Manhattan 62 (16 page)

I do not tell him that. Oh, have I learned the culture! I have become a man who prefers the films of Billy Wilder to the films of Sergei Eisenstein. I love
The Apartment,
and best
Some Like It Hot.
I go to a film house where they show revivals, and watch it three times. The next time somebody asks if we only have donkey carts in our country, I say, “Nobody's perfect.”

Museum of Modern Art, Guernica

Metropolitan Museum of Art

Guggenheim Museum I would like to run down and down its galleries in a spiral.

Marilyn Monroe is dead, and people mourn her.

August 12

Mr Stan Miller invites me to dinner at the Luchow Restaurant on 14th Street. It is all dark wood, and German food, and very delicious. Sauerbraten. Heavy beer. He is proud of his son, but more of his nephew who is in the Air Force, and shows me the picture of this young guy in uniform, so young he is like a chicken just hatched, and tells me of the wonderful benefits of fighting for the United States. I realize that Mr Miller is probing gently, like a doctor, to see if I might come over. I think he considers this as if I would give up my favorite Moscow team for his Yankees.

Does he mean for me to defect? He speaks of vigilance. Collusion. Informants. Hints a second time I can defect.

Did Mr Miller request for a Soviet exchange student to stay at the apartment? I feel uncomfortable here, but what can I do about it? Does he believe I will defect for a white Oldsmobile car?

He is naive. He feels I enjoy myself so much in New York, that I would betray my country, its system, its goals.

Dear Sunny,

I feel so homesick. Out of the blue, this comes on me. I want to write to my Nina, but I know she will not reply. She never writes.

I must know more about Pat's case. The young woman was Cuban, perhaps a counter-revolutionary. I know this from the tattoo. It was in all the papers last week. Bounine asks me to find out more about this case. The worm. The words: Cuba Libre. Pat shows me the warehouse where the girl hid out, above the railroad tracks. He is uneasy doing this, and leaves quickly. I continue to look around, though it is raining.

Village Vanguard.

Nancy. Slim red dress, a pearl necklace, high heels. Club crowded. Thick smoke. I tell her I will write it all down to remember. She asks if I have a good memory, and I tell her yes, I have trained it to be so. She looks at me in a strange way, but then we are inside.

Miles Davis arrives. I feel the adoration in the crowd.

He plays. Even with his back to the audience, he has magic. Here, in person, I never heard anything so beautiful, long notes that go on and on, sweet, melancholy, almost unearthly in my ears. “So What?” “Summertime”. The set ends.

Nancy knows Mr Gordon who owns the club. He introduces us to Miles. “So you're from Russia, man. Welcome anytime, man.” He tells the other musicians “This cat must be a black Russian.”

Never have I been so close before to a genius. Miles asks about Moscow. He asks about jazz music. I tell him I heard Benny Goodman in person.

Miles shakes my hand, climbs to the bandstand with his guys, and very soft, so nobody else hears it, blows some few bars of “Moscow Nights”.

Did I dream this?

“What do you feel, Max?” Nancy says after.

I tell her I feel I am some sort of Neanderthal who arrived in this land of civilized Homo Sapiens, like
The Inheritors,
this sad wonderful book by William Golding. This is how Miles's music makes me feel.

August 15

Wherever I go, there is so much music. Music in clubs, bars, streets, radios in cafes, beaches, and building sites. Gerdes. Blue Note. Half Note. Five Spot. The Town Hall. Charles Mingus. “Eat that chicken.” I like the folk music, the singers such as Josh White, Joan Baez. Peter Paul and Mary, though Nancy says they are not quite authentic. I don't care. Gerde's Folk City.

Pat Wynne invites me to the Brooklyn Fox for a rock and roll show, and everyone dancing in the aisles to this music that makes them feel free. I am uneasy with Pat. I think that he likes Nancy very much, although I asked him once, and he said they were merely friends. But he is not the same. He drinks more. His conversation is more cynical.

I am under siege by music. Rock and roll. Alive. Wild. This music is changing me. Ray Charles. Little Richard. John Coltrane, Bill Evans, Thelonius Monk. And, oh, Ella Fitzgerald. I listen for hours and hours. Rock and roll people and jazz people do not like each other, but I love it all. My obedient Soviet soul is being sucked out by Ella, if there was a thing such as souls. This sucking noise is coming from me. How will I go back?

