Mr. Bones (28 page)

I pushed my chair back and stood up.

From the moment Vittorio began speaking in English we seemed to slip into an amateur theatrical, a play in which we were unsure of our lines. I spoke haltingly, as Vittorio had done, but the slowness threw me and made me less certain of what I was going to say next.

“Fifty years ago I visited Italy for the first time,” I said. “I was just a boy, really, but it was here, in the beauty of Italy, that I began to write . . .”

I did not say that it had been an
autostop
summer of obstacles and temptations. I described my arrival, my first impressions of Italy, the sunlight, the smells of food and hot oil, the glow of old stone, the texture of ancient marble, the way the whole of Italy had been sculpted and formed, every hill, every field, every town—none of it wild, all of it showing the evidence of the human hand, where eating was on everyone's mind; not books but food.

I glanced at the dinner guests as I spoke, and my gaze returned to Pietro Ubaldini, whose elbow was propped on the table, his hand idly cradling his head, his fingers stroking his cheek, listening attentively.

Then I risked it. “One day I was traveling from Venice by
autostop.
I was picked up by an Italian man in a car. We talked and talked, and finally we disagreed. He dropped me suddenly by the roadside at nightfall, abandoned me on one of the branching roads of Italy.”

I looked squarely at Pietro Ubaldini. Still he stroked his cheek and stared through his tinted lenses.

“He didn't know me, and I'm sure he forgot me. Though I didn't realize it at the time, he did me a great favor. When you're young the world seems unknowable, and so it seems simplified by its obscurity. You have no idea how precarious the road is, or where it leads, and it's not until much later that you understand its complexity and how you found your way. Sometimes it is with the help of kind strangers, but more often perhaps, perversely, by the hostility of strangers. It was rejection that got me to Urbino and a job and a sense of myself. I arrived there through a series of accidents, one road leading to another. I didn't know where I was, only that I had to keep going. I knew one thing—that I couldn't go back. I was open to any suggestion—taking chances. I had to. I had no money.”

As I spoke, Ubaldini stopped looking at me and began to look at the young man, as though I was offering encouragement and a promise in my own story to the young man, who was listening with rapt attention.

“I see it now as a series of expulsions. Each person I met believed he was frustrating me. It was not the great literary culture of Italy that made me a writer. It was the opposite, its philistinism. You say you want to be a writer, and Italy orders you another glass of wine and says, ‘What's the point?' Italy's love of comfort, its taste for good food and leisure, its joy in talk, its idleness, its laughter, its complacent teasing cynicism”—and here I paused for the people at the table to savor this description and bask in it—“all these traits make it the enemy of art.”

“Oh, no!” Vittorio called out, and Ubaldini nodded at the young man Frasso.

“But you give in to temptation, and you're tested, and that's how you learn. Italy's great complacency, the way it wraps its arms around you, produces the occasional rebel who does not want that embrace. That person writes a good book, or a poem, or makes a film. I said no to that embrace on a country road.”

The scattered laughter, the uneasy murmurs, some of the whispers translations, made me want to finish.

“So I want to thank you for helping a bewildered stranger find his way. You didn't know what you were doing, and neither did I, but here we are—and all's well.”

Knowing that I was done, feeling released from their bewilderment, they clapped hard in relief. Vittorio thanked me, some of the people left, and the rest milled around the table talking, another Italian ritual, the protracted goodbye, a way of showing gratitude or warmth, the period of hesitation in a culture where hurrying, or any urgency, even the urgency to be alone and write, is considered a vice.

I stepped over to Ubaldini and thanked him for coming.

“I was fascinated by your remarks,” he said. “I appreciated the ambiguity.”

“What do you do in Florence?” I asked.

“I do nothing! I am ancient!” And laughing, he again caught the eye of the young man. “Tell me, will you be here long?”

“I leave tomorrow.” I looked for the lewdness and benevolence on his face, but saw the exhaustion of old age, and yet still a glint of greed in his eyes.

