The Hormone Factory (30 page)

I had checked into the Waldorf Astoria, that crown jewel of the Art Deco era and one of my favorite places to stay, not just on account of the luxurious accommodations, but also because of the draw of its famous Peacock Alley. I liked to think that this lovely space, this ebony-paneled, marble-pillared gem of refined elegance, was named after me (
pauw
means “peacock” in Dutch)—a piece of forgivable indulgence on my part. But what I really liked about that lobby was that, positioned at regular intervals among the palm trees lining the many seating nooks, there were ornamental display cases exhibiting the most up-to-date gadgets and inventions—the best new products on the domestic American market. There one could admire the cream of the crop, America’s splendid merchandise, exemplifying a nation that was fast becoming the world’s greatest commercial success story. To my mind, these exhibits perfectly embodied the successful merger of art and commerce.

One of these coveted items, only recently launched but already on the verge of conquering the world, was a can of hair-spray. This aerosol product finally promised to give the ladies some guarantee that their beehive hairdos would stay firmly in place. Before this clever invention, women had had to make do with natural materials like gum resin or clay to tame their unruly hair into some kind of style. Here, for the first time, was an effective alternative. The pink cans, with their brightly contrasting caps, were lined up triumphantly inside the stylish cases. The cheerful slogan gushed,
Go Gay Girls are discovered first!
I decided right then and there to buy a few cans to take home with me, as gifts for some of my women friends. I dreamed of seeing our own pharmaceutical wares promoted in this illustrious hall someday, but the fact that we were a Dutch company precluded that possibility for now. In my imagination, however,
I furnished one of the cases with that menstruation-regulating pill our lab was so feverishly working on. Or would the hotel rule such a product too controversial and ban it from the hallowed hall of fame?

It was late afternoon; I had just arrived and was looking forward to surprising Diane. It had been a while since we’d seen each other, for I hadn’t been there in almost a year. I was savoring a whiskey in Peacock Alley as I lazily opened the letter the reception desk had handed me when I checked in.

My dear Motke
, it said in Diane’s recognizable scrawl. My heart leaped, as did my beast. But then I noticed the letter was dated some weeks back.

By the time you read this I’ll be dead. I have breast cancer and it’s metastasized, so I’ve decided to take my fate into my own hands. A sorry decline and drawn-out suffering—you know that’s not me. I’ve been storing up a bunch of pills, and tonight I’m going to wash them down with a bottle of whiskey. I’ve bought the latest Coltrane
, Stardust—
the title suits my last voyage, don’t you think? I’ll let the sounds of the master carry me off, and I don’t expect it to be all that bad, dying. My only regret is that I can’t finish my work on the female hormone; it does appear to be capable of preventing pregnancy. But as you know, I’m not the only one working on it, and it’ll definitely be a go, with or without me. I have no doubt you’ll turn it into gold. It may even set off a revolution! I hope that it does. I hope it helps all those uptight prigs break out of their shells
.

I’m sorry there’s no time left for one last night with you. The pain is getting worse. I don’t want to be trapped by the doctors who’ll want to keep me alive at all costs; I’m getting
out of here while I still can. So you’ll just have to go to the Five Spot without me. Please go there and have a drink on me
.

I don’t know if I was ever in love with you, but I do want to thank you for the fun we had together, and for being the one man who never felt the need to own me
.

Be well, and don’t ever let yourself be tied down!

Love, Diane

Slowly I unglued my eyes from the sheet of paper with the tightly packed script and became aware once more of the women tottering in their high heels, the swaggering men, the painted walls and the intricate carpet. It was as if I were suddenly seeing the splendor around me through a scrim of gray. An infinite feeling of grief washed over me. Diane had been the light of my life, although I had never had the courage to admit it to her, knowing I’d be roundly mocked if she ever got wind of it. Her refusal to be tied down was far more deeply held than my own vaunted independence. Her aversion to any kind of commitment sometimes made me wonder what deeply ingrained fear might be at the bottom of it. But we never spoke about it. I certainly never asked. I’d had no idea that she was ill. Diane had always been evasive about anything personal, and seemed determined to live only in the here and now.

