Augusta Played (20 page)

“Birdie.”

“—Birdie, is that one of the things I never realized marriage does is, it isolates you from everybody. I've heard women complain about this, of course, but shit, Birdie, I don't have anyone to talk to either. The only people a man could have a discussion of this type and quality with are the same people you
can't
have it with after you're married, namely, women. I know that Bunny Van Den Nieuwenhut-zen, for example, even if I could locate her, doesn't want to discuss my wife.”

“You'd be surprised what women will listen to from a man.”

“But only if they think there's something in it for them, right? So women are out, and Phil is out, and it's sure as hell not possible to talk about these things in a seminar or a poker game. I don't know any tribal elders or fellow warriors. If this is the nuclear family, I think I'm going to ex plode. I feel so
lonely
, Birdie. I can't even talk to my mother, since she seems to be in league with Gus. And obviously this is not something I can discuss with my father. Boy, wouldn't he just love it if I told him what was going on!” Norman thought for a second about what was going on, while Birdie watched distress and anger chasing each other across his face. “My father has a mole that I always thought he should have removed,” he said, “talking about moles.”

“Don't worry about your father's mole,” Birdie said. “Or his sinuses. But you can worry about his prostate.”

“What's wrong with his prostate?”

“Nobody knows. He won't go to a doctor.”

“That's ridiculous,” Norman said. “Who ever heard of a member of the Gold family refusing to see a doctor?”

Birdie shrugged. “The only member of the Gold family I know is Sidney's,” she said. “He says it would be a waste of money.”

“Money,” Norman said with disgust. “That's all my father thinks about.”

“Are you still blackmailing him?”

“I wouldn't dream of stopping.”

“I thought a lot about how you explained what you were doing, Norman. It's so deep. I really admire deep men. They're so…deep.”

“I think it would kill him if I quit. I see him every week, this way. If I quit blackmailing him, he'd have to stick to the standard he set for himself. Or rather, the standard that he thinks religion, politics, and tradition have set for him; i.e., to act as if I don't exist. It is a hell of a hard standard for a father to live up to. Emotionally lethal. Why do people insist on doing these things to themselves? I can guess, but frankly, Birdie, I don't feel like trying. Not now.”

“You poor boy. You look so miserable.”

“It stands to reason,” he said, glumly. “I feel miserable.”

“I'll do anything I can to help,” Birdie said, meaning it fervently, “anything at all. However,” she added, “you haven't told me what the problem is.”

“My wife is having an affair.”

“But you just got married! I know, because I remember that Sidney wept all day long. Right here. He was sitting in the very spot in which you are now sitting, Norman! Isn't that amazing?”

“I don't know what to do, Birdie. I just don't know what the fuck to do!”

“I don't understand how this could have happened in so short a space of time, Norman.”

“Neither do I. If we had been married for years, okay, I suppose it would be predictable. There would be ways of dealing with it. Maybe I would have had some peccadilloes too. But Christ, am I supposed to storm out of the apartment? It's my apartment. Do I kick her out into the street? The bastard's married, she would have no place to go. It's a one-room apartment. How do we live in it if we talk about this sensibly and openly, the way they do in Swedish films? I wouldn't be able to look her in the eye. I assure you, Birdie,” he said, glowering, “I am not Scandinavian!”

“No, no,” she said quickly, “I can see that.” She was still trying to figure out how this had happened. “I remember you were having a fight with her the first time I called.”

“We'd have to sleep side by side at night while one of us looked for another place in the day. Besides, I love her. Meanwhile I am having trouble thinking. These images of wholesale slaughter keep interfering with my mental processes. You should try writing a dissertation sometime while another man is shagging your wife. It isn't easy,” he said.

“I'm sure it isn't,” Birdie said, soothingly.

“Anyway,” he went on, “I'm hardly irrational. I thought about killing the guy but all that would do is create who-knows-how-many fatherless children. His wife would undoubtedly seek revenge. She's the one who told me this was going on, and I know for a fact that she is the revenge-seeking type.”

