Ghosts of Manhattan (19 page)

Every relationship she's entered into has begun through this portal of her beauty. I feel sad for a moment that she has been dominated by this. She has been subordinated to her beauty and everything else has to fight to get noticed, if it ever gets a chance at all. I think better to be good-looking than great-looking.

“What's the emergency? You want to see me right away?” She bangs into conversation with poise and no fear.

“What can I get you to drink?”

“You're lucky I'm self-confident, otherwise I'd have made you wait and ask me to dinner on a Saturday night.”

“Sorry. There's something I want to talk to you about and it just seemed like the sooner the better.” I'm starting to wonder if I'm better in person after all. Maybe forcing this is a mistake.

The waitress stops by and Rebecca orders a pinot grigio.

“Okay. What do you want to talk about?”

“Let's wait for the drinks first.”

We sit back in the chairs again staring at each other, and I can almost see the shift of gears in her head. “And since I've come all the way here, let me ask you a question.”

“Shoot.”

“In a few months they're going to fine Freddie Mac for illegal campaign contributions. They're also going to wrap up a two-year investigation as to whether Freddie Mac has been misstating earnings.”

“Your question?”

Her voice takes on a tone of duty. “Since this is basically what you trade every day, maybe it's bundled into something or it's some related insurance product, but these home loans are the actual instrument underlying your trades of asset-backed securities. I'm wondering if you have any thoughts on the matter.”

“Here's something you can put on the record. If you compensate a person based on volume, he's going to give you volume.”

“Volume. You'll just trade volume, you don't care if it's toxic and dangerous.”

“I didn't say that. I'm saying I'm not paid to care, I'm paid to deliver volume. If you want to fix the problem, you need to fix more than bad loans.”

“I need to fix your motivation.”

“Mine and everyone else's.” This verbal volleying is not the flirtation I was aiming for.

“It doesn't motivate you that this can ruin the financial system? Globally?”

“It will change things a little, not ruin them. It's another cycle. In the nineties it was Long-Term Capital, and there were plenty of things in the decades before that. This might be worse. It might not be.”

“So no laws broken, just a cycle.” She can't hide her indignation or doesn't want to.

The waitress brings our drinks.

“I didn't say that either. I'm sure laws are being broken the same as they always are. Imagine the financial system is a heart, pumping liquidity all around. It's not a hundred percent efficient. Brokers and traders take a big percentage away from everything that moves. People move stuff that is unhealthy. Maybe they don't know it's unhealthy; maybe they do know and deceive. Whether it's deception or systemic inefficiency, let's call it corruption to be simple. Corruption is cholesterol in the heart. This is a high-cholesterol town. It's always building up and once in a while the heart needs surgery. Someone, maybe the attorney general or Congress, goes in and cleans out the cholesterol and plaque. As soon as surgery is over, the cholesterol starts flowing and accumulates in new places. The cycle starts again. We'll need another surgery again later. The thing is, this heart never stops beating.”

She leans back with her wine and I'm trying to read if it's a smirk or a smile. “That's an awfully convenient point of view. What's your bonus this year?”

“No comment.”

“Of course not. I can safely assume it's some number of millions.”

“Are you still trying to work over Freddie Cook?”

“I was never trying to work over Freddie. He called me.”

“Please don't push him. He's already got problems.”

“You all do.”

“That's true. Some of us more than others.”

She sips her drink but keeps eye contact. “So, you wanted to talk about something?”

“I saw you do a reporter hit from the exchange floor the other day. You looked great.”

“Thanks.”

“There's something different about you. Some of the women come across flat on TV. With you there's something magnetic and exciting and it's not just looks.”

“Thank you.” It's a sincere compliment and she can feel it. I can tell by her eyes that she likes how the conversation is making her feel. And the eyes are on me. I haven't had playful eyes daring me to look back in too long. At home it has been dead eyes. I think to myself that married people still ought to find a way to flirt.

“Just an observation.”

She looks like she's decided something and leans forward. “Nick, you know I'm not shy.”

“I suspected that.”

“Maybe I shouldn't return a compliment with a compliment, but I don't care about that and I will. You're very handsome. And you're exactly my type. Physically.” I guess she adds this to be clear that married is not her type.

“What's your type?”

“Tall and dark hair.” God, I'm loving the flirting. There's reckless energy passing between us.

I don't say anything for a while because I think it will make the suspense build. I'm getting goofy happy to the point that I'm not planning anything I'm saying but ad-libbing. “Sometimes
we meet people that make us question the way we've set up our lives. Make us wonder about things.” It feels risky to say this and I like it.

Her brows come together, trying to pull another sentence from me to discover my meaning. When there isn't another, she says, “Nick, you're officially flirting with me.” I can see she's pleased.

“Maybe I am. A little. I think it's better to get it out in the open.” I think I went too far. I brought our little fantasy back to earth where I have a wife.

“I see.” She's having fun but doesn't seem to be taking me seriously, treating this as something futile. “Just what are you putting out in the open?”

“I like how I feel when I think about you.” I hadn't put it into words before and I like how well I put my finger on it.

“Are you separated from your wife?”

“No.”

“Have you talked to her about separating?”

“Well, no.” This is starting to go sideways.

“So what are you telling me?”

Now I'm feeling indecisive and stupid. “I just wanted to tell you how I feel.”

“Are you hoping I'll say something so we can do what you want and you can still be off the hook for it?”

“It's not that. Truly, I've just wanted to see you, and for the first time acted on it. I haven't thought about it much more than that and I haven't talked about it with Julia or anyone else.” I hadn't meant to say her name.

