“So let's do it,” Hans said, getting up to play with the light. He switched it on and off twice while I watched my eyes respond. “No more,” I said, “I'd really rather talk.”
“Shoot.” He seated himself on the toilet seat, in the pose of Rodin's
The Thinker.
We were both naked, but oddly comfortable with each other in the bright light.
“Wellâit's my whole life. It's a mess, a disaster. I have a husband I'm always trying to avoid, a lover in California who may not love me, an incipient lawsuit that should cost twice what I possess, a ...”
“I thought Rosanna was your lover,” Hans interrupted.
“Rosanna is my
friend.”
“Oh I see,” he said, chuckling. “You mean you oblige her.”
“Not really.”
“Come on nowâI'm not as dumb as most of the psychiatrists you know.” (Charmingly enough, he pronounced
dumb
“dump.”) “It's okay. I couldn't do more than oblige her myself. She's very
cold,
really ... who's the guy?”
“A lovely, funny, gentle soul named Josh who is clever and witty and makes puns all the time and writes and draws and plays the banjo and makes me ridiculously happy. Only he hasn't written me at all. And now I feel bloody guilty about this damned orgy ...”
Hans put an admonishing finger over my lips.
“I don't want to hear you use the word
guilt
again. It's a useless word. Meaningless. As for orgiesâthey are what they areâneither more nor lessâand certainly nothing to feel guilty about. They don't substitute for love. They're not
supposed
to. The best thing you can get out of an orgy is a little lightening of that terrible burden of the superego. If you get the
opposite
âthe whole thing is wasted.
Worse
than wasted. What we did tonight is not a thing to take seriously. It's an experience. You never have to do it again if you don't like itâbut at least you know what it is. Where's the guilt in
that?”
“Josh would say something like that.”
“He sounds
okay,”
Hans said in that Middle-European way of accenting the wrong syllables in American slang words; “Why don't you write him or call him and see what's up?”
I sighed heavily and seated myself on the edge of the tub. “I've been
writing
letters, poems,
everything,
and he doesn't answer...”
“How do you know he got the letters?”
“I just know.”
“How do you know he hasn't written?”
“I just know that too.”
“You know a lot,” Hans laughed.
“It's hopeless. He's six years youngerâand it's utterly impractical to even think of our living together.”
“Why? He's not dead. You're certainly not. Things change, people's circumstances change. What does he do?”
“What do you think? He writes. It couldn't be
worse.
You
know
what happens when two writers try to live togetherâdisaster.”
Hans laughed at me again. “That's a very good scenarioâand if you go on believing it, you'll make it happen and then you'll
really
feel justified. So he's six years younger, so what? And who ever told you writers couldn't live together? Kirsten and I are writers. We've been together for almost twenty years, we've traveled everywhere together, we write in studios right next to each other.... Contrary to what this night on the town may make you think, we lead a very quiet life, write all day, cut off the phones, bring each other coffee, help each other edit manuscripts. It's a
great
life. I can think of nothing
nicer
than two writers living together. In the first place, you have so much time to be together. Other people don't have that.... Don't make up some cheesy Hollywood script and live your life by it. So, he's younger ... big deal. Your husbandâhow old is he?”
“Forty.”
“And does
that
make you happy?”
“Obviously not.”
“And what does he do?”
“A shrink.”
“That's worst of all. A doctor. Security. Bloomingdaleâs, a co-op, so what? Does it make you feel secure?
Obviously
not. What's wrong with taking risks? Being miserable in your marriage for another year and
another
year and
another
year is a
big
risk tooâonly you don't
see
the risk. The risk is your life. Wasting it, I mean. It's a pretty big risk.”
I nodded.
“You know what, Isadora? Security doesn't matter, but love does. Do you want me to tell you something really subversive? Love is everything it's cracked up to be. That's why people are so cynical about it. Living with someone you really share things with is not only wonderful, it's actually
better
than all the love songs, all the silly movies say it is. It really is worth fighting for, being brave for, risking everything for. And the trouble is, if you don't risk anything, you risk even
more.
