Girl in the Moonlight (7 page)

After lunch, she started walking down Fifth Avenue, weighing her grandfather’s words, determined to prove him wrong. She loved him, but she thought he was a bully, wielding his money like a weapon. It had been easier when she was a little girl. She could always get what she wanted then, but her desires were basic, childish. A cookie, maybe. A new party dress. This was a different matter. It was a big decision—but it was her life. She knew he had never listened to anyone and had always followed his own course. Why couldn’t she do the same? It made her angry.

She wished Aurelio was in the city. He was the only one of her siblings who would understand. He would listen, would help her weigh the pros and the cons. Despite his cavalier attitude toward his own life, he possessed an instinctively philosophical nature. Ethics were important to him. What is right and what is wrong? “What is the real reason you want to get married? Your motive for moving away?” Many times they had stayed up late plotting an adventure or agonizing about the future. In most cases he would decide that the best course was direct action. Fear was never a factor. Something always had to be dared, to be risked, for it to have any meaning. That was the crucial consideration. The gesture had to have import, if not it should be abandoned.

Cosmo and Carmen could never offer such counsel. Cosmo was still too brash, too unformed, too selfish. He would not care where she went but would only miss her after she was gone. And Carmen? All her life she had brought her problems to Cesca, seeking an older sister’s advice. Cesca had never brought her problems to Carmen. It was important to be strong, to show no indecision. That was the basis of their relationship. No, only
Aurelio could help, but he was in Barcelona. She hoped he was taking care of himself and remembering to eat.

She found herself in the Twenties and decided to walk the rest of the way home. Crossing Fourteenth Street, she became aware of a man following her. Young, brown, Puerto Rican or possibly Italian. Hollowed cheeks.

New York was more dangerous then. Muggings a frequent occurrence. It was important to not let down your guard. She walked faster and thought about turning in to a store when the man crossed to the other side of the street. She was only a few blocks from home now. She turned a corner and he was there, a knife in his hand. A single thin blade. “Gimme all your money, bitch,” he said.

Even during her freshman year, Cesca had chosen to stay with her mother and siblings in the house in the Village. Crime, she knew, was everywhere, but this was her neighborhood. The familiar brownstones and stoops. The people who worked in the shops, the pizzeria, the hair salon around the corner all knew her. The old lady who spent her days leaning out of the window watching for trouble. They waved at each other. She felt safe here. Suddenly the street was empty.

He thrust his hand at her, and she reached into her purse to remove her wallet. Here, she said, almost in slow motion. She was not afraid. Not exactly, though she was unable to bring herself to look directly at the man.

“Now the ring.”

She looked at her hand, at the engagement ring that had belonged to an Astor. Money was one thing. There could always be more. But not this. It was unique. It was hers. It was out of the question.

“No.”

“What do you mean no? I’ll cut you.”

It was as though someone had woken her up. Suddenly alert
to what was happening, she looked at the man. His eyes shifting side to side, desperate to get away. Standing there foolishly, impotently, brandishing a small knife. She sensed his weakness, his cowardice, and despised him for it. An impulsive fury rose within her. “I said no,” she repeated and began screaming at him in Catalan. The vilest things she could say.
“Bastardo! Ves a la merda! Poca polla!”
Swinging her purse at him. Surprising him, hitting him in the face.

There were other people on the street now.
“Fill de puta!”
she screamed and swung again. Her house keys spilling on the street. Her makeup. She didn’t care. The purse came down on him again and again, as he shielded his face, dropping his knife.

“Concha!”
he shouted and ran.

“Cabro!”
she screamed after him.

By now there were other people around her. “Are you all right, lady?” asked one of the men.

Shaking with fear and anger, out of breath, she started picking up her things from the street. A handle on her bag had snapped. The man’s knife lay there, but she avoided it. Even the money was still there. One of her shoes had come off. She picked it up and wedged it back on.

“I’m fine,” she said in English, but she knew she wasn’t.

She just wanted to get out of there. To leave this place, the halfhearted solicitude of strangers, now that the danger had passed. Hot tears burned her cheeks as she ran off in the other direction. Someone shouted she should wait for the cops, but there was no point in that, even if they ever came.

