Authors: Tama Janowitz
"How was the golf?" she asked after quite a long silence.
"Not bad! Ninety-two, which for me is about average."
"That sounds very good," she said hesitantly, since she didn't have a clue.
"Do you golf, Florence?"
"I'm afraid not. That was the one lesson my mother didn't think of sending me to. I had tennis, ballet, I had piano, I can't even remember what else, but she had predetermined ideas about what girls were supposed to learn." She didn't add that in any event her lessons had mostly ended when she was ten and her father had died—and ten was too young for any instruction to have made much of an impact on her skills or abilities. "I believe my grandfather was quite an avid golfer, though, when he was young."
"You don't think of taking it up?"
"Gosh, I would love to!" she said. "Maybe I could come with you sometime, just to watch and pick up a few pointers. Or you could recommend an instructor, if you were too busy." She saw herself on the golf course, in pink golf shoes and shorts, her muscular calves exposed, blond hair pulled back in a ponytail, legs bent just right as she swung. There were plenty of men on the golf course. She should have thought of it years ago.
"Why not! I'm thinking of playing a round tomorrow, but if I'm free in the afternoon, I'll take you out on the course—we'll rent you some clubs and see how you like it!" John looked down at his plate, embarrassed at his effusiveness. "So what were you telling me earlier? You're going to move over to Sotheby's?"
"I don't know. I'm not sure it would be any improvement. Anyway, they don't pay anything, although Quayle's pays even less. I mean, it's not that I'm in it for the money—if I was, I wouldn't have gone to an auction house, you know? I've always been more interested in . . . opportunity. So, since I had some
money from when my mother died, I figured I could afford to take an apprenticeship type of position—you know, learn the business. But I don't know what happened. I mean, I bought an apartment, and anyway, it's so expensive to live in the city, and I think I'm down to my last twenty-five."
"Quarter million?" said John. "No, that's not much, but if you can leave it alone for a few years, there're some good investments—"
"No, no, it's only twenty-five thousand. I mean, that's about the same as my annual salary at Quayle's, which isn't enough to live on. And I was sort of hoping—"
"You want some financial advice? Invest it."
"But in what? I need money, a decent amount to live on!" The words blurted out shrilly. He looked slightly miffed at her outburst. She tried to change her tone. "Honestly, John, how much could I make if I was willing to take a risk?"
"If it's all you've got, I don't know why you'd risk it. I mean, if you had quite a bit, I could take the money and, I don't know, double it in a year."
She was almost panting at the thought. If he could double it in a year, then in two years she would have a hundred thousand, and so on. "I know you don't ordinarily handle sums that small."
"All right, I'm thinking. Let me see what I can do. My company doesn't handle accounts of less than a quarter million . . . Well, all right. Here's something you might want to think about. A new restaurant that's starting up. It's a very good friend of mine— he's had nothing but success. You've heard of Belfast Shipyards? East Prussia? The Liberal Party? You can't get a table in those places—all three of them are Derek's. I've done very well—I was actually one of his first friends to put money into the first place."
"How much does it cost to get in? What's the return?"
"Put it this way: I doubled my money the first six months. It has slowed a bit since then, but almost five years later he's still paying close to thirty-three percent. Of course, I'm getting more since I was one of the first to have faith in him. And I know that shares in this new place are seventy-five grand apiece. However, if
it appeals to you, why don't I talk to him and see if he'd let you take a third of a share for twenty-five thousand. And I'd like to be able to help you out."
"Oh, it sounds fabulous! I mean, yes, definitely I'd be interested. Thanks, John—I don't want to inconvenience you, but it would be so wonderful!"
"Why don't you give me a call in New York next week and we can set something up. We'll have lunch. Come on." He pushed his chair back from the table. "We'll go outside and have a drink. I've got a wet bar over by the pool, and some decent port. I have to go out there to smoke my cigars—Natalie can't stand the smell. Is it going to bother you?"
"Not at all."