Life doesn't leave that many choices. It's really very harsh. You can stew like this forever or try it with Joshâand maybe failâbut at least you won't be at the same point you're at nowâthe stewing point, you know?”
“I guess it would be better to try and fail and wind up alone than to go on like this . . .”
“You? Wind up alone? I hardly see it. Maybe things with Josh
won't
work out, but I don't think you'll ever forgive yourself if you don't
try
. . .”
“You're right,” I said, looking at the floor.
“So call him,” Hans said. “What are you waiting for?”
“What time is it?”
“I don't know. Maybe eleven or twelve. Anyway it's not that late on the Coast. Try it.
Call.
” He took my two hands and pulled me up from the edge of the tub.
“Go,” he said, giving me a gentle pat on the ass.
Â
Still naked and now somewhat shivering, I sat down at Rosanna's desk in the living room. “This is it.” I said to myself, defending against the evil eye. “Here goes nothing.” I started to dial the Los Angeles area code and then I stopped. DamnâI didn't remember Josh's number. It was in my memo book, which was in my handbag, which was in the bedroom. I couldn't go in there and wake everybody. Was this an omen? Did it mean I shouldn't call?
Call Information, you idiot, I said to myself.
I dialed Los Angeles Information, which rang and rang. Finally I got the operator, asked for the number, and began fumbling for a piece of paper to write it on. There was no pad on Rosanna's desk, no scrap paper. But what's this, under the blotter? Several sheets of brown kraft stationery.
“Can you wait a second?” I asked the operator.
“
Sure
,” she said in that California way that implies no rush, as much time as there is sky and ocean, no hassles. I pulled out one of the brown sheets and scribbled Josh's number on the back.
“Thanks,” I said to California.
“Sure,” said the anonymous western voice.
Suddenly I turned the brown sheet over and saw lettered in black block capitals at the top, JOSHUA ACE. Breathless, heart pounding, I glanced down the page . . .
Isadoraitis. Prime susceptibility: 11 P.M. to 2 A.M. Contributing factors: photographs, Isadoraoeuvres, daydreaming. Primary symptoms: uncontrollable desire to spill soul followed by anxiety, living-room pacing, and need to cuddle. Secondary symptoms: intense longing, chronic heartache. Temporary remedies: letters, poems, fantasies. Permanent remedies: extended, intensive doses of I.
I am living on tenterhooks, whatever those are. Your poems knock me out. I can't believe they're really for me. Will you ever come back? Or will I have to come to N.Y. and bodily remove you from 77th Street? I am destined for disappointment, but what the fuck? Come, come, come. I am projecting long-distance thoughtwaves reflected to you from an aluminum pie-plate high on the moronosphere.
I laughed to myself. I was still holding the phone against my ear and the dial tone had changed to a shaky alto recording, “Please hang up ... there appears to be a receiver off the hook ... please hang up . . . there appears . . .” I hung up. The moronosphere was from
Flesh Gordon,
a movie we had seen together, and the moronosphere had become a private joke between us. We had spent less than a week together and we already had hundreds of private jokes, hundred of memories.
Isadora, my little pumpernickel, just thinking of you makes me happy. I say that and then I realize that I hardly even
know
you. Except that I do know you, don't I? You
have
to come back.
This last week has been an emotional “quickie” and I am left spacey and confused, weltzschmerzy and angst. I keep on wanting to talk to you. I feel like I've been in isolation all these years and I have all these things jammed up in my head and I've spilled a little of it and then been shut off again. Like stopping in the middle of a piss. And then I want to fuck you and learn how you like it because we never really did that.
