Girl in the Moonlight (21 page)

“Shhh, don’t talk,” she’d said. We were silent for the rest of the ride, her head resting on my shoulder.

I said good-bye to her at passport control. Her luggage had already been checked in. Most of the other first-class passengers were businessmen in dark suits. We kissed one last time, and she presented her passport to the official behind the desk, who inspected her with Gallic admiration before duly stamping the passport and returning it to her. Before the doors closed behind her, she turned and waved to me. I waved back, and then she was gone.

Once again she had disappeared from my life, sunk like a stone beneath the waters.

T
HAT WAS THE LAST I SAW OF CESCA FOR TWO YEARS
.

In the days after she returned to New York my calls went unanswered. Sometimes it seemed as though the phone had even been taken off the hook. Initially, I was concerned that something had happened to her, but soon I realized the truth. That she had no intention of marrying me. That once again she had played me for a fool. I was furious, hurt, resentful. I drank too much. I wrote bitter letters that I never mailed. For the first time I began to hate her.

Eventually, I regained my equilibrium, and threw myself into my work. When my office asked if I would consider a transfer to the Tokyo office, I leapt at the chance to dissociate myself from Paris and its memories. In that new city’s enormous, alien sprawl, isolated by language and culture, I was able to put Cesca behind me.

I had a few affairs in Tokyo. Fellow expats. An Australian girl who worked as a bartender in Roppongi. A South African girl at my firm. Nothing meaningful. Just companionship and
sex in a distant country, where most Westerners lived in hotels in the city center.

I returned to New York eighteen months later, feeling like a repatriated war prisoner. The city looked the same yet different. I too had changed and had grown older. When I dialed numbers, I found my address book was out of date. Friends had moved. Favorite stores and restaurants had shut down. The shop on Madison where as a child I used to buy model soldiers had become a gallery. My barber had gone.

Sean, the doorman in our old building, had retired or died. A long-familiar presence on the block, he was no longer there to say good morning to, even though he’d continued on long after my parents had moved out. When I stopped in to inquire after him, the new doorman eyed me warily and said he had never heard of Sean. And I had no home here anymore.

For the first few days, I stayed with my father, who had moved again, to an even larger apartment, this time on Fifth. It was as impersonal as a hotel suite. There were photographs of couples I had never met on a grand piano no one knew how to play. All vestiges of his former life had vanished. Chairs, paintings, even books had all been expunged and replaced by Patty’s interior decorator. There was also now live-in staff, a Vietnamese couple, who slept in the back room off the kitchen. The husband was the chauffeur, and the wife handled the cooking and housekeeping duties.

On my first night back my father welcomed me home with a big dinner at the same restaurant where we had celebrated my acceptance into architectural school years before. He had aged. Grown heavy. His hair was making the inexorable transition from gray to white, but he was still possessed of the same enthusiasm, the same determination to wring as much out of life as he could. He was full of questions, bursting with paternal pride. I basked in it, grateful that I had become someone worthy in his eyes.

I knew none of the other people in the private room my father had booked. As cocktails were being served, my father led me around, introducing me. There were several real estate developers, who had been invited expressly for my benefit, with their wives. A famous architect who was now a neighbor of my father’s in East Hampton. A few friends of Patty’s.

Just before we sat down, Roger and his wife, Diana, walked in. “Wylie, my dear boy,” he said, coming up to me, clasping my hand warmly, and rubbing my arm in the way he always did. “You look fantastic. Just fantastic.”

My father came up. “I thought I’d keep this a surprise,” he said. “You haven’t seen your godfather since, when, Izzy’s memorial, right?”

I nodded. It was good to see him. I could never tell who was in or who was out in my father’s world. People would be dismissed for imagined slights or restored on a whim. Yet his friends adored him, aware of the value of his acceptance and the enmity of his contempt. Apparently, Roger was once again welcome, whether because of something Roger had done that had earned my father’s esteem or simply because my father was mellowing, I never found out.

I had made it a point to try to forget about the Bonets. I had purposely lost touch with Aurelio. I was angry at Cesca but taking it out on the whole family. Roger, however, was his usual garrulous self. He informed me that his mother had finally died. That Kitty and Randall were well. They were living in the big house now. Dot was in India. Cosmo was terrific, wonderfully successful. Carmen was interning at St. Vincent’s. What about Aurelio? I asked.

