I move toward the refrigerator anyway. Staring darkly, Price reenters the kitchen and says, “Who in the hell is in the living room?”
Evelyn feigns ignorance. “Oh who is that?”
Courtney warns, “Ev-el-yn. You did tell them, I hope.”
“Who is it?” I ask, suddenly scared. “Victor Powell?”
“No, it’s not Victor Powell, Patrick,” Evelyn says casually. “It’s an artist friend of mine, Stash. And Vanden, his girlfriend.”
“Oh so that was a girl in there,” Price says. “Go take a look, Bateman,” he dares. “Let me guess. The East Village?”
“Oh Price,” she says flirtatiously, opening beer bottles. “Why no. Vanden goes to Camden and Stash lives in SoHo, so there.”
I move out of the kitchen, past the dining room, where the table has been set, the beeswax candles from Zona lit in their sterling silver candleholders from Fortunoff, and into the living room. I can’t tell what Stash is wearing since it’s all black. Vanden has green streaks in her hair. She stares at a heavy-metal video playing on MTV while smoking a cigarette.
“Ahem,” I cough.
Vanden looks over warily, probably drugged to the eyeballs. Stash doesn’t move.
“Hi. Pat Bateman,” I say, offering my hand, noticing my reflection in a mirror hung on the wall—and smiling at how good I look.
She takes it, says nothing. Stash starts smelling his fingers.
Smash cut and I’m back in the kitchen.
“Just get her out of there.” Price is seething. “She’s doped up watching MTV and I want to watch the goddamn MacNeil/Lehrer report.”
Evelyn is still opening large bottles of imported beer and absently mentions, “We’ve got to eat this stuff soon or else we’re all going to be poisoned.”
“She’s got a green streak in her hair,” I tell them. “And she’s smoking.”
“Bateman,” Tim says, still glaring at Evelyn.
“Yes?” I say. “Timothy?”
“You’re a dufus.”
“Oh leave Patrick alone,” Evelyn says. “He’s the boy next door. That’s Patrick. You’re not a dufus, are you, honey?” Evelyn is on Mars and I move toward the bar to make myself another drink.
“Boy next door.” Tim smirks and nods, then reverses his expression and hostilely asks Evelyn again if she has a lint brush.
Evelyn finishes opening the Japanese beer bottles and tells Courtney to fetch Stash and Vanden. “We have to eat this now or else we’re going to be poisoned,” she murmurs, slowly moving her head, taking in the kitchen, making sure she hasn’t forgotten anything.
“If I can tear them away from the latest Megadeth video,” Courtney says before exiting.
“I have to talk to you,” Evelyn says.
“What about?” I come up to her.
“No,” she says and then pointing at Tim, “to Price.”
Tim still glares at her fiercely. I say nothing and stare at Tim’s drink.
“Be a hon,” she tells me, “and place the sushi on the table. Tempura is in the microwave and the sake is just about done boiling.…” Her voice trails off as she leads Price out of the kitchen.
I am wondering where Evelyn got the sushi—the tuna, yellowtail, mackerel, shrimp, eel, even bonito, all seem so fresh and there are piles of wasabi and clumps of ginger placed strategically around the Wilton platter—but I also like the idea that I don’t know, will never know, will never ask where it came from and that the sushi will sit there in the middle of the glass table from Zona that Evelyn’s father bought her like some mysterious apparition from the Orient and as I set the platter down I catch a glimpse of my reflection on the surface of the table. My skin seems darker because of the candlelight and I notice how good the haircut I got at Gio’s last Wednesday looks. I make myself another drink. I worry about the sodium level in the soy sauce.
Four of us sit around the table waiting for Evelyn and Timothy to return from getting Price a lint brush. I sit at the head taking large swallows of J&B. Vanden sits at the other end reading disinterestedly from some East Village rag called Deception, its glaring headline THE DEATH OF DOWNTOWN. Stash has pushed a chopstick into a lone piece of yellowtail that lies on the middle of his plate like some shiny impaled insect and the chopstick stands straight up. Stash occasionally moves the piece of sushi around the plate with the chopstick but never looks up toward either myself or Vanden or Courtney, who sits next to me sipping plum wine from a champagne glass.
