The Cosmopolitans (28 page)

Chapter 29

B
ette gave them exactly one half hour, according to the oven timer, and then reappeared with good food and a nice beer. The two were deep in conversation, and she hovered in the background urging them on, moving back and forth between kitchen and table. She had observed that Hortense had learned to like beer and handled it as familiarly as any adult, not yet needing it but certainly drinking with appreciation.

“As Stanislavski says,” Hortense was droning, “‘to be right, logical, coherent, to think, strive, feel, and act in unison with your role.'”

“Using
emotional memory
.” Joseph, too, had something to prove. That was good to know.

“I can't do that in life,” Hortense quivered. Quivering was universal female code for becoming vulnerable and therefore open to being rescued.

“What?” He moved closer. “Poor thing.” He reached out his arm to console her and thereby asserted his
control. Bette noted his skill at treachery. He really knew how to prepare a victim.

“I can't be in unison with my role.” Hortense rested her head on his shoulder. “But I want to. I truly do.”

“Hortense,” Joseph hummed, “I find that so hard to believe. Just sitting here with you for this short time, I can already feel so much energy and life, such truthful vibrancy and passion coming from you. Whatever is troubling you cannot be
that
bad.” He was so good at being adorable. “The obstacles you face today are material for your work onstage tomorrow. It's just another experience to expand your palette.”

Once he said openly that she would have work “onstage,” Hortense spilled it all. How she had come to New York to have experiences and how she had had them. The really difficult ones. But she was finally reaching her limit. After all these months of hardship, she was waiting for something to pay off. She'd paid her dues and now was ready for the glamour.

Joseph also contributed some confidences from his tiny heart. In a strange way, Bette observed, these two liars were telling the truth. They both had not fulfilled their grandiose goals in short amounts of time. And both felt bad about it. Somewhat ashamed. It was odd to see it from their points of view. They felt that they deserved something without having to invest, and it was fine to use other people to get it because they had to have it. Success! And that was that. It was an interesting moment for Bette. It would have benefited all, if each person had to look at their own goal critically. Which these squirrels were not able to do.

Before launching into the final phase of her campaign, once again Bette subjected herself to the ritual review, which she had come to think of as
self-purification
. Reflecting critically, for the final time, on the parameters of her quest.

Does she really
deserve to
be treated with kindness by Earl?

Yes.

Why?

Because they share an intimate knowledge of each other, and this is the most precious gift between mortals. That recognition. It cannot be denied.

Because she is not the cause of his pain, and yet she is being punished for it.

Because people have inherent responsibilities to each other to be accountable, regardless of their desires not to be.

Is
it his right to pretend she doesn't exist because she knows his truth?

No.

All right, she was reassured. There is right and wrong.

Finally, Bette grew bored of watching Joseph and Hortense stroke each other's inadequacies and assessed that the mutual aid society had gone on long enough. She cued the thug to proceed, as planned, to the final act.

“And Joseph,” she asked. “What are
your
limits as an actor?”

“I have no limits,” he sputtered. Then raised his eyebrows to signal Bette that he was ready to complete the task. “When it comes to the spiritual truth of my
characters, there is nothing I can't achieve. This is not a
hobby
for me.”

“Not for me either,” Hortense jumped in. “But how far can one go?”

“No limits.”

Bette rose strategically from the table to clear the plates. Hortense, now a guest in this house, sat herself down on the sofa, inviting intimacy. Joseph smiled, rose, and went to sit beside her. Cross stage right.

“Some time ago,” he said, looking right into her soul, “I was doing a scene in class from
The Immoralist
. By André Gide. I played a homosexual prostitute and blackmailer. An Arab. So, I went out into that homosexual underworld and found some lonely, old fag to pay me for sex.”

“You had sex with him?” Hortense was shocked with pleasure. This was the world she had been seeking. Rule breakers who don't get their souls broken. Transgressors who come out ahead.

