How do I know all this? Harry wrote it all down, and I read about it later. Every moment of the trip and much more besides. Isn’t that what writers do? It isn’t real until it’s on the page. Although I didn’t know a lot of the details until years after.
The party is in a cavernous loft. Reuben introduces Harry to his other client. He is much younger than Harry was when his first book was published. Harry is fairly sure he and Reuben are two of the oldest people at the party. The young author is friendly and tells Harry how much he admired his book. He is skinny, with dark curly hair, intense brown eyes. He looks about twelve. The face of a trickster. Harry cannot even remember his name. He knows he has never heard of the young man’s book, let alone read it. I’ve been living in Rome, he says by way of excuse. Reuben tells me it’s terrific.
There is a meritocracy among writers. Even if Harry is older and has won a prize, he knows he is not much further ahead of this young man. He does not have a corpus of published novels to fall back on. His career can still go either way. It is the next book that will prove whether his is a real talent or just a fluke.
And then it happens—inescapably, inevitably, like turtle bones being thrown, like the tide going out.
A woman’s voice behind him. “Harry. What are you doing here?”
He turns around. Claire.
“Great to see you,” he says easily, giving her a kiss on each cheek. Her skin is warm, soft. “That’s how they do it in Italy,” he laughs. “It’s a great custom.”
The days slip away between them. For a moment, she is flustered.
“I thought you were in Rome. Are you back already?”
“No. My publisher needed me to fly over for a few days. I arrived this morning.”
“How’s Maddy? And Johnny? Are they here?”
“Both are very well. They stayed in Rome. How are you?”
“Fine,” she says. “Really good. Look, I’m sorry about what happened. Between us, I mean. I hope you forgive me.”
“Nothing to forgive,” he says. “If anything I should be flattered. Water under the bridge, right?”
They get a drink. His tiredness has left him. They talk about Rome. She has never been there. It’s magical, he tells her. Everyone should live there at least once in their life.
“You look well,” he says. There is something different about her. She has a new job. An editorial position at a magazine. Better money, more respect. She is coming up in the world. There is something else. She has cut her hair. During the summer her hair was long. Now it is shorter, more stylish. It makes her look older, sophisticated.
I have also seen her. We had a drink shortly after the Winslows left for Rome. I had never seen her in high heels before.
“Well, you know,” she says. “What are you doing here?”
“Reuben brought me. He’s my agent. Remember, you met him on the street that time? He felt I should become acquainted with the younger generation.”
“Does he represent Josh?”
“Is that his name?”
“Yes. It’s a party for him.”
“Friend of yours?”
“We dated for a while.”
“You don’t know how happy I am to see you. I don’t know a soul at this party except Reuben.”
“Let me introduce you to some people,” she says.
Soon a small crowd has gathered around them, wanting to meet the famous Harry Winslow. The men thin and studiously scruffy, dressed in black. The women waiflike, many of them drinking beer from bottles. He is seated on a sofa. The center of attention. A peddler of stories opening his sack. He takes out one first, then another. Claire brings him a whisky on the rocks. He has lost count of how many he has already had. But he knows precisely when she leaves and when she returns. He is performing for her.
The room is a blur, but he is enjoying himself. Young men and women want to know about his new book, his views on modern literature, terrorism, the Middle East. Is it true he was really a fighter pilot? One young man asks if he had ever shot down an enemy plane.
“No,” he answers, “I was a peacetime soldier.” He tells a story about the time he was forced to ditch a plane in North Africa during a training flight and had to spend the night in a Moroccan whorehouse. Everyone laughs.
Claire is perched behind him on the arm of the sofa. They are like magnets drawn to each other. He is a hit, as she knew he would be. His success is hers. I didn’t know you knew Harry Winslow, she is told. Oh yes. We’re old friends.
It is past midnight. The waiters are packing up. The party is winding down.
“We’re going to a bar,” she says. “Want to come?”
Harry looks around. No sign of Reuben. “Sure, why not?” he answers. It’s already morning in Rome.
Outside they hail a cab. Claire gives an address. He is carrying her laptop and gym bag.
“Where are we going?” he asks.
“We have to stop at my place first. I want to drop off my bags. We won’t be a minute. The bar’s practically right around the corner. Do you mind?”
