The Private Lives of Pippa Lee (14 page)

‘Ask him anything,' said Herb, ‘he knows it.'

‘Can you make a Maiden's Prayer?' asked Trudy, the wife of Max Kessler, herself a writer, who was wearing a patterned head scarf pulled tight over her hair, her mouth a fuchsia slash. The butler nodded solemnly and took a bottle of gin out of one of the baskets, a jug of orange juice. Cointreau.

‘I don't believe it!' exclaimed Trudy, sipping the drink, her eyes closed with pleasure.

‘And what about Pippa Sarkissian?' asked Herb. ‘What would she like?'

‘Crème de menthe,' I said.

‘An old-fashioned girl, underneath it all,' said Herb, chuckling.

Gigi tossed her head. ‘Crème de menthe isn't a cocktail, it's a liqueur,' she said.

Herb turned to her. ‘Rubbing alcohol for you, my love?'

‘A big glass, please,' said Gigi playfully, plonking herself opposite Herb with a swiveling movement, her long legs folding graciously beneath her. Somehow she had managed to change into a diaphanous coral halter dress and was fully made up. Yet I hadn't noticed her leaving. Herb took out a bottle of champagne and poured her a glass. I wondered if their corrosive banter was for real or not. Gigi drank and sighed, looking around her with half-closed eyes, like a contented lioness. The sky had begun to go pink. ‘After this,' said Gigi, ‘everyone can get ready for dinner and the others will arrive.'

Back in the transparent box, Craig and I walked up the metal staircase, down the hall, which was open to the rest of the house, and into our room, described to us by Gigi airily as the ‘third door.' The smell of jasmine was heavy and sweet. The drapes were shut. We flicked the light switch. Two identical lamps shone a warm light on a stainless steel bed, a quilted white bedspread, embroidered linen pillowcases. And, laid out on the bed neatly, were all our clothes, our books, and, in a small Baggie, the drugs we had brought for the weekend: a handful of pills, a lump of hash, and a singed spoon, which Terry and Jed always brought with them, just in case, though neither of them was a junkie.

Craig grimaced. ‘That fucking butler.'

‘He's a humorist,' I said, bouncing on the bed and opening the Baggie. Craig clambered on top of me, jabbing me with his elbow. I wasn't in the right frame of mind for a big sex procedure, so I made him come with my mouth, then brushed my teeth, resolving to go to the party straight, but for one little Valium, which didn't count, it just took the edge off, made me slightly numb. I didn't want to give that nasty butler the satisfaction of being high. But also, I didn't want Herb to see me high. I didn't admit it to myself, but in the back of my mind, I was already thinking that I wanted him to like me.

Poker-faced Craig was still showering. He was intensely vain, so it always took him ages to get ready for anything. I walked downstairs alone, my steps echoing on the metal staircase. Sam Shapiro was standing beside Herb. They were looking out the immense glass wall, talking, drinks in their hands. Hearing me, they both turned and looked up.

‘The artist's girlfriend,' Herb said. I was wearing an old ballet tutu with a light blue bodice and my black lace-up boots. Bright red lipstick, shiny black nails. ‘Come. Talk to us.'

I sat down on the couch. Sam and Herb sat opposite me. They were looking at me as though I were a specimen from a newly discovered tribe of pygmies.

‘So. Pippa,' said Herb. ‘What do you normally have for breakfast?'

Sam broke into laughter, a painful, honking guffaw.

‘I don't really eat breakfast,' I said.

‘Does she look like she eats breakfast?' said Sam.

‘Now there's your first mistake,' said Herb, wagging his finger at me paternally.

‘Do you go straight into the studio, then?' asked Sam.

‘I don't have a studio.'

‘You must be an artist, dressed like that,' said Sam.

‘No,' I said.

‘What are you then?' asked Herb.

I shrugged. ‘I work in a clothing store.'

‘You must have some ambition,' said Herb.

‘Why?' I asked him. He looked startled, as though he had noticed something odd about my face.

‘Well, I congratulate you,' he said. ‘You are the first person who has ever walked across the threshold of this house who isn't riddled with ambition, frustrated or otherwise. Even the butler is writing a short story. He broke the news to me yesterday.'

Gigi stormed out of the kitchen, flushed and upset. Herb stood and went to her swiftly. They conferred in whispers for a few moments. He put his hand on her shoulder. She wiped tears from her cheeks. Sam looked at me and raised his eyebrows, whispering: ‘Watch out for the wife.'

