Classic Love: 7 Vintage Romances (18 page)

“Maybe.”

“It does, and you know it! Yes, and I like it, it means you’re alive, you’re a woman, but I don’t go to bed with — ”

“Neither do I.”

“But you can. You’re not married, you have no responsibility to anyone.”

She swallowed. “I’m married, and this is the first time, in seventeen years, that I’ve done anything like this. I don’t want to think on its bearing on anyone else, I don’t want to think about my husband, I don’t want anyone else to think about him, have I asked you about Phyllis? Whether you’re still missing her, wanting her? How many times you took her to bed? One thing I’ve respected and admired about you is you’ve never spilled your guts about her, never beefed or said it was her fault that you split. Or it was your fault. You never cried in your beer about any of it, you kept it your concern. We didn’t bring other people into our friendship, that meant a lot to me.”

“There’s no way I can adequately tell you how much it means to me. But I can’t go back to just being friends. Not now. I was off base, yes, what I said, that’s because I can’t get it out of my craw that you belong to someone else.”

“I
belong
to
myself
. I do have duties and obligations to a few other people, and well I know it, but must you remind me of it? Right after we — ”

Her eyes went to the bed again. “I never felt like that before,” she said tremulously. “Not like
that
. Not even half like that. Even if we never saw each other again I’d remember it, cling to it. Jack, I have to get dressed.”

“I know. Sit down for only a minute, let me try to make amends, there has to be some kind of — ”

He sat down beside her, smoothed her hair back, smiled. “Promises,” he said. “From me to you. Not ever any impertinences, no more querulous accusations, the mind is master to the tongue. I would go to my room without supper, except that I am in my room and you’re still here with me. Will you be here with me, Christine? Other days? Will you be my Valentine? Just you and me, no intruders.”

He threaded his fingers through hers. She was silent. His fingers tightened. After a while he said, his voice flat, “Have I blown the whole thing to hell, then?”

No, she thought. Nothing’s changed. Not even their making love together had altered anything. She simply adored this man, she was not going to give up being with him as often as she could manage it. “Put your arms around me just for a second,” she said. “Just so I can remember how they feel. Yes, like that, soft and — ”

Then she disengaged herself. “Don’t abuse yourself,” she said. “You didn’t say anything all that infamous, just something I didn’t want to hear. Shall we try to do something on Thursday, that is if you want to and can.”

His heartened smile. “Yes, Christine. I want to. And I can.”

“Maybe we could meet at the Met. There’s that new exhibit, the Vienna art showing. Clover told me about it, her man’s Austrian, you know.”

“What time, Christine?”

“How about noon? I’ll meet you just inside the entrance. All right?”

“Yes. Fine.”

She headed for the bathroom. “Be right back.”

When she returned he was in a bathrobe. She hadn’t used a guest towel, she had dried her hands with a tissue. That way he wouldn’t have to wash the towel. He stood there, his hands in the pockets of his robe, watching while she brushed her hair and slipped into her blouse and skirt. When she went he would be left here, in his bathrobe, with the soggy remains of the crustless sandwiches and the tepid Chablis with strawberries swimming in it. He would have to get dinner later on. One of his frozen meals. She should have used one of the towels, but he had to take care of his own
laundry
, for God’s sake.

He was a lonely man, and he so much wanted to be Mario Puzo. Maybe one day he would, or the equivalent. Or maybe he would be an Updike, a Cheever, but that day was doubtless a long way off. He looked solitary, he looked abandoned, even though she was still there.

At the door she held up her face for a kiss. “I wish I could stay longer.”

“Likewise. See you Thursday.”

She walked home, thinking of his face. The way it had lightened when he sensed everything was going to be okay. And earlier, his tears. Very serious this was; she had never imagined finding herself in any real involvement; then she had met Jack Allerton.

So, she thought, walking into the lobby of the Colonnade. So. The world had changed, or at least her world. What did it matter, whom would it hurt? Lots of women had lovers. Why not Christine Jennings? The day after tomorrow would come, sure as God made little green apples. He was wrong, though. It wasn’t his tears that had convinced her. It was that she wanted it, wanted it very much, and she would have it. No matter where it led, and that was the story, pure and simple.

