Pinball (38 page)

“I’m not.” He laughed too. “Even my father, who never says anything bad about anybody, doesn’t think much of Domostroy’s way of life.”

“How about his music?”

“My father calls it overly visceral,” said Osten, “rudimentary and premeditated. He attributes these qualities to Domostroy’s unnatural preoccupation with sex.”

She seemed genuinely interested. “What kind of sex?”

“I don’t really know,” said Osten, “but I remember some years back—I was just out of high school, I guess—when Domostroy horrified all the guests at a party of my father’s with a filthy story about Chopin.”

“I wonder if he told such stories to Donna,” said Andrea, laughing.

“She wouldn’t like it. She idolizes Chopin.”

“What was the story?” Andrea asked.

“Everybody knows that Chopin was into sex—George Sand and all the rest, right? But because he had tuberculosis, many of his adoring contemporaries said he couldn’t help it. They put him on a pedestal and used his disease to excuse his peccadilloes. According to Domostroy, to preserve Chopin’s good name—or what was left of it—his fans kept a whole body of letters, memoirs, and other written accounts from being made public. But Chopin’s more objective contemporaries wrote about the composer’s relationships, and these documents were preserved in archives and libraries. They’ve been gone over by many critics and historians, including Domostroy himself.”

“Why would Domostroy do all that research?” said Andrea.

“I guess in order to write a book about it, now that he can’t compose anymore, and possibly to prove his own point—which, I gather, is that fucking around is one way of getting rid of one’s chaos, isolation and timidity. And for a genius that’s good for art! I read a few books on Chopin myself, and I found out some strange things about him. Chopin was involved with a certain Marquis de Custine, and with Custine’s rather slimey circle of friends.”

“Was Custine as bad as that other marquis?”

“The Marquis de Sade? Hard to tell. De Sade made up most of his sexual antics, but Custine didn’t have to: he and his friends—Chopin among them—acted theirs out.

‘It was Custine who had turned his spectacular villa into a scene of perverse doings where Chopin was often the
piece de resistance
—though he didn’t resist very hard.

“Domostroy claimed—in all seriousness—that excessive sex prolonged, or even engendered, Chopin’s artistic life. It combated his insularity and routine. It made him less withdrawn. According to him, the disease kept Chopin’s temperature so high that he was in a constant state of sexual heat, and any sexual activity raised his body temperature even more—enough to kill some TB bacilli, so that his body’s resistance to the remaining ones was strengthened! Supposedly, after an orgy, Chopin actually felt better and was therefore able to go on writing music and performing and, of course, go on fucking around! All of which he did—without any consideration at all for his sexual partners, many of whom he no doubt left with TB—before heroes, the most infectious disease going! Pretty sick, isn’t it?’

“Fucking around? Or suffering from TB?” asked Andrea gaily. “You obviously love all these literary rumors. You must be awfully good in your field.”

They had finished the second joint. As if their movements had been choreographed, they moved toward each other. His hand slid under her hair and he embraced her neck; her arms encircled his shoulders. Gently, he laid her down next to him and, leaning on one elbow, looked into her face. The marijuana made her eyes shine so that
she seemed to be daydreaming. The mood of his earlier longing for her reasserted itself and, as memories of watching her passionately from afar turned into present thoughts, he tenderly swept the hair off her cheeks and neck, and lowered his face to hers, kissing her forehead, her cheeks, her neck and her shoulders, but not yet her lips, giving her the chance to kiss him first and start him on a chain of events from which, once it began, there could be no pulling away.

She did kiss him on his lips, first slowly, then more rapidly, her tongue touching his, pushing, then pulling back, her mouth pressing on his, her hands behind his head, bringing him closer as she slid one thigh under him. He was engulfed in her now, with one hand on her breast, the other kneading her thighs, lifting her skirt, his fingers feeling the heat of her groin, the moisture of her flesh.

Still kissing, reluctant to stop touching, they started to undress, twisting and entwining their bodies. She slipped out of her blouse and let him pull off her skirt and panties, and with her bare feet she rolled his pants and shorts down to his ankles so that with his own feet he could free himself of them.