The other guests trickled in over the next hour or so. Gradually, it became clear that Herb and Gigi had different tastes in people. Herb's friends were the intellectuals, an ironic, serious lot. The women, as they appeared, had no scales on their eyes and hadn't for years; they looked like they had seen it all. The men glowered at one another and huddled together, conversing intensely about matters of importance. Gigi's gang was younger, decadent. There was a theater director who arrived in a one-piece terry-cloth pantsuit; an actress who, it was whispered, had worked with
Warhol; and the maverick playboy scion of a famous record label. Craig and the rest of us had clearly been invited to tip the balance in Gigi's favor.

Once it was dark, tiny torches flickered all along the path to the beach. The house was twinkling with candlelight. I milled around, a ginger ale in my hand, listening to shards of conversation. Magnificent food was displayed on various tables. Now and then, Gigi would reach into a small drawer in the dining room table at which she and a few others were sitting with their plates and pull out a little silver bell. It made a pretty, tinkling sound. Whenever she rang it, the butler or the maid would appear, and Gigi would order another bottle of champagne, or something special that had to be concocted to order. Looking up at the maid, making a face like a hopeful child, she said, ‘Alfonsa, could you please, please ask Maria if she could make me a little tiny chocolate mousse, just for a taste?' Alfonsa smiled, glancing at the elaborate desserts already piled high before her mistress, and walked off. The poor cook.

I glimpsed Herb here and there, conferring with the serious men or listening to Gigi's flamboyant guests with an alienated smile. I had the strange sensation of knowing what he was feeling; I could read his face. I could tell if he was uninterested, or impatient, or delighted. After a while, though, I lost track of him. Sam Shapiro came up to me on the porch as I sat with poker-faced Craig and Terry. The two of them were laughing, hugging, and I was wondering if they wouldn't make a nice couple. I had grown tired of Craig, with his puffy eyes and frozen face, his blond hair that stuck straight up on his head. He was the most gifted of the bunch, but he was a cold person, and in bed there was a wooden reserve in him I found dispiriting.

‘Beautiful night,' said Sam. I turned to him and wondered what it would be like to kiss him. It was clear that he was wondering something along the same lines. But I found myself excusing myself in the middle of our conversation. The truth was, I thought, as
I meandered through that house, looking up into the night sky through the great glass roof, every star visible, the truth was, I didn't want anyone anymore, or anything. I wanted to sleep for seven months. I was burned out. Exhausted. Bored. I suppose I was depressed, but I didn't think about things like that in those days. There was a light on in the little yellow cottage, I noticed. I wondered if it was all right to walk inside, or if that was Gigi and Herb's private domain, the place where they played out their mysterious relationship. The door was slightly ajar. I peeked through the window. The TV was on; a football match was playing. Men in helmets tumbled over one another, landing in a pile. On the couch, his arms spread over the back, was Herb. I opened the door and walked in.

He looked up. When he saw it was me, his face creased into a smile. ‘Just the girl I want to see,' he said. ‘You like football?'

‘I used to – I have four brothers.'

‘Have a seat. Refresh your memory.' We sat watching the game for a few minutes. I snuck a look at his profile. His Roman nose and high forehead, the thick, silver hair rising from his face like a wave, made him look like an emperor. I had never seen a man who exuded such authority. He offered me pistachio nuts and a Coke from a little fridge near the TV.

‘This is the most amazing house I've ever seen,' I said.

‘It's not a house, it's a hellhole,' said Herb. ‘Not one comfortable piece of furniture, except this couch. It's like living in an aquarium.'

‘Why do you live here then?'

‘My wife,' he said, with a gesture encompassing the cottage, the house, the sea beyond. ‘I couldn't afford to live like this. Not that I'm a poor man.' We watched another play. When the commercial came on, he turned to me. ‘So, little Pippa,' he said. ‘Don't you think it's time to change your life?'

‘What do you mean?'

‘Doesn't it get dispiriting to be so aimless? I mean, I see that you're young, but a person of such unusual sweetness –'

‘I'm not sweet.'

‘People can be experienced and sweet. I'm talking about an innate quality. It's a long time since I've seen it in a person.' I was shocked to feel tears well up in my eyes. Herb was sweeping my face with his gaze, as though he were hungry for my emotion. Just then, the door swung open, and Gigi ran to Herb, giggling, and pulled him off the couch. The party was going to the beach. ‘Andiamo!' She led him off by his long arms, and he trotted out of the room awkwardly, like a goat walking on its hind legs.

