Page Turner Pa (11 page)

"You are a terrible woman," he said, and no longer thought of the man they had left behind: the griefs of strangers are easy to ignore. But Tushi did. Even as she pushed and prodded, she thought of Joseph, lying in his bedroom while darkness bled through the window. "Memory banks," he'd said. "What a mysterious phrase that is, as if memory were a river." And so it was on a riverside that she saw him now, his pants rolled up to the ankles, trailing his long legs as he reached down to sift through the silt and sand and mud that was his own history. And what might he dredge up before daybreak? Something that would help him? She hoped so. But she couldn't guess.

P
AUL WAS SITTING NAKED
in the armchair in Kennington's hotel room, shower water dripping from his neck into the cleft of his chest. He was staring at Kennington, who was on the bed, reading the
Herald Tribune.

It unnerved Kennington, the way Paul stared. Periodically he would glance over the serrated edges of his paper, and there they would be: those eyes, always open too wide, like the eyes of a child kept up past its bedtime; and indeed, like a child kept up past its bedtime, something in Paul seemed to be resisting tonight not only the need to rest, but to grow.

Finally Kennington put down the paper. "Paul," he said.

"Yes?"

"Why are you staring at me?"

"Staring at you?"

"That's right."

Quiet. "I guess I'm trying to memorize your face," Paul said. "In case I never see you again."

"And what makes you think you'll never see me again?"

"Well, the day after tomorrow we leave for Florence."

"True."

"And you head back to New York."

"Also true."

"Unless—"

"Unless what?"

"Well, unless you've given any thought to the possibility of coming with us. You mentioned the other day you might."

"Did I?" Kennington returned to his paper. "I must have been in a delirium. Roman fever or something."

"Oh."

"Not that I wouldn't like to. It's just not realistic. After all, I haven't been home in more than a month. The mail in my apartment must be piled up to the ceiling."

"How important is mail?"

"Important enough. Then there's Joseph. His dog's been sick."

"Well, he's only your manager—"

"Plus I have to practice. Remember what Von Bülow said ? If you don't practice for one day, you know it. If you don't practice for two days, the critics know it. If you don't practice for three days, the public knows it. As it stands I haven't touched a piano for a week."

There was little Paul could say in response to this observation beyond a slightly peeved "of course." Kennington turned the page.

After a moment Paul stood up and started getting dressed.

"Are you leaving?" Kennington asked from behind his paper.

"We're supposed to meet my mother in half an hour for dinner, unless you've decided that's not realistic, either."

"Okay, okay." Climbing out of bed, Kennington started dressing too. "I can't help but observe that you're not your usual perky self this evening," he said, as they headed out of the hotel and toward Piazza Barberini. "Is something on your mind?"

Paul was silent for a second. Then he said, "I'm sorry, but I'm disappointed about Florence. After all, you're the one who brought it up, and when you did, you sounded so enthusiastic that I assumed you were really serious about it. That after my mother left, maybe we could even travel on together a little bit. Alone together."

"Sounds wonderful."

"But not wonderful enough to do."

Kennington laughed. "Oh, if I had a dollar for every wonderful thing I haven't done!"

"Then why don't you do it?
I'll
give you a dollar."

Kennington shook his head. "Certain patterns are too expensive to break."

"Even for just a few days?"

They were waiting for a green light, Paul gazing at him imploringly.

Then the light changed. They moved on.

"So what happens next?" Paul asked.

"Next? I go back to New York. You go to Florence. And in the fall you'll start at Juilliard."

"And will we see each other?"

"Of course we'll see each other."

"But yesterday you said you'd be away most of the fall. You said you had to go to Germany in October, then Japan—"

"For me that's nothing. I'll be home a lot more than I usually am, and when I'm there we can see each other all the time."

"But you haven't even given me your phone number."

"That's only because I'm almost never there. It's better if I call you—"

"I hate this," Paul said suddenly. "The way you're describing it, you get your tour, and your apartment, and you don't go to Florence, and you get me whenever you call. Whereas I get nothing."

"Is that what you're in this for? To get something?"

Paul didn't answer. A car roared down the narrow street, forcing them up against the wall.

They continued walking.

