“I always thought Elizabeth would have been happier with the De Bourgh girl. What’s her name?”
“Anne. It’s weird Jane Austen never had a girlfriend. I mean she had all those babies, like you had to do. But she never got
“And she understood the human heart so well.”
“I want to know something Jane Austen couldn’t tell me,” said Cleve. “I want to know what he’s like in the sack.”
“Who? Drink your coffee.”
Cleve drank his coffee. Santos and Java: cappuccino.
Cleve and Cressida had met up here at the Idle Hour—oh, a whole bunch of times. He would say quite frankly, if asked, that he enjoyed her company. Perhaps, too, he felt it was by no means unsophisticated to number among his acquaintances an intelligent straight friend. “Mr. Darcy,” he said. “I have to know what Mr. Darcy’s like in the sack.”
“Mr. Darcy. So do I. Masterful.”
“Majestic. But gracious also.”
“Tender.”
“But kind of strenuous. ‘Fitzwilliam’ Darcy. That’s
“Presumably he…?”
“Oh, for sure.” Cleve hesitated, and shrugged, and said, “I think we can safely assume that it’s Mr. Bingley who takes it in the ass.”
“Absolutely. That’s a lead-pipe cinch.”
He considered her. Most of the women Cleve knew tended toward the extremes of high burnish or unanxious self-neglect. Little smocked refrigerators under pudding-bowl haircuts, like Deb and Mandy in the adjacent apartment on Twenty-second Street. Or plumed icons of war paint and body sculpture, like his colleagues Trudy (in Marketing) or Danielle (in Graphics). What did the gloss and finish of Trudy and Danielle have to say? That they were interested, active,
Now she said, “Do you read much straight fiction? Everyone tries Proust, I guess. And E. M. Forster. And Wilde.”
“I didn’t even know Forster was straight until I read
“Yes, he kind of broke cover with that one. By common consent his least good book. That’s often the way with straight fiction. It’s as if they needed the secrecy. Without it the inner tension goes. They get overrelaxed.”
Cleve said shyly, “I read
“John hated that book. I thought it was pretty accurate. About the whole…”
“Orientation,” said Cleve, with delicacy.
“It’s not an orientation.”
“Sorry. Preference.”
“It’s definitely not a preference. Take my word for it.”
“What would you say it is?”
“It’s a destiny. Am I dying, or is it incredibly hot in here?”
“It’s incredibly hot in here,” said Cleve—to reassure her. But then, suddenly, it
“You’re pregnant.”
“So I am. Not
He was already thinking that Cressida looked a lot less pregnant than Mandy, the little butter-mountain in the next apartment, under her cuboid togas and tepees. Cressida’s belly, so mildly and yet so insidiously distended. One of Cleve’s therapists had told him that hypochondria was a form of solipsism. But now he looked across the table at Cressida, who was someone else, and felt the red alert of clinical fear.
“I’m sorry,” he said.
“Don’t be,” she said, and briskly added: “You know, maybe you read more straight fiction than you think. I’m convinced Lawrence was straight.”
“You mean T. E. Lawrence? Sure. T. E. was straight.”
“Not T. E., D. H.”
“D. H.!”
“D. H. When I read him I keep thinking, God, what a
“Hemingway? Come on.”
She was smiling. “An obvious het. He’s like Burton Else.”
“Come on.”
“An obvious het. A howling het.”
“Hemingway,” said Cleve.
They said goodbye on Greenwich Avenue. He stood on the curb, his hardback of
Harv was there when Cleve got home. How about this: Harv’s birthday was seven months away, and he was talking about it
Over their cups of hot chocolate they had a vehement, repetitive, and hideously
Spring came. Fashions changed. Cleve hung up his leathers and switched to painter’s pants and Pendletons. He started on the other three Jane Austens: