Slaves of New York (33 page)

"That coat is special," I said. I didn't want to remind her that she had humiliated me the night before by pointing and laughing.

"I'm going to give you my card," Agnes said. "I'm a psychic, I can give you a discount. You can call me any time, day or night. When did you move into the neighborhood?"

"August," I said.

"Oh, you're just a baby," she said. "I've been here thirty-three years, four months, two days, and seven hours."

Anyway, I took her card and grabbed a taxi to the restaurant where I was meeting Wilfredo. He was already there, lurking at a back table and wearing a straight black wig and a ban-

danna around his forehead. He had supreme style. I watched him give the waitress elaborate instructions for how he wanted his coffee prepared. He liked his coffee with hot, steamed milk on the side; in other words, a cappuccino in two parts. The restaurant was very romantic, with Art Nouveau paintings on the walls, and other gaily dressed young people. I noticed they were all eyeing us. It was pleasant to sit with a man who was recognizable—even if this was a shallow thought on my part.

I ordered some white wine. Over our drinks, Wilfredo and I discussed how talented he was. He was a deeply sensitive person who had only had one lover in his life, and this person he had broken up with recently. "The way I see it," Wilfredo said, "I have trouble connecting with people because of my upbringing. My father was an architect—and though he was kind to others he was very strict and distant with his own family. He designed a sort of double-envelope house that was solar heated on the roof. The solar heat warmed rocks that were under the foundation. Then at night the heat would be thrown from the rocks back to the house. It was a real ecological breakthrough. Anyway, after the divorce my brother and I lived with our father, in the prototype house. Because it was the first model, it had some design problems—water retention. Between my father's aloofness and the mildew, obviously this affected me. I have trouble getting close to people."

"Well," I said. "That's good. It just shows you're not a casual person." He took my hand across the table, which I thought was a very spontaneous, affectionate gesture. "I'm just getting over a breakup myself." I asked him not to stroke my hand, as it was making me forget what I was saying. "You don't know what it feels like," I said. "It's like hypnotizing an alligator."

Wilfredo dropped my hand. "What do you mean?" he said.

"You know, sometimes at the zoo, they have these demonstrations—they hypnotize a small alligator by turning it over and stroking its stomach and it goes into a trance."

Wilfredo looked alarmed. "That's not what I had in mind," he said. "I just thought you had nice hands."

"Do you get along with your father?" I said. I had to speak loudly; two men at a nearby table were arguing.

"Oh, we're great, great pals," Wilfredo said. "We used to fight a lot; in fact, for many years he disowned me. Now the only thing we argue over is who cooks the best linguine with clam sauce."

"But wasn't he upset when you went bankrupt?"

"No," Wilfredo said. "In fact, he was very supportive. After all, when he was starting his architectural firm, there were two times in the early years when the whole thing fell apart. But he had faith in himself. The only problem now is that he wants me to find independent backing."

Then something happened: the two men who had been arguing at the nearby table stood up and began to flail at each other. A waitress came over and tried to hold one of the men back; apparently she had studied judo or wrestling, because she knew the right holds. One of the men was calling the other a Communist. In the scuffle, our table got knocked to the side. Wilfredo's coffee sloshed across the cloth. I stood up quickly. "Maybe we should leave," I said. I went to the restroom while Wilfredo paid the bill. When I came out, the men had gone.

"That was something, wasn't it?" I said.

Wilfredo asked if he could see my jewelry. The waitress had put a clean cloth on the table and I took everything out, including some slides and two hats. "Do you smell mothballs?" Wilfredo said. I shook my head. "This stuff is fantastic," he said. "I really wasn't expecting anything like this at all. I know in your letter you said you designed jewelry, but I just thought you'd have the usual old stuff."

