What Is All This? (26 page)

She didn't say anything.

“It relates to what you said just before, just as what you said related to what my mother said when she told me she wouldn't speak to me again at the table, nor would I be allowed to say anything or leave the table, till I finished my milk. You did get the idea about not speaking to me from that, didn't you?”

Drank her coffee.

The coffee's not as good reheated as when served fresh.”

Didn't speak.

“Of course, that goes without saying, doesn't it?”

Put down her cup.

“Anyone who drinks coffee knows it's better when just made than when just reheated, or really when reheated anytime after it's been made.”

Silence. Looked away from me.

That is, when they're both served at a reasonable temperature. When they're both served very hot or, for me, iced—not that I'd then see the reason for reheating it first—they're both undrinkable, right?”

Looked at me. No expression.

“All of this said, of course, after I already said that it goes without saying that reheated coffee isn't as good as fresh.”

Stood up.

“I was also thinking before about the first time we met. Do you remember where and when that was?”

Got a valise out of the coat closet and went into our bedroom. I followed her.

“Forget the when, then; just where?”

Began packing.

“It was in a movie house. The Embassy. Before the picture began, I sat down next to you, about halfway up the middle aisle, three or four seats in. About ten minutes into the movie, I had to go to the men's room. I asked if you could save my seat for me, and do you remember what you said?”

Silence. More clothes. Went into the bathroom and came back with some of her toiletry to put in the valise.

“You said nothing, Louise. You put your finger over your lips, just as my sister and I used to do right after we'd said the same word or words at the exact same time, and went shhh to me. Do you remember that? Do you remember what I said to you after you did that?”

Closed the valise but couldn't snap it shut. Opened it, pushed the obstructing sweater sleeve further in, and snapped it shut.

“I said ‘How can I ask you to save my seat without asking you to save my seat?' Do you remember what your response was?”

Went into Rae Ann's room. I followed her.

“Face a bit strained with anger, you went shhh to me again, which I've already said isn't saying anything—it's just making a sound. To save my seat, though I didn't think this would work—it was really a last resort—I put my book on it, and when I got back I was relieved to see no one had taken my place. Do you remember when you first said any of what I'd consider real words to me?”

Got a knapsack out of the closet and started packing some of Rae Anne's things.

“Outside the theater. It was a pleasant summer night, do you remember? July 6
^th
, a Tuesday, to be exact. After the movie, I'd got out of our row first, intentionally hung back for a few seconds and then followed you up the aisle. Admiring you, I admit. You probably didn't know I was right behind you. Did you?”

Put her hand on her hip and looked straight at me.

“I stopped you in the lobby, not outside the theater, and said ‘Excuse me. I didn't mean to be annoying before, as I think you thought I was. But every seat seemed to be taken and I had to go to the men's room and didn't know how to ask you to save my seat without actually asking you, which I know I've already told you inside the theater, other than for the men's room part and that I thought every seat was taken.' Do you remember that?”

Resumed packing.

“Then do you remember what you said right after I told you that?”

Went into the bathroom and got Rae Ann's toothbrush and hairbrush and a few hair ties and threw these into the knapsack.

Then did you know my sole reason for stopping you in the lobby was to start some kind of conversation because I was attracted to you?”

Raised her eyebrows as if she'd forgotten something. Shook her head. Tied up the knapsack, put it over her shoulder, went to our bedroom, picked up her valise, snapped her fingers, dropped the valise, got some personal papers out of the top drawer of the dresser and put them into a knapsack pocket, picked up the valise and went to the front door. I followed her.

