Girl in the Moonlight (4 page)

Days of love followed. The boy’s name was Andreu. He was entering university in the fall to study pharmacy. She could not keep her hands off him. It was a physical need; she craved him. His touch, his smell, the way the black hairs curled down from his navel. They did it everywhere. At night against a wall in one of Cadaqués’s narrow
rastells
. In the water. In the bathroom of the café his parents owned and where he worked as a waiter.

She did not tell him how old she was. It would not have mattered. But she lied to enhance herself. She was also entering college. Oh yes, where? Harvard, of course. The most famous. His friends welcomed her. She was exotic to them, glamorous. They admired her blue jeans.
“Explica’ns sobre Nova York.”
Tell us about New York, they would ask. Were the buildings really that tall? Was everyone rich? Had she met many movie stars? She had met Paul Newman once at a film opening with her mother. He was shorter than she had imagined. Yes, his eyes were incredible.

She invited Andreu to the villa. Her father welcomed him. He had an artist’s indifference. The boy was nervous at first but then relaxed. After dinner, when Ugo and Teresa went out, Cesca took Andreu upstairs to her room. It was their first time on a bed. The first time they had been completely naked in the light together. The whiteness of her skin where it had been covered by her bathing suit. His tongue between her legs. Everything slowed down. She could inspect every inch of his body. There was no fear of being caught. The world did not exist beyond the door. There was a thin scar on his thigh she had never seen before. The beauty of him. She took him in her mouth. It was the first time for that too.

She had aged years in the few days since he had first possessed her. That night, Andreu slept in her bed. In the morning, Ugo did not chase him out of the house with a shotgun, as Andreu’s own father would have done if he had found a boy in bed with Andreu’s sister. Instead he made him coffee, and the two chatted about FC Barcelona.

On the day she was to leave, Cesca told her father that she wanted to stay. “Oh,” he replied, “and what will you do for money? Where will you live? And what about school?”

“I will live with Andreu. I don’t need to go to school.”

Ugo laughed and kissed his daughter. “You are still so young,
nuvi
. I won’t stop you from staying, but I wouldn’t recommend it. And have you discussed this with Andreu?”

“Yes.” She blushed. They had talked about the future like children—in bed, where the most impossible dreams are made—as though it were something far away. “He thinks it is crazy,” she said.

“Ah, well. In that case, he is no fool.”

“I don’t care. I love him and he loves me,” she said.

She had imagined them living together in a small flat in Barcelona. The walls painted white. She would do the washing,
cook him dinners, help him with his studies. In the evenings they would make love.

“Has he said so?”

She stared at her father for a moment, the loser of a hopeless argument. Love was an ocean, too vast to cross.

“No,” she confessed in a small voice.

“No, I didn’t think so. Do me a favor,
nuvi
. Go back to New York. If you still feel this way about the boy in a year then you can come back. But the heart of a young girl is not only deeply impressionable, it is also incredibly adaptable. I know you want love, and you will have it,” he said. “With any luck you will fall in love many times before you decide to settle on one man, if you ever do.”

She stood, her eyes filled with tears, but said nothing. “Thank you, Pare,” she said.

He was very proud of her. She had strengths unimaginable to him. When he went to knock on her door to tell her the car was waiting, she was packed and ready.

“Have you said good-bye to him?” her father asked.

She shook her head.

“Do you want to?”

Again she shook her head. “If I do, I’ll cry.”

He took her hand gently. “Come,” he said. “We can drive by the café. He is working today, no? We have time.”

The car took them to the café. He was there, carrying a tray. There was a table of pretty girls. He was flirting with them. Already a single man again.

“Do you want to get out?” her father asked.

“No.”

“Come here,
nuvi,
” he said, reaching his arm out for her. “You have much to learn still, you who have already learned so much.”

Back in her room in New York several days later, she was
relieved when her period came. The blood on her underwear reassured her. Around Christmastime she wrote to Andreu at the restaurant. It was a dishonest letter. There was no Harvard. None of what she wrote was true.

A letter came back a month later. She had never seen his handwriting before. Large cursive letters spelling
ESTADO UNIDOS
below her name and address. The flimsy blue envelope covered in stamps. In it he wrote that he was well and working hard at his studies. Would she be back next year? He joked that maybe he would still come to New York.