Mrs Miller invited me to ask some friends to dinner, and when Pat asked me who else was coming, I said only a friend from Moscow. I knew he was thinking of Nancy. I must put this to an end. I will write to Nina tomorrow.

I remembered that evening. The weather had been hot, still August, but cool at the Millers who had an air conditioner in the living-room window. By then, I was already pretty jealous of Max and Nancy, but I was curious to get a look at his room.

Mr Miller opens the door, and shows me into the living room where his wife is playing
Swan Lake
on the piano, and she does it well, with style and feeling, sitting straight on the piano bench in her green cocktail dress made of raw silk—it had been a present from Thailand, she had said—pearls around her neck, dark hair newly done, fingers flying across the keys, so her diamond rings flash.

In his late 40s, Miller, a well-built guy, he makes drinks, taking care not to allow the ice cubes to fall against glass so his wife's playing is not disturbed. In that living room, I get the impression of good taste, a sofa and chair covered in good pale green fabric, nice drapes that go with it, bookshelves, a fireplace with a fine old mantelpiece, the silver vase with yellow roses on it. There is art on the walls.

I'm glad I put on a new slim lightweight gray summer suit with a narrow black silk knit tie. Miller is in advertising, and he'll get the look, I figure.

From a settee, where he is sitting quietly beside another man, Max unfolds himself and greets me, accepts a highball from Mr Miller. His wife finishes playing.

“That was terrific,” I tell her, and she takes both of my hands. “I know you must be Pat Wynne. Thank you, dear. But I must get dinner. Stan, tell them how much you admired the Russian Army.”

“The Russians were some fighters,” says Stan Miller. “They would fight in their bare feet if they had to. They fought until they died. You have to admire that.

“In this picture, you see, this is me, quite young, and this fellow is General Curtis LeMay. He was something. He did what nobody else would do. You ever hear of how he mined the Jap waterways? Practically finished the war, he looked after his own. Troops loved him. I was with him in England early, 305 Bomber, taught his men right. I knew him in Japan, too, where he really stuck it to them, I flew for him, we strafed all the waterways over there, flew so low you could see women on the river banks washing their clothes.” A nostalgic smile crosses Miller's face. He loved his war, and I knew other men who felt that way. His war; not mine.

My war? It was shit. Korea was a dung heap. I keep my mouth shut except for drinking Mr Miller's Scotch—a very nice bottle of Chivas Regal—and wonder why this gung ho officer is housing a Commie like Max Ostalsky, but maybe he was asked to do it by NYU, where he went to school. He's a loyal sort of fellow, a follower, a little bit oafish but good-natured enough.

“It's nice to meet you, Pat,” says the friend Max introduces as Mike Bounine. Seems his real name is Vyascheslav, and who in America could pronounce that? “We decide on the flight over that we shall be Max and Mike,” he says, “you see my patronymic is Mikhailovich. My father's name is Mikhail. Max gives me a name. He becomes, you might say, my godfather.”

“What's your work?”

“I'm a medical doctor, but for the most part I do research, this means I look into a microscope a lot. How do you do?” He is tall, with a mop of yellow hair, but wearing a Brooks Brothers summer suit I could never afford, with a white shirt that was laundered professionally, and a red silk tie, Italian. I remark on them and he is polite and pleased, and comments on the excellence of American clothing.

“That's a fine watch you have there,” Mr Miller says to him, and Bounine holds up his wrist, very proud of the timepiece. “It is from Hamilton, and also self-winding, this is quite amazing, this new way to wind your watch,” he says. Miller nods, and they exchange some more words about the best watches. Like Bounine, Miller is a bit of a dandy; attired in Daks summer slacks, and an expensive silky cream-colored sports shirt with French cuffs. His sports coat has narrow lapels, and around his neck he wears a blue silk ascot with cream-colored polka dots. On his left pinky finger is a heavy embossed gold ring, the kind you might see on some Englishman, a family crest or something. I ask about it, but he just smiles, and continues his chat with Bounine.