“All right. You give up. Or maybe you didn't forget. Did you? Do you know what I'm still referring to? You said, after I stopped and spoke to you in the lobby, that you had been too engrossed in the movie to be bothered a single second by me in the theater or to try and save my seat. I said I was sorry. You accepted my apology. We continued to talk in the lobby. Then we went to a cafe nearby for coffee. I was the one who suggested it. Over coffee, I asked you out for dinner the next night. I don't think you wanted to. It wasn't because you had to be with Rae Ann. She was with her father for the summer. I in fact think I even had to work very hard to convince you to come to dinner. But the next night, when I was walking you to your building, we made a date for that Saturday. And then, for the rest of the summer, we saw each other almost every day. And after that summer, we saw each other several times a week, sometimes going on-weekend vacations together, a couple of times with Rae Ann. And the next summer, a month-long camping trip in Canada with that very knapsack. Then we rented this apartment together, and of course, except when either of us had to be out of the city, we saw each other every day. By the way, do you remember what kind of movie it was?”

Pointed to herself.

“Right. That kind. Silent. You can say it. I won't bite you if you do. A revival of the best of the silent films, the movie theater billed the series as. We saw several others in the next month. But that day—that first time we met—no piano accompaniment, as there was supposed to be. Do you remember why?”

Opened the door.

“‘The pianist,' the theater manager told the audience before the movie began—”

Left. I got my keys, locked the door and went downstairs. She was sitting on the building's stoop.

“‘The pianist,' the theater manager said, ‘broke his hand the previous day and they couldn't find a replacement in time and, unfortunately,' he said, ‘there are no silent movie piano pieces for solo right hand.' Then he said ‘That wasn't nice to say, for the pianist is still in great pain.' Now is that a coincidence? The pianist's hands were silent. The silent movie. The theater was silent during the movie except for sporadic coughs and cracking of candy wrappers and things, and of course me. That you originally said shush to me. That you now say we've nothing left to say to each other. That you refuse to say anything to me now. The coincidence factor ends, though, because the traffic is certainly noisy, as is the garbage-receiving contraption at the back of that sanitation truck, and noises from other places. That window being replaced. The plane, now, overhead. Even this mosquito near my ear and now yours,” and I swung at it and missed. “But the other coincidences are something to speak about, aren't they?”

A car with Rae Ann and her father pulled up. I looked at my watch. Right on time: nine, when he brought her back every Monday morning after having her for the weekend. Rae Ann kissed him goodbye and got out of the car with her overnight bag. He waved to Louise, she smiled and waved back, and he drove off. Louise grabbed Rae Ann's hand and they walked down the block, knapsack over her shoulder and valise in her other hand.

I walked after them. “Louise, I was lying before when I said I was thinking about how we first met. I didn't think about it. I was only trying to use that as a guise. I thought that by mentioning it, you'd think wistfully about that night and even get a kick out of it, and agree to staying in the apartment with me.”

Hailed a cab and they got in.

I ran up to their cab window and said “Say something, Louise. Then say goodbye to me, Rae Ann.”

Louise put her hand over Rae Ann's mouth. Rae Ann was looking at me at that moment but I didn't know if she was going to say anything to me. The cab pulled away. I went back to the apartment, and in the kitchen I ate till I was stuffed. Then I sat in front of Louise's electric typewriter and turned it on. The quick brown fox jumps over the lazy The quick brown fox jumps over the The quick brown fox jumps

They're not interested in me anymore. They say they are. They say it to my face and over the phone. They say “We're still interested in you.” They're not. I know.

How do I know? I know by the way they say it. When they say “We're still interested in you,” they don't say it enthusiastically. They say it without enthusiasm. That's one way how I can tell.

Another way is that they don't look straight at me when they say they're still interested in me. They look away. Or half at me, half away. That's another way how I can tell.

How do I know these are signs they're not interested in me anymore? Have I asked them directly? I have. I've said “You look half at me, half away from me when you say you're still interested in me.” I've said “You don't say you're still interested in me with much enthusiasm. You say it unenthusiastically, is what I mean.” They said I was wrong. “Dead wrong,” they said. But I still know they're not interested in me anymore.

How do I still know, or rather, why? Because, although they've said over and over again they're still interested in me, they do nothing for me. Have they once in the last few months sent my projects to people who might be able to accept them or do something with then? They haven't. I can say that knowledgeably. Have they once in the last few months spoken about me enthusiastically to people who might be able to accept my projects or do something with them? They haven't. That I can't say knowledgeably, because when I asked them if they'd spoken about my projects to other people who might be able to accept them or do something with them, they said they had. I asked “Who?” and they said that was a secret. I asked why was it a secret, and they said if they told me why it would no longer be a secret. I said That's an answer for a child,” and they said it was the only answer they were going to give. I said “Why?” and they said “Let's not go any further into it. Let's just not.”