She told no one about what had happened. Her mother would overreact and tell her she needed to be more careful. That she shouldn’t walk and should only take cabs. Her fiancé would be equally alarmed. There was nothing any of them could do, though. No one can really protect you from danger if the danger is meant to find you. You are the only person who can do that.

She was proud of herself for having stood up to the mugger. She knew she was brave. No one else she knew would have done it. Aurelio would have given him everything. Offered it. Here, take my coat too. That was the way he was. And it would have been different too if she was a man. A man who fought back might have been stabbed. But she had caught the mugger unprepared. He had thought she was a helpless woman, but she’d turned into a fury. She almost wished he hadn’t run away. She was the descendant of Catalan women who had castrated French troops and nailed them to trees in reprisal. Vengeance and cruelty were in her blood.

The next day she began taking karate classes. The sensei was a large black man with an Afro. She was a willing pupil, learning how to disable an attacker and where on the body were the best places to strike. She went every day, proud of her ability to deliver a roundhouse kick high on the body bag.

It was not enough to defend herself though. She began to seek out danger. It was easy to find then. Park Avenue was as unsafe as Harlem. I remember my father telling me about one of the older members being attacked right outside of the Harvard Club in broad daylight. He was a veteran of the First World War. He was knocked down and his wallet and watch were taken. He had a gash on his forehead.

Cesca refused to be intimidated. At night she would stride down the middle of the street, waiting for someone to attack her. Silently willing it, her hands flexing, a can of Mace in her pocket.
Let them try it,
she thought.
I am ready. You can’t scare me
. Fortunately, no one ever did. Possibly any assailants sensed the fight in the beautiful young woman and passed her over for an easier target.

There was more. Someone told her it was possible to climb to the top of the Brooklyn Bridge, walking up the sloping cable using the auxiliary cables as handrails. It was a simple matter
of scaling a gate intended to keep out potential suicides. She would go up often, either alone or with friends, late at night. Her fiancé tried to go once but suffered from acrophobia and had to turn back. To the horror of those of her friends who were able to make it to the top, Cesca would sit on the edge, her feet dangling in space, staring out over the twinkling city, flicking her cigarette ash into the night sky while the East River rushed blackly by far below.

She also took up skydiving and heli-skiing, anything that could provide an adrenaline rush. And she conquered them all. Proving to herself that she could overcome fear. Her fiancé tried to put his foot down. They would have arguments. He yelled at her to stop taking such crazy chances. He told her she was going to hurt herself seriously one day. She called him a coward.
Covard. Marieta
. Unforgivable words. Doors slammed. His calls went unanswered.

The wedding was to have taken place in June. There would be a marquee at the Baums’ compound just like at Izzy’s birthday. Bigger. In the end it never happened. Cesca called it off. She returned the Astor ring that had started everything. Izzy took her to lunch again and told her how proud he was of her. She smiled at him and told him she was taking karate; there were scabs on her knuckles. She had never felt better.

Independent again, she became more social than ever. There were late nights at Max’s Kansas City, where she became a regular. The celebrities who frequented the place quickly accepted the beautiful girl, her shirt unbuttoned to her waist. She possessed the same qualities they did. She played by her own rules, made people laugh, didn’t ask for anything and didn’t take.

One night she would sit at Warhol’s table, another night at Larry Rivers’s. She saw the New York Dolls perform and then partied with the band after. Also Iggy Pop, the Talking Heads, the Ramones, Tom Verlaine. One night Mick Jagger came in,
and she sat on his lap. Much more. Cocaine. Casual sex. She almost went home with Lou Reed. She never went to bed with anyone she didn’t want to—except for a few times. In the mornings, she slept late, past noon. She was taking a leave of absence from Barnard.

I
T WAS THE FOLLOWING AUGUST WHEN I NEXT SAW CESCA. I
was seventeen now, she nineteen. Once again I was working as a carpenter.