Evelyn and Timothy come back perhaps twenty minutes after we’ve seated ourselves and Evelyn looks only slightly flushed. Tim glares at me as he takes the seat next to mine, a fresh drink in hand, and he leans over toward me, about to say, to admit something, when suddenly Evelyn interrupts, “Not there, Timothy,” then, barely a whisper, “Boy girl, boy girl.” She gestures toward the empty chair next to Vanden. Timothy shifts his glare to Evelyn and hesitantly takes the seat next to Vanden, who yawns and turns a page of her magazine.
“Well, everybody,” Evelyn says, smiling, pleased with the meal she has presented, “dig in,” and then after noticing the piece of sushi that Stash has pinned—he’s now bent low over the plate, whispering at it—her composure falters but she smiles bravely and chirps, “Plum wine anyone?”
No one says anything until Courtney, who is staring at Stash’s plate, lifts her glass uncertainly and says, trying to smile, “It’s … delicious, Evelyn.”
Stash doesn’t speak. Even though he is probably uncomfortable at the table with us since he looks nothing like the other men in the room—his hair isn’t slicked back, no suspenders, no horn-rimmed glasses, the clothes black and ill-fitting, no urge to light and suck on a cigar, probably unable to secure a table at Camols, his net worth a pittance—still, his behavior lacks warrant and he sits there as if hypnotized by the glistening piece of sushi and just as the table is about to finally ignore him, to look away and start eating, he sits up and loudly says, pointing an accusing finger at his plate, “It moved!”
Timothy glares at him with a contempt so total that I can’t fully equal it but I muster enough energy to come close. Vanden seems amused and so now, unfortunately, does Courtney, who I’m beginning to think finds this monkey attractive but I suppose if I were dating Luis Carruthers I might too. Evelyn laughs good-naturedly and says, “Oh Stash, you are a riot,” and then asks worriedly, “Tempura?” Evelyn is an executive at a financial services company, FYI.
“I’ll have some,” I tell her and I lift a piece of eggplant off the platter, though I won’t eat it because it’s fried.
The table begins to serve themselves, successfully ignoring Stash. I stare at Courtney as she chews and swallows.
Evelyn, in an attempt to start a conversation, says, after what seems like a long, thoughtful silence, “Vanden goes to Camden.”
“Oh really?” Timothy asks icily. “Where is that?”
“Vermont,” Vanden answers without looking up from her paper.
I look over at Stash to see if he’s pleased with Vanden’s casually blatant lie but he acts as if he wasn’t listening, as if he were in some other room or some punk rock club in the bowels of the city, but so does the rest of the table, which bothers me since I am fairly sure we all know it’s located in New Hampshire.
“Where did you go?” Vanden sighs after it finally becomes clear to her that no one is interested in Camden.
“Well, I went to Le Rosay,” Evelyn starts, “and then to business school in Switzerland.”
“I also survived business school in Switzerland,” Courtney says. “But I was in Geneva. Evelyn was in Lausanne.”
Vanden tosses the copy of Deception next to Timothy and smirks in a wan, bitchy way and though I am pissed off a little that Evelyn doesn’t take in Vanden’s condescension and hurl it back at her, the J&B has relieved my stress to a point where I don’t care enough to say anything. Evelyn probably thinks Vanden is sweet, lost, confused, an artist. Price isn’t eating and neither is Evelyn; I suspect cocain
e but it’s doubtful. While taking a large gulp from his drink Timothy holds up the copy of Deception and chuckles to himself.
“The Death of Downtown,” he says; then, pointing at each word in the headline, “Who-gives-a-rat’s-ass?”
I automatically expect Stash to look up from his plate but he still stares at the lone piece of sushi, smiling to himself and nodding.
“Hey,” Vanden says, as if she was insulted. “That affects us.”
“Oh ho ho,” Tim says warningly. “That affects us? What about the massacres in Sri Lanka, honey? Doesn’t that affect us too? What about Sri Lanka?”
“Well, that’s a cool club in the Village.” Vanden shrugs. “Yeah, that affects us too.”
Suddenly Stash speaks without looking up. “That’s called The Tonka.” He sounds pissed but his voice is even and low, his eyes still on the sushi. “It’s called The Tonka, not Sri Lanka. Got it? The Tonka.”
Vanden looks down, then meekly says, “Oh.”
