“Larry! It’s so good to see you; it’s been years!”
“You look beautiful, Lisa.”
With his first glance of appreciation he claimed her, because of the street they had lived on, because he knew the whiteness of her, because her skipping body was bound to his by red string. She lowered her eyes.
“Thank you, Larry. And you’ve managed to become famous.”
“Hardly famous, but it’s a good word.”
“We saw you interviewed on TV last week.”
“In this country writers are interviewed on TV for one reason only: to give the rest of the nation a good laugh.”
“Everybody says you’re very clever.”
“Everybody is a vicious gossip.”
He brought her a drink and they talked. She told him about her children, two boys, and they exchanged information about their families. Her husband was on a business trip. He and her father were opening automatic bowling alleys right across the country. Knowing she was alone launched Breavman’s fantasies. Of course she was alone, of course he had met her that specific night, she would be delivered to him.
“Lisa, now that you have children, do you ever think about your own childhood?”
“I always used to promise myself that when I grew up I’d remember exactly how it was, and treat my children from that viewpoint.”
“And do you?”
“It’s very hard. You’d be surprised how much you forget and how little time there is to remember. Usually you act right on the spot and hope your decision is the best one.”
“Do you remember Bertha?” was the first of the questions he meant to ask.
“Yes, but didn’t she —”
“Do you remember me?”
“Of course.”
“What was I like?”
“I suppose you’d be annoyed if I said you were like any other ten-year-old boy. I don’t know, Larry. You were a nice boy.”
“Do you remember the Soldier and the Whore?”
“What?”
“Do you remember my green pants?
“You’re getting silly.…”
“I wish you remembered everything.”
“Why? If we remembered everything we’d never be able to do anything.”
“If you remembered what I remember you’d be in bed with me right now,” he said blindly.
Lisa was kind, wise, or interested enough not to make a joke of what he said.
“No, I wouldn’t. Even if I wanted to, I wouldn’t. I’m too selfish or scared or prudish, or whatever it is, to risk what I’ve got. I want to keep everything I have.”
“So do I. I don’t want to forget anyone I was ever connected with.”
“You don’t have to. Especially me. I’m glad I met you tonight. You have to come over and meet Carl and the children. Carl reads a lot, I’m sure you’d enjoy talking to him.”
“The last thing I intend to do is talk books with anybody, even Carl. I want to sleep with you. It’s very simple.”
He had intended by his recklessness to reach her quickly and disarm her, but he succeeded only in making the conversation fashionable.
“It’s not simple for me. I’m not trying to be funny. Why do you want to sleep with me?”
“Because we once held hands.”
“And that’s a reason?”
“Humans are lucky to be connected in any way at all, even by the table between them.”
“But you can’t be connected to everyone. It wouldn’t mean anything then.”
“It would to me.”
“But is going to bed the only way a man and woman can be connected?”
Breavman replied in terms of the flirtation, not out of his real experience.
“What else is there? Conversation? I’m in the business and I have no faith in words whatever. Friendship? A friendship between a man and a woman which is not based on sex is either hypocrisy or masochism. When I see a woman’s face transformed by the orgasm we have reached together, then I know we’ve met. Anything else is fiction. That’s the vocabulary we speak in today. It’s the only language left.”
“Then it’s a language which nobody understands. It’s just become a babble.”
“Better than silence. Lisa, let’s get out of here. Any moment now someone’s going to ask why I didn’t bring my guitar, and I’m liable to smash him in the mouth. Let’s talk over coffee, somewhere.”
She shook her head gently. “No.”
It was the best no he ever heard because it had in it dignity, appreciation, and firm denial. It claimed him and ended the game. He was content now to talk, watch her, and wonder just as he had when the young men in white scarves had taken her away in their long cars.
“I’ve never heard that word spoken better.”
“I thought it was what you wanted to hear.”
“How did you get so damn wise?”
“Look out, Larry.”
“Look what we found.” The hostess beamed. Several guests had followed her over.
“I’ve never heard you play,” Lisa said. “I’d like to.”
He took the unfamiliar guitar and tuned it. The record-player was turned off and everyone drew chairs around or sat on the thick carpet.
It was a good Spanish instrument, very light wood, resonant bass strings. He hadn’t held a guitar for months but as soon as he struck the first chord (A minor) he was happy he’d agreed to play.
The first chord is always crucial for him. Sometimes it sounds tinny, bland, and the best thing he can do is put the instrument away, because the tone never improves and all his inventions jingle like commercials. This happens when he approaches the instrument without the proper respect or affection. It rebukes him like a complying frigid woman.
But there are those good times when the tone is deep and lingering, and he cannot believe it is himself who is strumming the strings. He watches the intricate blur of his right hand and the ballet-fingers of his left hand stepping between the frets, and he wonders what connection there is between all that movement and the music in