“No, it’s fine.”
She lives in the East Village. It is a new apartment for her, rented in early September. The building is modest, an old tenement. No doorman. Rusty fire escapes hang over the sidewalk. A key to get in, an intercom with the embossed names of tenants, many covered over by newer arrivals, some handwritten. Then a heavier second door with security glass. “I’m on the third floor,” she says. “There’s no elevator, we’ll have to walk.” He carries her bags.
The marble stairs are rounded with age. This has been the first stop for generations of New Yorkers. The difference is that now the neighborhood is fashionable, the rents expensive. Worn tiled floors. Cast-iron banisters. Water-stained walls. Chinese menus slid halfway under doors.
“Here we are,” she says. More keys to get in. A dead bolt. “It’s not really that unsafe,” she says. “These locks are left over from the eighties.”
The apartment is small, unfinished. She could have been here a week or a year. A bookshelf along one wall. A small kitchenette on the other. A couch, a small dining table covered with scattered papers, a pair of shoes, an empty wineglass with crusted sediment in the bottom. Dishes in the sink. Boxes stacked in the corner. The untidiness of single life. A bedroom off to the left. He can tell the refrigerator is the sort that would be empty except for maybe old milk, a brown lemon, wine, decomposing Chinese food, jars of mustard.
“It’s not much, but I don’t have to share it,” she says. “Would you like a drink? I won’t be a moment.”
She finds a nearly empty bottle of whisky and pours the remnants into a coffee mug. “Sorry,” she says. “I don’t entertain very often.”
“No, no. It’s great. This you?”
There are photographs arrayed along the top of the bookshelf. A little girl on a street in Paris. A smaller boy, obviously her brother, stands next to her. The colors have faded. It is the face of a disappointed child.
“Yes. I was about eight when that was taken.”
“And this one?”
“My mother.”
It is a small family history. These are photographs set out to remember what one leaves behind. There is one of her with friends at what looks like a college football game. Another with a friend, a garden party. Each is wearing a white dress. On the shelves there are the usual books.
The Bell Jar
.
Les Fleurs du Mal
. T. S. Eliot. Vonnegut. Tolstoy. Gibran. Some newer titles too. Both of his books. The first one only recently back in print. He grins self-consciously and runs his index finger down their spines.
“If you don’t mind, I suppose the least I could do is sign them for you,” he says, taking out his pen.
“No, I’d love it.”
With a flourish he writes
To Claire, who has excellent taste in literature. Harry Winslow
.
He hands them to her. She reads the inscriptions. “Thank you,” she says, leaning in to give him a quick kiss on the cheek.
“One day they’ll be worth just about what you paid for them,” he says with a smile.
She smiles back. “I’ll be right out,” she says.
Harry collapses in the chair. He is tired. There has been too much to drink. It is time to leave.
There is noise from the other room. The sound of glass shattering. “Oh fuck that hurts.”
“Are you all right?”
The room beyond is dark.
“Claire?”
“I’m in here,” she says. “I cut my foot.”
He walks through the small, dark bedroom to the bathroom. The light is on. On the wall is a poster for a French film festival. She is sitting on the toilet. There is blood on the sole of her foot. Shards of glass on the floor.
“Sorry,” she says. “I dropped it. I am such a spaz.”
He examines the cut on her foot. “I could bandage it. It doesn’t look too bad.”
He goes to the medicine cabinet and rummages around for an antiseptic. “Do you have anything like hydrogen peroxide?”
“I don’t think so.”
“Let me do this first.” He takes out his handkerchief, wets it with soap and water, and cleans the wound. Then he applies a Band-Aid. The sole of her foot is pink, the nails painted red. She has beautiful feet, delicate ankles. He has to crouch awkwardly in the tiny bathroom. He has the patience of a parent. “No need to amputate,” he says with a smile. “Do you think you can walk?”
“I can try.”
He puts his arms around her and lifts her up, surprised by how light she is. He has to turn sideways to walk through the door.
“On the bed,” she says.