“You mean you know who he is?”

“Hell, yes. His name is Richard Hacking.”

38

B
IRDIE
JUMPED
UP
from her chair. She was wearing a white feather boa—Sidney had bought it to replace the fox—and one tail of it swung loose, dangling in front of Norman's face. He tugged on it and she leaned down, those things, those bowls of mellow Jell-O, quivering at the tip of his nose. They were double trouble, like a Popsicle. It was all he could do not to start licking them, like sugar cubes. But Birdie was whispering frantically. “You have to leave now, Norman. You have to!”

“What's wrong?” he asked. He was happy in this warm, low-lit, amniotic room with the semi-classical music in the background.

“Oh,” she said, “oh. Go, Norman, please. Scram. I have to make a telephone call. I have to see somebody.”

“My father?”

“That's right,” she said. “Sidney. I forgot I have to see Sidney. Norman!” she called, showing him out the door.

He turned back to look at her, asking the question with his eyebrows.

Her face was as white as one of Gus's blouses, except in the crevices where her nose joined her face, where the powder had caked and turned a light orange-frosting color. And except for the purple beauty spot and her eyeshadow. “Nothing,” she said, giving Norman a wild look, “nothing. Just—Oh, Norman, if misery loves company, I am your boon companion!” Then she shut the door and he was left standing there, staring dumbly at the painted wood with its one-way peephole.

39

R
ICHARD
SAID
he had to go to Boston before he could come to Madison Avenue. Waiting for him to answer her summons, Birdie polished her shoes. She read half a dozen novels. She embarked on a new regimen of diet and exercise. Women who let themselves go learned that men would let them go too, Birdie always said. When Richard rang her doorbell a couple of weeks later, she was wearing a purple sweatband with a bow around her hair and a purple leotard and she was sweating from her workout. Richard gazed at her raptly. “What are you staring at?” she demanded.

“I was admiring the way you sweat. You seem to do it all over.” The damp leotard clung to her body like Saran Wrap. Her boobs and backside seemed to be wrestling for right-of-way.

“You took a long time getting here! I've been worrying and worrying!”

He took off his coat and settled in. “I couldn't come before, or believe me, I would have, Birdie. Not only did I have to go to Boston, but my wife suspects something. I feel her eyes on me all the time. In fact, just the other day I realized for the first time that her eyes are the color of seaweed. It is staggering how you can live with someone for years and not even notice these elementary facts. Of course, part of the problem is that while I see her eyes every day, I very seldom get to look at seaweed. It is one of the many professional liabilities in being a conductor. Your world is bounded by hotels and concert halls. You have really been an eye-opener for me, Birdie. What have you got to drink?”

“Here,” she said, handing him a Scotch-and-water. “I'm out of ice. I used it all up drinking Hawaiian Punch. Exercise makes me thirsty.”

“I can see why,” he said, lovingly. “I get hot just looking at you.”

“Don't be stupid, Richard.”

“No. Actually, it's quite cold outside. Blustery, even.” He leaned back on one of the Désirée pillows.

“I have something very important to ask you, Richard.”

“I told you I would get you a dance engagement. It takes time, Birdie.” He said this without having any intention of furthering her career. What could he possibly do, anyway? But it was not as if he were lying—he wouldn't sink so low. He was sure she didn't really mean for him to
do
anything: women just found it reassuring when a man made promises. It meant they had some claim on the man's future, that they entered into his thoughts about what he intended to do as well as what he had done the night before. That's all. Richard was beginning to feel that he understood women pretty well—well enough to make them happy, at least. He liked making women happy. When they were happy, he was happy. He could relax. He could drift off in their arms, thinking about fishing off the coast of Florida. He had been to Florida only once, but he thought of it as the place he would like to pass on to when he died. There were no sound engineers in Florida. There were no symphony patrons, no cocktail parties for the radically chic. Leonard Bernstein did not live in Florida. Oh, Richard remembered the smell of fish on the floor of the boat, the sun drying the water that splashed on the deck, leaving salt that he had to wash from the soles of his feet at night. He even remembered seaweed.