"So will Mr. Mansourian go with you to Germany?" Paul asked after a few seconds.

"No. He doesn't usually travel with me these days. San Francisco was an exception."

"He
is
a homosexual, isn't he?"

"Yes. Why do you ask?"

"Because of the way he acted toward me in San Francisco."

Kennington twitched a little. "And how did he act toward you in San Francisco?"

"Oh, you know ... the way you did here."

They had reached the Trevi Fountain, where Paul dug in his pockets. Kennington, quiet, watched the arc of a coin as it spiraled over the green water.

Then they crossed the street and caught a taxi. They had an appointment to meet Pamela at a pizzeria that the Romans called "the morgue" because of its marble tabletops. Alone under fluorescent light she waited for them, looking oddly intimidated in her new pink Valentino suit. From the ovens one of the
pizzaioli,
his T-shirt smeared with tomato, stared at her, while nearer by the pretty girl at the cash register was wearing the same Valentino suit, albeit in green instead of pink. Along with what looked like a pound of gold.

"Sorry we're late," Kennington said, kissing Pamela on the cheek as he sat down.

"Oh, don't worry. I've been having a wonderful time, watching those chefs throw that dough." She clasped her hands under her chin. "Pizza making really is an art, isn't it?"

"Roman pizza's the thin-crusted kind," Paul said. "It's thicker in Naples."

A waiter, unsmiling, dropped menus on the table. "Oh my," Pamela said, scanning the choices. "You know, Richard, pizza's just about my favorite food in the world. Did Paul tell you?"

"No."

"And now to be having a genuine Roman pizza in a genuine Roman pizzeria—it's just thrilling!" She returned her gaze to the menu. "Now let's see ... mushroom sounds good. And what's a Napoli?"

"Mozzarella and anchovies, I think."

"I don't like anchovies. Maybe mushroom then. Or sausage. Or what's this? My goodness, zucchini flowers. How exotic!"

"
Prego,
" the waiter said, returning.

They ordered, Pamela opting for the zucchini flowers. The waiter went away.

A silence immediately fell over their table, mostly because the mob of German women across the way was talking so loudly. Also, each of them was watching something: Paul, Kennington; Pamela (alternately) the
pizzaiolo
and Kennington; Kennington, a handsome boy who stood behind a butcher-block counter in the open kitchen. Taking a sharp knife, the boy spread his left hand out on the butcher block and stabbed at the wood between his fingers, moving from the space between thumb and index finger to the space between index and middle finger to the space between middle and ring finger to the space between ring finger and pinkie, then back again. He did it so fast the steel blade blurred: five, six times. Then he stopped, breathed, started again, as if he were trying to break his own record.

Their drinks arrived: Nastro Azzurro for Kennington, water for Pamela and Paul. Kennington's expression, as he watched the boy, was avid, almost lustful. And what was he hoping for? Paul wondered. That the boy might make a mistake, chop off a finger or a fingertip? That he wouldn't make a mistake, and prove his mettle? All that was obvious was that if this was a game, the boy was winning it; time after time he won it.

Soon their pizzas arrived, spilling over the edges of plates too small to contain them.

"Oh my, isn't this beautiful?" said Pamela, looking first at her son and then his friend. "So beautiful I almost can't bear to eat it."

Tears welled in her eyes—tears that neither Kennington nor Paul noticed, so quickly did she cough them back. "Well,
buon appetito,
" she said.

"
Buon appetito,
" they repeated in unison.

She took a bite, a little nervously, having never eaten flowers before. But as it turned out, they were delicious.

T
HEIR LAST MORNING
in Rome, Kennington was supposed to go with Paul and his mother to Tivoli, to see the Villa d'Este. Indeed, at nine Paul was already dressed and ready in his room, when the phone rang. "Good morning," Kennington said. "Did you sleep well?"

"Not really. Richard, about our conversation last night—I feel that I owe you—"

"Nonsense. If anyone owes anyone an apology it's me." He sneezed.

"Are you all right?"

"No. Actually, that's the reason I'm calling. I think I'm catching a cold."

"Oh?"

"Nothing serious. Only I'm not sure I'm up to an expedition today. Would you mind terribly if I bagged out?"