"Good, good. For all I know, maybe you'd like one yourself."
"Not tonight, thanks."
She followed him out and sat on a damp plastic chaise while he went into the cabana to get their drinks. He had turned on the underwater pool lights, which made the water a surreal, unnatural shade of blue, and the smell of chlorine was so strong she could almost chew it. She thought it was the way money should taste, chopped into a salad of green bills in large denominations.
"Can I ask you a question?" John said, coming up behind her in the darkness. "Did you ever think of getting married?"
"I haven't met the right person, I guess!" she said. She couldn't help but feel slightly irritated. "You know what it's like in New York. Most of the guys are gay, and the straight men that come here are the most ambitious—they don't want to get married, they just like to date some model to show her off to other men."
"In my office everybody is married, or I'd make one of them marry you. Not that I would have to force any of them. What about a roommate?"
"I can't," Florence said. "I don't know. I mean, I'm too old."
"You're not too old. How old are you?"
"Thirty-two."
"You're kidding . . . Let me think what I can do," John said. "How's your room, by the way?"
"Fine!" said Florence. "It's not going to get too cold tonight, is it? Natalie said I shouldn't need a blanket."
"I don't know. It can get kind of chilly at night. I'll find a blanket and bring it up to you, if you like. What room are you in?"
"I'm in the little single room. But I'm sure I'll be all right."
"What little single room?"
"It's the small room, there's a twin bed?"
"I thought that was the storage room!" said John indignantly. "Why are you in that room? Take one of the big rooms with a bathroom!"
"Oh no, I'm fine, really," she said. "I think Natalie has other guests who are going to be using the other rooms."
"Up to you," said John, pushing back his chair. "Listen, don't accuse me of sexism. I know I'm walking on sticky territory here"—he laughed uproariously while Florence silently watched, a smile fixed weakly to her face—"but you're still an attractive young woman, and if I were you, I would seriously look around for a marriage prospect. I realize things aren't supposed to be like this anymore. I mean, your job at Quayle's—that's a very nice job for a young woman to have—but it's not something you can really look to as a career. Did you look on it as a career? I don't get that sense with you. People must come in there—the previews and so forth— who would be very glad to meet you."
"I know!" Florence said. "It's just that . . . well, I'm very shy, and, I don't know, nobody ever seems to want to speak to me—
"I don't see you as being shy, Florence, whatever you say." Again he began to bellow with laughter, which sounded more similar to the bellowing of an elk than to anything human. "If people aren't coming to you, it's probably that they're frightened of you. You can look quite imposing, you know. You'll have to go to them." The truth was that her superiors, hungry and suspicious as coyotes, watched her as if she were a vole. Quayle's was not to be looked upon as a marriage service. It had been tried before. In any event, the only men who came in to buy from the jewelry sales
were there to buy presents for wives, girlfriends or fiancées. Or gay men acquiring for their shops.
When she didn't respond John tugged at his hair, examining a few strands in the palm of his hand. "I'm going to catch the sports on the TV downstairs in the game room before I go up. Do you want to join me?"
"No, I think I'll just sit out here for a few minutes."
"Help yourself if you want another drink—and let me know if you want me to find you that blanket."
"Thanks, John."
She was aware that there was someone else in the room with her. Natalie was right; she hadn't needed a blanket. With only one window there was no cross-ventilation, and now, at three or four in the morning, the air outside had gone perfectly still. She could hear the low roaring of waves in the distance. Whoever was in the room coughed softly but did not move, as if aware that one false step might cause a variety of appliances and objects to come crashing down. "Who is it?" she said.
"Ssshhh!" the figure said. "Don't turn on the light. I just came to make sure you were all right. It's me."
"John?" Florence said. "What are you doing here?"
