Rafael Yglesias - Hot Properties

“Who?”

David looked up from folding his pants and smiled. “You wouldn’t know. He’s on the hit parade of Nazis. He was Mengele’s favorite helper. Decided who would live and who would die in the ovens. Also performed experiments on twins, dwarfs. Shot blue dye into the eyes of children, and so on … lovely man.”

“Oh. Yeah,” she mumbled, baffled by this turn of events. “I thought he was dead.”

“You’re thinking of Mengele. This one might be, too. The guy I’m supposed to meet could be a fraud.”

“Isn’t this dangerous?”

“We’re supposed to meet in a public place — I sure as hell am not going to meet him in a dark alley.”

“How long will you be gone?”

“Don’t know. A few days?”

“Oh.” Patty sat on the bed and stared off, nonplussed. She felt deflated, and, oddly, sad to be left alone in the loft. She had wanted to walk out on him and be with Betty. Not wait in solitude for the return of a man she didn’t want anymore. And he looked so appealing right now — his cheeks flushed with excitement, his tone energetic and funny.

“You’ll be all right,” he said.

She nodded.

“Won’t you?”

“I want to move out,” she said. The words floated out of her, levitating from her inner thoughts mystically, in violation of her mind’s censuring gravity.

“You’re that scared to be alone?” David asked, almost laughing with amazement.

“I’m sorry …” she said, and got up, wanting to walk away to shut herself up, but she couldn’t move, unable to figure out where to go.

David studied her back. She had taken to hunching her shoulders more, it seemed to him, since she had become a novelist. Was it bending over the typewriter?

Now he understood what she meant: she was leaving him, he thought dully. It didn’t surprise him, though it was unexpected. Since his regular visits to the Mistress, he had lived side by side with her, passengers. On a subway, sharing noise and light and movement, but not speaking or knowing each other. Strangers seated together on a dull trip.

Patty turned back. “Can I help?”

“You want to move out,” David said. “Break up, you mean.”

She stared at him like a frightened little girl. Her eyes wondered at him. What will you do? Don’t be angry. What will you do? Don’t hate me. “I’m sorry, I shouldn’t—”

“My flight isn’t until tonight. Everything’s ready. I was just nervously packing.” He paused and cocked his head, asking calmly, “You’re going for good?”

Tears formed in her eyes: a deserted child, shrinking from the big horrible world. “I don’t know, I don’t know,” she said, weeping between the words. “I feel like I’m going crazy. I shouldn’t be saying this now …” She hunched over, moving toward the bed as if she were collapsing uncontrollably and needed to cushion her fall.

He watched her coldly. He felt heartbroken for her: she lay on the bed like a broken doll. He was convinced that if he hugged her now, spoke of his love, she would reverse her decision to go. But the effort, both physical and emotional, of feeling and giving, the whole boring mess of vomiting up the truth, repelled him. He didn’t want to smell and look at his innards, to regurgitate his perversions, inadequacies, and failed hopes. “Is it anything in particular?” he asked.

“What?” she said, her voice muffled by the bed and her tears.

“Are you upset about something I can fix?” he answered in a grudging tone.

“No, it’s not you — I’m fucked up,” she said, and rolled over onto her back, her arms resting outward, crucified on a soft mattress. “I love you,” she said.

“I love you too,” he answered perfunctorily. “So why are you moving out?”

“Kiss me,” she said, looking like a centerfold — yearning for an unseen lover, her body defenseless, the gates open to any violation.

David shook his head. He felt like laughing. “You’re crazy. What kind of breakup is this? If you’re walking out on somebody, you don’t interrupt it for a seduction.”

“I’m not walking out. I need some time—”

“Come on, Patty. I’m not a fool. That’s never the truth. You don’t have the guts to do it straight.”

She sat up, raised the drawbridge, filled the turret with guns, and unsheathed her sword. “I’m trying to be honest, I’m trying to talk about it. You’re the one who never says a damn thing. You’re so closed off and cold.”

“Right. You’re walking out — I’m the bad guy. That’s what this is about. Getting rid of your guilt. You want to leave and be a saint. You got it. Don’t bother to even argue for it. I concede it to you.” He walked away, propelled by his anger.

“You have to win every argument,” she shouted at his back. “Even when winning it means you lose.”

“God, you’re a real phrase-maker!” he answered, talking up to the ceiling. “I don’t know what the fuck that means!”

“It means, all I felt coming in here was confused. I wanted time to think things out. The way you’re behaving does make me want to leave!”

“That’s gotta be bullshit!” he yelled, his hands out in a furious plea. “Confused about what?” he said, turning on her. He walked at her angrily. She stood up, startled, as though his movement were threatening. “What? What is there to think about?”

“Uh, us …” she stammered. “We haven’t been having a good time together.” She gained confidence. “We haven’t fucked in two months.”

“I’ve been busy!” he cried out.

“Oh, the magazine! The magazine, the magazine, the magazine. It’s your answer to everything. You’re like some terrible cliché on a soap opera. What the hell are you working so hard for? You’re thirty-one years old — you act like a fifty-year-old man!”

“All right, all right. I’ll stop working so hard. I was scared,” he pleaded, lying, though it sounded very honest, to his surprise. “I got this big job — I didn’t think I could do it.” Tears formed at his eyes.

Patty looked amazed. “Oh,” she said, touching his arm with her hand. “I’m sorry.”

“What are you sorry for?” he said, laughing and sobbing at once.

“I’m sorry,” she repeated, and moved into his arms, hugging him.

“I kept thinking they were going to knock on the door and tell me it had all been a mistake.” he said, elaborating on this successful theme. It sounded so authentic, so convincing. He had reached for this explanation to avoid confessing about the prostitution — not to have to reveal the tableau of him wearing a collar and licking a woman’s boots.

“It’s not a mistake,” she whispered in his ear. “You’re brilliant.”

“Thanks,” he answered shyly.

They held each other for a while. For both, it was relief to be holding and loving anyone. “Where are you going to go?” he asked, meaning really: Are you still going?

“I’m going to stay with Betty. Tony’s got to go to LA for a month.”

David eased himself out of the embrace. “Oh. Well, that’ll be good for your book.”

“That’s not why I’m doing it,” she argued, a teenager complaining she had to stay out past eleven.

“I didn’t mean anything,” he answered. “I meant, you can keep her working on it. I know that’s not why you’re doing it.”

“Oh,” she said, feeling embarrassed. “I may not do it. I don’t know.”

“I …” His voice broke. He cleared his throat. “I hope you don’t.” His chin quavered.

She looked ashamed and hugged him again.

“I love you,” she said.

“I love you too,” he answered.

Tony watched them talk on Malibu beach. He stood above them on a wide deck supported by thirty-foot-high wooden stilts that looked inadequate to the task. The surf, which seemed gentle and casual as it approached the shore, broke abruptly and angrily at its finish: a horse rearing in horror at the row of two-million-dollar houses. Garth and Redburn, two of the most famous faces in America, stood in profile, elegant in their casual clothes, tranquil faces, and perfect hairdos, their words drowned by the Pacific’s noisy disgust at encountering land. The scene looked like a movie. An obvious thing to think, but fascinating nonetheless. Tony could make up the dialogue in his head — his eyes were the cameras.