"Of course not." Paul's voice grew chilly. "You're free to do whatever you want. You know that."

"Well, if you really wouldn't mind, as things stand I think I'd probably rather rest this morning. I'm sure I'll feel better in the afternoon, and then we can meet as usual at the Bar della Pace. How does that sound?"

"Fine," Paul said.

"You have fun now, you hear?"

"I will."

"I'll miss you."

"Thank you. I'll miss you too."

They hung up. Picking up his backpack, Paul stomped downstairs to his mother's room. "Are you ready?" he shouted, rapping on the door.

"Almost. Come in!"

He barreled through and hurled himself onto the bed. Pamela was doing her make-up. "Sleep well?" she asked.

"Richard isn't coming," he answered matter-of-factly. "He says he has a cold."

Pamela colored. "You know, that's funny, Paul"—she put down her lipstick—"because as it happens my allergies are acting up this morning. Would you mind—"

"Oh, so now I'm supposed to go alone?"

"Well, you're always saying you need time to yourself, honey."

He rolled onto his side. "All right." Hoisting himself up from the bed, he headed for the door. "Well, bye."

"Bye, sweetheart. Be careful. See you this afternoon, okay?"

"Fine."

"You have enough money?"

"Yes."

The door slammed shut. Turning around, Pamela examined herself in the mirror; she looked good enough, she decided. Next, making sure first that the coast was clear, she hurried downstairs and across the street to a little grocery store, where she bought orange juice, pretzels, and a package
of cornetti.
At the pharmacy she got vitamin C tablets. Finally, on the Corso Vittorio Emanuele, she hailed a cab. "Hotel Bristol," she said, adjusting her collar as the driver moved her into traffic.

It occurred to her that what she was doing was very possibly mad. And yet might not this announcement of illness also encode the clue for which she'd been waiting, delivered shyly—or perhaps slyly—through Paul?

No one stopped her—indeed, no one noticed her—in the Bristol lobby. Relieved not to have been accused of prostitution, she rode the elevator to the sixth floor, feeling rather conspicuous with her sack of groceries. Down the long corridor she walked, past open doors and metal carts loaded with linens and little shampoo bottles, until she reached the room she knew to be Kennington's, the room marked 611.

She knocked. "
Chi è?
" a voice asked from inside.

"Pamela."

Silence. Several seconds passed before Kennington opened the door. Unshaven, he stood lumpishly before her, in gray sweatpants and a Tanglewood T-shirt.

"Hi," he said.

"Hi," she said. "I hope I'm not interrupting."

"No, not at all. Come in."

He stepped aside to let her pass. His room, though elegant, was a mess: the bed unmade, a shirt draped over the back of a chair.

"This is lovely," she said, putting down her bag. "So refined."

Hugging her arms, she grinned at him.

Silence.

"Well, I'll bet you're surprised to see me, aren't you?"

"Yes, in fact. I assumed you'd gone with Paul to Tivoli."

"Oh, at the last minute I decided to stay. I wasn't really in the mood for a bus ride."

"Ah."

"And then when Paul told me you weren't feeling well, I thought, I'll bring him some breakfast. Here." She handed him the bag. "I've got orange juice, pretzels, croissants. Something sweet and something salty, that's what Paul always likes when he's sick. Also, vitamin C."

"Thanks." Kennington put the bag down on the dresser. "You really didn't have to go to all this trouble."

"Oh, but I wanted to. Especially after all the meals you've bought us."

"But it was my pleasure."

"Well, now it's my turn to be hospitable. So you just lie down over there"—she pointed to the bed—"and I'll get breakfast ready. Do you have any glasses?"

"Over by the minibar."

"I'll get them. You stay put."

She took two tumblers from a shelf, poured the juice, handed him a glass.

"
Cin-cin.
"

"It's bad luck to toast with anything other than wine."

"Oh, I didn't know."

"Let me clear that off for you," he added, getting up and removing the shirt from the chair.

She sat, and Kennington returned to the bed, where he lay down and crossed his legs at the ankles.

"So," Pamela said, smiling loudly. (What to say now?) "Actually, Richard, I do have a little confession to make. I didn't come by your room this morning
only
to bring you orange juice."