“I mean don’t you know anything about Sri Lanka? About how the Sikhs are killing like tons of Israelis there?” Timothy goads her. “Doesn’t that affect us?”
“Kappamaki roll anyone?” Evelyn cuts in cheerfully, holding up a plate.
“Oh come on, Price,” I say. “There are more important problems than Sri Lanka to worry about. Sure our foreign policy is important, but there are more pressing problems at hand.”
“Like what?” he asks without looking away from Vanden. “By the way, why is there an ice cube in my soy sauce?”
“No,” I start, hesitantly. “Well, we have to end apartheid for one. And slow down the nuclear arms race, stop terrorism and world hunger. Ensure a strong national defense, prevent the spread of communism in Central America, work for a Middle East peace settlement, prevent U.S. military involvement overseas. We have to ensure that America is a respected world power. Now that’s not to belittle our domestic problems, which are equally important, if not more. Better and more affordable long-term care for the elderly, control and find a cure for the AIDS epidemic, clean up environmental damage from toxic waste and pollution, improve the quality of primary and secondary education, strengthen laws to crack down on crime and illegal drugs. We also have to ensure that college education is affordable for the middle class and protect Social Security for senior citizens plus conserve natural resources and wilderness areas and reduce the influence of political action committees.”
The table stares at me uncomfortably, even Stash, but I’m on a roll.
“But economically we’re still a mess. We have to find a way to hold down the inflation rate and reduce the deficit. We also need to provide training and jobs for the unemployed as well as protect existing American jobs from unfair foreign imports. We have to make America the leader in new technology. At the same time we need to promote economic growth and business expansion and hold the line against federal income taxes and hold down interest rates while promoting opportunities for small businesses and controlling mergers and big corporate takeovers.”
Price nearly spits up his Absolut after this comment but I try to make eye contact with each one of them, especially Vanden, who if she got rid of the green streak and the leather and got some color—maybe joined an aerobics class, slipped on a blouse, something by Laura Ashley—might be pretty. But why does she sleep with Stash? He’s lumpy and pale and has a bad cropped haircut and is at least ten pounds overweight; there’s no muscle tone beneath the black T-shirt.
“But we can’t ignore our social needs either. We have to stop people from abusing the welfare system. We have to provide food and shelter for the homeless and oppose racial discrimination and promote civil rights while also promoting equal rights for women but change the abortion laws to protect the right to life yet still somehow maintain women’s freedom of choice. We also have to control the influx of illegal immigrants. We have to encourage a return to traditional moral values and curb graphic sex and violence on TV, in movies, in popular music, everywhere. Most importantly we have to promote general social concern and less materialism in young people.”
I finish my drink. The table sits facing me in total silence. Courtney’s smiling and seems pleased. Timothy just shakes his head in bemused disbelief. Evelyn is completely mystified by the turn the conversation has taken and she stands, unsteadily, and asks if anyone would like dessert.
“I have … sorbet,” she says as if in a daze. “Kiwi, carambola, cherimoya, cactus fruit and oh … what is that …” She stops her zombie monotone and tries to remember the last flavor. “Oh yes, Japanese pear.”
Everyone stays silent. Tim quickly looks over at me. I glance at Courtney, then back at Tim, then at Evelyn. Evelyn meets my glance, then worriedly looks over at Tim. I also look over at Tim, then at Courtney and then at Tim again, who looks at me once more before answering slowly, unsurely, “Cactus pear.”
“Cactus fruit,” Evelyn corrects.
I look suspiciously over at Courtney and after she says “Cherimoya” I say “Kiwi” and then Vanden says “Kiwi” also and Stash says quietly, but enunciating each syllable very clearly, “Chocolate chip.”
The worry that flickers across Evelyn’s face when she hears this is instantaneously replaced by a smiling and remarkably good-natured mask and she says, “Oh Stash, you know I don’t have chocolate chip, though admittedly that’s pretty exotic for a sorbet. I told you I have cherimoya, cactus pear, carambola, I mean cactus fruit—”
“I know. I heard you, I heard you,” he says, waving her off. “Surprise me.”
“Okay,” Evelyn says. “Courtney? Would you like to help?”
“Of course.” Courtney gets up and I watch as her shoes click away into the kitchen.
