see it," looking directly into his eyes with just enough intensity to indicate that modern art was only one of her passionate interests.
"That might be nice," he said, trying to clear his throat of a sudden dry constriction. "And what does he do?" he added, to cover his confusion, knowing this was an underbred question but curious about the class of people who owned Giacomettis.
"Oh, he invests the money for my family."
"Good work if you can get it."
"Are you interested in finance?"
"I dabble. I'm afraid I'm vastly undercapitalized."
"Talk to my father. He has too much money."
"It's very sad."
"Yes. I think I'd like you to feel very sorry for me."
Just as Corrine was about to give up on him and cancel for dinner he arrived home buoyant and apologetic. He hugged her, running his tongue along the edge of her ear.
"I'll admit that Cezanne's a little chilly," he said, "if you'll grant that Chagall is a wimp."
"Have I done something recently," she asked. "Have you just lost interest in me?"
"I'm an ungrateful bastard," he said. "But as of this moment I promise to improve my character. Close your eyes—I've got a present for you. Okay, put out your hand."
Her fingers closed around a postcard, a photo of Matisse's Dance inscribed on the other side: "I'm sorry. I love you. P.S. This postcard entitles the bearer to romantic dinner tonight at expensive restaurant of choice. Mystery Dance to follow—informal attire." She smiled at the private joke, a reference to a favorite Elvis Costello song.
"You're sweet—in fact, I don't know if I quite recognize this romantic boy who just swept into my apartment. But we've got Colin and Anne tonight, remember?"
"Shit."
"I'm holding on to this, though," she said, slipping the postcard down the front of her shirt and winking.
They returned home after midnight. Corrine was exhausted, but Russell was in the mood so she took advantage. He was very passionate, and attentive, too—sometimes he seemed to forget she was there during sex, as if she were a car he was driving to a private destination.
She fell asleep almost immediately, contented.
Russell lay awake for several minutes thinking idly about a boat chugging up a jungle river, but his conscience was almost clear, in fact it was more than clear. This morning his fidelity had been untested of late, while tonight he was a man who had turned down an invitation to see another woman's etchings—or rather, her father's Giacometti. The narrowness of his escape, the degree to which he had been aroused by the idea had rebounded to Corrine's advantage, the nearness of his infidelity having erotically charged his cells; he'd watched Corrine all through dinner, couldn't wait to get her home, and the happiness he found in this vision of himself as an upright husband had increased his appreciation of the wife for whom he performed this heroic feat of abnegation.
He was barely troubled by the thought that Simone had given him her phone number, since he knew he would never use it.
7
Was it invariably true—a natural law, like the conservation of matter—that there was no free lunch?
Cabbing from the West Village to the Sherry-Netherland in order to partake of the midday meal with his editor, Victor Propp mulled the question from many angles, the chalky cliff of his forehead corrugated in cerebration. Literally speaking, writers never paid for lunch. Agents, editors and journalists did. That was the way of the world, a social convention which approached the status of a universal truth. It was necessary, in Victor's view, that as an artist one remained a child in some sense, spoiled and dependent; a porous, needy, oral creature—a sucking mouth; a monstrous ego for whom all objective reality is composed of mirrors and nipples.
No free lunch. Who said it first? he wondered. It had the pithy quality of a Ben Franklinism. But wasn't that really what it meant to be an American, to believe above all in the free lunch? Dialectically opposed
"That might be nice," he said, trying to clear his throat of a sudden dry constriction. "And what does he do?" he added, to cover his confusion, knowing this was an underbred question but curious about the class of people who owned Giacomettis.
"Oh, he invests the money for my family."
"Good work if you can get it."
"Are you interested in finance?"
"I dabble. I'm afraid I'm vastly undercapitalized."
"Talk to my father. He has too much money."
"It's very sad."
"Yes. I think I'd like you to feel very sorry for me."
Just as Corrine was about to give up on him and cancel for dinner he arrived home buoyant and apologetic. He hugged her, running his tongue along the edge of her ear.
"I'll admit that Cezanne's a little chilly," he said, "if you'll grant that Chagall is a wimp."
"Have I done something recently," she asked. "Have you just lost interest in me?"
"I'm an ungrateful bastard," he said. "But as of this moment I promise to improve my character. Close your eyes—I've got a present for you. Okay, put out your hand."
Her fingers closed around a postcard, a photo of Matisse's Dance inscribed on the other side: "I'm sorry. I love you. P.S. This postcard entitles the bearer to romantic dinner tonight at expensive restaurant of choice. Mystery Dance to follow—informal attire." She smiled at the private joke, a reference to a favorite Elvis Costello song.
"You're sweet—in fact, I don't know if I quite recognize this romantic boy who just swept into my apartment. But we've got Colin and Anne tonight, remember?"
"Shit."
"I'm holding on to this, though," she said, slipping the postcard down the front of her shirt and winking.
They returned home after midnight. Corrine was exhausted, but Russell was in the mood so she took advantage. He was very passionate, and attentive, too—sometimes he seemed to forget she was there during sex, as if she were a car he was driving to a private destination.
She fell asleep almost immediately, contented.
Russell lay awake for several minutes thinking idly about a boat chugging up a jungle river, but his conscience was almost clear, in fact it was more than clear. This morning his fidelity had been untested of late, while tonight he was a man who had turned down an invitation to see another woman's etchings—or rather, her father's Giacometti. The narrowness of his escape, the degree to which he had been aroused by the idea had rebounded to Corrine's advantage, the nearness of his infidelity having erotically charged his cells; he'd watched Corrine all through dinner, couldn't wait to get her home, and the happiness he found in this vision of himself as an upright husband had increased his appreciation of the wife for whom he performed this heroic feat of abnegation.
He was barely troubled by the thought that Simone had given him her phone number, since he knew he would never use it.
7
Was it invariably true—a natural law, like the conservation of matter—that there was no free lunch?
Cabbing from the West Village to the Sherry-Netherland in order to partake of the midday meal with his editor, Victor Propp mulled the question from many angles, the chalky cliff of his forehead corrugated in cerebration. Literally speaking, writers never paid for lunch. Agents, editors and journalists did. That was the way of the world, a social convention which approached the status of a universal truth. It was necessary, in Victor's view, that as an artist one remained a child in some sense, spoiled and dependent; a porous, needy, oral creature—a sucking mouth; a monstrous ego for whom all objective reality is composed of mirrors and nipples.
No free lunch. Who said it first? he wondered. It had the pithy quality of a Ben Franklinism. But wasn't that really what it meant to be an American, to believe above all in the free lunch? Dialectically opposed
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