There he was, taking the steps in a kind of dog trot, his progress unimpeded: this was a weekday, the clutter of students and Sunday culture vultures who on a weekend sprawled uninhibitedly on the stone flight outside the Metropolitan Museum of Art on Fifth Avenue were otherwise occupied at school or office. Even the special exhibit wouldn’t be too jammed on a Thursday. It was always a delight to have the Met almost to yourself.

There he was, not seeing her yet where she was standing just inside the doorway. She couldn’t read the expression on his face, not yet. Jack Allerton, my love, look at you in your nice twill pants, your striped shirt open at the neck and a light tweed jacket slung over your shoulder. How beautiful you are, with your dark skin and all that wonderful, luxuriant hair and your rumble of a voice.

“Here,” she called as he neared the top. “Hi.”

He walked up to her, and his aura enveloped her. Her breath caught in her throat. “Hi,” she said again. “Hello, Jack.”

“Hello, Christine.”

“Nice day, huh?”

“Terrific. Hey, how long have you been waiting?”

“You’re exactly on time, don’t be silly.”

“I didn’t mean to keep you waiting, though. Actually I thought I was early, I mean ahead of time.”

“I just got here before I planned to, that’s all. How are you, Jack?”

“Fine. You?” He put both hands on her arms, patted them, then righted the shoulder bag that had slipped down to her wrist. His smile was a trifle forced. Well, he was obviously nervous too. As for herself, she hoped he couldn’t sense the turmoil inside her. Hi, she had called to him, cool as a cucumber, which she felt anything but. Worrying, brooding, ever since she had left him on Tuesday. Would she have second thoughts? he had asked her. It applied to him as well. Would
he?
Men could have second thoughts too.

“Say, this is a great idea,” he said. “I guess I haven’t been inside this place since the King Tut exhibit.”

“I come here sometimes. When I’m taking a walk, maybe. I stop in and browse, generally in the Impressionist section. Wouldn’t you just know it would be the Impressionist section?”

“I can’t fault you for that.”

“Sometimes, occasionally with a friend, we stop in and have a drink in the Fountain Room.”

“Oh, yes. Well, say, why don’t we do that now? Before we see the exhibit? We don’t have to stay long. Want to do that?”

“Sure, that would be nice.”

The Fountain Room seemed to be doing a brisk enough business, lots of people sitting at the marble tables beside the pool, lunching or simply lingering over drinks. Food smells and chatter that echoed in the white-columned chamber. Probably mostly out-of-town visitors who would later take a horse and buggy ride through Central Park. Jack didn’t bother with a waiter, he went to the bar and came back with a martini for Chris and a Canadian Club for himself.

“It’s nice,” he said. “This is nice. I haven’t been in here for a long time either.”

“It’s restful. I like to be where there’s water. I’m told that’s Freudian, which cuts no ice with me because I’m not one of his slavish followers. I like the Sculpture Garden at the Museum of Modern Art a lot more than this.”

“Me too. I used to go there a lot.”

“So did I. I had a Museum membership, mostly for the movies. I’ve seen some great ones there,
Birth of a Nation
, things like that.”

“I love the piano player.”

“Isn’t he darling? He does a fantastic job. Bill Perry, or something like that.”

“Yeah, something like that.”

“All the film classics, that’s where I’ve seen them.
Carnival in Flanders. Les Enfants du Paradis, Poil de Carotte.”

“The Thalia, too. They bring back the old gems.”

“Sometimes the Regency. And the New Yorker. Rodney’s a film buff too. He tries to get me to go with him, but somehow I have a feeling he’d talk during the performance. Make judicious comments. I don’t like to talk during a film. Do you?”

“No, I sit there and lose myself. No yakking. No popcorn either.”

“Oh, I hate that! You don’t find it in the art theaters. Anyway not in the daytime, and that’s when I go.”

“Have you seen Rodney?”

“Yes, he comes to dinner every so often. He’s fine, same old appetite and always in fine fettle.”

“Have you been to the Sculpture Garden lately?”

“No, not since they’ve been doing that work on the new addition, so I haven’t seen what’s happening.”

“I hope they don’t make a mess of it.”

“Whatever they do it will never be the same.”