She never wrote back. By then she was dating other boys, a senior at Dalton whose father was a prominent art dealer in Manhattan. A premed student at Yale who drove down to see her on weekends. A guitarist in a rock band. Already she was sneaking into nightclubs. Older men were buying her drinks. She had the beauty and confidence of someone more sophisticated. She slept with whom she chose. Her doctor had put her on the pill. In March her mother took her skiing in Gstaad for her sixteenth birthday. Cosmo and Carmen came too. Aurelio was sick and had to stay home with a hired nurse.

The next summer, instead of returning to Cadaqués, she went to Los Angeles to work for the father of a friend who was a film producer. She even had a screen test. There is a copy. I have seen it. The camera adored her. If she had wanted, she could have been a film star. She could have been anything.

I
T WAS NOT UNTIL CESCA WAS EIGHTEEN AND I WAS SIXTEEN
that I finally saw her again. The occasion was a big party for her grandfather Izzy’s eightieth birthday. It was to be at the compound. It was the middle of July, and I was home from my second year at boarding school, a lonely place in New Hampshire that my mother’s father and grandfather had also attended. I had now grown. Lost the baby fat. Become tall. The jamb in our kitchen a record of my rapid evolution. Stand still, my mother would say, holding a ruler over my head.

It was my secret hope that Cesca would be at the party. Ever since my father had informed me that I was invited—family members were welcome—it was all I thought about. If she would be anywhere that night, I reasoned, it would be there. After all, it was her grandfather’s birthday, a milestone event. What could be more important than that?

But I had been disappointed in the past. It was possible she might not be there. A previous commitment, something unavoidable. Maybe even an unforeseen delay? There was a storm
over the ocean, the flight was canceled. It was impossible to anticipate such an eventuality.

And if she were there, then what? What would I say? What would I do? I was not only younger than she was but also a stranger. It had been six years since I had seen her. And what would I say to her if I even got the chance? Good evening, you probably don’t remember me but I’ve had a crush on you ever since I fell out of your tree years ago.

I had a job that summer, my first, working as a carpenter’s assistant, helping to build houses for new millionaires on former potato fields in Sagaponack. My father had insisted on it. He had worked during the summers and believed it would be good for me too. To teach me a strong work ethic, the value of exchanging labor for money. He didn’t want me to be like many of my friends, who spent their summers at the beach or playing tennis at the club.

Work started at six every morning, fueled by hot coffee and rolls slathered with peanut butter and butter from the deli near the train station, its parking lot filled with idling pickup trucks. Quitting time was three. I was living in an old barn on our property that had been converted into a pool house. After work I would come home and go for a long run or a swim, cook dinner for myself, and most nights be asleep by nine.

In the weeks leading up to the party I had thought of little else. Some days I believed it would be better if I didn’t go to the party at all. Other days I knew I had to be brave, to seize the moment regardless of the outcome. A faint heart never won the fair maid, my mother had always told me. And of course I had no real idea what Cesca was like. I had only a memory and my imagination.

But there was also much truth in my conception. Through my father I had heard vague reports about Cesca over the years.
He was plainly impressed by her, the way he would be by the child of a friend who was a star quarterback or a valedictorian. He would shake his head and laugh about seeing her play tennis or the cluster of boys hanging around the house, each one hoping he’d be the one she chose. He’d never seen anything like it, my father said admiringly and maybe even a bit wistfully, part of him wished he was eighteen years old again.

My father was very fond of Izzy, who he said was still remarkably hardy; despite his age the old man walked the forty blocks to his office and back every day, enjoyed fine wines and an after-dinner cigar. Much of my father’s early success was thanks to Izzy’s encouragement.

The evening of the party was perfect; the humidity was low and there was a cooling breeze coming off the bay. Guests were invited for five in the afternoon. There was a band dressed in white dinner jackets, mountains of oysters and shrimp, cases of champagne. Later the Gruccis would put on a fireworks display over the water. My father wore a new linen suit. A pale green tie. Sideburns in the fashion of the time. He looked surprisingly debonair.

He had insisted I wear a blazer and tie, to show respect to Izzy and his family. On the drive there, I was mute with anticipation. Even opening the car door was an effort. I was nervous but eager, like a skydiver on his first jump, one leg dangling in space, the other safe inside the fuselage. There was only one way down.

The driveway was lined with cars. Young valets with longish hair and red polyester vests took keys and handed out tickets. The party was on the wide green lawn overlooking the sound. Tables with white cloths and chairs had been set up. White balloons. Flowers. Hundreds of people were already there. Many of them quite elderly. As soon as we arrived, my father saw someone he knew and waved at them.