“A pity. I would like to invite you to my home. I have a library with many fine books. I have important pictures. I have a view of the river.”

Now he was speaking as well to Frasso, who had drifted near. Ubaldini muttered to him rapidly in Italian. Each time he smiled he moved his tongue against his lips, as though he was tasting his own smile. The young man murmured his thanks, and I understood that the same invitation was directed to him, and that he was agreeing to a visit.

Before I left, Frasso came over to me. “Thank you for your advice,” he said. “Where I come from, in Naples, no one reads a book or writes a poem. But here is different. And so—” He shrugged, the noncommittal Italian lift of the shoulders, then went to the door, where Ubaldini was waiting for him.

 

Cheating for Love

 

I was a graduate student, twenty-three, living in Princeton with my boyfriend. We were very friendly with a couple, Greg and June, and we spent a lot of time with them—maybe too much. Greg was always after me, calling me and slipping me notes. He said that June was frigid and so on. He was very hungry, and I had to admit I liked his attention. One day we ended up in bed, and that was the beginning of our affair. The odd thing was that the four of us were still friends, even though Greg and I had this secret.

We had plans for dinner at our place one night, the four of us. Greg called me and asked me to come over—“It's urgent.” When I got there he was naked, and we were soon in bed. In the middle of it the door banged open. It was June, screaming at him, “You bastard!”

He had been on top of me in a tangle of sheets. He covered me with a sheet and began screaming back at June: “Get out of here! How dare you come in here!”

I was dying with shame under the sheet. June was my best friend.

I was still cowering under the sheet when Greg got up and pushed June out of the room. She went away sobbing. I got dressed and left. That night the four of us had dinner, as we'd planned. Greg and June were a little quiet, but were holding hands. My own boyfriend didn't know anything—he was cooking. We all remained friends. June never knew I was the other woman. But being discovered that way made me realize what a terrible thing I had done in cheating on her, and cheating on my own boyfriend too. I thought of it as the worst day of my life, taking that risk. But I had done it for love, and within a year Greg and I were married.

 

The First Move

 

I had been married about two months when I took a trip to Singapore for a series of high-level meetings. I was thirty-two, a field organizer for a development project in Asia, based in Kuala Lumpur. At one of the dinners I met a man who flirted with me and was quite frank about wanting to sleep with me. I fended him off, though he was very persistent. He knew I was married. He was married too. I let slip the fact that I had been married only two months.

He said, “Oh, God, I'm so sorry.” He explained that if he had known I was a newlywed he would not have been so persistent. He wished me well, and he became very sweet and even protective over the next few days of our meetings. I began to regard him as a good friend. He also laughed at his earlier wooing of me and kept apologizing for his behavior.

But I kept thinking how, inevitably, my husband and I would be unfaithful. I imagined the day when he would come to me and say, “I've got something to tell you,” or perhaps I would accidentally discover his infidelity. And then I would be unfaithful to him, but with whom? We loved each other, yet I knew that it would happen—because it so often does. I thought, I don't want him to be first. I was very sad thinking of these realities, especially in this lovely city.

I had dinner with the man in his hotel. I asked if we could go upstairs to his suite so I could use his bathroom. He was, as usual, very kind, now like an old friend.

When I came out of the bathroom I asked him to turn off the lights. Then I took off my dress and sat next to him on the sofa, wearing only my panties.

I said, “Don't be shocked.” He said, “But I am!” I told him about the decision I had made. “I want to be first.” I was afraid he might reject me, but we made love and I stayed the night. The Singapore trip ended and I never saw him after that. My marriage has been very happy and I was never unfaithful again. When my husband confessed to an indiscretion, I forgave him.