“No cigars, boys,” Evelyn calls out.
“Wouldn’t dream of it,” Price says, putting a cigar back into his coat pocket.
Stash is still staring at the sushi with an intensity that troubles me and I have to ask him, hoping he will catch my sarcasm, “Did it, uh, move again or something?”
Vanden has made a smiley face out of all the disks of California roll she piled onto her plate and she holds it up for Stash’s inspection and asks, “Rex?”
“Cool,” Stash grunts.
Evelyn comes back with the sorbet in Odeon margarita glasses and an unopened bottle of Glenfiddich, which remains unopened while we eat the sorbet.
Courtney has to leave early to meet Luis at a company party at Bedlam, a new club in midtown. Stash and Vanden depart soon after to go “score” something somewhere in SoHo. I am the only one who saw Stash take the piece of sushi from his plate and slip it into the pocket of his olive green leather bomber jacket. When I mention this to Evelyn, while she loads the dishwasher, she gives me a look so hateful that it seems doubtful we will have sex later on tonight. But I stick around anyway. So does Price. He is now lying on a late-eighteenth-century Aubusson carpet drinking espresso from a Ceralene coffee cup on the floor of Evelyn’s room. I’m lying on Evelyn’s bed holding a tapestry pillow from Jenny B. Goode, nursing a cranberry and Absolut. Evelyn sits at her dressing table brushing her hair, a Ralph Lauren green and white striped silk robe draped over a very nice body, and she is gazing at her reflection in the vanity mirror.
“Am I the only one who grasped the fact that Stash assumed his piece of sushi was”—I cough, then resume—“a pet?”
“Please stop inviting your ‘artiste’ friends over,” Tim says tiredly. “I’m sick of being the only one at dinner who hasn’t talked to an extraterrestrial.”
“It was only that once,” Evelyn says, inspecting a lip, lost in her own placid beauty.
“And at Odeon, no less,” Price mutters.
I vaguely wonder why I wasn’t invited to Odeon for the artists dinner. Had Evelyn picked up the tab? Probably. And I suddenly picture a smiling Evelyn, secretly morose, sitting at a whole table of Stash’s friends—all of them constructing little log cabins with their french fries or pretending their grilled salmon was alive and
moving the piece of fish around the table, the fish conversing with each other about the “art scene,” new galleries; maybe even trying to fit the fish into the log cabin made of french fries.…
“If you remember well enough, I hadn’t seen one either,” Evelyn says.
“No, but Bateman’s your boyfriend, so that counted.” Price guffaws and I toss the pillow at him. He catches it then throws it back at me.
“Leave Patrick alone. He’s the boy next door,” Evelyn says, rubbing some kind of cream into her face. “You’re not an extraterrestrial, are you honey?”
“Should I even dignify that question with an answer?” I sigh.
“Oh baby.” She pouts into the mirror, looking at me in its reflection. “I know you’re not an extraterrestrial.”
“Relief,” I mutter to myself.
“No, but Stash was there at Odeon that night,” Price continues, and then, looking over at me, “At Odeon. Are you listening, Bateman?”
“No he wasn’t,” Evelyn says.
“Oh yes he was, but his name wasn’t Stash last time. It was Horseshoe or Magnet or Lego or something equally adult,” Price sneers. “I forget.”
“Timothy, what are you going on about?” Evelyn asks tiredly. “I’m not even listening to you.” She wets a cotton ball, wipes it across her forehead.
“No, we were at Odeon.” Price sits up with some effort. “And don’t ask me why, but I distinctly remember him ordering the tuna cappuccino.”
“Carpaccio,” Evelyn corrects.
“No, Evelyn dear, love of my life. I distinctly remember him ordering the tuna cappuccino,” Price says, staring up at the ceiling.
“He said carpaccio,” she counters, running the cotton ball over her eyelids.
“Cappuccino,” Price insists. “Until you corrected him.”
“You didn’t even recognize him earlier tonight,” she says.
“Oh but I do remember him,” Price says, turning to me. “Evelyn described him as ‘the good-natured body builder.’ That’s how she introduced him. I swear.”
“Oh shut up,” she says, annoyed, but she looks over at Timothy in the mirror and smiles flirtatiously.
American Psycho Page 2
