in that, don’t you think? Even the Madonna had a cleavage.
Up close, he smelled of tobacco and something else, some musky cologne. In the close room, the high windows fogged with condensation, she had begun to sweat under her wool sweater. He was gazing at her as one gazes at a canvas, she thought, perhaps trying to solve her riddles. Like most Williams boys, he was wearing an oxford shirt and khaki trousers, but there were stylistic anomalies—rawhide bracelets around his wrist, the black canvas slippers (from Chinatown, he later told her), the rain-splattered beret on his lap.
Didn’t he kill someone? Over something stupid, right?
A game of tennis. Apparently a very bad loser. Do you play?
Tennis?
We could play some time.
I’m not very good—
Then you won’t have to worry.
About what?
That I’ll kill you if I lose. He grinned sharply. That was a joke.
I know. She tried to smile. Ha, ha.
I have some friends—we could play doubles. I’d much rather be your partner than your opponent.
I’d be a lot safer that way.
True. But playing it safe can be rather dull, don’t you think?
The overhead lights began to dim and George lowered his voice to a whisper: He got away with it, actually. I guess it’s not all that surprising when you consider what a genius he was.
Genius or not, nobody should get away with murder.
You’d be amazed what people get away with.
What do you mean?
We all do it. It’s like a little bonus, a cheesy door prize for all your good behavior. The book you borrow and never return, the tip you never gave. A friend’s shirt you forgot to give back. Getting away with something—it’s a rush. Come on, you can tell me. I know you’ve done it. Admit it.
I can’t think of anything.
Well, you’re more innocent than I thought. I can see you are a Very Good Girl—he enunciated each word as if it were capitalized. I recommend a swift and thorough corrupting.
A little embarrassed, she asked, What about you?
Me? Oh, I’m as corrupted as they come.
I don’t believe you. You don’t look it.
I’ve learned to blend in. It’s a survival skill. I’m like one of those pickpockets in Venice. Before you know it, you’ve got nothing left—no money, no papers, no identity.
Sounds dangerous. I’m not sure I should be talking to you.
Just wanted you to know what you’re getting into, he said.
Are you planning to pick my pocket?
I might try to get away with something.
Such as?
The audience erupted with applause as the speaker, a gaunt, white-haired gentleman in a herringbone suit, walked onto the stage.
George put his mouth up against her ear. Such as this, he said, sliding his hand under her skirt as the master’s Triumphant Eros filled the screen.
—
FOR REASONS she didn’t entirely understand—for they were opposites, it seemed, with very different priorities—they became inseparable. She was a virgin, he exalted in his reputation as a ladies’ man. If she knew his true nature, then she ignored it, misinterpreted his self-absorption as intellect, his vanity as good breeding. He would ride her around on his handlebars, taking her to the coffeehouse on Spring Street or the Purple Pub or sometimes the VFW where the whiskey was only sixty cents a glass and they’d drink too much of it and talk about dead painters. George knew more about painters than anyone she’d ever met. He said he’d wanted to be an artist but his parents had talked him out of it. My father’s the furniture king of Connecticut, he told her. They’re hardly sentimental about the arts.
They’d wander around the Clark, kissing in the elegant, unmonitored rooms, the walls painted austere Berkshires colors: pewter, leek-white, goldenrod. Side by side they’d gaze dreamily at Corot or Boudin or Monet or Pissarro, her head on his shoulder, taking in his reedy tobacco scent. They’d visit the speedway in West Lebanon, sitting high in the stands in the blinding sun, counting the screaming revolutions
Up close, he smelled of tobacco and something else, some musky cologne. In the close room, the high windows fogged with condensation, she had begun to sweat under her wool sweater. He was gazing at her as one gazes at a canvas, she thought, perhaps trying to solve her riddles. Like most Williams boys, he was wearing an oxford shirt and khaki trousers, but there were stylistic anomalies—rawhide bracelets around his wrist, the black canvas slippers (from Chinatown, he later told her), the rain-splattered beret on his lap.
Didn’t he kill someone? Over something stupid, right?
A game of tennis. Apparently a very bad loser. Do you play?
Tennis?
We could play some time.
I’m not very good—
Then you won’t have to worry.
About what?
That I’ll kill you if I lose. He grinned sharply. That was a joke.
I know. She tried to smile. Ha, ha.
I have some friends—we could play doubles. I’d much rather be your partner than your opponent.
I’d be a lot safer that way.
True. But playing it safe can be rather dull, don’t you think?
The overhead lights began to dim and George lowered his voice to a whisper: He got away with it, actually. I guess it’s not all that surprising when you consider what a genius he was.
Genius or not, nobody should get away with murder.
You’d be amazed what people get away with.
What do you mean?
We all do it. It’s like a little bonus, a cheesy door prize for all your good behavior. The book you borrow and never return, the tip you never gave. A friend’s shirt you forgot to give back. Getting away with something—it’s a rush. Come on, you can tell me. I know you’ve done it. Admit it.
I can’t think of anything.
Well, you’re more innocent than I thought. I can see you are a Very Good Girl—he enunciated each word as if it were capitalized. I recommend a swift and thorough corrupting.
A little embarrassed, she asked, What about you?
Me? Oh, I’m as corrupted as they come.
I don’t believe you. You don’t look it.
I’ve learned to blend in. It’s a survival skill. I’m like one of those pickpockets in Venice. Before you know it, you’ve got nothing left—no money, no papers, no identity.
Sounds dangerous. I’m not sure I should be talking to you.
Just wanted you to know what you’re getting into, he said.
Are you planning to pick my pocket?
I might try to get away with something.
Such as?
The audience erupted with applause as the speaker, a gaunt, white-haired gentleman in a herringbone suit, walked onto the stage.
George put his mouth up against her ear. Such as this, he said, sliding his hand under her skirt as the master’s Triumphant Eros filled the screen.
—
FOR REASONS she didn’t entirely understand—for they were opposites, it seemed, with very different priorities—they became inseparable. She was a virgin, he exalted in his reputation as a ladies’ man. If she knew his true nature, then she ignored it, misinterpreted his self-absorption as intellect, his vanity as good breeding. He would ride her around on his handlebars, taking her to the coffeehouse on Spring Street or the Purple Pub or sometimes the VFW where the whiskey was only sixty cents a glass and they’d drink too much of it and talk about dead painters. George knew more about painters than anyone she’d ever met. He said he’d wanted to be an artist but his parents had talked him out of it. My father’s the furniture king of Connecticut, he told her. They’re hardly sentimental about the arts.
They’d wander around the Clark, kissing in the elegant, unmonitored rooms, the walls painted austere Berkshires colors: pewter, leek-white, goldenrod. Side by side they’d gaze dreamily at Corot or Boudin or Monet or Pissarro, her head on his shoulder, taking in his reedy tobacco scent. They’d visit the speedway in West Lebanon, sitting high in the stands in the blinding sun, counting the screaming revolutions
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