Pete Hamill - Forever

“Go over and talk to her, Harry, why don’t yuh?” the woman shouts. “Just go over and tell her you want to fuck her, Harry, why don’t yuh?”

Delfina’s face shifts. There’s a flicker of a smile and then a tense freezing of her features as she realizes the woman is talking about her. Other diners look at the woman, then at Delfina.

“Go over, Harry, offer her money. Isn’t that what you ushally do? How much to look at a tit, Harry? Five hundred? Is that your ushual rate? And her snatch? How much for that, Harry? Five grand? Go ahead, ask her.”

Three waiters surround the table, blocking the woman and her man, Harry.

“Jesus Christ…” Delfina says darkly. “It’s always the same old shit.”

They hear the high-pitched voice from behind the fence of waiters. Cormac glimpses Harry fumbling for cash. “Go ahead, Harry, she’d prob’ly love it, you old fool.”

“Hey,” a beefy man shouts. “Pipe down, willya? I’m tryin’ ta eat! ” A dozen other diners applaud.

“Eat shit!” the woman yells at all of them. “Eat shit and die!”

Harry gets up now. He’s very large, very old, and very embarrassed. The waiters are trying to move the woman gently toward the door. She now looks about seventy.

“What is this?” she yells. “The bum’s rush? When Meyer was alive, you wooden dare pull this shit.”

Other diners now try to look normal. Then Harry moves through the diners to the table where Delfina seems to be shrinking and Cormac is preparing for an assault. The old man bows in a stiff, old-hoodlum way. Cormac relaxes.

“Folks,” Harry says, “I’d like to apologize to yiz, bot’ of yiz. My wife is def’nitely out of order. She’s a little cuckoo.”

He turns and moves toward the door, where the waiters are draping a coat on his wife’s shoulders. The murmur of the room returns in a relieved way.

“Just another romantic dinner in the Big Apple,” Cormac says.

“Yeah.” Delfina chews the inside of her mouth. “Let’s skip the cake and coffee.”

She still seems mortified. Other diners continue glancing at her, as much to see her reaction as to judge the provocation for another woman’s rage. She squirms in her seat. Cormac realizes that the only other Latinos in the room are the busboys.

“There was a time,” Delfina whispers, “when I used to wish I was flat-assed and flat-chested. Just so I wouldn’t be bothered so much. Then I realized T and A gave me some kind of power over men. Then it became a bother again. Like tonight. Sometimes I wish I was a hundred years old and everything like that was behind me.”

Suddenly the waiter is there with the cake and the coffee, and a half smile on his face.

“Sorry about all that,” he says. “She gets stewed on two high-balls, that one. She doesn’t want to know Meyer is dead, and she’s old. Dessert is on the house.”

He hurries away. Delfina looks at the cake, then at Cormac, smiles, and lifts a fork.

“What the hell, Cormac! We earned it.”

They attack the cake in a fever of release, and Cormac struggles to imagine her at Hunter, lost in the abstractions of physics, a place where she didn’t have to think about being thinner or smaller or less beautiful. She makes “um” sounds now as she eats the cake. Um. Um-um. Um. Women ate this way after escaping from the Five Points too.

“By the way,” she says, “who is Meyer?”

“His last name was Lansky and he was the smartest gangster who ever lived. I’ll tell you all about him one of these days.”

“Not tonight?” she says, the tip of her tongue flicking chocolate off her upper lip.

“No,” Cormac says. “Not tonight.”

She steps into the bright darkness of the Studio and gazes at the sky light. She makes the same small gasping sound he heard in the theater. She moves forward and stands very still. Looking through the panes of the skylight.

“Up there,” she says. “Way up there? The eighty-fourth floor? That’s my office.”

She looks amazed.

“I can see you from there,” she says, and turns to him. Her teeth are very white, her skin receding into the obscure light. “Anyway, I can see your roof.”

She looks up at him, and he puts a hand on her waist, and she eases into him like a partner in a slow dance. Slowly, he kisses her brow, her cheek, her lips. Her breasts are hard against his chest. He can feel her belly pressing against his own. He inhales the soapy smell of her wiry African hair.

In the dark bedroom, a floor below the Studio, they lie together for a long while, her body pressed against his, her head on his chest. Her breathing slows into comfort, and his follows. She is wordless, and he feels that speaking would be an intrusion. He hears the ticking of a clock that sounds like the drip of a water tap. Away off, the city murmurs through the thick drapes. Finally she rises on one elbow and gazes at him, holding the sheet to her body.

“Who are you, anyway?” she says.

“I was thinking the same thing about you.”

She giggles, then sits up, Cormac thinking: Don’t go, not yet.

“Where’s the john?” she says.

She demands the tour and he gives it to her, the two of them barefoot in terry-cloth bathrobes, Cormac flicking on lamps as they pad across scattered rugs and polished plank. She looks smaller now, without shoes, engulfed by the robe. She examines the first floor as if it were a museum, her eyes moving over the long rows of tall bookshelves, the paintings, the African masks, the yellow vellum lampshades and Moroccan rugs. He hopes she doesn’t say Have you read all these books? She doesn’t. Her feet splay on the hardwood floors as she touches the polished top of the dining table, the brocaded Mexican fabrics of the chairs, the silver candelabra. They can both hear rain now spattering the four windows on the Duane Street end, the second stage of an early storm, coming in hard off the harbor. She stops to examine herself in a large white-and-gold mirror, a hand going to her rain-exploded hair, which now looks like a black wiry halo. He stands behind her, his own flesh pale beside her. He wraps his arms around her and then fumbles with the knot of the robe until it opens.

He sees his own pale hand gently holding a dark-skinned breast, and her head leaning back into him, lips parted, and his hand moving down to her belly.

To the twin spirals.

They are there. Traced lightly, delicately on her skin, facing each other like enraptured sea serpents.

His heart bumps and bumps and he is sure she must hear it and feel it. They are here: She is the dark lady with the spirals. His fingertips trace their outlines, their wide bottoms vanishing into the thick black vee of her pubic hair. She pushes back into him, and must feel his hardening.

“Are they disgusting to you?” she says.

“They’re beautiful,” he says.

“Hold me tight,” she says.

Later, rising from the floor, she tightens the robe and walks to the kitchen. He is relieved: She doesn’t review her own performance. Or his. She opens the refrigerator, which holds a bowl of fresh green grapes and some oranges, picks a crisp grape, munches it, grabs a handful, then takes a bottle of water and closes the door. She finishes the grapes, takes an amused swig from the bottle, sloshes the water in her mouth, swallows. Then she moves slightly to her left, peering down the corridor like a cat who has arrived in a new place: alert, poised, wary of danger.

“This is beautiful,” she says.

“It’s comfortable,” Cormac says, sounding to himself like a real estate salesman. “I like being here.”

She looks directly at him, her eyes liquid. “Me too.”

He leads her up the stairs again to the Studio, to the view of the Woolworth Building and the Twin Towers, all misty in rain. He opens the small refrigerator and she takes an icy bottle of Evian and hands it to him. Now she sees the desk, the computer, the television set, the CD player. The door to the Archive is closed. As is the door to the bathroom and the jacuzzi. Cormac thinks: I could paint you just like this, in that terry-cloth robe.