 

The Unsuitable Woman

 

As soon as I met Rita, I knew she was unsuitable: not my type. And the odd thing was that she was completely willing—an agreeable companion, resourceful, submissive sexually, and game for anything. She was pleasant, but after one night with her I wanted her to leave. When sex was over I found nothing to say to her. A month later she called me and asked why I had rejected her. She said, “You hurt my feelings.” I couldn't think of anything to say. She seemed a bit obtuse, unfunny, yet wanted desperately to please me. She was attractive, athletic, about thirty, a landscape architect. I felt that on some level she was incompetent and slow, but she was very good-natured. Afterward I hardly thought of her, and when I did I became anxious, because I could not imagine her with any man I knew.

I met her twenty years later. She had married a graphic designer, who was about her age, very intelligent and talented, and she was still a landscape architect. He loved her madly. It was obvious in everything he did—he adored her. They were a wonderful couple. He admired her talent and praised her. What had he seen that I hadn't? They had no children, they were devoted to each other, they seemed very happy and well suited to each other.

Their happiness made me think that I had judged her wrongly before, that the selfishness and incompetence I had seen in her had been in me—my faults.

I had been suspicious all those years ago when she had been so willing. But she'd been sincere. She'd found someone who appreciated her, needed her, loved her, and his love had improved her too.

 

No Strings

 

I met a woman in the local supermarket who said to me, “Are you the architect?” I had just done a big handsome building in town, and a piece about it in the newspaper had used a photograph of me.

“Yes,” I said, and looked at her closely: attractive, about forty, with piercing blue eyes that were fixed on mine and a fearless, upright, almost defiant posture, which seemed boldly welcoming.

“I'm a huge admirer of your work,” she said with a lovely smile. “I'm an interior designer myself. I feel I could learn so much from you, spending time with you. No strings.”

I was on the point of giving her my address when my wife came up to us and said, “Let's go, Walter, or we'll be late.” Not even a glance at the woman. She had sensed something.

Well, so had I. About a week later a letter appeared in my mailbox. In this rather long letter the woman said that as she was a decorator and I an architect, we might work together. “No strings.” There was no stamp on the letter. This worried me: she knew my house. Somehow she had found out my address. She had written her telephone number under her signature.

I was sorely tempted. “No strings” sounded like the recipe for a guiltless adultery, and when a woman is offering herself in such a casual way she always seems to me more attractive for being so easily available. Yet, more out of procrastination than indifference, I didn't reply or call her.

One day at the local library, crouched down looking for a book, I was aware of a woman looming over me. It was she. “Why didn't you answer my letter? You didn't even call.” She was hurt, she said. But she mentioned that she was “hooked up with a wealthy lawyer.” Then: “He's so uptight. I love to give oral sex—my lips are so sensitive—but he says it embarrasses him. He thinks it's a big deal. It isn't. I love pleasuring men. But he's going to be history. I've told him, ‘No strings.'”

Soon after that, I got another letter from her. She'd left the lawyer. She wanted to see me.
We can work something out. No strings. I'm free most afternoons.
And again she wrote her telephone number.

I began to dial her number, thinking,
My lips are so sensitive,
but before I finished I heard the front door open. My wife. “Walter, give me a hand with the groceries,” and the spell was broken. I wrote a short note:
I don't think I can help you.

That was not the end of it. Months later, I heard a loud knock at my door. It was the woman.

“I'm being evicted! I have no place to stay! You've done well—look at your nice house. I can't get any work. You owe me. People have helped you—you have to help me. I'm going to be on the street! Don't just stand there gaping at me. Do something, you bastard!”

Screaming, crazy, demanding. I was shocked, and as I closed the door on her ranting, I thought, What if I had acted on my temptation? And that night I wept in my wife's arms, though she had no idea.

 

Embassy Wife

 

My husband, Byron, was a terrible diplomat. He quarreled with his colleagues, performed his work badly, drank too much at parties, and neglected me and the kids—and yet he got a promotion. This was in Germany, where he was a public affairs officer. The head of his department was a man named Jay, who was very dapper and good-looking and devoted to his wife, Marina. He and his wife went everywhere together, which made me feel bad, because I spent so much time at home looking after our three small children. My husband said that if I showed up at the embassy parties, his professional life would be easier.