She was naked now, open to him. As he glanced down the length of her body, the drug took hold of him and the image of the faceless White House nude came between Andrea and him like a transparent curtain. Dimly, before he took her, he realized that, similar as the two women were, there was no proof in the photographs that the woman either was—or wasn’t—Andrea. But all that mattered now was the relationship that he was about to initiate by entering her flesh with his own.

Osten woke up around noon. Andrea was still asleep. He got out of bed and went quickly into the bathroom, being careful not to waken her. He felt queasy and he had an awful headache; the pain in his temples began throbbing from the glare of the bathroom light. The pot had not agreed with him, either because he was not used to smoking
so much or because it was stronger than the stuff he occasionally smoked in California.

He dressed quietly and got ready to leave. Andrea’s face was turned away from him. He would let her sleep. He crouched down in front of the shelves and reached behind the records. Instead of removing the tape recorder—his initial reaction—he reset it.

In spite of his headache, he felt exhilarated. Even though he only vaguely recalled what had taken place during the night with Andrea, he knew that he had been at ease and happy in their lovemaking. He remembered her saying how free and abandoned he made her feel, and later, when the pot had raised them to frantic, passionate heights, he knew he had gone further with Andrea than he had ever dared to go before with a woman.

He went to his apartment and took a long bath, and while he soaked he recalled after some effort that Andrea had talked a lot about her fascination with the occult. He also remembered something about automatic handwriting. With both of them high on pot and lovemaking, in a cloud of incense, and with one small candle for light, she had made him write something with his eyes closed. Almost in a trance, in a silly, abandoned mood, he had written—what? He could not recall. Was it his name? A phrase from
Macbeth?
He remembered Andrea saying that his handwriting would tell her more about his thoughts than he ever could.

He had found Andrea as natural as Leila, and fun to be with—full of delightful contradictions: a serious student of drama, bright and well informed about music; at the same time, she was a believer in magic and astrological signs, charmingly naive.

She had played him her favorite records—mostly Chick Mercurio. That had amused him, for it made him remember that when Coddard’s first record went on the airwaves and hit the record shops, its spectacular sales promptly topped the sales of Chick Mercurio and the Atavists, the
most popular punk rock group of the moment, and nudged them out of the number-one position on all the charts. A few weeks after that Osten had read in the papers that Chick Mercurio had gone berserk. The New York police had picked him up with enough heroin in him to supply a platoon of addicts. He was hospitalized, and tales of his sordid sex life filled the columns of the sensational press for several weeks. As a result, Chick Mercurio and his group disappeared as rapidly as they had emerged.

That was some six years ago, and if Andrea still played the Atavists, she obviously did not spend much time keeping up with the changing tastes of the country. At least she listened to Goddard too, he told himself, something that Donna never did.

And even though Andrea was mainly a drama student, with music as her minor subject, Osten was impressed as much by her thoughts about musical form as by her physical beauty. She was a firm believer, she had said, in musical innovation, and she felt that Western instrumental music was impoverished in terms of pitch. She believed that only the new electronic equipment and sound could lead to real rhythmic and melodic freedom—perhaps to the rediscovery of new values of intonation.

He wanted to call her, but she had said she would be busy for a day or so. Meanwhile, every time he thought of the tape recorder, he grew embarrassed and apprehensive. He promised himself that he would remove it the first chance he had. Andrea was no less proud than Donna, and if she were to discover that he was spying on her, it would wreck any chances of his ever being with her again.

Osten stared hard at the enlargements of the White House nude, trying to decide whether anything in the shape and texture of that body matched his fresh image of Andre,—nude, inspiring, relentless in her lovemaking—an image he was reluctant to let fade.