“I wish they could leave things alone. What really kills me is having that damned Olympic Towers right next to St. Pat’s Cathedral. That’s the real desecration. The way it dwarfs the cathedral, overshadows it. Jesus, it’s the most blatant violation of all, it’s a slap in the face to the whole city.”

“Just the kind of casual cruelty that’s going on all over. We’d better get used to it. As Rodney says, nattering won’t help.”

“It’s a crime, though.”

Two days ago we were in bed together, Christine thought. Now we’re talking about city planning. The room was cool, even faintly chill because of its size and the marble ambiance, but she felt sticky and uncomfortable, the back of her neck slightly damp. The drink wasn’t helping one bit, it wasn’t taking the edge off her unease at all. This was all her fault, her greeting to Jack had been all
wrong
, cool and calm and impersonal. She hadn’t meant it to be, she was simply inept today for some reason.

If she could only start
over
again. A big smile, and her arms around him.

“Oh, I didn’t give you your button,” she said. “Here, Jack. I got them when I came in.”

“Hey, you didn’t need to do that, Christine. I would have taken care of it.”

“Good heavens, the least I can do is hand over a couple of dollars for our buttons, Jack.”

“Well, thanks.”

He stuck it on the collar of his shirt, she folded hers over the string belt of her dress. “Now we’re legit,” he said, and flicked his lighter for her cigarette.

Then he lit one for himself. “I never asked you if you wanted something to eat,” he said quickly. “I didn’t think of it. Would you?”

“Oh no, not now.”

“They used to have good roast beef. Prime ribs. I suppose they still do.”

“I think it’s one of their main attractions.”

“You haven’t seen this exhibit yet, have you?” he asked. “The one we’re going to today?”

“No, but I understand it’s excellent. A long time in the drafting stage, it should be stunning.”

“I’m glad you thought of it, Christine. I have a tendency to pass up a lot of things. They’re there, and you can go to them, and then somehow you don’t.”

“My friend Clover said not to miss it. I wouldn’t have wanted to anyway.”

“We’re spoiled. There’s so much offered in this city, we don’t take enough advantage of it.”

“It’s the visitors that do. Like Rodney. He’s certainly no slouch, he gets in on everything. But then I suppose when we go abroad we do things the natives don’t bother to. That’s generally the rule of thumb.”

“Hell, I imagine half the people in New York have never been to the Statue of Liberty.”

She laughed. “Rodney has. By the way, have you?”

“You bet your life.” He laughed too. “Not since I was a kid, though.”

“Me too, but then I went three times.”

“I think it was twice for me.”

“I doubt there’s anything much in New York City I haven’t seen. My record for the rest of the country could stand some improving, however. New England. The South — there was one summer when I went with my family, I was only about twelve. Otherwise,
nada
. I’m your typical Europhile, the grass is always greener, et cetera.”

“Never been to California?”

“Uh uh. I’m serious, this country’s an X quantity for me, what do you think of that? I’m not even sure which state is next to what other state.”

“I’ve been here and there,” he said. “It’s a country, it has its history. Hell, as you know I’m a Europhile too.”

“After all, you do have some roots there, Jack. Your mother’s family — ”

“We all have roots there when it comes right down to it. I guess that’s what does it, why it draws us.”

“It’s the
old
that draws us, past centuries.
Long
past centuries. Churches dating back to 1100. Castles. Rites and rituals that have been going on for hundreds of years. They know something about preservation, they don’t scrap buildings, they honor them.”

“I guess one thing is they’ve depended on the tourist business for a long time. But you’re right. The key word here is progress.”

“I’m against progress.”

“I guess we’re both against all the indifference and profiteering that goes on.”

“It’s more than indifference and profiteering. It’s the whole society, plastic and neon.”

“Let’s write our Congressman,” he gestured. “You know, London’s doing a pretty good job of messing things up. In Cheapside, for example. They’ve succeeded in hemming in St. Paul’s with new and modern, undistinguished office buildings, it looks rotten. Of course it was practically all bombed out during the Second World War, but they could have done better than that.”

“Yes, I’ve seen it. They’ve taken a lot of the grandeur away from the Embankment too. No, I won’t have another drink, thanks. You go ahead if you want one.”

“No, one’s plenty. Okay, shall we go then?”