Roger’s face looked uncharacteristically grim. “Not good,” he said. “Poor chap’s been sick. He came home a few months ago, and Kitty’s gotten him the best doctors.”

“What’s wrong with him?”

“That’s just it. No one really understands it.”

“But he’ll be okay?”

“That’s what we hope. It’s rotten luck.”

I let myself absorb this news for a minute. Thought of Aurelio. How he never took care of himself, treating his body as though he were embarrassed by its perfection, as though he had no right to look the way he did. To him his own physical beauty was a distraction from his art. I am sure he would have much rather been ugly, like Lautrec. I felt guilty for not having seen him, for not having known that he was ill.

“Is he well enough for visitors?”

“Oh yes. Don’t worry about that. I’m sure he’d love to see you. He’s back at Kitty’s. Along with his girl.”

“His girl?”

“Yes. Some blonde he picked up in Barcelona. She won’t leave his side. She’s like a dog.”

Finally I asked: “And Cesca?”

“Quite the career girl. She started her own perfume company. She has a store in Soho.”

“Married? Kids?”

“Not that I know of. But it’s a mystery to me why. Beautiful girl. What’s the matter with men these days? Are they blind? When I was your age, a girl like Cesca would have been snapped up in a moment. Don’t you think she’s beautiful? Maybe you should date her, eh?” he added with a wink and a little jab in my side.

I laughed uncomfortably. To my relief, my father returned and said it was time to take our seats.

Like a recovering alcoholic, I told myself I would not contact Cesca. No good could come of it. I had the scars to prove it, the wasted years. That couldn’t stop me from thinking about her, of still hungering for her. But I knew myself better now. Knew how destructive it could be. How there could be no such thing as
just once. However, I did call Lio the next morning. A woman’s voice answered, the accent European. “May I speak to Aurelio, please?”

“Who is this?”

“Please tell him it’s Wylie.”

“One moment, please.”

A few minutes later, Aurelio came on the phone.

“Wylie, my old friend! I’m so happy to hear from you. I’ve been thinking about you.” Beneath his cheery tone he sounded tired, as though I had just woken him.

“I’ve been thinking about you too. I’d love to see you.”

There was a brief cough. His voice sounded tired. “Yes, I’d like that too. Maybe a coffee? I’m not really up for much more, I’m afraid. I’ve been ill, I don’t know if you heard.”

“Yes. I heard. I saw Roger last night. He told me. I’m sorry.”

“Nothing to be sorry about. It’s not your fault.” He laughed but then started to cough, this time in earnest.

“When?” I waited for him to finish. He had coughed for nearly a minute.

“How about Friday morning?” It was now Tuesday.

“Perfect. Eleven o’clock?”

I had been working at my firm’s midtown offices for several weeks now, and I was a senior associate. I had a bigger office, a larger salary, more authority, more people reporting to me. Feeling guilty about leaving in the middle of the day for a personal reason, I told my secretary I had a dentist’s appointment.

When I walked into the café, Aurelio was already there. It was the same café where we had met years before. Now he was sitting with a small blond woman. I barely recognized him at first. Always thin, he was now skeletal. Despite the pleasant autumn, he was dressed as if it were winter outside. Over his head he wore a knit cap, and there was a thick scarf around his
neck. His cheeks were sunken, the skin like wax. Although I had no firsthand experience of it yet, I could sense death around him.

“My old friend,” he said, slowly getting to his feet. It was as though he had aged half a lifetime in two years. We embraced. He was so light I felt I might crack his bones or lift him over my shoulder like a child. “This is Lulu,” he said, introducing the blond woman. “She is my guardian angel.”

I shook hands with Lulu and sat down. Lulu was elfin, with tattoos on both arms, a gold stud in her nose. There were also dark rings under her eyes. She looked exhausted. A waiter came over, and I ordered a cappuccino. They were drinking herbal tea. His lips were badly chapped.

“What’s going on?” I asked bluntly, my concern outweighing good manners.

“That bad?” he said, grinning. “Yes, I know. I look like hell.”

“I’m sorry I just . . .”

“Please don’t worry about it. It’s quite all right. It seems I am being very fashionable for the first time in my life. I have that terrible disease that is killing all the best people.”

“How did you get it?”

“How? I don’t know. Well, as they say, you’re either gay or Haitian. And the last time I checked I wasn’t Haitian.” He managed a smile.