He stumbled across the room in her direction, managing not to trip over anything, and sat on the edge of the bed. She was about to sit up and ask him to leave when he flattened himself on top of her, so forcefully she could barely speak. "What are you doing?" she repeated. "John, this isn't right. Get out! What about Natalie?" She wriggled away. Nevertheless, he pulled down her pajama bottoms and hooked his fingers into her as if hoisting a fish by its gills.
"Don't worry," he said, slinging his other forearm onto her chest to hold her in place. "Natalie doesn't care; we haven't slept together in years. She doesn't mind at all. We're getting divorced soon. Please, Florence, you've got to help me. I'm going to die if I
have to go on like this. I've had a crush on you for years. It was when I first met you and you smiled. It was so . . . guileless, so open. You never see a genuine smile like that, not in New York. You have no idea how terrible things have been for me." He covered her face with kisses while simultaneously his fingers went about their grim, forceful inspection. "Please, Florence, please," he said, covering her mouth with the pillow. He seemed so frantic, so desperate, that she couldn't help but feel sorry for him; in the dark, in a strange bedroom, none of it seemed especially real. It was peculiar that Natalie had never mentioned this impending divorce, but perhaps she didn't feel much like talking about it, which was understandable. No wonder she seemed so harsh. At the same time, a wave of sympathy for him came over Florence; he was desperate, desperate, spinning wildly on a shimmery line of despair. These people only seemed to have everything. Underneath was nothing, an elaborately frosted cardboard box.
"Poor John," she murmured, stroking his hair. He was wearing an expensive, strong-smelling cologne, which simultaneously repelled and lured her. The odor must have appealed to some instinctive olfactory sense, the way an otherwise intelligent, sensitive lapdog might be thrown into a feral frenzy on being shown the rotten corpse of a rabbit or taken to the country and introduced to a pile of aged cow manure for the first time. A small part of her wondered what she was doing, but none of it seemed real. This had nothing to do with her. Or at most she was discharging the duties of a nurse,
one
who cared in a catholic sense for all her patients, but none in particular. "Poor John," she repeated, a phrase he seemed to like.
3
It Couldn't have been
much later than seven a.m., but she wasn't certain—there was no bedside clock and she didn't wear a wrist-watch. She had been up for hours, lying in bed, her head aching, trying to muster the strength to use the toilet downstairs. Finally she gave up and went next door. To her horror, the blue-tinted water in the toilet bowl did not vanish when she flushed but slowly rose higher and higher. She searched frantically for the plunger. Moments before the water should have reached the top and begun to spill onto the floor, to her relief, it stopped.
She waited a bit; though the water didn't go down, it didn't seem to rise either. Perhaps it would drain, slowly, of its own accord. Finally she put on her bathing suit, grabbed a Madras windbreaker and went downstairs, where she made a cup of tea in the empty kitchen and headed to the beach. The washed-up detritus—friable cuttle, the amorphous glistening silicon blobs of jellyfish, green-black rubbery strands of seaweed—made her think of the contents of her own head, arbitrary and disconnected, more similar to protozoan shapes than to words.
"Florence!" She turned around. Darryl Lever was scuttling toward her, dressed in an old-fashioned-style bathing suit, like a circus strong man. "Wait up, Florence!"
There was no getting around it: it didn't matter how much time went by, whenever she saw him she felt like smacking him. It wasn't that he wasn't attractive—he was, so much so that she had once too eagerly slept with him. His hair was dark and curly, his blue eyes thickly fringed with black lashes—he might have been a Greek kouros. Except that his expression instantly changed from one of archaic repose to that of a baby who had had its nipple yanked unexpectedly from its mouth—and he seemed to blame her. It wasn't her fault that he had no money, or worse: that he had no interest in it. He was cute, he was a good lay, by now he should have met somebody else and gotten over her. But he was obviously pleased to see her; maybe this time he would forget to sulk.
He reached up to gently wipe some sand from her face. His small hands, nails buffed and polished, were soft to the touch, as if he moisturized them nightly in cream. His touch made her feel shivery—but what was the use? One simply had to be objective about such things and disconnect the body from the mind.