Although it was business that drew me to New York, the nights spent in the company of my wild Drabble had always given my stays a special luster. Now, for the first time, I felt like a fish out of water in my prized Peacock Alley. I was overcome with almost sickening revulsion as I gazed at the well-to-do, the spoiled princesses and trust-fund babies strutting around this hushed sanctuary of sham glitz and feigned glamour. I was disgusted by the fine airs of the extravagantly dressed, hustling beau monde,
pretending to be engrossed in one another but painfully aware of being in a place where they came to see and be seen. They all seemed to be trying to present themselves in the most flattering light, scanning the room like animals on the prowl, intent on not letting any famous quarry get away. A white-gloved waiter standing next to my yellow leather chair leaned across the table to pick up the empty whiskey tumbler and, depositing it on the elegant silver tray, asked in a hushed voice if he could bring me anything else. I shook my head and got to my feet; I couldn’t wait to get out of there. Peacock Alley suddenly felt like enemy territory to me, an insult to Diane Drabble’s memory.

I took a taxi down to the Village, intending to stroll around the neighborhood my Drabble had been so fond of. I couldn’t make myself head straight to the Five Spot; the thought of Diane’s absence there was unbearable. I drifted aimlessly through the winding streets, dodging the pipe-chewing men in shabby secondhand jackets and girls in boyish haircuts and tight black turtlenecks hanging out on street corners or packed into one of the crowded bars from which escaped the occasional plaintive blare of a trumpet or saxophone. I felt out of place in my suit and tie; the royal merchant had no business being there without his wild bohemian chick at his side, the girl who’d been his ticket for entry into this world.

I ended up in a sleazy dive, bleak and dreary, where a young, badly dressed female bartender was kept busy supplying a lonely drunk at one end of the bar with shots of rum. I hoisted myself up onto a rickety barstool, as far away as possible from the wino, and got the skinny, drab-looking barmaid to pour me a double whiskey. She stared at me, and I could tell from her expression that I was an unusual apparition in a place like this. Behind her was a drinks cabinet filled with a mishmash of bottles with faded
labels carelessly arranged on chipped, peeling shelves, backed by a filthy, greasy mirror that wasn’t inclined to reflect anything. The girl held her arms crossed in front of her chest, her dark eyes fixed gloomily on the floor. The minutes ticked by as we lolled there, three lost souls, each in our own separate world. Every once in a while the silence was broken by some unintelligible outburst from the drunkard, upon which a snarled “
Shut up, Toby!
” from the girl would send him back into his blurry alcoholic haze, like a dog kicked back into its kennel. Now and again, at a sign from the intoxicated Toby or from me, the girl would refill our glasses, until finally the barfly hauled himself laboriously off his stool and, with much writhing and squirming, pulled a wad of dollars out of his back pocket and slapped it down onto the counter before making his exit, staggering and muttering to himself. In the doorway he turned and yelled at the top of his voice, for the first time quite distinctly, “Beware, beware, the Ides of March!” He shook his fist in the air like some ancient prophet in a B-movie before hobbling out into the night, lunging at the walls for support.

The tootsie gave a shy, apologetic smile as she walked over to the far end of the bar to clear away his glass.

“Regular customer?” I asked.

“Yeah,” she said, “he always comes in here. His is the only kind we ever get in this shithole.” Glancing at me as she walked to the slop sink to wash the glass, she asked, “What’s a fancy gent like you doing in a place like this, are you lost or something?”

I smiled. “You might say that,” I said. “What about you, why are you working in such a dump?”

She shrugged. “Oh, to support myself. I’d had it with my mother nagging me all the time. And, yeah, sure, I’d heard cool stories about the Village, but the stories make it sound better than it really is.” She grinned a bit sheepishly.

“Isn’t that the truth,” I said. “Here, let me have one last drink, make it a double, and one for yourself as well.”

She poured me a glass and another one for herself. Then she pulled out a stool from under the counter and sat down across from me. “Cheers,” she said, “to the stories.”

“To the stories.” I raised my glass.

“Where are you from?” she asked, the question that always seems to come first from Americans.

“The Netherlands,” I said, “a small, insignificant country that’s mostly below sea level.”