I can't tell if she's irritated or hurt or both. “Nick, I don't know your wife. Even if I did, I can't give you advice about any of this. Relationship advice is always bad because nobody knows what they're talking about.”

“I'd like to talk about it anyway.” It occurs to me Julia must be talking to someone.

“I shouldn't be the one you talk to, Nick. Better not to choose someone you might end up in bed with. The only two people qualified to talk about this type of thing are relatives or friends of the same sex.”

“Relatives of the opposite sex are okay?” I'm trying to be cute and should have known it would sound idiotic, but she lets it go.

“Unless there's a threat of incest.”

“So the problem is always sex.” The collapse into silliness might be saving the conversation.

“Of course. Even if it's minuscule, there's some percentage greater than zero that wants to have sex with the other person. Immediate disqualification from giving advice. You've seen
When Harry Met Sally.
The first half of the movie is true. The second half is a fake way to resolve the first half.”

“There's not a third category? What about a shrink?”

“Nope. There too. Shrink needs to be same sex or at least fifty years apart in age.”

“Have you slept with your shrink?”

“None of your business.”

“Jesus.” I clink her wineglass and sip my bourbon. “Despite the opposite sex part, I think I came to the right place.”

We settle back in our chairs and are silent for a moment, a silence she finally breaks. “You shouldn't cheat, you know.”

“Oh?” I feel like I was just starting to come around to the idea.

“The fact that you asked the question answers your question.”

“Not in a very declarative way.”

“Anyway, I don't want to sleep with someone who's married or on the fence about leaving his marriage. I don't think you're even
on the fence. I think you're on the other side of the fence. With your wife.”

I wonder if there's truth to this. I don't know if I brought up Julia because I'm in love with her or because I'm going a little insane with frustration.

She takes my silence as agreement and continues. “I'm thirty-two. Ten years ago this might have been fine, but not now. If you change your mind, and your circumstances, and get your act together, then we can talk.”

I clink her glass again. I know it's a cowardly thing to do, but I couldn't have said it any better. “Since I got you all the way here, let me buy you another drink.”

“Deal.”

The waitress brings another round. This time Rebecca clinks my glass and says, “To getting to know ourselves.”

“Cheers.”

“And to discovering what may be right around the corner.” She winks. God, she's gorgeous. “It was good to see you again, Nick.” She says this in a sincere tone, and I feel that she doesn't usually say this in parting but reserves it for those it really was good to see.

January 24, 2006

PART OF MY POST-REBECCA PLAN IS TO TRY TO
improve things with Julia and also with work. With my left hand I'll conduct one side of the orchestra and with my right the other side, and together I can bring calm from chaos. I feel the momentum can be with me, that things can happen effortlessly. I think this is the start of what it must be like to feel lucky. It's only an idea now, just a secret project, but it seems to be expanding. I want to be home more, and I make plans with Julia to cook dinner at home like a normal night for a normal couple. Julia has done the shopping and started the cooking by the time I get home.

“I got swordfish and I'm trying a recipe for risotto with truffles.”

“Sounds great.” It doesn't smell great. So far it just smells fishy but there is garlic in the risotto or the swordfish marinade that is starting to make it better.

“There's a shrimp cocktail ready.” She points toward the butler's station just off the kitchen, at a dish of cocktail sauce with shrimp the size of hot dogs hanging in a ring around the sides. “Would
you open a bottle of white? I picked some up. They're in the refrigerator.”

I step through the kitchen, past the empty store bags from Citarella cast on the floor, scooping and crumpling them up on my way. The grocery receipt is dangling from one. If we feel too loose with our money, cooking at home instead of eating at a restaurant is a remedy. It isn't enough to make a real difference in savings, but it makes us feel more responsible. Even though we have empty cupboards and have to shop for every item we cook, there is something reassuring about preparing our own food, a sort of reminder that we might survive in the wild if necessary. I notice that the shrimp, swordfish, and truffles alone are almost two hundred dollars. With wine and a few other items, the total is over three fifty, more than we would spend in a great restaurant. In the annals of overspending, this will be in the top few. But she's cooking and I'm not going to discourage that. I toss the bags and receipt away and eat a shrimp.

“I talked to Abbey Roberts today,” she says. Julia used to work with Abbey until about ten years ago when Abbey got married, quit work, moved to Philadelphia, and had two kids.

“How is she?”

“She seems very happy. Kids are six and eight now and both in school. I think she's struggling with the idea of being past the age of having a baby and now has kids that are growing up fast. And she wants to know when we're having kids.”

“What did you tell her?” My fear that I wouldn't be a good father is stronger than ever. I can imagine Julia struggling with Abbey's question. We've told ourselves that we're putting off kids until we move out of Manhattan or something signals a change that we're ready for kids, but we don't know anymore if that is the truth. No action is a form of action if you wait long enough.

“I told her we're getting long in the tooth to start trying to have kids.”

I don't say anything. We're not that old but I'm not sure if she is looking for me to agree or disagree with this statement. I know I don't want to start trying for kids, but I don't want to give away my position. I just nod.

“You know what she said? She wondered if I might have a medical problem carrying a baby. She offered to be our surrogate. To carry our baby for us.” It's been years since I've seen Abbey. I think for Julia too. “What a kind person. I told her the problem isn't with that, but what an incredible gesture.”

“Yeah. We better hope she never needs a kidney.” Julia looks at me as though I've tortured a nun. I try to laugh up the joke but it feels awkward and as though I was partly serious. That's the thing about joking.

“It was one of the most touching things anyone has ever done for me. She said she had easy pregnancies and actually enjoyed being pregnant. She said if we need help, she'll do it. It's a serious offer.”