“I’ll be right back,” he said. My mother rolled her eyes. He was already gone.

“Honestly,” she said. “Let’s find the bar, shall we, darling?”

It was my job to order for my mother. She had an abhorrence of ordering her own drink. She would rather die of thirst than do so. I brought her vodka and water, and we inspected the crowd from one of the tables. I couldn’t leave her now.

“Babes, darling!” We turned around to see Roger approaching, his smile wide in welcome. He was beautifully dressed, as always. A silk handkerchief jutting elegantly from the breast pocket of his blazer. White Gucci loafers. “How are you? Is Mitch here?” he asked, referring to my father.

“Roger,” she said, accepting his quick kisses on each cheek, a maneuver she found affected. “Mitch deserted us as soon as we arrived.”

“Lucky me, then.” Roger winked. “I get you all to myself.” Then, as if noticing me for the first time, he said, “Wylie. Good to see you. What a beautiful boy.”

He had a way of shaking men’s hands with his right and feeling their biceps with his left. He couldn’t keep his hands off people. It was part of his charm. He always acted as though he hadn’t seen you for a while, even if you had only seen him the day before. It was not unlike a Labrador retriever I owned later in life: I would only step out of the room for a little while, but when I came back he was, tail wagging furiously, beside himself with joy. The only exception was that Roger behaved that way with everyone. “Oh, you’re getting strong, young man.”

“Thank you, Uncle Rog.”

“Wylie’s been rowing crew,” my mother said.

“Rowing crew? Have you now? Excellent.”

I nodded.

Roger kept his gaze on me and said, “You know, there are a bunch of other young people here. Kitty’s kids and some of their
friends. By the pool. You don’t want to hang around with the old farts. Why don’t you wander over?”

“That’s a fine idea, Roger,” my mother said. “Wylie, darling, I’m sure you can make some friends. I’ll come find you before we leave.”

“Great.” Roger grinned, patting me on the cheek. “They’ll love you.”

I walked in the general direction Roger had indicated. Despite my height, I am a naturally shy person. Large crowds, strangers intimidate me. But if Cesca was anywhere she would most likely be here. There were a dozen or so young people around the pool, all wearing bathing suits. Some were in the water, others lounging nearby on the grass or on chaises. There was lots of laughter, and rock music coming from within the house. This was clearly a party within the party. In the way young people can, I immediately sensed that most of them were older than me.

I walked past one of the chaises, on which reclined a handsome youth, naked to the waist, long brown hair to his shoulders, lithely muscled. His tan legs were sprawled out in front of him and he was drinking a beer. Leaning against him was a girl in a blue-and-white checked bikini. Her wet, blond hair spilling down her back. They ignored me.

Standing out uncomfortably in my blazer and tie, I looked for a recognizable face. A deeply tan girl with long dark hair moved away from a group and came up to me, smiling. It was obvious she was a child of the family. But she was not Cesca. I assumed it was Carmen. “Hi,” she said. “Can I help you?” She would be just as friendly to a deliveryman who had lost his way.

“I’m Wylie Rose,” I said. “I was told to come over here.”

Her looks were striking, and it was easy to imagine men falling in love with her. We were the same age but she seemed older.
As though she had already done and seen things that I could only imagine.

She laughed. “You’re Mitch’s son, right?”

I nodded. I couldn’t help being struck that someone my age would refer to my father like that.

She looked around. Having placed me now, she was losing interest. “Aurelio,” she called. Then something in what I took to be Spanish, although later I learned was Catalan. In either case, I wouldn’t have understood. The only foreign language I had studied by that point was French.

A tall boy turned around. He was taller than me, with glossy black hair and an aquiline nose. I remembered him from years before. He was now almost a man. He had been kind to me then, friendly. Around his slender hips he was wearing only a pair of cutoffs that were smeared with dried paint. He walked over. “Hello,” he said. His teeth white. There was a melancholy about his eyes despite his friendly smile.

“Lio, this is Mitchell Rose’s son.”

“Wylie,” I reminded her.

“Wylie. Hello. How are you?” he said. Then, “Have we met before?”

I hesitated. “Yes, a long time ago. When I was a kid.” I paused again. “I fell out of your tree and broke my arm.”