They made their way out. Again the central area, after that up the flight of marble steps. Jack’s hand on her arm as they climbed. At the top a sign indicating their exhibit, embellished with Art Nouveau squiggles and swirls. Also now, quite a few people heading that way, and when they reached the gallery rooms a sizeable crowd. Jack bought a glossy brochure from someone sitting behind a rococo table, handed it to her.

“Well, then I’ll buy one for you,” she said.

“No no, this will be fine for us.”

I should have said I’d meet him at his apartment, Christine thought. He’s uneasy, I’m uneasy, I was only trying to be civilized suggesting we meet here instead of my going to his place, and now he’s going to defer to me. What the hell were they
doing
here? They were behaving like two adolescents miserably unsure of the rules of the game.

She should have kissed him right away, then he’d know. Simply, naturally, just let him know where he stood.

All very well, but she was beginning to be somewhat uncertain of
where
she stood. This man had had a disastrous marriage: it was highly possible that he wasn’t keen on adding a second mistake to a first. Thinking it over, he might very well have decided that an involvement with a married woman would only add to his woes.

She should have kissed him right off anyway.

They wandered through the exhibit rooms, sometimes together and then, separated by groups of people who disunited them, on their own. She was glad for it, it relieved some of the tension. And it was admittedly a dazzling display, so that after a while Christine was able to shake off some of her queasies and appreciate it.

She hoped Jack was enjoying it. After all, he had that middle-European background, it should mean something important to him. The way it had for Clover’s Anton. As for Vienna, Christine had been there for a week and a half: it had charmed her and chilled her all at once, that city with the split personality, Strauss waltzes and anti-Semitism, whipped cream and class consciousness, grace and sadism. Carl, she remembered, had not vibrated to Vienna. He said it was drearily provincial and all the gilt was turning brown.

But then Carl wasn’t a romantic. The City of Dreams, in its twilight now, was for a romantic a kind of cosmos encapsulated, its dwindled glory reflected in thousands of ways, little showers of stars dying slowly but still shedding their light however feebly, the proud and arrogant old men in their berets sitting in coffee houses still reading their newspapers, the
Schlagobers
in pewter bowls, the insistent traditions and the chandeliers and the memories, beauty and barbarism.

And these artists, spawned in an epochal Vienna that was going to hell in a breadbasket depicted, with wild and almost cheerful abandon, the death throes of a crumbling order, Brechtian, a
Totentanz
. Even the most glittering Klimt fantasies, brilliant, shimmering and iridescent as they were, had their macabre comments: “Sleep” looked like death, an eyeless skull hovered over a young pregnant girl in a painting called
Hope
. Schiele and Kokoschka, with their splashes of vermilion gore and the ashy white of their dehumanized, gaunt bodies, made an appalling statement: a flayed mass of flesh was flaunted like a banner. Oppenheimer’s
Bleeding Man
was a silent scream.

There was no hint of whipped cream or waltzes in this gallery, no celebration of a Belle Epoque. It was more like an abbatoir.

Jack finally sought her out. “Well?” he asked. “Had enough?”

“Just about, yes. It sure leaves you exhausted, doesn’t it?”

They went downstairs again. “It’s haunting, all right. You can’t write it off as avant garde, the artistic mind thumbing its nose at the
Arbeiter
mentality,
épater le bourgeois
. It’s horror with a grin.” He glanced at his watch. “It’s one-thirty. Let’s have a drink at the Stanhope. We can’t get lunch on the terrace, but we can go inside for that.”

“Do you really feel like eating after that Kokoschka poster,
Pietà
?”

“That was grim, wasn’t it?”

“Let’s have a drink on the terrace and then walk downtown. We can have a hot dog on the way.”

“Just a hot dog?”

“Maybe two hot dogs.”

“That’s a funny lunch.”

“All right, a hot dog and a Good Humor.”

You couldn’t get a table at the Stanhope outdoor cafe on a weekend, but you had no trouble getting one on a workday. You not only got a table, you got some decent service as well, when waiters were not too busy to be polite. They sat there, over their drinks, shaded from the midday sun by the red, white and blue canopy, eyeing occasional passersby and benchsitters on the opposite side of the avenue, talking about the Vienna exhibit and not much else because both were thinking — and were aware of it — the same thing. Where would they walk downtown
to?
A hot dog and then what?