Sins of the Fathers (25 page)

‘Nonsense, it happens all the time! Anyway men like Neil and myself don’t have friends in the accepted sense of the word.
We have the three As instead: allies, aides and acquaintances. Or in other words: those we barter with, those we buy and those
we acknowledge because it suits us to do so.’ I must have looked shocked by such cynicism for he added quickly: ‘But yes,
I’m fond of Neil and I respect him – although that’s irrelevant to what I’d intended to say which was this: I have trouble
believing that I’m the best solution to your problem. Surely the answer is to wait until Neil recovers from his temporary
madness and comes back to you? What the hell’s he doing with this other woman anyway? It’s you he’s crazy about! You’ve no
idea what a shock you gave me just now when you said he had a regular mistress.’

‘He can’t help it – it’s not his fault—’ To my distress I began to cry.

Jake’s hand tightened on mine. ‘Can you try and explain the problem to me?’

‘No, I mustn’t … not fair to Cornelius … no one must know.’

‘Are you sure it wouldn’t be better to tell someone? And don’t you think in retrospect that your main reason for inviting
me here was that you were at your wits’ end and needed someone to confide in?’

‘Perhaps.’ I had pulled my hand away and was scrabbling for a handkerchief.

He crushed out his cigarette. ‘I don’t think you want a lover at all,’ he said, reaching for his scotch. ‘I think you just
want someone to talk to.’

My voice said at once: ‘It’s not as simple as that.’

‘No?’

I shook my head violently and watched the scotch glint gold-brown as the glass was replaced on the table.

‘I must go before I do something very foolish,’ said Jake, rising abruptly to his feet.

I said nothing.

He did not move. Several seconds passed. I could not look at him.

‘It’s not that I don’t want to help you. I only wish I could come up with some helpful advice.’

‘Please go, Jake.’

‘But I want you to know—’

‘It’s all right. I understand.’

There was another silence before he said politely: ‘We must meet again, of course. Unless you’d prefer—’

‘Yes. I want us to go on as if this meeting had never happened.’

‘As you wish.’ He moved towards the door. ‘Forgive me, but I’m sure this is the wisest course for both of us.’

I nodded, my head bent over my clasped hands, and waited for the noise of the closing door. The wait seemed interminable but
at last I heard the soft click of the lock signalling to me that I was alone.

‘Oh God!’ I cried aloud in despair, and the tears streamed through my fingers as my whole body shook with sobs.

His hand touched my shoulder.

I gasped. The shock was so great that it transformed that delicate gesture into an electrifying act of violence.

‘I locked the door,’ he said, and took me in his arms.

[1]

I could think only how different he was from Cornelius. Cornelius’ mouth was always so firm, even when he was kissing softly,
but Jake’s kisses were somehow more pliable, less easily defined. His lips were thin but subtly shaped; his tongue was hard
yet tentative as he sought to explore the mouth I could not open; I was aware of complex emotions stirring behind that polished
surface, emotions which would have been alien to Cornelius’ straightforward expression of physical
desire, and although I tried to part my lips for him my reserve intensified to defeat me and I knew I was frightened of the
unknown.

Jake paused. I felt his arms relax around my waist. He had not moved his hands during the embrace yet I had been acutely aware
of those strong fingers pressing insistently against my spine. I felt frightened again, lost, muddled.

I saw him glance swiftly at the door as if he wished we could retreat upstairs to less formal surroundings, but of course
that was impossible as some servant would have been certain to see us. Finally in an attempt to make the room less inhibiting
he said in a low voice: ‘Shall I draw the drapes?’

I nodded, and presently the drapes swung shut to mute the early evening light, but although it became darker in the room I
could still see him clearly. When he slipped off his jacket I noticed that although he was so much bigger than Cornelius he
was far from being so well-proportioned. I thought of the perfect line of Cornelius’ neck and shoulders, and suddenly I longed
for him, not just for his physical presence but for his simple direct uncomplicated attitude to passion which had always pierced
straight through the armour of my reserve and effortlessly allayed my most private fears.

Jake pulled off his tie and undid the top button of his shirt.

When he took me in his arms again I could feel the increased heat of his body, and aware in panic that I could not now withdraw
without alienating him for ever I managed at last to open my mouth to his. His manner at once altered. The deliberate, sensual
restraint which had made his kisses so oddly flexible and so wholly foreign merged into a darker more aggressive sexuality
directly at odds with the urbane mask he presented to the world, and as I had my first glimpse into the rough angry bitter
reaches of his personality I realized with horror that I was about to give myself to a man I had never known.

I could no longer make a conscious effort to adopt the right responses. As his hands began to move and I felt the strength
of the pressure building in his body, my nerve failed me. I went rigid with tension, then struggled to be free.

He at once released me and stepped back. His eyes were a hot violent blue. I was terrified.

‘I’m sorry – forgive me – I don’t understand – I wanted you so much—’

‘You wanted him.’ I saw him swiftly conceal all trace of the mysterious primitive personality he had revealed. Producing a
handkerchief he carefully wiped the sweat from his forehead and buttoned his shirt rapidly to the neck. Then he picked up
his glass of scotch, drained it
and reached in the pockets of his discarded jacket for a cigarette. When it was alight he inhaled once and left it in the
ashtray while he knotted his tie.

