Menage (10 page)

“All right, here is the story,” said Zoltan, beginning again. “Hero (no name yet) has fled to a new country where he experiences culture shock. Soon he is befriended by a woman he meets in a bar, Felice. She works in the hotel as a maid; she is young, hot. She takes him home and feeds him.”

“Ah,” said Heather, wriggling back into her seat, “that's the story.”

Zoltan laughed. “No, Heather. It is only beginning.” He took another sip of brandy and resumed.
“Soon hero discovers his phone is tapped, he is being watched, followed, like Trotsky. He believes there are some men from his country, traitors or patriots, he doesn't know which, waiting to enlist him. Or maybe to kill him. Always there is that danger. How can he know which? He sees them watching him. Felice is afraid. She moves him to her parents' village. He finds job in restaurant, slowly learns their language. She comes often and teaches him. They are almost happy, but always he is waiting to be found out. Always ready to flee. Always exile.”

Mack nodded encouragement while Zoltan took another sip.

“He makes friends with Bill, his coworker at restaurant. He tells him nothing, but finds out that Bill knows certain things about him. How? He must find out. Well, one day, never mind where, he sees Felice kissing a man. He thinks it is Bill. Betrayed! He wants revenge! But first he must know: is this just woman's ordinary sex treachery or man's political plot against him? Thinking they don't know that he has seen them together, he decides to set a trap.”

Heather did not hear a word Zoltan said after the phrase “woman's ordinary sex treachery.” Was
he looking at her when he said it? She was mortified anew by that morning's events, which began repeating in her mind like a car alarm. Nervously she started straightening the objects on the coffee table.

“But that is enough. You are tired, no?”

“No!” said Mack. “Go on, go on. You can't stop now.”

“You sound like a woman in bed,” said Zoltan, flashing a grin at Mack and then a sly smile at Heather. “I'm sorry, I cannot tell you more.”

“Why not?” said both McKays in unison.

Zoltan watched them sitting expectantly at attention, like spaniels at their master's feet awaiting a promised treat. “I'm afraid now is not good time.”

“You mean you don't know what will happen?” asked Mack.

“I know in general what will happen. However, until I have written it out in words it is not easy to talk about. What do you think, Mack, is it enough for editors to give me some money? I was actually hoping that when I have enough pages to present, you will advise me how. What to ask for, you know. I fear I am not very good at business.”

“Gladly, gladly,” said Mack, swelling with magnanimity. “But I might be able to advise you better if you tell us the rest. Come on.”

Mack was like a bulldog with a bone, thought Zoltan. “All right. But remember this is merely for a proposal. As they say in Hollywood, a treatment.”

“Of course,” said Mack, settling back, while the fire burned down to ash.

“THAT'S IT,” SAID ZOLTAN
.
“What do you think?”

For a long moment there was only silence. For once, Mack was at a loss. Zoltan's exposition, however fascinating to hear, had left him in the dark, though without a doubt in the world that it was brilliant. He walked over to Zoltan to shake his hand and lacking anything else said, “Extraordinary!”

A gratified smile dispelled the anxiety on Zoltan's face.

“Honestly, Z,” said Mack, sitting down again, “I'm surprised at how well you have it all planned out, and in such detail. I always thought you folks just make it up as you go along.”

“But that is precisely what I do, make up as I go along.” He looked at Heather.

Heather didn't know what to say either. She was certain that Zoltan's story contained a hidden message to her, though she could not yet discern its meaning. She picked up a tangerine from the bowl and began to peel it.

“Heather is awfully quiet,” said Zoltan.

Heather passed around the sectioned tangerine. Finally she said, “I'm overwhelmed. I don't know what else to say. But I'm not sure I understand the ending—is it complete?”

Leaning against the mantel Zoltan ignored the fruit to pierce Heather with his eyes. “Exactly how it will end is one thing I try not to know in advance.” Then he cracked half a smile and added ironically, “This may be my first lesson for you: endings leave to chance.”