So how do I know they haven't sent my projects around to these other people in the last few months? Because I've asked these other people if they'd received any of my projects in the last few months, and they all said no. I then asked if anyone who's supposedly interested in my projects has spoken enthusiastically to them about me in the last few months, and they said they'd rather not say. Then has anyone, I said, spoken to them in any way about me or my projects in the last few months, and they said, again, they'd rather not say. They said that was their business, not mine. Meaning, I should stay out of their business or what they think isn't mine. I knew what they meant. They didn't have to spell it out for me, and I didn't ask them to. Maybe I should have, but I didn't. I didn't because I didn't think it would get me any place with them. I also felt it might make matters worse for me with the people who are supposedly still interested in me, and with the people they speak to. I also felt lucky to have even gotten to speak to these other people—the people in the right places, I'll call them, who might be able to do something with my projects. The truth is, I didn't speak to them. I spoke to the people who say they're still interested in me, but only wrote to the people in the right places, and they were kind enough to write back and answer me several times over a period of a few weeks.

Where does that leave me? I know that the people who profess to be still interested in me, are not. They're definitely not. Maybe not “definitely,” but I can say I'm almost positive they're not.

Why am I almost positive they're not still interested in me? Because of the reasons I've already given here. Anyway, nothing has come of their professed interest in me for months. In fact, nothing has ever come from their interest in me or anyone else's interest in me and my projects, except for my being initially encouraged by their saying they were interested, which made me produce even more projects for them to send around.

So what am I going to do? I'm about to give up on them. I'll probably make that decision tonight: whether to give up or stick with them. If I stick with them, I'll probably have to accept their lies that they're still interested in me and are sending my projects to people in the right places, or at least speaking enthusiastically, or even just speaking about me to these people, when I'm almost positive they're not. After all, I've tried everyone else who can send my projects to these people, and I've also tried sending my projects to them myself. I couldn't do anything for myself. The people in the right places I sent my projects to said I should get someone to send the projects in for me, that they don't look at them when they come from the producer of the project himself. And all those people who sent my projects to these people tried hard in the beginning, but their interest soon waned. Now that, I also know to be a fact. Because in the beginning they all sent me proof they had sent my projects around to the right places, and then these proofs stopped coming to me. And each time, after I'd stopped getting these proofs for months, I also asked if they were still interested in me and were still sending my projects around, and they all said they were. But this is the first time I also asked these people in the right places if they'd received any of my projects the last few months, and the answer to that I already gave.

What now then? Maybe I should ask the people who say they're still interested in me why they haven't sent me any proof the last few months that my projects are still being sent around. I could do that. I've asked them just about everything else, and it is a question I don't see how they could get out of answering. Because what could they say? If they say “Yes, we have proof we're still sending your projects around, but forgot to send them to you,” I could say “So send them to me now.” If they then say they don't have them anymore, I could say “Why not? What happened to them?” If they then say they lost them or they were accidentally destroyed, I could say “Tell me another, because that excuse is the oldest in the books. Besides,” I could say, “I spoke to all the people you supposedly sent my projects to, and they all said they haven't seen any of my projects in months.” If they say That's not true, or you misinterpreted what they told you,” I could say There are two ways for you to prove it's not true or I misinterpreted what they told me, and either will do. One, by having these people tell me by phone or letter that they got my projects, or, two, for you to come up with those written proofs and send them to me.”

Asking them that question about the proofs is another decision I should make tonight. I don't know if I will. What I mean is, I don't know if I can make the decision by tonight, or even make the other decision about whether to give up or stick with the people who say they're still interested in me. Because that second decision really depends on the answer to my question about the proofs in the first decision, and there still might be something about this situation that I haven't as yet figured out.