“Yes.”

“For money?”

“I wouldn't do it for free.” He looked at her quizzical expression. “I penetrated
him
.”

“Oh.” She hadn't thought through the specifics, but Joseph seemed to want her to be reassured but still excited. “Of course.”

“Then I robbed him. In this very building, in fact. I took his wallet.”

“In this building?” Now she was truly shocked by his lack of excuse. “Aren't you afraid?”

“To see the man?”

“Yes!”

“Not at all,” Joseph shrugged, with the truth. “What could he say? Besides, they're used to it.”

“Who?”

“Fags.”

“Oh, yeah.” Hortense thought it over. That made sense.

He watched her become persuaded. Now, he had her.

“When I did the scene in class the next day, I had the old guy's money burning a hole in my pocket and my semen in his anus. An actor is under an obligation to live his part inwardly. Only then can he give his experience an external embodiment.”

“But, is that . . . is that okay?” Hortense was unusually unsure.

“What do you mean?”

“To treat people that way?”

Bette laughed.

“Stanislavski doesn't say.” Joseph's beautiful eyes opened wide enough to take in the sky. “What about you, Hortense? Haven't you ever taken something that wasn't yours? To achieve a higher truth?”

“No,” Hortense lamented. “The little I have is so much less than I deserve.”

Bette was simultaneously disgusted and interested. Both of these monsters wanted things that weren't theirs. She, Bette, wanted what was already hers. The relationship that she had built and contributed to for most of her life. It was a home that she had worked with Earl to construct. She had cut the boards, painted the walls. She was willing to inhabit it in a different way, share it, even reconfigure it. But she wanted to be
part of the decision. To negotiate. She could not come home one day and find the locks changed. That was not right. Earl had promised. He was a man and he had to be accountable. She believed that he could be. She believed in him.

“Perhaps we could do some scene work together.”

“You really want to?” Hortense shrilled. “I would love it. Oh, thank you.”

Yes, Joseph was doing a good job. Clearly, in two short hours Hortense had come to trust Joseph and believe him. All because he was pretty and had flattered her. Not a word out of his mouth was true. Hortense hated truth and rewarded lies. It was a bit overwhelming to learn how many fellows excelled at being sharks. They seemed to be hidden in every walk of life.

“All right,” Joseph said, satisfied.

Bette swirled into their midst now. “This is so exciting, Hortense. Scene work with someone at the Actors Studio. It might be exactly what your boyfriend needs, the kind of artistic outlet that will let him say yes to the television show.”

“Boyfriend?”

“Yes,” Hortense was caught. She had lied by omission because she wanted something. Now that was out in the open and, so, she was naked.

“Is he an actor?”

“He's an actor,” she nodded.

“He lives next door,” Bette said, as though discussing the weather. “He has for years.”

“Really?”

“Yes,” she sang. “Right next door.” She filled the dish tub with hot water and LUX.

“Your boyfriend?” Joseph asked Hortense incredulously, as though he had never heard of such a thing. “Next door?”

“Yes,” she mumbled. Cheeks aflame.

“And do you also live next door?”

“Yes,” she said, flatly.

“Is he a colored guy?”

“Yes.” She was surprised now. Somewhere between worried and curious. “Do you know him?”

“Yes, I fucked him,” Joseph chortled. He couldn't help showing off. “That's him. That's that aging queer that I rolled.”

“I don't . . . What does that mean?”

Hortense was riding the elevator and someone had just cut the cable.

Bette folded her hands in her lap. It was almost over.

“Some failed actor, right? Wants to play Othello?”

“You . . . How . . .,” she stammered. Unlike Valerie, Hortense had no practical graces when it came to defeat.

“Yep!” Joseph laughed out loud. “That's him.”

“Bette!” She turned for comfort and protection. “That isn't true?”

Joseph stood and hovered over her, his breath on her face. Bette could see that he was angry and dangerous, prowling for victims. “Of course it's true.”