Was he trying to tell her that everything was still open between them, that she hadn't misread his desire that morning after all? His secret meanings seemed easier to decipher when his eyes were locked on hers.

“For my money,” said Mack, “the less one leaves to chance, the better. I'd prefer a sound investment to speculation any time. Though I'll grant you, you can never know for sure what's chancy until the venture is complete or you've gotten out. I'll bet those editors agree with me. Let me know when you've got something down on paper, Z, and we'll plan a strategy.”

But Zoltan, playing eyesies with the lovely Heather, was unaware that Mack's talk of investments and speculations might in any way apply to him.

13
       
SO THE FIRST ABSORBING
weeks went by. Zoltan cast his spell each night after dinner, when the three gathered around the hearth with their brandy or wine to improvise upon their roles in their odd ménage à trois: Mack the impresario directing Zoltan the guru playing to Heather's acolyte. Maja Stern was never mentioned.

In the evenings, with the McKays seated on the sofa side by side, the flirtation between Zoltan and Heather seemed innocent enough, despite its occasional hot eruptions like the sparks exploding in the fireplace. But in the daytime, when Mack was away, Zoltan was forced to hide behind the closed door of his sanctuary until the children, those perfect chaperones, came shouting and tumbling home. As he paced before the window waiting for words and
images that wouldn't come, acutely aware that his host was waiting too, his sanctuary sometimes felt like a cage, and he an animal doomed to sicken and die if he remained inside but be shot if he tried to escape. Two equally depressing prospects: the agonies of writer's block or the dangers of adultery. The tortures he suffered with the former made the distractions of the latter more enticing—and more necessary to resist. For both, the temptress Heather was to blame.

Heather, whose solitary morning hours had so recently been tranquil working interludes in her child-ruffled days, also found it impossible to concentrate, knowing Zoltan was ensconced upstairs. The sting of his kiss remained on her hand, each double meaning rang in her ears, as she was repeatedly jolted off balance by his alternate giving and withholding, his sybaritic nights and celibate days.

It wasn't simply his distracting presence that interfered with her work. A writer of his renown creating literature overhead made her own ambitions seem foolish. Admittedly, sometimes his writing left her puzzled (which might be attributable to bad translation), but his celebrity was indisputable. His work was invariably mentioned in articles about dissident or persecuted writers living in the
States, and his name appeared on announcements of prestigious conferences. After two readings of his last novel published in English, with its intrigue and multilayered convolutions, she suspected that his accomplishment was well beyond anything she could aspire to.

At first she had been baffled, even secretly hurt, that he never, not once, inquired about her work, despite Mack's embarrassing hints. But now she wondered if his disregard was perhaps a kindness, intended to spare her the humiliation of his judgment, rather than indifference or, worse, contempt. That talented subclass of women writers whose husbands and lovers were said to have sucked them dry or patronized them into madness—the Zeldas and Plaths and Rhyses—had no bearing on her case: Zoltan, though driving her to distraction, was not her lover, and her husband actively supported her writing. Didn't Mack claim that it was for her sake he'd invited Zoltan to live with them, to be her literary mentor and companion? By now it was obvious that Zoltan had no such intentions, and she wished Mack would drop it.

How confusing the whole question had become! Earning power aside, she'd never thought her work less valuable than Mack's until Zoltan moved in.
Her columns, besides shielding her from the dubious status of a privileged stay-at-home mom, at least helped the environment, which could hardly be said of most of Mack's projects (don't even mention the Porsche or the Piper). Yet with Zoltan writing upstairs, whatever pride she'd once taken in her work quickly disappeared. If he were suddenly to read something of hers, she'd be mortified. She was grateful for his apparent ignorance of the Internet, where her columns were posted for all to see.

WHEN FRANÇOISE ANNOUNCED THAT
she was returning to Belgium to help her mother care for her father, who had suddenly fallen gravely ill, Heather struggled to hide her relief. She had already decided to ease her out. Not that Zoltan had responded to Françoise's delicate beauty or was even, as far as Heather knew, aware of it. His avoidance of the children entailed avoidance of Françoise. But Heather was aware of it—and wary. Graciously she promised to pay the girl's airfare and wait a decent interval before replacing her, in case Françoise wanted to return. In fact, however, she had already decided that instead of hiring another mother's helper, she would find an appropriate
all-day program for the children, preferably one that offered a segment of French conversation. As it was, Carmela's presence in the house three days a week was quite enough restriction on her freedom.