I could tell he was genuinely excited. I wasn't really surprised that Wilfredo hadn't heard of me or seen my work before, but I did explain that ever since I broke up with Stash my jewelry design business had really taken off: I was getting invitations to work with all kinds of fashion designers, a fashion magazine had called me up asking me to do an article on tips for wearing jewelry, and I was planning a trip to Europe in the spring. "I wouldn't be telling you all this except for the fact

that I think you're the most exciting designer around," I said. "And you're the one I'd like to work with. But I'm normally very humble. Believe me, I'm humble: I've been humiliated too much of my life not to be."

Wilfredo said he understood. Then he asked if I'd like to go out to dinner with him, not tonight, because he already had other plans, but maybe sometime the following week. I said that would be fine.

I really felt I was getting to know him. Even though he was busy, he managed to find the time to talk to me on the phone: we had long conversations, discussing his latest designs, the difficulty he was having with patterns, and the kind of effect he hoped to achieve in his spring line. He also had a lot of ideas for the kinds of things I should be making to accompany them. He was thinking along the lines of historical monuments, and fourteenth-century Japanese warrior. This sounded good to me.

On our first date we had a romantic time—we sat by the water holding hands, while Wilfredo complained about his ex-lover and I said things about Stash. "He was a crazy artist type," I told him. "I couldn't take the sulking, and one day after a six-week sulk I said I was fed up and was walking out. Naturally I assumed he'd call me at my girlfriend's immediately, begging my forgiveness. Unfortunately, that's not what happened. Now I feel fragile; it seems hard for me to believe that a person could live with someone for many years—two, anyway—and then one day, quite without warning, it's over."

Wilfredo said that in the case of his lover, the person fought all the time and the temper tantrums became unbearable. Both of us agreed we loathed and despised fighting. It was unnecessary. You could either tell your partner what was wrong and both of you would make the needed negotiations, or the relationship was better off forgotten. There was definitely an instant rapport between Wilfredo and myself. Both of us liked to put on strange accents while making an important point.

Maybe I said too much. I knew it was a mistake to tell a new

man about a past relationship. But I said exactly what came into my head, and then I was sorry. Because most of the time I didn't even agree with what I was saying. But once I had said it the words hung in the air like stalactites, or whatever those things are that hang off the ceiling.

Wilfredo had a car, and he drove me home, but not before we had spent some time kissing passionately. Anyway, at my door Wilfredo said he had had a great time, that he was really becoming attached to me, and that he would call me soon, if not immediately.

A few days later he invited me out on another date: he said he had asked a bunch of people over to dinner, and I could come early and pretend to be the hostess. I found the idea appealing: I pictured myself in a gingham hostess outfit, serving canapés and chattering amusingly, while my husband—or some kind of fiancé—looked on admiringly.

Wilfredo was glad to see me, but his dog, Dora Mar, at first decided I must be a burglar. She was small and liver-spotted, and stood barking at the entrance. But after Wilfredo spoke to her gruffly she gave up and allowed me to come in. Wilfredo had a small, cluttered apartment, and while he was busy cooking in the kitchenette I looked around at some of his stuff: a large octopus in a jar of formaldehyde, a stuffed swordfish, a pair of snowshoes, a Japanese silk kimono hanging on the wall, and a large fish tank with several ugly pink fish. Wilfredo was puréeing tomatoes by hand, squeezing them through a colander, and when he was finished he gave me a glass of fresh tomato juice to drink, but I said I'd stick with the wine.

While we were kissing in the kitchen, the guests began to arrive. The first couple were named Mike and Hank, two men in their fifties. Hank was skinny and blond, and had a number of interesting quirks. The major one was his habit of switching the subject, so that one minute he was talking about Ezra Pound and the editorial slaughter job that Pound did on Eliot, and then a minute later he was arguing with Mike about who had been at fault ten years ago when a man broke into their apartment and left them tied up with paper bags over their

heads only minutes before a hundred guests were due to arrive for cocktails.

I started laughing, maybe a little nervously. "Why. you have wonderful friends," I told Wilfredo. "Just wonderful."

Then an artist and his boyfriend, who was an art critic, showed up. Everyone congratulated the artist on his recent show. "I didn't think it was as good as his last," the art critic said. "I told Roger to start painting on bigger canvases, but he wouldn't listen."