Everyone skipped or ran or shuffled to the beach. I broke up with Craig with quiet brutality on the way down the path. I explained that I needed a hiatus from romance. Not that our relation ship was romantic. He was slightly morose after that, but Terry did her best to comfort him, and within half an hour he was stripping with the rest of my friends. It looked like a bluefish feed, all those people, some buck naked, some half-clothed, chopping up the water. I remained dressed and thought about sharks. I was feeling somber. Something had stirred in me. About five yards away, I saw Herb, also dressed, watching his wife as she frolicked in a bra and panties, looking like Aphrodite born out of the sea complete with lingerie. I had never seen such a perfectly formed woman. When I looked back at Herb, he was turned in my direction. I couldn't tell for sure, but I thought he was staring at me.

The next morning, we all played tennis. It was Craig and I against Gigi and Jed. Herb stood by and watched, a towel draped around his neck. He had already played singles with Sam Shapiro. Gigi threw herself into the game. Whenever she scored, she jumped into the air, elated. When she missed the ball, she ran to Herb, ducking her head into his chest. At one point, after missing two shots in a row, she let her racket clatter onto the court, turned, and ran off toward the house. Herb didn't miss a beat. He ambled on with his loose-limbed gait, picked up his wife's racket, and served.

*

Back on Orchard Street, Terry was now shacked up with poker-faced Craig, so I got her room, which she had painted puce in a fit of jealousy years before I was adopted into the group. In the old, Jewish days of the Lower East Side, this loft had been devoted to the manufacture of ladies' girdles and crammed, no doubt, with hollow-eyed women and children, sewing their lives away elbow to elbow for a starving wage. But times had changed. The neighborhood was now given over to longtime Hispanic residents, a few artists desperate for cheap rent, and of course the junkies.

When they found the place, Jed and Craig and Calvin put up the Sheetrock walls themselves, creating a space with several bedrooms and studios. The tall, dusty windows let in plenty of light. The place was bright but filthy, with a damp towel perpetually drooped over the glass door of the jerry-rigged shower stall, hair wound around the creviced bar of yellowing soap. The kitchen was in the hall and consisted of a hot plate set on top of a small refrigerator. When you walked barefoot, you got sawdust on your feet. The air smelled of cigarettes, oil paint, and the polyurethane that Jed used to laminate his sculptures: stuffed animals set into elaborate, upholstered frames skillfully painted in the style of Tiepolo. My clothes and hair reeked of this cocktail of odors.

Since the most recent change of romantic alliance, Craig was a little bit reserved with me. I think he was sore about the abrupt breakup on the way to the beach at Gigi and Herb's house. Usually, our transfers were more seamless and unspoken, less like the ending of a regular couple. Perhaps he was insulted by my pedestrian technique, which implied he gave a shit, which of course he didn't. Jed and Calvin were both expecting me to move over in bed for one or the other of them, as I normally would have, but I was too tired. The week after we got back from Herb and Gigi's house, I slept most of the time when I wasn't at work. I think maybe I was trying to avoid my next boyfriend. I slept so deeply over those few days, it felt like I might just float away in some dream and die.

When Herb called me, it was one o'clock in the afternoon, I didn't have to be at work till nine. No one else was in the loft, the answering machine was off, the phone kept ringing and ringing. Finally I staggered out of my room and dropped to the floor as I answered, leaning against the wall, whispering ‘Hulluh' and struggling to light a cigarette I'd found in a crushed pack under the table. My neck was clammy, eyes unfocused. I was almost incoherent with sleep. He asked me out for breakfast. Even half-conscious, I knew that I shouldn't go out with him, so very married as he was, but I hadn't been able to get him out of my mind ever since he'd told me I was sweet. To prove him wrong, perhaps, I saw him.

He treated me like a pal. He was avuncular. He filled me with eggs and coffee, teased me about being a waster. I called him an old fart. We saw each other plenty after that. We would weave around the city, laughing and talking. He found me amusing. I found him reassuring. Once, we walked all the way up Madison Avenue. He led me into a really expensive store and made me try on this black cocktail dress. The cloth was cool and smooth against my skin. It made me look shockingly pretty. I took it off. Then, while I was dreamily sliding silk coats along their rack like the beads of an abacus, he bought me the dress. He bought me shoes, too, very high, pointy heels with straps around the ankles. I knew I shouldn't accept these things, and the truth was I found them slightly ridiculous. They were too on-the-nose sexy for the taste I'd learned back at the loft – not enough irony, not enough edge. Yet wearing them thrilled me. Gigi was away in Italy at the time. Herb asked me if I would come over for dinner.