“It's not about that,” Birdie said. She blurted it out: “Are you cheating on your wife?”

“Of course I am,” he said. “With you.”

“Not counting me,” she said. “I don't count.”

“I think Elaine would disagree with you about that. So would I. You count for a lot in both our eyes,” he said, a great ache in his heart.

“You are not with me, Richard,” she said, sternly. “Now you must listen carefully. This is very important.” Sometimes it seemed to her that Richard was very dim. He certainly was not as smart as Sidney. “Your wife thinks that you are having an affair with Gus Gold.”

“Who told you that? Birdie! You haven't been talking to my wife, have you?”

“It doesn't matter who told me. Richard, are you going around with her? I can understand if you are. After all, you are not the only man in my life. But I told you about Sidney, and you kept this girl a secret from me. That's not right, Richard!”

“Birdie, I'm not seeing Gus Gold. What you heard is old news. I told you she was a friend of mine. I
used
to see Gus-sie, before she got married to this creep what's-his-name. Norman.”

“Norman is not a creep.”

“Did he tell you this?”

“He heard it from your wife.”

“She must think that's who I'm seeing now. That means she doesn't know about you, Birdie.” Richard was feeling better and better.

“But if it isn't true, you have to tell Norman! You can't let him go on thinking his wife is having an affair with you.”

“I don't mind.”

“Richard!” she said. “I mind.”

“Okay, but I can't tell Elaine. If I did, she'd try to find out who I
am
seeing who would know that she was mistaken about who I'm seeing.”

“You could tell Norman.”

“Like hell I could. I refuse to get involved with Norman. After all, he married the girl I
was
seeing. When I wasn't looking.”

“Well, I can't tell Norman. He'll wonder how I know who it is you're having an affair with. He thinks I'm exclusively his father's mistress.” She stopped, as if she'd stumbled onto something. “That's true, you know. Maybe you don't know. Honest, these young men think in very old-fashioned terms. Mistress, for example. They don't really know how to appreciate a woman who likes to be independent. I tried to explain this to Norman, but I am not sure he understood. I thought Norman was very attractive, eyes-wise, but I don't believe he would ever understand my deepest desires the way his father does,” she added, thoughtfully. “I'll call your wife.”

“You'll what! Over my dead body,” he said.

“Don't worry, Richard. I won't tell her who I am. I'll remain totally anonymous.” She gave a little shiver, and to Richard's eyes, the purple leotard seemed to vibrate, like a violin string. “Isn't it exciting?” she asked.

“I don't know, Birdie, do you really think this is the thing to do?”

“The only other alternative is for you to tell Norman's wife that her husband thinks you are seeing her. I don't see how that would help her, though. She would have to deny it to Norman, and what husband would believe his wife if she suddenly announced out of a clear blue sky that she was not sleeping with someone?”

“I see your point.”

“It's settled, then. I'll call Elaine. Don't worry, it'll be all right. Gee, Richard, I am really glad you aren't seeing Norman's wife. I thought I was sort of special to you.”

“You are, Birdie, you really are.”

“If Norman's wife told him she heard this from you, she'd be in even a worse mess unless she could explain that you got it from me, and that brings us back to one of the places we were before. Why, if Norman thought I was cheating on Sidney, which is how he would view it, being very idealistic, he might even think he had no grounds for blackmailing his father anymore, and Sidney would hate that! No more weekly redemption! It's better this way.”

“Poor little Gussie. I don't think she should have got married. She's a lovely girl, Birdie, very talented. However, she is not built the way you are. There is built, and then there is built,” he explained, appreciatively.

“I have always thought,” Birdie said, “that it must be very difficult to be married and have a career at the same time. Even for a man.”

“It is,” Richard said, gratefully.