You see, the only thing I can fuck straight off are plastic pusseys of the
Playboy
variety, because they are manufactured for that purpose. It's like I said, the dichotomy of moms and lovers. Understand that you are the first, the only woman I've met who is smarter than I am and doesn't act like a cretin post-coitus. You may not know this, but despite the movement, ladies tend to be lobotomized by penises. Even very hip, together ladies. Perhaps insertion of the glans into the mouth severs some chain of neurons . . . I think the only substantive relationship, worth the emotional strife, is between equals. Still, it is scary. A lifetime's indoctrination is stamped in my gray matter....
Did I say you made me happy? Yesterday I spent all evening thinking about you. I really like your hair, the way it dips in front. And you have the most intense, happy, sad worried look. All at once. I look at the picture you sent me (the one with all the hair and the Ophelia-mad eyes) and it feels like a stone in my stomach and makes me gooey to the touch. I pine (I never knew what it meant before), but I actually pine. . . .
There were twelve letters, or fifteen. They were about us, about the love poems, about Gurdjieff, Castaneda, Charles Dickens, movies, the hamburger as a symbol of American life, the moronosphere, my screenplay of
Candida!
(which I'd left for Josh to read), and his growing anxiety about me, his missing me, his wanting to live with me forever....
I picked up the phone and dialed. My mind was a jumble of conflicting emotions: elation over finding the letters, disgust with myself for having doubted Josh, anger at Rosanna for having confiscated the letters, astonishment at her desperation, wonderment over whether or not she really
wanted
me to find them....
The phone rang in West Hollywood.
“Hello?” came Josh's comical telephone-voice. Just hearing it made me sure I loved him.
“Josh? It's me, your old buddy, Isadora.”
“Baby!” A loud smooching-sound was transmitted across the three-thousand-mile cable. “I
love
you . . .”
“Oh god, I love you too. I miss you so. Oh god . . .” I felt so stupid saying all those banalities. Here was the most special love affair in
history
and I sounded like an ass. Anyway, the telephone is a rotten instrument for communicating anything human. It separates lovers instead of joining them. You want to extend your tongue for a kiss and there's nothing to kiss but a black plastic maw.
“Why did you stop writing? I love those poems. I'm so flattered they're for meâI can't believe it.”
“I never got the letters till nowâRosanna hid them.”
“She
hid
them? Godâwhat a bummer. But didn't
Bennett
tell you I called? I just called your house an hour ago. I thought you were returning my call.”
“No. I'm at Rosanna's. I found the letters by accident . . . weird, huh?” I didn't want to tell him about the orgy on a long distance call. I'd tell him when we were together, when I could describe it with the proper elan, and we could laugh about it.
“I
have
to see you again,” I said.
“When? Are you coming here or should I come there? I can't stand this being apart. It's
dumb
and pointless.”
“You could come here, but where would we
stay
?”
“Lookâwhy don't you get Britt to bring you back?”
“I
hate
Britt. She's ripping me off royally and I really ought to be suing her, not taking trips with her. She's literally
stolen
my workâand now she treats me like shit. But I'll find a way to get back. Maybe Rosanna will let us use her place in Aspen and we can write there . . .”
“Are you sure you want to take any favors from Rosanna after this?”
“I don't know where
else
we could go . . .”
“Sweetie, just come back here. Stay with me, we'll find another place to live if it isn't big enough . . .”
“I love you immensely.”
“But will you
come
?”
“I'll find a way, I swear it. I'll call you back tomorrow.”
And we exchanged lengthy smooches, and very reluctantly hung up.
Clutching my pile of letters, I tiptoed into the bedroom, where it still looked like the Decline and Fall of the Roman Empire. Rosanna was sleeping curled up spoonlike with Kirsten, clasping her lovely big tits. Robert was sprawled on his back on the floor. Hans was in the shower, singing. The three in the bedroom were dead to the world. I snatched up my clothes, my handbag, my boots, my hat, my coat, and tiptoed into the bathroom. I folded the letters carefully and put them in my handbag.