in a dark caftan, brought a chair to a round table. “There’s a psychic who’s been ripping her off for months,” he said. “I’ve seen him checking his notes in the bathroom. And she’s finally gotten suspicious and has an expert coming. He’s going to pretend to be her father’s business partner. The father is dead and has been communicating.”
“That’s beautiful furniture,” she said. “Jacobean.”
“Family heirlooms,” he said. “Her mother is suing her over them. She claims Ruby took them without permission.”
“I gather she’s not a man in drag.”
“No.” He smiled, scanning the monitors. “That was funny, when you said she looked like one, because you had just asked me about Vida, who is, more or less.”
“What?”
“He’s a pre-op transsexual,” he said. “He had the hormone treatments but when it came to the actual operation he had second thoughts. He’s been fighting with his lover about it for almost a year. And you’ll never guess—oh good, Jay and Lisa are here.” He touched buttons. “The Fishers, four A. She’s been having an affair with her boss and her sister tipped him off last week. She’s been denying it.” In a high-tech living room on the right-hand screen, an attractive dark-haired woman she’d seen in the elevator stood in pajamas looking out the window. A man in pajamas crouched at the TV, adjusting it. “It’s beautiful out,” Lisa Fisher said.
“Go for a walk,” Jay Fisher said. “Call Ben, it’s okay with me.”
“Oh God,” Lisa Fisher said, “if you’re going to start in again . . .”
On the left-hand screen, the goateed man on twelve sat down at a desk in a half-furnished living room and picked up the phone. “David Hoenenkamp,” Pete said while the Fishers argued. “An ex-priest, now in advertising. He has his own agency, small but successful. He’s separated from the woman he left the church for.”
They listened to David Hoenenkamp explaining to a client why he was resigning the account.
The Fishers arguing.
“Fantastic clarity, isn’t it?” he said, offering the jelly beans.
She nodded, taking a couple.
“Takai,” he said. “Japanese, the best in the world.” He put the bowl down on the blue 1:07, took a few beans himself.
They watched the Sweringens on 1, the Fishers on 2. He switched the sound back and forth.
“I assure you it’s not a question of money,” Stefan said on 1, going into the kitchen, “it’s the time involved. Do you realize how long it takes to find the parts?”
“Hey, what time is it?” she asked.
He moved the bowl—from 3:02.
“Jeez,” he said.
“Good grief,” she said.
He killed the sound. Swiveled to her.
They looked at each other.
“And this was nothing, Kay,” he said. �
��Almost nobody here. No Dr. Palme. No sex even, for God’s sake.”
She said, “I didn’t expect it to be boring.”
“You ought to see it in a few hours,” he said, “when everybody’s getting home.”
She shifted around, leaned to him, took his hands in hers. “Petey, it’s wrong,” she said, “no matter how interesting and—affecting it is. And you know it means big trouble if anyone finds out. It could ruin your whole life. Our whole lives . . .”
They looked at each other.
She said, “It’s something you have to put behind you. Not just for us. For your own sake.”
He sighed, nodded. “I guess . . .” he said.
She let go his hands.
He swiveled, opened a drawer, brought out the Yellow Pages. Opened the thick book in his lap, swiveling back. Sighed, looked at her.
She looked at him.
He riffled pages in the blue-white light, found the locksmiths. “Wow, look how many,” he said, turning pages.
“How are you going to work this?” she asked. “Will Terry let a locksmith up here with no Johnsons around?”
He looked at her.
“And if you call someone to thirteen A,” she said, “will he change the lock here?”
He said, “I didn’t think of that.”
She said, “You goddamn liar . . .”
He raised his right hand. “Kay, I swear I didn’t. I was so anxious to get you to watch for a while . . .” He leaned to her. “Look,” he said, “it really doesn’t make any difference. All we have to do is fix this door so it can’t be opened from outside, nail a piece of wood to the floor or something, and you can still put a lock on the door in back. Same effect.” He smiled at her. “We can play games where I try to get you to tell the combination. If I succeed, you change it.”
She sat a moment, looking at him. Shook her head. “No,” she said. “I’ve changed my mind. I’m not going to be Mommy-taking-care-of-you all the time. That’s not the kind of relationship I want. You’re an adult, Pete. You’re going to have to be responsible for your own actions. You know how I feel about this. If you really want an ongoing relationship, you’re going to have to do the locking up yourself.”
He sighed. “The honor system?” he said.
“Yes,” she said.
He nodded, closed the phone book, swiveled, put it on the console. “You’re right, of course.” He swiveled back, smiling at her. “You’re really going to shape me up. . . .” He took her hands, bent, kissed them. Sat looking at her, his eyes a deeper blue in the blue-white. “I will,” he said. “I’m going to get onto those other projects. Actually I’ve sort of started on one. There are some things going on here that I’m very involved in—a couple of Dr. Palme’s patients, and eleven B, the two women there, and the Ostrows right above you—so I can’t swear I’m going to quit cold turkey, but I’m going to cut way down and taper off fast. I promise I will.”
“I hope so, Pete,” she said. “I really do.”
They leaned to each other, kissed.
“And I won’t watch you any more, ever,” he said, freeing a hand, turning. He clicked switches. The 20B monitors went dark, the next to the last in the lower right rows. He smiled at her. “You and Sam,” he said. “Symmetrical.”
She looked around at the dark second screens in the lower left rows. Noticed, turning back, new movement in 8B.
“That’s the psychic,” he said. Touched buttons.
Hand in hand they looked at the masters. Ruby and another woman ushered a stout dark-suited man into the living room. Jay got into an overcoat, shouting at Lisa who was talking on the phone with a finger in her ear.