‘Jake, I hardly know what to say – I feel so embarrassed and ashamed—’

‘Don’t be absurd. If anyone has to feel embarrassed and ashamed it should be me. I can’t think why I was naïve enough to imagine
a complicated problem could ever be solved so simply. Here – have some of this.’ And he passed me his cigarette while he slipped
on his jacket.

I put the cigarette to my lips but could not inhale. I was feeling lost again, not knowing what to do, but then he took charge
of the situation, made me sit down beside him on the couch while we shared that cigarette, and put his arm around me as I
edged nearer to him for comfort. After a moment I had the courage to say: ‘Are you very angry?’

‘No. Disappointed, yes – I’m only human! But not angry. How about you? Do you feel better or worse?’

‘I’m not sure, I feel so muddled. Is it possible that I could feel better after making such a mess of everything? Isn’t this
the moment when I should go completely to pieces?’

He laughed. ‘I wish it was – I’d like nothing better than to put you together again! Now tell me what’s at the root of this
problem. Don’t you think I’ve earned the right to know?’

I told him everything. It took a long time. Afterwards Carraway brought us sandwiches and coffee; I had no desire for food
but Jake was insistent so I ate half a chicken sandwich. The coffee was rich and at last I began to feel stronger.

‘It’s an interesting idea of yours,’ Jake was saying, ‘that the situation would be improved if Vicky were to marry Sebastian,
but I doubt that you’re right. I think Neil needs a much stronger jolt than that to set him back on the rails.’

‘What do you mean?’

‘Well, he’s got everything out of proportion, hasn’t he? He’s got all his priorities screwed up. Any balanced man would see
that so long as he has you it doesn’t make a goddamned bit of difference that he’s sterile. God, if I had a wife like you
… However I don’t want to wander from the point. What Neil needs is some kind of blinding reminder of the vital facts of life,
but I must admit I don’t see how he’s going to get it. Has he seen a psychiatrist?’

‘Oh no!’ I said appalled. ‘He’d never consider such a thing! I’ve seen two or three psychiatrists myself but—’

‘You! My God, you’re the one who’s normal!’ Jake set down his coffee-cup, flicked a crumb from his cuff and stood up. ‘I must
go or there’ll be a row with Amy when I get home. Listen, my dear, we must, of course, meet again. I usually work till six-thirty
or seven but at least one night a week I always arrange to leave the office at five. Which day next week would suit you?’

‘It’s difficult … You see, Cornelius will be back from Chicago by then.’

‘Oh, I wasn’t going to suggest we met here! I have an apartment in the East Fifties. Why don’t we meet there a week from today?’

‘Well, I – yes, I’d like to, but—’

‘We’ll just talk. That’s all you need right now.’

‘But would that be fair to you?’

‘Why not? Would it be any fairer to either of us if I insisted you went to bed with me when all you wanted was to go to bed
with someone else? Do you imagine I’d enjoy that any more than you would?’ Without waiting for an answer he wrote down the
apartment’s address and gave me one of a pair of keys which he extracted from his key-ring. ‘There’s a doorman in the lobby,’
he said, ‘but if he stops you, just say you’ve come to see Mr Strauss.’

I took the key and folded it carefully in the paper recording the address. As we walked to the door I wanted to say so much
to him but the words were too difficult to choose. I even found it hard to say a simple ‘thank you’ and ‘goodbye’.

In the hall a footman opened the front door as Carraway hovered by the stairs, and Jake and I paused, two actors playing their
opening scene before their first audience.

‘Good night, Alicia. Thank you for the coffee and sandwiches.’

‘You’re very welcome, Jake. Good night,’ I said politely, and stood watching from the porch as his car slipped away into the
twilight.

[2]

‘I’ve come to see Mr Strauss,’ I said a week later to the uniformed doorman of the modern apartment block on East Fifty-Fourth
Street.

Evidently this was an unremarkable event in the doorman’s daily life. With a smile he gestured towards the elevators and said:
‘Number 6D, ma’am.’

Trying to behave as if I were well-accustomed to meeting Mr Strauss at his apartment I entered the elevator, pressed the button
and wondered how many other women had held the key which I now took
from my purse. Jake suddenly seemed unreachable, walled off from me by years of extra-marital experience. No doubt he was
only interested in me because I presented more of a challenge to him than the women whom he was accustomed to seducing without
effort, and feeling deeply depressed I fitted the key in the lock and opened the door.

‘Jake?’ I called nervously.

There was no reply.

Closing the door I tiptoed across the little hallway into the spacious living-room beyond. Long low couches upholstered in
dull crimson lay limpidly on an enormous Persian carpet. The couches were peppered with plump cushions covered in a heavily
embroidered material which matched the thick luxurious drapes, and the walls were hidden beneath the co-ordinating dull crimson
of the flocked wallpaper. The room’s three paintings, all showing elaborately detailed scenes of Venice, looked as if they
might be Canaletto originals borrowed from the Reischman art collection, while the three low brass tables, which added an
oriental touch to the room’s sumptuous atmosphere, reminded me that Jake as well as being a German-American was also a Jew.