Over the course of the year Aurelio had sent me several letters and postcards from Spain, the spelling appalling but the handwriting exquisite. In each one he asked how I was, told me his latest news, filled the margins with charming drawings and doodles. The last one said he would be back in Amagansett for several weeks at the end of the summer, giving me the dates and telling me that it was important I come as soon as he returned. “I have a surprise for you,” he wrote. I marked the day in my calendar and when it arrived drove over after work to the compound in an old Ford pickup I had bought for $500 at the beginning of the summer.

I did not know if Cesca would also be there. Since Memorial Day I had wondered if I would run into her, but we did not move in the same circles. Hoping to see her, I visited places where we had been together. A bar in Amagansett where they played
live music and where she knew the owner. The beach at Louse Point. But not once did I attempt to contact her directly. She had made it plain that our brief romance was just that, as relevant as the pages of last year’s calendar.

I had tried to forget her. Taking her advice, I’d dated several other girls over the year, but none of them was as exciting as Cesca. They were all attractive, privileged. There was a field hockey player from Grosse Pointe. Another girl whose father was a senator. Others whose details now escape me. But they all bored me, and I broke up with them. Cesca had spoiled me. I was like the heir whose first taste of wine was Margaux: Every other vineyard would only suffer in comparison.

And now, in the days leading up to Aurelio’s return, she was more in my mind than ever.

I parked the truck and walked across the wide lawn toward the studio. It was a beautiful summer day. Hot. The sky solid blue. Butterflies flitted in the meadow. “Hello,” I called, knocking on the studio door. Inside, it was darker, cooler, smelling of linseed oil and turpentine. There were two figures in the room. Standing next to her brother, laughing, wearing an orange bikini, was Cesca.

I had fantasized about this moment for almost a year. Rehearsed it over and over again. I had prepared what I would say, how I would stand. I remembered none of it at that moment, of course. The reality of her obliterated everything else.

What I did remember was her beauty. She was another year older and, if anything, even more beautiful. Her long, brown, sun-streaked hair. Her tanned, taut skin. The strength in her legs. The golden hairs at the declivity of her spine. The small mole just above her navel. Her hands on me. Moments of intimacy, the secret jokes of lovers.

They both stopped talking when I entered and turned to look at me.

Cesca spoke first. “Wylie,” she said with her bewitching smile, as though nothing could have made her happier than to see me.

I was unable to speak. All I wanted to say was unsayable.

“Welcome, amigo,” said Aurelio, stepping forward and embracing me. He had grown a beard. If anything he was leaner than before, the smile more beatific. He looked like one of Zurbarán’s monks. “I am so glad you could come. I have much to show you.”

“How are you, Wylie?” asked Cesca.

“Good. You?”

“Great,” she answered, coming toward me and presenting each cheek to be kissed in turn. “You look so handsome. Doesn’t he, Lio?”

“Down, girl,” laughed her brother. His teeth were white. “He came here to see me to talk about art, didn’t you, Wylie?”

Turning to me, she said, “Have you been painting, Wylie? I remember you had talked about it. Did you do it?”

I had been painting. In the art studio at school. The teacher, bored and probably a drunk, preferred painting scenes of duck hunting. I knew I could learn nothing from him except what not to do. So instead I worked alone on weekends or after study hall, whenever I could. I had brought some of my canvases. They were in the truck.

I nodded. “Yes,” I said. I knew they were terrible. But I had brought them to show to Aurelio the way you consult a doctor. It hurts here. Can the limb be saved? What course of treatment do you recommend?

“Good for you,” she said. “Would you let me see them?”

I hesitated. My mouth opened but no words came out.

“Really, Cesca,” said Aurelio.

She laughed. “Don’t worry. I can wait. Anyway, I have errands to run.” As she walked by me, she passed her hand under
my chin, casually, knowing that I could be had at a touch, a glance. “I’ll leave you two boys alone. Bye, Wylie. Nice to see you again. You’ll come back, no?”

I watched her leave, longing but unable to follow. Nothing went as I had hoped. Already I was trying to think of a way to see her again. I don’t know what I expected. Apologies? Unlikely. Tears? Kisses? It would be like asking a clock to run backward. A few moments later I could hear the sound of gravel scattering as she drove away.

“Ignore her,” said Aurelio, shaking his head, as though reading my thoughts. “Come over here and let me show you some things. And, remember, you must be honest with me.”

