Leonard Michaels - The Collected Stories

As for the sense of adventure, the weather and all that, it was a fantasy, a kind of lie. Nachman had been trying to give value to his trip. He could kid himself only so long before self-contempt made him see things as they were. Only a fool would accept an invitation to meet somebody who had no name. Nachman was a fool. That was now an established fact. Good. He felt much better.

A few hours later, Nachman entered a building in Chelsea. The doorman, who had been given Nachman’s name, said, “Go right up. Apartment 14-B.” The elevator was brightened by three half-mirrored walls. Nachman could see himself from head to waist in triplicate. Three half-Nachmans made him feel less, rather than more, visible. The reflections seemed mental rather than physical, mere versions of himself. He felt suddenly claustrophobic, as if the elevator were overcrowded.

Below the mirrors, there was a walnut-stained surface embossed with carved flowers. A brass strip marked the place where the wood met the gray industrial-carpeted floor. The elevator door was two panels of brown enameled steel. They slid separately, one behind the other. Nachman studied the light fixture directly above his head. A fat bulb glowed through a bowl of cloudy glass that was subtly textured with incisions radiating from the center. The elevator spoke for the building, thought Nachman — a confusion of materials suggesting luxurious waste. It carried him slowly to the fourteenth floor, then stopped with a jerk. Nachman had the familiar sensation of a lightness in his belly and lead in his feet.

Nothing about Helen Ferris had come to him. Nachman supposed he must have known her when he was a graduate student at U.C.L.A. He’d had quite a few acquaintances then, men and women with whom he’d since lost touch. There had been parties where he’d fallen into intense and transitory intimacy with people to whom he’d only nodded as they passed on campus later, avoiding eye contact. Wait a minute. Hadn’t he once left a party with a dark girl who had been too drunk to drive? Hadn’t he driven her in her white Jaguar to her parents’ house in Beverly Hills? Hadn’t they … what? The elevator doors opened. No, her name was Dolores. She looked nothing like Helen Ferris. The elevator doors slid shut behind him, and the elevator descended, taking Dolores to oblivion.

There were four apartment doors, two on either side of the hall, which was carpeted in the same way as the elevator and was stunningly silent. Dim lights, set in elaborate brass sconces, trailed along the walls. Nachman found the door marked 14-B. He looked at a brass-rimmed eyehole as he pressed the black nipple-like bell. He heard a muffled gong inside the apartment. He waited. Nobody answered. He pressed the bell again and waited. Nobody answered. The key worked. The door opened into a large room.

“Hello,” said Nachman, careful not to shriek. “Anybody home?” No one responded. He stepped inside, shut the door, and realized that he wasn’t alone. An odor of perfumed soap lay on the air, which was faintly moist and warm. He heard water running and glanced at what he guessed was a bathroom door. It was partly open. Someone was taking a shower and had heard nothing because of the noise of the running water. Nachman was reluctant to shout. People taking a shower feel defenseless and are easily frightened.

Nachman stood in the large room. It was maybe forty by twenty feet, with a gleaming maple floor. No rugs. A bar counter separated a kitchen area from the rest of the room. Furniture was clustered in the middle, floating in space. A glass-topped coffee table was set lengthwise between two red sofas, with black chairs at either end. Nachman noticed an imposing desk against a wall, and a library table carrying stacks of papers. The room had tall windows that looked across the avenue toward the windows of other buildings. Near the farthest wall there was a dresser and a bed with night tables and reading lamps. To the right of the bed a spiral stair led to an opening in the ceiling, apparently the second floor of the apartment. A suitcase was on the bed. It sat in the middle of a bulky white comforter that had been flung back, revealing silky cobalt blue sheets. At the foot of the bed was a large television on a wheeled aluminum stand that held magazines on a shelf above the wheels. In the ceiling there were two rows of track lights.

Who was in the shower? Helen or Benjamin Ferris? In answer to his question, Nachman heard voices. They were amplified in the largely hollow space of the room, as in the barrel of a drum. The man’s voice was emotionally neutral. The woman’s voice was strained, higher pitched. It was Helen Ferris. “I’m not finished. Why don’t you get out and let me finish.”

They are showering together, Nachman realized.

“I don’t want to have to talk to him alone.”

“Oh, for Christ’s sake. You can talk to him until I come out. Fix him a drink. Turn on the TV and watch the ball game. Men like sports. You won’t even have to talk to him. Be nice for once in your fucking life.”

“Hey hey, hey. I’m supposed to be nice? Like I invited the schmuck to the apartment? I’ll pick up the check at dinner, baby, but that’s where it ends. This is your affair.”

“Don’t start with the affair business. He’s not my type.”

“You have types?”

“I’m nice to your friends, Benjamin, even when they bore me to death.”

“Friend? You said he didn’t even recognize you.”

“So what? He’s drifty. Not your average New York cocksmith, like some persons I could name. I’ll remind him who I am at dinner.”

“I’ll be sitting there, for Christ’s sake. He’ll die.”

“He won’t know I told you anything. Besides, he probably doesn’t remember that, either. He’s practically certifiable. I think his fly was unzipped.”

“Don’t make me jealous.”

Helen Ferris laughed.

Benjamin Ferris went on: “What’s the guy’s name? Nachman?”

“What’s wrong with Nachman?”

“I didn’t say there was anything wrong with it.”

“It’s your tone. You think Ferris is so beautiful? People are always saying, ‘Like the Ferris wheel?’ It bores me.”

Nachman walked past the bathroom, crossing the thirty feet or so to the television set. He put the key on top of the TV. He’d heard enough. He was leaving. As he drew his hand away, the key fell to the floor. It had stuck to his fingertips, which were slightly damp. So were his palms. He was perspiring. The key made a sharp clink when it hit the floor. Nachman bent quickly to retrieve it, as if to undo the noise. If they had heard the key, they knew he was in the apartment. He couldn’t leave. He would have to confront them. No. He would shout hello, pretend he’d just arrived. They would pretend that they didn’t know he’d heard them talking about him. Every word the three of them said would be a lie. He put the key back on the television, and it remained there as he drew his hand away.

He’d never before overheard people talking about him. It was unnerving. He’d been radically objectified, like an insensate rock, while his soul floated in the air. A general hurt spread within his chest and began to seep like a poison throughout his body. He couldn’t think clearly. It was hard to breathe. Again Nachman felt an impulse to leave, but he couldn’t simply walk back to the door. If they heard the door shut behind him, they’d feel terrible, knowing Nachman had heard them. Why should he care? Nachman cared.

The open suitcase on the bed was large and old-fashioned, made of yellow leather like a beautiful Gladstone, with straps and metal corners. Looking at the suitcase, Nachman felt as if he were doing something, not merely suffering. What he saw in the suitcase told him that Helen and Benjamin were packing for a trip. How nice. They did things together — showered, traveled, bickered, and said vile things about people who had never done them any harm. Their conjugal solidarity was daunting.