Feeling further removed from him than ever I took off my hat and coat and put them away in the empty closet by the front door
before I searched my purse for a cigarette. My lighter refused to work. I found a little kitchen but there were no matches
there so taking a deep breath I entered the bedroom The huge bed was canopied with yards of crimson silk, and again I was
reminded not of Europe but of the Middle East. Moving across another exquisite Persian carpet, I ignored the full-length French-Impressionist
nude which was the room’s only picture and opened the drawers of the nightstands on either side of the bed. One nightstand
was empty. The other contained a slim volume of cartoons reprinted from the
New Yorker
, a book of untranslated poems by Goethe and three packets of male contraceptives.

‘Alicia?’ called Jake as the front door opened in the distance.

Guiltily ramming shut the drawer I hurried back to the living-room.

‘I’m sorry,’ I said incoherently, ‘I was just – why, what have you got there?’

Jake was carrying a large brown paper bag. We kissed as casually as if we had been meeting every week for twenty years, and
then he moved past me into the kitchen.

‘I haven’t used this place in a while,’ he said. ‘I just stopped for a few of the necessities of life.’ Opening the bag he
extracted a bottle of
Johnnie Walker Black Label, a jar of olives, one lemon, four bagels, half a pound of cream cheese and several slices of lox.
‘There’s already gin and vermouth here,’ he said. ‘Can I fix you a martini?’

‘Well, I don’t usually drink martinis, but perhaps—’

‘Wait a minute.’ He was hunting in the closet below the counter. ‘The last incumbent of this place seems to have walked off
with two bottles of vermouth and one and a half bottles of gin. God, how shoddy! Would you object strongly to drinking scotch?’

‘I’ve never drunk scotch before. I shall feel very decadent! My father had old-fashioned ideas about what women should drink.’

‘I’ll call up the liquor store.’

‘No, no – let me try the scotch! But make it very weak.’

‘Sure.’ He began to fix the drinks. ‘Do you like bagels?’

‘I …’

‘You’ve never had one!’ He was smiling at me, his eyes bright with amusement but also with wariness, as if I were as much
an unknown quantity to him as he was to me.

‘Of course I’ve had bagels before!’ I said defiantly. ‘Why not? You don’t have to be Jewish to eat bagels!’

When he laughed the faint tension between us immediately dissolved. ‘Good! But let’s get to the food later. Can I give you
a light for that cigarette?’

We went into the living-room and sank down on one of the crimson couches. It was wickedly comfortable.

‘What do you think of this place?’ said Jake before I could start to feel nervous again.

I did not know what to say because his taste was obviously so different from my own. I like light pretty rooms full of pastel
colours and elegant furniture, rooms which give an impression of uncluttered space. ‘It’s very striking,’ I said cautiously.

‘But not in accordance with the best White-Anglo-Saxon-Protestant standards of the Yankee aristocracy!’ he said amused, but
before I could look as embarrassed as I felt, he raised his glass in a toast. ‘To us both,’ he said. ‘I’m very glad to see
you.’

I was still feeling overwhelmed by our differences, but I managed to return his smile, raise my glass to his and murmur ‘thank
you.’ The scotch tasted odd but softer than a martini. Replacing my glass on the table I tried desperately to think of something
to say, and as if he sensed my panic he at once began to speak.

‘It’s unfashionable now to talk about the aristocracy, isn’t it?’ he said casually. ‘But do you remember how it was in the
old days when everyone talked so freely of Our Crowd and Yours? The Jewish and
Yankee aristocracies, the twin pillars of New York society, the parallel lines which never met!’

‘I don’t think we should talk about—’ I said rapidly, and then found the gulf between us impossible to name.

‘But yes, we must!’ said Jake at once. ‘We should discuss the subject endlessly until we’re bored to death with it, or it’ll
be nothing but a millstone round both our necks!’

‘I—’

‘Let me start by telling you how much I’ve been admiring your courage.’

‘Courage?’

‘The courage to step outside the conventions we were both taught to respect.’

‘You mean—’

‘Parallel lines are never supposed to meet. You reached out and bent them. Perhaps it would be hard for someone who wasn’t
raised in either Your Crowd or Mine to realize the courage that took.’

‘No, it wasn’t courage, it was just …’ I struggled to explain how unimportant the differences had seemed in the circumstances.
‘Of course one can’t pretend the differences don’t exist,’ I said at last, ‘but now only the similarities seem important –
the fact that we both come from the same world, even though that world has two such separate halves. I feel that despite everything
we must still talk the same language.’

‘Ah, but talking’s so difficult!’ said Jake. ‘It’s so easy to say the same old words and never say anything new. That’s why
I’m so convinced we should say all the things we’ve never said to each other in all the years since we first met – how many
years is it? Twenty? Well, never mind how long we’ve pretended to know each other, that’s not important now, and there are
other questions I’d prefer to ask. For instance, what was it like growing up Dean Blaise’s daughter, a little White-Anglo-Saxon-Protestant
princess in the heart of Old New York?’