I SPENT THE REST OF THE AFTERNOON LOOKING AT AURELIO’S
canvases. He had brought back many but left even more in Barcelona. “I am very happy there,” he confided. “Everywhere you look, there is beauty.”

The paintings were wonderful. I told him so, but he demurred, saying, “No, no. I am not there yet. But I am getting better.” His smile of modesty. He meant what he said. Always.

At his request I showed him my work. Compared to his paintings, mine were crude, obvious. Flat. Derivative, inspired by plates in books, not real life.

Aurelio studied my three or four canvases seriously. If I recall they were vaguely modeled after Picasso’s sad harlequins and acrobats. There was also one self-portrait. Moody and adolescent. In some way, they were all about Cesca. “Here’s what I think,” he said after a while. “You have talent, but you have no idea how to paint. It is like you were raised by wolves. I am taking you to see a painter,” he said. “A real one.”

A day or so later Aurelio called to say he had arranged it. We were going a few miles inland to Springs, to the studio of a
great painter. I knew the name, had seen examples of his work in books and museums. “Paolo and his wife, Esther, are old family friends,” said Aurelio. They had met at art school and fallen in love. Esther was a Jew. In 1939 they were forced to flee from the fascists, first from Milan, then Paris. Finally they had come to America shortly before the Fall of France. Destitute, living in a cold-water tenement on Eighth Street, Paolo at first was only able to support his family by selling hand-painted postcards on the street, while Esther looked after their infant son, Gianni. Through the community of other exiled artists they met gallery owners and patrons. The end of the war coincided with a flowering of the New York art world. Paolo’s work was soon in demand. There were one-man shows, articles in magazines and newspapers. He enjoyed success, if not stardom. “It was a great time to be an artist,” sighed Aurelio.

I was to come by the house on Saturday morning and pick him up. Aurelio was a poor driver and did not possess a license. He had failed each time he took the test. For a while there was an old bicycle he rode, but he gave it away or lost it. For longer trips he was dependent on his family and friends. Over the course of our friendship, I would drive him many times, often quite out of my own way, but I never regretted a single trip. He was always such good company that I actually looked forward to his phone calls, saying, “I need to go to New York” or “Can you take me to Montauk?” If no one was around, he was just as happy hitchhiking. Sometimes, he told me, he even preferred it because it allowed him to meet so many new people.

We drove down Springs-Fireplace Road, Aurelio chattering away happily, until we turned up a short driveway. I parked in front of a weather-beaten barn standing beside a small arbor decorated with abstract statuary. To the right across a lawn stood an old farmhouse, the shingles brown with age, the trim white. On the grass, there were two enormous cement apples,
hip high, rounded like breasts. We walked across the lawn. Outside the door was a small ship’s bell. Aurelio rang it twice and called out. A voice answered from inside. “I’ll be right there!”

A few minutes later, the door was opened by a tiny old woman, her long gray hair swept up in a bun. A light shawl around her shoulders even though it was quite warm. A cameo brooch was at her throat. Reading glasses dangled from a thin gold chain around her neck. She looked like an old photograph of an immigrant who had just come through customs at Ellis Island.

“Ciao, Aurelio,” she said, as he bent to kiss her on each cheek. We towered over her. “I am so happy to see you.” Her voice was heavily accented, European, her smile broad. Her merry eyes sparkled with intelligence.

“Ciao, Esther,” Aurelio replied. “This is my friend, Wylie. The one I told you about.”

“Ciao, Wylie,” she said, grabbing both of my hands with hers. “Welcome. Come in, come in.”

We entered the kitchen. The house was bright and welcoming. They had been here since 1948. The land, thickly covered with scrub and pine, extended back many acres. It had been a poor neighborhood. The modest houses were built by the local baymen called Bonackers. When they bought it, the old farmhouse, which dated back to the eighteenth century, was derelict. Paolo had restored it room by room with his own hands. He had trained as a mason in his native Sardinia. Knocking down walls, patching the roof, rebuilding the chimney.