Her eyes lit up briefly before clouding over again. “I know,” she said. “Holland, that’s where my family’s from too.”

“What a coincidence,” I said. “Do you speak any Dutch?”

She shrugged. “Nah.”

“Too bad,” I said.

“Why?” she said. “Shitty country, horrible people.”

“Thanks for the compliment,” I laughed, and raised my glass again. “To the horrible people and the shitty country! Have you ever been there?”

She gave a scornful laugh. “If I had the moolah to travel, I’d go somewhere completely different. You bet!” she added indignantly.

When her face lost its sullen expression, she wasn’t bad-looking. She had nice hair, dark and wavy; she was skinny, but her skin was smooth and fresh.

“What’s your name?” I asked.

“Hannah,” she said.

I had an idea.

“Hannah,” I asked, “have you ever been to the Five Spot? Do you like jazz?”

“Yeah, I guess,” she said. “But going to a club by myself stinks. I did go into one of those joints once,” she went on, “but I hated
it. I was just standing there, like, all by myself, looking like a dope, and I sneaked out as soon as I could. I’m kind of, like, a wimp, when it comes right down to it.” She said it with a sad grin.

“Hannah, will you do something for me?” I asked. “I need to go to the Five Spot. It was the favorite hangout of a close friend of mine who just died. Her last wish was for me to go there and have a drink on her, but I can’t seem to make myself, not on my own. I’m a wimp too as far as that’s concerned. Will you go with me?”

She hesitated for a moment, as if trying to figure out whether I might be dangerous. Apparently I wasn’t, because after establishing with a glance at the clock on the wall that she could close up the joint, she nodded, and together we strolled over to the Five Spot. I ordered some drinks at the bar, and we drank a toast to Diane Drabble, my delightful drinking-buddy diva. The crowd around the bar jostled us against each other, and I put an arm around her. Gently swaying to the mellow sounds of the jazz quartet, I drew her in closer until I had her in a tight clinch. I could feel her heart pounding. The heaviness that had taken possession of me ever since reading Diane’s letter was gradually pushed out by a building excitement. My beast, which had been limp and lifeless, was starting to wake up. I felt it rising, and cautiously pressed myself against the girl’s flat stomach while making a few tentative dance moves with her on the slice of floor left to us by the young people ordering drinks around us. I caressed her soft brown hair, and then gently kissed her ear, and she reacted by resting her head on my shoulder. I brushed her cheek with my lips, and finally sought her mouth.

We stood there for a while gently swaying to the music, my hand exploring her body, her small but firm breasts, her bony back, her muscular arms and firm buttocks, and finally her mound of Venus, which I pressed firmly against me to tweak my beast.

When I judged it was time, I steered her out of the crush at the bar and suggested going somewhere where we could be alone. She nodded shyly. With my arm around her narrow waist, I led my barmaid out of the joint, thinking that this was the best possible way to remember Drabble: to end my commemorative visit to the Five Spot with a nice little roll in the hay, which, although bound to be a poor substitute for my wild nights with Diane, would nevertheless serve as a fitting memento of our so dearly cherished freedom.

Once outside, I quickly formulated a plan. I kissed her and suggested that we spend the night together, a proposal that received a similarly resigned, rather lukewarm assent. Taking the girl to my luxury suite wasn’t an option—there are some worlds that just don’t mix—and so I dragged her into the first fleabag hotel we happened to pass, paying for a room in cash. On shutting the door, I gave my conquest no time to change her mind. She stood there giggling nervously. I pushed her down on the creaky bed, pulled the scruffy dress up over her head, and, still kissing her, in short order yanked off her bra and panties, wriggled out of my own clothes like a veritable Houdini, and forged a way into her pussy with my fingers. But after the obligatory round of finger play, as I started pushing my beast inside her, she stopped me.

“You can’t get me pregnant,” she said uncertainly.

“That’s not going to happen,” I reassured her. “I’ll pull out before I come, I promise, all right?”

Before she could answer, I covered her mouth with mine and thrust my tongue and my beast simultaneously inside her. I made sure she came before I did, pulling out perhaps a fraction too late, but most of the semen ended up on her thigh, so that was all right. I kissed her and, rolling off her, asked, “Did you like that?”