It was something we had never talked about. Not since that night years ago. I had never thought of him that way. That he was more omnivorous than that. “But I read it could be contracted lots of ways,” I said. “Through intravenous drug use. Or if you had an infected blood transfusion.”

He shrugged. “Yes, it’s possible. I have never done hard drugs. I had anemia a few years ago. Spanish hospitals, maybe they aren’t as good as the ones here. My mother had insisted that I come to New York for treatment, but I told her she was
overreacting. I suppose it could have happened then, but there’s no way to check now.”

Lulu spoke up. She had a slight accent. “There are new medicines being developed all the time. He is seeing the best doctors.” She held his left hand with both of hers.

“It is an advantage of having a generous family.” He chuckled. “Apparently there are a number of reputable hospitals that we have given a lot of money to over the years, and they don’t want us to stop. So they are doing everything they can. My mother has become a she-wolf protecting her cub. I pity the doctors who aren’t able to help me fast enough.”

“He’s on a new medicine now that could help him,” said Lulu. “Isn’t that right?”

Aurelio nodded. “Yes, it’s true. Some days I feel almost normal. If you don’t mind the side effects. Frankly, sometimes I can’t tell what is worse, the disease or the treatment.”

There was other, better news. He was finally being given a one-man show, his first. The gallery, in Soho, was one of the most respected in New York. It was what he had always wanted. The unsaid was that it may have happened too late. “There is so much work to do,” he sighed. “It takes all my strength.”

I offered to help in any way I could. “No, that’s all right,” he said. “I have plenty of help. Lulu, of course. My mother. Even Cesca. We’ll be sure to send you an invitation.”

He leaned back in his chair and sighed. Lulu sprang to her feet. “I think I should be going,” he said. “I tire so easily these days.”

“Of course.”

“And I haven’t even asked about how you are.”

“I’m fine. Never better.”

“Good.”

He embraced me again, and, without thinking, I stiffened. “Don’t worry,” he said. “I’m not contagious.”

“No, of course not. Sorry. Feel better, okay?”

“I’ll see you at the show, right? Make sure we get your new address. And be sure to bring your rich friends,” he added with a smile. “It’ll be a good investment. They say an artist’s work can triple in value after his death.”

I did have a new address. I was now living in the West Village, in a small apartment in an old building on a tree-lined block near the river. The landlord was a fat, gregarious man named Tony who came by every month in his Cadillac to collect the rent. He lived in New Jersey and favored velour pullovers. He had bought the building in the 1960s, when the neighborhood was reeling from the loss of work on the piers. He had been raised on the block when it was still working class. The building had been a sailors’ flophouse. Over the years, as the real estate market changed and prices soared, the value of his property rose into the many millions. “I won the frickin’ lottery,” he would laugh.

THE MOST SIGNIFICANT EVENT IN MY LIFE THAT FALL WAS
that I met Kate. Tall, athletic, blond, she was from Philadelphia’s Main Line. I had seen her at a party one night. There was a crowd of men in the corner, and, when one of them moved, I saw this beautiful woman standing in the middle. She was wearing a tight green dress and had a gorgeous figure. Long legs. I had come with someone else, a woman from my office who was always flirting with me, but I kept watching the other girl all night. She was never alone.

“Who is she?” I asked one of my friends, who was dating the hostess. “Do you know her?”

“Yes,” he said. “Her name is Kate. Do you want to meet her?”

“No,” I said. The girl was too popular. She was like someone
standing in front of a pet store: All the puppies were pressing up against the glass, their tails wagging. And it was obvious she was enjoying the attention, was even used to it. One man got her a drink. Another lit her cigarette. But I remembered her. When I woke up the next morning, she was the first thing I thought of.

Over the next several weeks, I began seeing her around. Once, when I was sitting in a bar on University Place with some friends. “Oh, Kate’s here,” said one of the girls. I looked out the window and saw an old white Volkswagen Bug on the street. In the driver’s seat sat Kate, her long blond hair visible from twenty feet away. “Get her to come in,” said my friend. But she wouldn’t. She had other plans.

There were other nights, other parties. At a black-tie event at the Public Library, I almost bumped into her by accident and said, “Excuse me,” and she smiled at me before moving on. Each time I was tempted to talk to her, to introduce myself, but invariably she was with someone else or just leaving.