with every adoring young woman that comes your way?"
"It's interesting," the young man said, "how automatically you assume Joseph's role."
"Of course I do. I'm the older one." She touched his hand. "But the problem in their case isn't
only
age. Richard's champing at the bit. He wants to be free."
"Whereas I want to be enslaved." He leaned closer.
Smiling, she sipped from her water glass. "What are you telling me, that you'd like me to tie your wrists to the bedposts?"
"I wouldn't mind."
"Well, isn't this interesting." She squeezed his hand. "You really are a filthy little boy."
The waiter brought their menus. As he studied his, the young man tried subtly to rearrange his erection, which was pressing painfully against his thigh. "Ooh, black fettuccine with lobster and fresh peas," Tushi said. "Doesn't that sound good?"
"Wonderful," the young man answered. "Everything with you sounds wonderful."
Under the table, he guided her hand to his erection. She hardly blushed. "Or maybe the spaghetti alia chitarra. Yes, tonight spaghetti alia chitarra might be just the thing."
"You are a terrible woman," he said, and no longer thought of the man they had left behind: the griefs of strangers are easy to ignore. But Tushi did. Even as she pushed and prodded, she thought of Joseph, lying in his bedroom while darkness bled through the window. "Memory banks," he'd said. "What a mysterious phrase that is, as if memory were a river." And so it was on a riverside that she saw him now, his pants rolled up to the ankles, trailing his long legs as he reached down to sift through the silt and sand and mud that was his own history. And what might he dredge up before daybreak? Something that would help him? She hoped so. But she couldn't guess.
10
P AUL WAS SITTING NAKED in the armchair in Kennington's hotel room, shower water dripping from his neck into the cleft of his chest. He was staring at Kennington, who was on the bed, reading the
Herald Tribune.
It unnerved Kennington, the way Paul stared. Periodically he would glance over the serrated edges of his paper, and there they would be: those eyes, always open too wide, like the eyes of a child kept up past its bedtime; and indeed, like a child kept up past its bedtime, something in Paul seemed to be resisting tonight not only the need to rest, but to grow.
Finally Kennington put down the paper. "Paul," he said.
"Yes?"
"Why are you staring at me?"
"Staring at you?"
"That's right."
Quiet. "I guess I'm trying to memorize your face," Paul said. "In case I never see you again."
"And what makes you think you'll never see me again?"
"Well, the day after tomorrow we leave for Florence."
"True."
"And you head back to New York."
"Also true."
"Unlessâ"
"Unless what?"
"Well, unless you've given any thought to the possibility of coming with us. You mentioned the other day you might."
"Did I?" Kennington returned to his paper. "I must have been in a delirium. Roman fever or something."
"Oh."
"Not that I wouldn't like to. It's just not realistic. After all, I haven't been home in more than a month. The mail in my apartment must be piled up to the ceiling."
"How important is mail?"
"Important enough. Then there's Joseph. His dog's been sick."
"Well, he's only your managerâ"
"Plus I have to practice. Remember what Von Bülow said ? If you don't practice for one day, you know it. If you don't practice for two days, the critics know it. If you don't practice for three days, the public knows it. As it stands I haven't touched a piano for a week."
There was little Paul could say in response to this observation beyond a slightly peeved "of course." Kennington turned the page.
After a moment Paul stood up and started getting dressed.
"Are you leaving?" Kennington asked from behind his paper.
"We're supposed to meet my mother in half an hour for dinner, unless you've decided that's not realistic, either."
"Okay, okay." Climbing out of bed, Kennington started dressing too.
"It's interesting," the young man said, "how automatically you assume Joseph's role."
"Of course I do. I'm the older one." She touched his hand. "But the problem in their case isn't
only
age. Richard's champing at the bit. He wants to be free."
"Whereas I want to be enslaved." He leaned closer.
Smiling, she sipped from her water glass. "What are you telling me, that you'd like me to tie your wrists to the bedposts?"
"I wouldn't mind."
"Well, isn't this interesting." She squeezed his hand. "You really are a filthy little boy."
The waiter brought their menus. As he studied his, the young man tried subtly to rearrange his erection, which was pressing painfully against his thigh. "Ooh, black fettuccine with lobster and fresh peas," Tushi said. "Doesn't that sound good?"
"Wonderful," the young man answered. "Everything with you sounds wonderful."
Under the table, he guided her hand to his erection. She hardly blushed. "Or maybe the spaghetti alia chitarra. Yes, tonight spaghetti alia chitarra might be just the thing."
"You are a terrible woman," he said, and no longer thought of the man they had left behind: the griefs of strangers are easy to ignore. But Tushi did. Even as she pushed and prodded, she thought of Joseph, lying in his bedroom while darkness bled through the window. "Memory banks," he'd said. "What a mysterious phrase that is, as if memory were a river." And so it was on a riverside that she saw him now, his pants rolled up to the ankles, trailing his long legs as he reached down to sift through the silt and sand and mud that was his own history. And what might he dredge up before daybreak? Something that would help him? She hoped so. But she couldn't guess.
10
P AUL WAS SITTING NAKED in the armchair in Kennington's hotel room, shower water dripping from his neck into the cleft of his chest. He was staring at Kennington, who was on the bed, reading the
Herald Tribune.
It unnerved Kennington, the way Paul stared. Periodically he would glance over the serrated edges of his paper, and there they would be: those eyes, always open too wide, like the eyes of a child kept up past its bedtime; and indeed, like a child kept up past its bedtime, something in Paul seemed to be resisting tonight not only the need to rest, but to grow.
Finally Kennington put down the paper. "Paul," he said.
"Yes?"
"Why are you staring at me?"
"Staring at you?"
"That's right."
Quiet. "I guess I'm trying to memorize your face," Paul said. "In case I never see you again."
"And what makes you think you'll never see me again?"
"Well, the day after tomorrow we leave for Florence."
"True."
"And you head back to New York."
"Also true."
"Unlessâ"
"Unless what?"
"Well, unless you've given any thought to the possibility of coming with us. You mentioned the other day you might."
"Did I?" Kennington returned to his paper. "I must have been in a delirium. Roman fever or something."
"Oh."
"Not that I wouldn't like to. It's just not realistic. After all, I haven't been home in more than a month. The mail in my apartment must be piled up to the ceiling."
"How important is mail?"
"Important enough. Then there's Joseph. His dog's been sick."
"Well, he's only your managerâ"
"Plus I have to practice. Remember what Von Bülow said ? If you don't practice for one day, you know it. If you don't practice for two days, the critics know it. If you don't practice for three days, the public knows it. As it stands I haven't touched a piano for a week."
There was little Paul could say in response to this observation beyond a slightly peeved "of course." Kennington turned the page.
After a moment Paul stood up and started getting dressed.
"Are you leaving?" Kennington asked from behind his paper.
"We're supposed to meet my mother in half an hour for dinner, unless you've decided that's not realistic, either."
"Okay, okay." Climbing out of bed, Kennington started dressing too.
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