AFTER THE PRESSURE OF
life with Zoltan had been building up for several weeks, Heather decided to call up her old publishing buddy Barbara Rabin, the one friend who might understand what she was going through, and invite her and her husband, Abe (“Rabin” to their friends), to meet them for dinner in the city at their favorite Mexican restaurant from back in her working days. It would be the McKays' first social outing since Zoltan's arrival and might restore some much-needed reality.

“I can't wait to see you,” said Barbara. “I want to hear all about your houseguest. I'm halfway through
Fire Watch
. Wow!”

“He's just impossible!” wailed Heather, surprising herself.

“Really? How? Let me guess: he's hitting on Françoise?”

“Don't be silly. He barely ever saw her since she was always with the children. Anyway, she's gone back to Belgium.”

“Smart move, Heather, what with Schwarzenegger and the rest of them.”

“It wasn't my idea. Her father got sick.”

“Then what's the matter?” said Barbara. “Tell me.”

She hardly knew where to begin. “First of all, he keeps us up till all hours, then he sleeps his mornings away while we wind up tortured by sleep deprivation. Sometimes I think he's deliberately trying to drive me crazy.”

To Barbara, who felt more than a touch of envy, Heather sounded less distressed than exhilarated. “Then why do you let him stay?” she challenged.

“He has nowhere else to go. Besides, he's exciting to have around. And lovable, in his own peculiar way.”

“Will we get to meet him on Friday? Or is he going to stay home and babysit for you?”

Heather snorted. She was not about to invite him to join them, knowing he'd turn her down. Even less could she ask him to babysit. He barely acknowledged the children's existence. No, she would call one of her regular sitters—passing over the high school nymphets on her list in favor of a widow from the village.

Mack, however, oblivious to the possibility of rejection, invited Zoltan to join them on Friday,
suggesting that a break from work would do him good. But after a flurry of phone calls, Zoltan told Heather that on Friday, thanks anyway, he'd be dining with friends in Soho. He asked if he could hitch a ride into the city with her and find his own way back on Sunday.

“On Sunday! You're spending the whole weekend in New York? Where will you stay?”

He instantly regretted having spoken. He was spending the weekend at the home of Rebecca Shaffer and her husband. Though they had stayed in touch ever since MacDowell, he had not seen Rebecca since moving east. He was indebted to her for the boost in his standing that came with her essay and the reissue of his first book. But he certainly did not have to explain himself to Heather, who would probably burn with jealousy. His left eyebrow shot up. “I'm not sure you're permitted to ask me that.”

His reprimand was in jest, delivered in his usual flirtatious style; all the same, Heather felt rebuffed. Sometimes he spoke to her as an intimate, inviting every confidence, but the next moment he could assume an icy hauteur, treating her like an inferior. Was that what he'd done to Maja? In absentia Maja was rapidly gaining Heather's sympathy. Between
Zoltan's volatility and Mack's disappearances what chance at dignity had the poor woman had?

On Friday, after eagerly anticipating their long drive alone into the city together, Heather was disappointed to find Zoltan in his overcourteous, icy mode, beginning the moment he entered the car. All across New Jersey their conversation was strained, with long patches of silence replacing their habitual playful banter. They spoke briefly about the color of the leaves along the highway, the environmental virtues of her hybrid car, the weather, but not a word about his weekend plans, which loudly lay between them unmentioned and unmentionable. Finally, as they were about to enter the Lincoln Tunnel, Heather couldn't take any more. “You've been awfully quiet today. Is something wrong, Zoltan?”

“No, no, it is nothing. I am most grateful that you are driving me in your Toyota Prius. It's New Jersey traffic—too crowded and slow.”