The Rothman Scandal (64 page)

“Oh, come on!” she said.

“I'm quite serious. Those pearls are very symbolic, very talismanic. You also have more money than you ever had before. But, on the other hand, you also have the asexual, the white, marriage. Which means more to you? This is what you must decide for yourself—which means more to you, as you contemplate the future of this marriage?”

“But what about children?” she asked him. “The family has made it very clear that they expect us to produce an heir—a son, preferably, since Steven's Uncle Arthur has only the two girls.”

“An heir for the Rothman dynasty. What about adoption?”

She shivered. “I don't think the family would stand for that,” she said. “An adopted son wouldn't be a real Rothman.”

“Have you thought of taking a lover? Certainly, under the circumstances, your husband could raise no objections to that.”

“Oh, I couldn't do that,” she said. “It would hurt Steven too much. You see, I'm really terribly fond of Steven. I do love him, you see, and I couldn't bear to hurt him.”

“Do you miss the sexual side of the relationship that much?”

“Oh, yes,” she admitted. “I suppose it's because—well, a man I fell in love with years ago was so—well, the sex was so wonderful that time, so deep, and passionate, and—fulfilling.”

“But that is not to happen in this marriage.”

“No. Apparently not.”

He glanced at his watch, a signal that their hour was nearly over. “I think you want very much to stay in this marriage, Alex,” he said.

She nodded. But there was one thing she could not bring herself to tell Dr. Richard Lenhardt. It was simply that she could not bear having her friend Lulu Withers discover that the marriage was not as perfect as Alex had pretended that it was, that Lulu's gloomy predictions had been right. “I told you so,” Lulu would say.

Now she heard his key turn in the lock. It was nearly dawn, and sunlight was beginning to filter through the drawn drapes of her bedroom windows. She heard him open the door, and close it behind him. She heard his footsteps cross the thick carpet of the entrance foyer. Was it her imagination, or did his footsteps sound tired and old? It was her imagination. She turned breathlessly on her side in the bed, and bunched the big down pillows against her cheek. Now was the time!

His silhouette appeared outside her open door. He was still in his dinner jacket, and he paused in her doorway and lighted a cigarette. They had separate bedrooms, in the European style.

She sat up eagerly in bed. “Where've you been, darling?” she asked him. “I was getting worried.”

“Family crisis,” he said. “But it's settled now.”

“What's wrong?”

“It was nothing. I'll tell you about it later.”

She patted the bedclothes beside her. “Come in, darling,” she said. “Let's talk about the party. I've been so excited I haven't been able to sleep a wink. Let's have one of our famous postparty rehashes.”

With a small sigh, he crossed the room and sat beside her on the bed. She reached out and loosened his black tie.

When you have these post-party rehashes
, Dr. Lenhardt said,
you always begin by loosening his tie. Why, I wonder? Do the lobes of the black tie symbolize his testicles—the black, sterile testicles?

Now that's the silliest thing I ever heard!

I'm not so sure, Alex
.

Are you saying I'm a castrating female?

You said that, Alex. Not I
.

“Let's rehash everything from beginning to end, darling,” she said. “There's chilled champagne in the sitting room. Shall we split that? Oh, yes, let's!”

“No, thanks,” he said. “I'm really pretty tired.”

“What's the matter? Didn't you think everything went perfectly?”

“Yes. Perfectly,” he said in a dull voice.

Your husband is subject to deep depressions. It's symptomatic of the asexual personality
.

But he isn't! There's a cynical side to his personality, but I've never seen him depressed
.

Depressions are symptomatic of the asexual personality, Alex
.

Please stop using that word. It doesn't describe Steven at all
.

Then perhaps he's bisexual
.

Make up your mind, Doctor!

“I saw you dancing with the Princess de Polignac,” she said. “What did she say?”

“She said it was a beautiful party.”

“And I thought your toast to your grandfather was perfect, darling. Just perfect—giving him all the credit.”