Mrs Miller has returned with a tray of canapés. “You know we had a very nice Russian family just across the street, 24 East 10th I think, or at least the father was Russian, two little boys, Paul and William. Such handsome little boys, it makes me furious to think of the way people regard Russians, what bad thing could these lovely people do? They left quite a few years ago and I wondered why. Now, drink up, and we'll have dinner. Stan dear, put that lovely recording of “Sleeping Beauty” on the stereo.”

The music plays. We sit down. At the table, Muriel Miller presides like a dope pusher, urging more and more food on us, lamb chops, with mint jelly or mustard, baked potatoes with sour cream and butter, seconds of everything. In and out of the kitchen she teeters, in her high heels, the heels going tap tap tap on the kitchen floor.

They have a double act, she cooks too much food, plays the piano, hovers, chatty and wanting to please. He is the businessman who tells us about how the gears of business are greased by advertising. I help her take some dishes into the kitchen where she detains me. “Pat, ask Stan about his campaign, he is such a brilliant advertising man, but I want him to join that company, Doyle Dane Bernbach, you've seen those ads for Volkswagen, so witty, and they like Jews, some of them are Jews, I think, and I know Stan feels in a bit of a bind where he is, so anti-Semitic, he has to pretend. I know they talk behind his back. He's so sensitive about it. Sometimes I think he loved his pals in the army so much because they just accepted him. Before that he felt he was a little Jewish boy, and he couldn't belong, and then he goes into the military, expecting them to keep their distance, and they just make him one of them. His commanding officer was his biggest hero, still is. The only time he feels good is after those get togethers with his military buddies. He can't shake it that people called him a dirty little kike when he was a boy. I say to him, Stan, but so many lovely people are Jewish, look at Tony Curtis, do you know his real name is Bernie Schwartz? But I do love a nice mass, Pat. You know, I sometimes go to Old St Patrick's for the music.”

We rejoin the others. Three kinds of cake follow, also apple strudel, and vanilla fudge ice cream.

“Max, dear, take the boys and show them your little hideaway while I just put the food away. Stan, make the boys one of your Rusty Nails, such a delicious drink.”

It's the first time I see Max's room, the way it's connected to the Miller apartment by a door next to the kitchen; it has its own second door leading out to the back stairs.

We troop into his room. Stan Miller brings a tray with Scotch and Drambuie and glasses, mixes the drinks. He's eager to join us, be one of the boys. He takes the desk chair. Max sits on the bed. Bounine asks to use the bathroom, disappears behind a door that leads to it, then reappears and perches on the window sill, glancing out the window, down into the alley behind. He could have used the blue armchair.

Now I was in that room, same furniture, bookshelves, a portable phonograph, a black and white TV set. I remembered how Bounine sat on the window. Was he watching the boy with the handball? Something else? There was bad feeling somehow between him and Ostalsky, and I couldn't put my finger on it.

“Why don't you put a record on, Max, please?”

With a grin in my direction, Max puts James Brown on the turntable. “Such noise,” says Bounine, and Max replaces it with folk songs by Paul Robeson. “Is that better for you, Mike?”

“Much better,” Bounine says mildly. “Pat, I believe you're Catholic, and I would like to visit a church. Max mentioned something about Old St Patrick's Cathedral? Or Stan? Do you belong to a church, Stan? No, forgive me, that can't be, your wife mentioned you are Jewish.

“Did she? I didn't hear her,” says Miller, and before Bounine answers he adds, “Well, yes, my wife is Jewish, I'm only half Jewish, in point of fact.”

“Listen, you know what? I'll take you to meet my aunt and uncle,” I tell Bounine. “They live opposite Old St Patrick's Cathedral. My Auntie Clara, she'll take you to her church and talk until your eyes bleed and probably talk you into converting. I'll fix it. Next week, if you like.”

“Good, fine, that's helpful. Thank you,” Bounine says, in a way that suggests it was on his agenda from the moment we met.

August

Visit to the aunt and uncle of Pat, Mr and Mrs Jack and Clara Kelly at their house on Mott Street. To Old St Patrick's Cathedral. Why is Bounine so interested? What does he care so much for what the young priest says?

August 29

Ice cream with Nancy Rudnick in the park. When Nancy Rudnick touches my hair, this is all I think of. My feelings are not proper.