“Turn the sound on,” Kay said. “Just for a minute.”
First thing monday morning she called the legal department. Wayne was there. She asked how Sandy and the kids were. They were fine. “I need some information about the laws concerning invasion of privacy,” she said. “Specifically, a situation where someone bugs an apartment with a videocamera and rents it out, on a standard lease, here in New York.”
“The tenant being unaware of the videocamera.”
“Yes,” she said. “The phone is tapped too. I’ve got a manuscript based on that situation, and according to the author it’s a gray area legally. Is he right, and if so, exactly how gray?”
“I couldn’t say offhand, that’s not my bailiwick, but I’ll be glad to run it down for you. I can tell you that a phone tap, if it’s unauthorized, is a federal offense.”
“I thought as much,” she said.
“Probably state as well. I’ll get back to you about the videocamera. It shouldn’t take long.”
“It’s outside the apartment,” she said. “He says that’s a factor. There’s a glass thread coming in through the ceiling light.”
“Is it being done for a business-related purpose?”
“No,” she said, “it’s just a matter of watching.”
“Aha. And the heroine moves in.”
“How did you guess?” she said.
She asked Sara to get Florence Leary Winthrop and to hold all calls except Wayne.
Half an hour later she put Florence on hold. “Wayne?”
“Yes. Your writer’s right. There’s no federal or state criminal law yet against visual electronic surveillance per se. The landlord could be subject to a civil suit if the tenant found out, but the only criminal charge he might face, other than the unauthorized phone tapping—which is a five-year felony, by the way—would be running afoul of the state law against peeping, a very minor charge. And even that would be open to challenge.”
“I’m surprised,” she said.
“So am I. There may be some legislation pending. Your best bet for information on that would probably be the ACLU.”
She thanked him; apologized to Florence.
“I told you,” Pete said that evening, smiling. “They’re very knowledgeable and they never stop yakking. Two lawyers.”
“The penalty for unauthorized phone tapping,” she said, “is five years.”
“I know that,” he said.
They were in Table d’Hôte, a small storefront restaurant on Ninety-second Street. Couples and foursomes were at all but one of the eight antique tables; the noise level of conversation and cutlery was high. They were in a corner at a round table, sitting knee against knee, sipping white wine, buttering pieces of marbled bread.
“I can’t untap them at this point,” he said, “not without breaking through the basement ceiling. But nobody’ll ever find out. And I’m really tapering off. I didn’t watch at all today, not that Mondays are fantastic. During the day, I mean. Monday nights are. Everybody’s home.”
“What did you do?” she asked.
“Some computer work on the project,” he said. “And I’ll tell you right now, it’s something I’d rather not talk about until certain details have been ironed out. I know you’ll understand that.”
“Of course,” she said. “I wasn’t probing. I was just curious about how you spent the day. It must have been hard not to watch. I couldn’t stop thinking about it, how hypnotic it is.”
“Because it’s real,” he said. “It’s like the difference between seeing cars piling up in a movie and a real accident in the street.”
“And never knowing what’s coming next,” she said.
“Sure, that’s a big part of it,” he said. “The total unpredictability, and the variety.”
She sighed, sipped her wine. “I wish to hell it weren’t so wrong,” she said.
“It’s considered wrong,” he said, “but nobody gets hurt and I’ll bet there isn’t anyone who wouldn’t want to watch for a while.”
She looked at him. “No more,” she said.
“I know,” he said. “I told you, I didn’t at all today, and one of Dr. Palme’s most interesting patients is on Monday.”
The waiter set handsomely garnished Victorian plates before them—grilled swordfish, poached salmon.
Delicious
. They traded tastes.
He told her about some of Dr. Palme’s patients.
The tall couple on seventeen came in from the street; one of the waiters greeted them, pointed them to the vacant table two away from theirs.
“The Coles in seventeen A,” he murmured. “The building’s leading kinks.”
“We’re not?” she said.
“Us? No way. We’re fifth or sixth.”
“And climbing.”
On the way home they stopped at the flower-banked Korean grocery on the corner, picked up orange juice and apples for her, milk and grapes and coffee for him. He put change in the paper cup of the ragged man outside.
They crossed Ninety-second Street, waited for the sign to change. Looked up at the towering pink-lit building, its twin lanes of windows glowing, glinting to its dark top. “It’s an odd feeling,” she said, hugging his arm, looking up, “knowing the people behind the windows . . .”
“I thought that was how it was back home,” he said, watching her, smiling.
“Oh sure, exactly the same . . .”
They smiled at each other. Puckered, kissed.
Crossed the avenue.
Walt, in winter maroon, backed the door open as they came near.
“Hi, Walt,” they said.
“Miss Norris, Mr. Henderson . . .”
Crossing the lobby, he said in her ear, “He’s having an affair with Denise Smith in five B.”
“He is?”
“He makes out a lot.” He touched the up button; they watched Walt outside, opening a cab door. “It’s the voice that gets them,” he said. “He used to sing at the City Opera, in the chorus. He and Ruby had a thing going last year but he broke it off. She had him walking Ginger all the time.”
The black/white couple came in with Christmas shopping bags from Lord & Taylor. Everybody nodded, smiled.
Pete said, “ ’Tis the season.”
“Yes, it is,” the man said, smiling.
The number-one elevator came.
They rode up in silence.
After the door closed on seven, he said, “Bill and Carol Wagnall. Very interesting.”
“I’m sure,” she said.
They got out at thirteen to drop off his groceries.