“I thought he might have given you some credit. After all, you did everything.”

She laughed. “Oh, I'm used to that,” she said. “It doesn't bother me, letting him take all the credit. He pays all the bills!”

He said nothing.

“You looked so handsome tonight,” she said.

“Thank you.”

“Did you see my curtsey to President Pompidou?”

“Yes. You did it beautifully.”

“I practiced it long enough!”

“And the floodlight for the hundredth candle on the cake! I couldn't believe my eyes. How did Ho ever think of that? And what sort of strings he must have pulled to
arrange
it—I can't imagine. The Eiffel Tower! The very symbol of Paris! Sometimes I think your grandfather
is
a genius. Didn't you think that was spectacular?”

“Yes. Spectacular. But I don't want to talk about the party, Alex.”

She was silent for a moment. Then she said, “What's the matter, darling? Didn't you think it was the most perfect party anyone's ever given—ever in the world?”

“Yes. It's just that I'm—awfully tired, Alex.”

She touched his hand. “Spend the night in my bed, darling,” she said.

“Night? The sun is up.”

“Spend the day, then. We both deserve it, don't you think? After last night? Slip off your clothes, and slip into bed with me.”

He lay back across the bed, still in his evening clothes, the tip of his cigarette a tiny pinprick of light in the dark, curtained bedroom. It glowed more brightly as he placed it to his lips and inhaled, and she saw that his eyes were closed.

“What's the matter, Steven?” she said. “What's wrong?”

“Nothing. I told you it was nothing, Alex. Nothing serious. Everything's straightened out now.”

“I mean, what's wrong with us?” she said.

Four

TARRYTOWN, 1973

32

“Was prison awful?” he asked the young man who lay naked across his bed as the afternoon sunlight filtered through the drawn drapes of the bedroom on Central Park South.

“Ah, it wasn't so bad,” he said.

“Was it in prison that you learned to do all these things that you seem to do so
very
well?”

“Yeah, I guess so. Say, this is a nice place you got here. It's kind of like a museum—all this stuff.”

“My friend and I like to collect things. We travel quite a bit.”

“You got a regular friend?”

“Oh, yes.”

“He live here with you?”

“Yes.”

The younger man propped himself up on one elbow. “He apt to come back any minute? I better get myself outta here.”

“Oh, no. He's off for the weekend visiting an auntie of his—an auntie he expects to leave him quite a lot of money, so it's an important visit. No, we have the afternoon to ourselves, my friend.” Lenny stood up and threw on his red silk Sulka robe. Eyeing his visitor, he added, “Or the whole weekend, if you'd like.”

The younger man considered this. “Well, I might just take you up on that,” he said. “I got no place to go, and I'm just about flat-out broke.”

“Then be my guest,” Lenny said, with a little wink.

In those days, Lenny Liebling was not always one hundred percent faithful to Charlie Boxer, and this was in 1969, years before anyone had ever heard of AIDS, and there were times in those days—particularly when Charlie was out of town, tending to the cares of his dear old Aunt Jane—when Lenny strayed from the monogamous path of his union with Charlie, and this afternoon had been one of them. He had met this young man in an Eighth Avenue bar called the Silver Stud, and invited him home with him. And now here they were and, strangely enough, and against his better judgment, Lenny found himself powerfully drawn to this young hustler.

“This is quite ridiculous,” Lenny said. “But I've quite forgotten your name.”

“Johnny,” the young man said. “Johnny Smith.”

Lenny smiled. “Of course you don't have to tell me your real name,” he said. “Johnny Smith will do.”

“But I sure as hell know who you are,” the younger man said. “You're that Lenny Liebling.”

“Now how in the world did you know that?” Lenny asked him.

“Hell, man, you're famous. I saw your picture in the paper just the other day—in that column by the woman who signs herself Mona. That's how I recognized you at the Silver Stud, and decided to mosey over to the bar and talk to you. And now—hell, man, I've just fucked a real celebrity!”