Mike took me to the couch to show me one of Roger's paintings hanging on the wall: it showed several tiny figures squatting on an idyllic lawn, eating what appeared to be a massive quantity of peas. "I think Wilfredo really likes you," he whispered in my ear.

"Really?" I said. "Why?"

"He's never gone out with anybody with such long hair before," Mike said.

I had to keep drinking wine, out of anxiety, and Wilfredo's food wasn't ready until after eleven, but it was a jolly evening. Dora Mar had a chair to herself at the table. All the men fed her treats. She had a big pink nose, which I thought was rather unattractive, and a goofy, pleasant expression. It was true I didn't know much of what the conversation pertained to, but I was used to that. At one point, when it seemed they were discussing a couple they knew who were in the middle of splitting up, I decided to insert a contribution. "Women these days are supposed to be tough and independent," I said. "But I don't see what's wrong with wanting to be bonded to another person."

"Oh, come off it," Mike said. "If women were really tough then they'd know their career is the most important thing; if some guy comes along that's fine. But all the women I know are just as obsessed with Lane hope chests and
Bride
magazine as if it was the 1950s."

They all looked at me, but I didn't have anything else to say. Dora Mar waved one clawed paw at me. My old dog, Andrew, was a lot more attractive and less spoiled. But maybe in time

I'd get used to Dora Mar. Or maybe I was just remembering Andrew in a whitewashed light.

While Wilfredo was in the kitchen he called for me to join him. He was preparing some type of pasta with sun-dried tomatoes and fresh tomatoes and tuna fish. When I got to his side he said he missed me.

"That's great," I said. "I like to be near you, too."

Finally, around one in the morning, the guests left, but not before Hank and Mike had a little fistfight—well, Hank slapped Mike across the face to make a dramatic point about why he had the right to see other people if he wanted, and then Mike stormed out, so Hank had to follow him in a hurry. When they had all gone, I mentioned that it must be nice to be part of a couple that had been together for a long time. "Don't you think?" I said. "When people are together for ages, there must be almost a psychic connection between them."

Wilfredo gave me an inscrutable look, his eyes were amazingly yellow.

"Of course," I said, "it's awful that Hank and Mike got into a fight. This is the second time that people near us have started squabbling."

"I don't like to fight," Wilfredo said. "Makes me totally claustrophobic. Any kind of game playing—I'll just walk away first."

"I've never been able to figure out the rules," I said. "Even as a kid—with Parcheesi or Milles Borne—I never did learn what I was supposed to do. At this point it's probably too late to even try."

Wilfredo said he could appreciate this quality in me.

In the morning, over reheated pasta, Wilfredo said that everything was great: he liked my personality, my physicality, and my jewelry. "I feel as if I already know you," he said. "But the best thing is that even though I feel so comfortable with you, we have all the time in the world to get acquainted."

He went out of his way to see me home in a taxi, and left me at my door after kissing me fervently and saying he would call me either later that day (he wasn't certain if he would, because

a friend of his was just getting back from Chicago and he really wanted to see the guy) or else the next morning.

"Don't lose my number," I told him.

For the first couple of days I just floated around, in a kind of trance: I felt ephemeral. But then when he didn't call by the third day I started to wonder if I was crazy and had imagined the whole thing. I tried to call him at his studio and also at his house—but in both places a machine answered. I did leave a few messages, but he never returned any of them.

I tried not to leave my apartment in case the phone might ring. While I waited, I studied a book I had bought about how to make men fall in love with you. The book seemed to suggest I had done something wrong. First of all, I should never have left messages on Wilfredo's machine—this showed I was too interested—and second, I hadn't made an attempt to communicate with Wilfredo in his own language. According to the book, Wilfredo fell into the "visual" category of men. To make him fall in love with me, I should have done two things: spoken in "visual" language, using terms such as "It
looks
like we're going to have a lot of fun tonight" and also by "mirroring" him. Mirroring meant that, for example, while we were sitting at a table if he touched his chin with his hand, I should do the same.