There was a long, yellow-painted kitchen floor that ran the entire width of the house. To the left, a simple wooden table surrounded by chairs, its surface smooth with the memory of many meals. On it rested an open book, the words in French, the title unfamiliar. Teilhard de Chardin’s
Le Phénomène Humain
. There were handwritten notes in the margins. “Sit, sit,” said Esther. “Would you like some tea?”

Aurelio laughed. “Even if I wouldn’t, I know you’d bring me some anyway,” he said, squeezing her hand affectionately. To me he said, “It is impossible to leave here without Esther trying to feed you. If you’re lucky, she may have even just baked some cookies or a loaf of bread. And you can’t say no. She won’t allow it.”

Esther grinned and said, “You are too skinny. You need to eat more. I’ll be right back.” There was a large black stove in the middle of the room. Next to it a red rocking chair. The rear wall was painted white, and on it hung several round baskets the color of wheat. Old sash windows looked out over the sides and back of the house. A steep flight of stairs, also yellow, led up to the second floor. The ceiling was so low Aurelio and I almost had to stoop. Esther bustled around the kitchen, reaching into various cabinets, asking Aurelio about his mother and father, his sisters, his brother. Aurelio had been coming here since he was a boy.

“Is it all right if we go see Paolo?” asked Aurelio.

Esther looked at the clock on the wall. “Wait a little. He is still working, but he will be coming in for lunch soon.”

She placed a trivet and a teapot on the table, followed shortly by two mismatched teacups. The tea smelled sweet. “You still take it with lemon and honey?”

Aurelio nodded.

Esther then turned her attention to me. “So, tell me about you, Wylie. Aurelio says you are a painter.”

I hesitated. “Not really. I mean, I like to paint but . . .”

Aurelio, sensing my embarrassment, came to my rescue. “Wylie is very talented, but he needs some guidance.”

“I see.”

“I wanted him to meet Paolo. I thought it would be helpful.”

“Good. Paolo is always interested in meeting young people.”

We continued chatting for half an hour, drinking tea. It was
now past noon. “Why don’t you show Wylie around?” suggested Esther. “I have to finish getting lunch ready.”

Aurelio led me out behind the house. “Paolo made all this,” Aurelio said. It was a garden of wonders. Cypress trees. Sculpted fountains. Abundant shade. I had never seen anything like it before, like a dream come to life, but a happy dream, the product of a beautiful imagination. The outdoor space divided like a series of rooms. Here is the bedroom, here the kitchen. All open to the stars. Later in life I would visit similar gardens in Tuscany, Èze, but this was all new to me. This Mediterranean sensibility. The love of being outside, the harmony with nature. A long, freestanding wall covered in an abstract mural, another with a single window through which poked out the branch of an apple tree. The lattice of an arbor, strewn with knurled grapevines. A whitewashed brick oven, its aperture black with use. A solarium, painted in the colors of the sea, where Aurelio told me Paolo liked to sunbathe nude in winter. Wisteria. Wire chairs placed strategically where visitors could take their ease. Willows, pine groves. In the distance more statues, peeking from behind the trees like nymphs in a myth. The grass was sweet with the smell of fallen apples.

“Pollock lived right down the road. He used to come here. They all did,” said Aurelio. “Esther was a sort of den mother for the Abstract Expressionists. They always knew they could get something to eat here. They would have parties that began at lunch and lasted all weekend. Guests slept on the ground. Can’t you just see it? Back in those days Paolo used to make his own wine. I understand it was pretty filthy.”

I imagined the ghosts of the era. Who would have been there? Pollock certainly. His wife, who was also a painter. Maybe Rothko. Motherwell. The women in sandals and capri pants. Cat’s-eye glasses. Their arms bare in the style of the day. The men, earnest, smoking, drinking, arguing about art, the contemptibility
of critics, the latest show. Money was never a topic. Instead they reveled in their freedom, their talent. Some of them would go on to become household names, others footnotes, and some disappeared entirely. It was a different Hamptons. There were no millionaires. At least not many.

“Who are these two young handsome men in my garden?
Cos’è questa cosa?
Why aren’t they with pretty girls instead of an old man?” boomed out a voice, the accent thick yet amused.