Lenny lowered his eyelids modestly. “A very minor one, I assure you,” he said.

“You work for that
Mode
magazine.”

“That is correct.”

“The one that's run by that Alexandra—”

“Alexandra Rothman, yes. Alex and her husband, Steven.”

The young man whistled. “My first celebrity,” he said.

“But really, how extraordinary,” Lenny said.

“What's extraordinary?”

“That someone like
you
would read Mona Potter's column.”

“Hey, man, whatta you mean by that?” the young man said. “Someone like
me
.” He reached out and snapped his finger gently against the front of Lenny's Sulka robe.

“Now, now,” Lenny said soothingly, and stroked the younger man's quite remarkable piece of sexual apparatus. “I simply meant that I didn't realize that Mona's column had such a wide—readership.”

“Man, I can
read,
” the young man said, and pulled Lenny down beside him on the bed again. “I can read as well as I can do other things.”

And by the time that second little session was over, Lenny realized that he was quite ridiculously, absurdly, mad about this athletic young roughneck.

“And what do
you
do, Johnny Smith?” Lenny asked him. “Besides what you so obviously do so
very
well?”

“Do? Oh, there's lots of things I can do,” he said. “In fact, there's not much of anything I can't do. The thing is, man, I got to find myself a job. But weekends are bad for job-hunting.”

“Yes, I suppose weekends
are
bad for that,” Lenny said carefully.

“Those Rothmans,” the young man said. “I guess they're pretty rich.”

“Oh, yes,” Lenny said.

“And that Alexandra—you know her?”

“Certainly. She's a dear friend.”

“Alexandra,” he said. “It's not that common of a name. I used to know a girl named Alexandra.”

“Did you just?” Lenny said. “Well, well. You seem terribly interested in the Rothmans.”

“That H. O. Rothman owns the newspaper in the town I come from out West.”

“More than likely. He owns many newspapers.”

“Not that anybody's ever laid eyes on the guy.”

Lenny seated himself in a chair opposite the bed where the young man lay, and just then a shaft of sunlight fell directly across the young man's face, a shaft of sunlight that was almost like a pink key light falling from a proscenium onto a stage, and when Lenny recalled that shaft of light—as he often did—Lenny often thought that that light had marked the beginning of what would become his inspiration and, later, his obsession.

“You know, you're very beautiful,” he said. “Except—”

“Yeah? Except what?”

“Well, I think you'd look much better with darker hair. With black hair, you'd look rather like a young Valentino—whom I happened to know, by the way, and who
was
gay.” Lenny had extended one finger in the air, as though sketching a portrait on canvas. “And I'd have that small bump taken out of your nose, and of course I'd have your teeth capped and straightened.”

“Yeah, but I can't afford to do all that.”

“No, but I could,” Lenny said.

The young man sat straight up in bed. “You mean you'd do that for me—a guy you've just met?”

“Just thinking aloud,” Lenny said. “Pygmalion and Galatea.”

“Who?”

“Never mind. Have you ever thought of a career in the theater? I might be able to help you. My friend Charlie and I have lots of friends in the theater.”

“You mean you think I could be an
actor?
” The young man whistled. “Well, I guess I know a little bit about show business.”

“You
could,
” Lenny said. “You have a good, strong voice. It would take some work, of course. There would have to be those little cosmetic changes I mentioned. There would have to be elocution lessons, work with a drama coach, perhaps dance lessons, singing lessons, perhaps fencing lessons, things like that.”

“Yeah, but I could never afford things like that.”

“Perhaps not, but I'm saying that
I
could.”

“You'd do all that stuff for
me?
”

“I might,” Lenny said with another wink, “if you promised me you'd be a good pupil.”

“Hell, man, you must be rich
too
.”

“Let's just say moderately well-to-do,” Lenny said. “But what do you think of my idea?”

“Hell, man, I'll try anything—I'm just about desperate at this point. If you really want to try it. But what about your friend? What will he think? You know—about you and me?”