He laughed. “That was you! Now I remember. I always wondered what had happened to you. I was afraid we had scared you off.”

I grinned, trying to conceal my shame. “No.”

“That must have hurt.”

“A little.”

His eyes revealed genuine concern. He was not making fun of me, as I had feared. “You’re welcome to join us,” he said.

“Thank you.”

“Aren’t you hot in that jacket and tie?”

“Yes.”

“Well then, take them off. Make yourself comfortable. Come on, let me introduce you to some people. That was my sister Carmen,” he said. As I removed my jacket and loosened my tie, he escorted me to a picnic table at which sat another young man, not as tall as Aurelio but equally handsome. The face more powerful, the shoulders bulkier. Around his neck a string of coral shells. There was a guitar in his lap; several girls surrounded him.

“Cosmo,” said Aurelio. “This is Wylie. He’s Mitchell Rose’s son.”

Cosmo did not get up but only lifted his chin in greeting, impossibly cool. “You’re the one who fell out of the tree, right?” To the girls he said, “This guy is the son of one of my uncle’s best friends. You see that tree, there?” He pointed. The rope was still in place. The tree didn’t look as tall as I had remembered. If I stretched out my arms above my head, I could probably touch the branch. “A long time ago we dared him to climb up the rope and jump onto the roof. It was a game we played all the time. I must have probably done it fifty times. He was the only one to ever break his arm.” He laughed, and the girls did as well. “It’s good to see you again, man.”

I said nothing. As I had feared, I was quickly becoming the “guy who fell out of the tree.”

“Let’s go inside,” suggested Aurelio. “I think Cesca’s there.” At the mention of her name, I had to suppress a surge of panic and doubt. This was what I feared and wanted most.

“Bring me back a beer,” said Cosmo, strumming his guitar.

“Get your own beer,” laughed Aurelio.

Anxiously, I followed him up a short flight of stairs to a deck and then through an open sliding glass door into a living room. “Cesca?” called Aurelio.
“Ets aquí?”
The living room was empty, the toys and Spanish cartoons long gone. Instead, now
there were empty beer bottles on the table and rolling papers. On the walls concert posters. Pink Floyd. Bowie. Two girls in sundresses were standing in the kitchen, their hair damp from swimming. The fragrant smell of marijuana.

“Have you seen Cesca?”

“I think she’s upstairs,” one of the girls said with a giggle. “Want a hit?”

“No thanks,” said Aurelio. “What about you, Wylie?” I shook my head. I hadn’t smoked pot yet. I had friends who did. One of them was kicked out of Andover because of it.

“Um, no thanks. I’m cool.”

Carrying my blazer and with my loosened necktie, I was plainly uncool, and this made the girls giggle again.

Aurelio walked to the foot of the stairs and called, “Cesca?” Then something else in Catalan.

A voice answered from upstairs, also in Catalan. The two siblings bantered back and forth. I caught my name mentioned once. “She’ll be right down,” said Aurelio, without explaining the rest of their conversation.

I stood there, expectant as a disciple. Upstairs I could hear feet pounding on the floor, doors slamming. Aurelio asked me where I was at school, but I was barely listening. He was going to be a senior this year, he told me. There had been a number of schools. He had struggled. Had difficulty reading. College was not for him, he said with a smile. What he really wanted to do was paint. This did interest me, however, and I was about to ask him more when a figure appeared at the top of the stairs.

Turning my head, I looked up and saw her. She was in a short, tight pink dress carrying a pair of sandals and walking down toward us barefoot. Even the photographs I’d seen did not do her justice. Cesca at eighteen. All my old fantasies burned up in the heat of reality. There would be no rescues, no fairy tales. I couldn’t help but stare, my jaw slack.

She walked right by me. “Lio, don’t tell me you aren’t going to change?” she asked sharply in English.

She was shorter than I was but had the kind of presence that made her appear taller. Her hair was combed but still wet. No makeup. Brilliant brown eyes, dewy lips. A faint aroma of jasmine and roses. The resemblance between the siblings, the same dark beauty, the same physical intensity, was striking.

“Change? For what?”

She rolled her eyes. It was as though I was not there. “For Gog’s party. Mare wants us all to be there. She wants a picture.”

“I don’t have anything to change into,” he said with a helpless laugh.

“Oh, you’re impossible.”

He shrugged, still smiling. I could tell these were roles they played. She the elder sister, he the hapless kid brother.