He places her on the bed, and suddenly her arms are around him, pulling him down. Her lips pressed to his. Her hands on his body, his arms. This time he doesn’t resist, he can’t. Then she is on top, straddling him. She pulls her dress over her head, flinging it carelessly in the corner. The dark points of her breasts stand out against her pale body in the blue glow of the room. Her arms enveloping him, her smell, the softness of her skin, her warmth. Her tongue searches his mouth, warm and alive. Her hand on his hand, guiding him first to her hard breast, then next between her legs, rubbing his fingers over the thin silk, feeling the wetness, before bringing it back up. Then he is on top, her legs around him, drawing him in. Hands now undoing his belt, searching the tops of his flanks, her fingernails beneath his boxer shorts. Still entwined she unbuttons his shirt, lowers his trousers, running her hands through the hairs on his chest. She reaches down and holds him in her hand, feeling the hardness, the blood pumping, heart racing. Embracing him, she whispers in his ear, “I love you. I am yours.”
She kneels before him on the bed. Her tongue now darting in his ear, caressing a nipple, his navel, slowly lowering herself until she takes him in her mouth, first slowly, then longer, deeper, until he cannot stand it anymore.
“I can’t do this,” he says. “I can’t. I’m sorry. I have to go.”
But he is powerless. His muscles, his strength fails him. The curtain has been torn, the border crossed; now there is only the other side. He is falling into it. It is something he has secretly yearned for. She pulls him back to the bed, caressing him, wrapping her legs around him, her body burning him, feet in the air, rhythmically back and forth, gasping for breath, pushing and pulling, slick with sweat, her mouth searching for his, his mouth on her breast, her clavicle, her neck, fingers scoring his back, panting, moaning, her screaming, his roaring, until they collapse together.
“Stay inside me,” she whispers. Her arms wrapped tightly around him.
Lying there, breathing. His head on her pillow, staring into each other’s eyes, hands clasped, their breath mingling, their bodies melded. He cannot remember when he has felt such peace.
“I think I love you too,” he says. Or does he? Maybe he only thinks it and is confused by the thought. Maybe the words mean different things to him than they do to other people.
She sighs and kisses him, already asleep, exhausted by jet lag, whisky, and sex.
I
n the morning he is awoken by her as she returns to bed, limping slightly from the cut on her foot. Early sunlight filters dully through the curtains. “I thought you might like this,” she says, kissing him on the mouth. Her breath is musty. She places two mugs of tea on the bedside table. He sits up, leaning back against the pillows. She is naked. Her skin white, supple, firm. A mole on the back of her thigh. The hair between her legs dense and black. She moves like someone who could spend her whole life naked. He would like to see that.
“Good morning,” he says. “Come here.”
On her hands and knees, she advances to him, like an animal, her eyes locked on his. She kisses him hungrily. He moves her onto her back, his face between her legs. She is already wet. She moans, grabbing the back of his head as his tongue flickers in and out. “Oh god, yes. Don’t stop.” The intimacy of making love in daylight. There is nowhere to hide. Everyone else is going to work. He enters her. They stare silently into each other’s eyes, hers brown, his gray, an unspoken communion. And then her lids lower, and she tilts her head back, her mouth open, pelvis bucking, long, short, long, short like a lover’s Morse code until the pace increases as her eyes open again, and they go faster and faster and faster, eyes locked on each other, she shouting, “Yes Yes Yes.”
“
I
have wanted to wake up next to you ever since we first met on the beach,” she says after. They lie splayed on the bed, exhausted like athletes. “But I never thought it would happen.”
“Well, now it has. Is it everything you hoped it would be?”
“Better,” she says, kissing him.
“What time is it?”
“Almost eight. I don’t want to, but I have to get going. What are you doing today?”
“More meetings. A lunch. Drinks. A dinner.”
“I want to see you. Can you get out of the dinner?”
“I was planning on it. I would much rather see you.”
She smiles radiantly. “What time can we meet? I can try to get out of the office early.”
“Is seven-thirty okay?”
“Perfect.”
In the shower, he soaps her hair and her breasts, the cleft of her buttocks against him, making him hard. Slowly, wordlessly, she widens her stance, lowering herself, her back to him, arms bracing against the tiles. His legs bent to compensate for the difference in height. He watches himself penetrate her. This time it is quick. The water sluicing off their bodies, splattering on the floor. She has a beautiful back.