He felt eager to be with her again. There was something so reassuring in her easy acceptance of him. She
hadn’t pried into his past, questioned his social and aesthetic values, or found fault with his family background—all of which Donna had done. And unlike Donna, who focused her talent and creative energy on the piano to the exclusion of virtually everything else, Andrea had many other interests and an abundance of charms and accomplishments. She had shown Osten her poetry, and he had found it as profound as her sexual limericks were funny; her caricatures, drawings, sketches, and designs were all well thought out and faultlessly executed; and her attempts at writing plays and screenplays, she had told him, were considered promising at Juilliard. Even though he was just getting to know Andrea, he had already discovered striking differences between her and Donna. Donna’s disposition was somber, obsessive; Andrea was easygoing, carefree. Donna was all seriousness; she had no time for jokes or games, and would never indulge in such learned superstitions as astrology or palmistry. Andrea, playful by nature, loved such things and did not need to hide her interest in parascientific fields, for she obviously had numerous serious interests as well. Osten smiled on remembering her utter conviction that she could gain valuable insight into his subconscious mind by minutely studying his handwriting. For Donna, sexual passion was a force so excessive and intense that she could not control it or share it properly; it conquered her from within long before her lover could claim her for himself. But Andrea, beautiful and passionate as well, brought to sex both reserve and assurance; she was happy letting her lover bring about her surrender to physical pleasure.

In a flash, Osten foresaw a time a few months, or possibly weeks off, when he would take Andrea on a trip through California. He would show her the splendor of the Anza Borrego Desert, with its oases of fan palms and rugged canyons and steep ravines, and he would identify for her the strange, far-off cry of a coyote. Then he would take her through Julian to the ranch on the nearby hill. Slowly, pretending he was not sure of the way, he would maneuver the car up the driveway and through the gate. He would stop at the main house, and they would get out,
and as if he had never been there before, he would open the door for her—to the New Atlantis and to his entire past.

The phone woke Osten. It was Andrea.

“Please, help me,” she said, her voice shaky. “I’m in trouble’”

“Where are you?” asked Osten. He felt groggy and disoriented, and a glance at the clock told him it was late evening. He had slept all day.

“At the Old Glory. You know, Domostroy’s place—where you went the other day …”

That threw him. Only yesterday she had told him she didn’t know Domostroy.

“What are you doing there?” he asked.

“I’ll explain when I see you. Please, Jimmy, you must come right away—do you remember your way? Take the—”

There was authentic urgency in her voice.

“I know the way,” he interrupted. “Don’t worry. I’m leaving right now.”

In the car, his mind was racing. If Andrea knew Domostroy, she might actually be the one who had written him, Goddard, all those astounding letters. He hoped she was, for then at last he would have someone lovely, intelligent, well educated, and refined to love. And hadn’t she already admitted to her love for him? With her fascination for drama and music, she was the perfect partner to share his creative secret. Then his thoughts strayed to Domostroy. What was his role? Was he only her photographer—or had he played another part in what might be a plot to unmask Goddard? But whose plot was it?

The gate to the Old Glory was open, and two cars were parked at its entrance, the door of which also was open. Osten parked next to Domostroy’s vintage convertible, and ran inside. All the lights were on in the ballroom, and the grand piano gleamed on the stage. The musicians’ stands and most of the furniture were covered with dust sheets, making the place look like an abandoned stage set.
As Osten entered he heard rapid movements behind him, and when he turned he saw Patrick Domostroy, pale and disheveled. Standing behind Domostroy, wearing tight rubber gloves and holding a gun against his back, was a dark-haired man in an open shirt and baggy pants. The man’s face, in spite of the large dark glasses, looked faintly familiar to Osten. Next to them, in a sweater and jeans, stood Andrea, also wearing rubber gloves and holding a gun, which was unmistakenly pointed at Osten.

“How are you, Jimmy?” said Domostroy, his lips white.

“Shut up,” said Andrea. “Take your jacket off—slowly,” she told Osten, “and drop it on the floor.”

“What is all this?” Osten asked, still uncertain as to whether or not they were joking.

“Do what she says,” said the stranger, his gun still at Domostroy’s back. When Osten hesitated, the man screamed, “Do it! Now!” and his voice echoed through the ballroom. As he screamed, Osten recognized him, for he had seen that same face only recently on one of Andrea’s record album covers.