“Bette!”

Then, in his best Orson Welles as Dracula imitation, Joseph spread his wings and boomed
Othello
:

              
Look to the Moor, if thou hast eyes to see.

              
He bears the sentence well that nothing bears.

Hortense gasped. She was filled with horror. “Bette, Bette! What do I do?”

Joseph posed by the window, gazing out in silhouette. He was delighted with himself and smoked a cinematic cigarette. A Viceroy he had spotted in a case on the mantel.

“What can you do, my dear?”

“I can't think.”

Bette was calm. She smiled the smile of hate, the great smile of joy in someone else's demise.

“Should I leave?”

Here it was. The moment Bette had lived for.

“Your mother misses you desperately, Hortense. She's living on her own now. Outside of New York. On her divorce settlement. And she wants you to join her.”

“Mother?” she whimpered.

“Yes.” Bette reached for an old opened letter. “She sent you this ticket.” She extracted it and placed it firmly in Hortense's limp hand. “It's for a small town . . .” She put on her reading glasses and looked at the return address. “Called Scarsdale.”

Hortense stood, empty, with the ticket hanging from her deflated arm. “Should I do it?”

“Do you want to stay
here
?”

“I don't know. What about my career?”

Bette suppressed a laugh. Lied. “It will be waiting for you.” Bette recovered quickly enough to again look sincere. “Just go home,” she bustled. “And rest.
Be waited on. Fed. Then you can return whenever you wish. The door is eternally open.” She knew that this girl would never live in New York again.

“Oh, Bette, what about Earl?”

“Maybe,” Bette was very careful now. “Maybe you don't really love Earl.”

“Then what do I feel?”

This was Bette's opportunity to give this child an explanation the worm could not create on her own. It was merciful, really. Hortense could use this summary forever as shorthand for her life's greatest adventure.

“You met someone who represents what you want for yourself. To be a good actor. But that is not love, my dear.”

“What is love?”

“Love?” This was a question to which Bette knew the answer. “Love is when you truly know them. You have been the recipient of their greatest kindness and their greatest cruelty. You have no illusions. You have seen every lie, every evil, and still you love them. And still, with all the knowledge of their humanity, their complexity, their vanity, contradictions, lies, and weaknesses, you accept them into your heart forever. That is true love.”

“It is?” Hortense seemed confused.

“Let me ask you this, Hortense. Knowing what you know now about Earl. Not just the
fact
of it but the deceit, the lack of joy that he has blamed on you. Now, when you think of him, do you have an open heart?”

“No,” Hortense said. “I do not.”

“Knowing who someone is and still loving them. That is the gift.”

Hortense changed before Bette's eyes. She lost the acquisitions of urbanity and became her mother.

“All right,” Hortense said. “I'll go. I will go now.”

“Goodbye, my dear.” Bette swept her to the front door, reached into her bandanna of cash, and handed Hortense five singles. “Take a taxi to the station. Don't look back.”

Hortense hovered in the open doorway, she would not return to Earl's apartment. Clutching her ticket and her dollars, she headed toward the stairs.

“Goodbye, Cousin Bette.”

“Goodbye, Hortense. May you have everything that you deserve.”

Bette watched her walk down the hall, down the stairs. Then she pushed Joseph aside so that she could lean out her second-story window. There she took in the splendor of her block. How she had missed the world! Finally the girl's shadow appeared on the corner, waiting to disappear. Bette watched the light change to green. And, seeing Hortense below, still standing, stunned, on the corner, Bette yelled out, “Cross!”

Hortense looked up as she crossed the street and began walking in the direction of Grand Central Station. The girl was changed. She would go to the station on foot and save the taxi fare in case of emergency. Now she knew something more about consequences.

Bette waited until the girl was out of sight. Then she was happy. Mission accomplished.

Now she just had to get this dirty devil forever out of her life.