Sol Stein - Other people

"You don't like my style."

"I like winners."

"Well," I said, "do I get to see Koch?"

"I was just thinking that while you were talking to him, I'd be paying for your time and his time both."

"How else am I going to learn about the interstices?"

"Okay," she said.

Was I more curious about the woman or the case? What could Koch tell me? "You'll have to phone him. Does he see people after normal working hours?"

"His working hours aren't normal. Some people probably call him at three in the morning with a pill bottle in hand. When can you make it?"

"After hours, almost any time."

She got up. "Excuse me." She headed for the phone booths in the back.

The coffee was just being served when she returned, slid gracefully into her chair as I half stood.

"He was very pleased to hear my voice," she said, "until I told him I was calling to make an appointment for someone else. He's got you down for Friday at seven." She wrote the address down on the back of a pack of matches. "Allow yourself time to park. It's Manhattan, you know."

Michael reappeared to chastise me for not ordering the mandatory sweet.

"Too much," I said, patting my midriff.

"Perhaps the lady?" Michael said.

"Next time," she said to Michael. Grateful for the promise, Michael waddled off, returning in a moment with an inch of marzipan on a small plate. "On the house," he said, "for a lovely lady."

I signed the check. Francine broke the marzipan in two, put a half between my lips, then nibbled at the second half. The bouzouki music seemed wild now, a dervish of sound.

Outside, in the car, I opened the door for her. She looked as if she hadn't expected me to do that. The truth is that I usually don't for Jane. Or the others.

I got in on the driver's side, strapped myself in, shoulder harness and seat belt. Francine, who hadn't used the seat belt on the way to the restaurant, followed my example.

"The car makers call it a restraining harness," I said.

She laughed.

I put my hand out and found hers, just for a second. She didn't pull it away, just disengaged it gently, and said, "We sitting here or going somewhere?"

I put the key into the ignition, but didn't turn it. From our darkened car we could see a middle-aged couple come out of the restaurant, walking in the same direction as if they didn't know each other.

"I'll bet they're married," I said.

The woman got into the driver's seat. The man slid in from the passenger side.

"I wonder why she's driving," said Francine.

"He's lost his hcense. Accident. Drunken driving."

"Maybe she's the better driver."

"He'd still drive if he had the license."

"Maybe he never learned," said Francine.

"If he's American, he learned," I said.

"You're very sure of yourself."

"On some things."

"On what not?"

"You," I said.

I turned the ignition key back a notch and switched the radio on to WQXR.

"Brandenburg," she said.

"Which?"

"I don't know," she said.

"I don't either," I admitted.

"That was a very nice meal, thank you."

"Michael's a nice man," I said. "I enjoyed your company."

Encapsuled in the car, we listened to Bach. And to our separate thoughts. I wish I knew hers.

Finally she said, "Feels funny strapped in like this and going nowhere."

"Shall I drive you back to your car?"

"It'll keep overnight. It's silly to go all the way back there now. I'm staying with my parents. My mother can drive me there after she drops my father off at the station."

"Which means you want a ride to your parents' house now?"

"I'd stay at the apartment if I had an armed guard."

"I have no arms."

"Not true."

"You like to play with words."

"I do. You do."

"Sounds like a marriage ceremony."

"See," she said. "You do." Then, "Have you ever been close to getting married?"

"Only in the very old days once, when abortions were hard to come by and dangerous."

"What happened?"

"She met another guy and they went off somewhere and got married."

"Does that mean you may have a child somewhere?"

"I don't know what happened."

"Don't you care?"

I started the engine.

"You've built a lot of insulation around yourself," she said.

"It doesn't keep me warm on cold nights."

She held her left hand in the air for a moment as if she were going to touch me with it.

"That lawyer you wear," she said, "may be hiding a nice man."

"I doubt it." I snapped the radio off.

"Please leave it on."

I turned it back on a bit too loud. Which I suppose was childish.

"Do you know where my parents' house is?"

"You'll have to direct me."

"When we get there, will you come in?" This time her hand touched my hand, just for a second.

"It'd be awkward," I said. "You wouldn't care to come up to my place first. For a drink?"

"I'm not a prude," she said. "But that thing was much too recent."

"What thing?"

She seemed suddenly angry. "The thing I came to you about."

"Koslak," I said.

"Yes."

"And you're angry at all men?"

"In a way."

"Is that fair?"

"It isn't a question of being fair."

"You mean that if it wasn't for what happened, you might come up tonight?"

"I might."

Brandenburg seemed loud against the silence of the parking lot. "You're very hard to figure, Francine. You seem very smart-ass at times."

"And?"

"And at times very vulnerable."

"That's right. That's me. Smart-ass and vulnerable. Don't you think they go together?"

"I know they do."

"Are you ever vulnerable, counselor?"

"Yes."

"When?"

"Right now," I said, turning the engine on, backing out of the parking space, zipping out of the lot too fast, tires squealing, heading for the parkway.

"You seem in an awful hurry," she said.

I didn't answer.

After a while she said, "You're afraid of your feelings, aren't you?"

"Aren't you?"

"You sound angry."

"I didn't mean to sound angry."

I slowed down some. I followed her directions. When we pulled up in her parents' driveway, I felt an exhaustion in my chest. I saw the foyer light go on.

"You want to get away fast, don't you?" she said.

I kept both hands tight on the wheel.

She got out of the car. Before the door of the house was opened for her, I was pulling away.

I felt as if we'd had a lovers' quarrel and we weren't even lovers.

I think about this name Thomassy. Never have I heard a name like that exactly. George could be anything, Georg, Georgio, Jorge, Georges, the English had kings named George. Everywhere the Tigris and Euphrates fertilize, the land is rich with Georges. In the thirties, if this Thomassy was to be an actor, the movie people would call him what? George Thomas? Now they keep their names. George Segal. They put foreign flags on their bumpers. My forebears came from somewhere else, make something of it , a challenge to the Wasp world whose daughters run loose among Greeks, Italians, Jews, whatnot, seeking interesting genes. Almighty, You are manipulating us for some plan that will give us again a Jewbaby hidden in the bulrushes by a shiksa of high station. In the Sistine Chapel the fingers still almost touch. Scientists bring their children to look up at God and Adam. Do they laugh? Do they say it is a good painting period? They do not? They are in awe. Gunther, Marta would say were she still alive, you are about to declare yourself a failure. You still think of yourself the way your mother thought of you: Go out into the world and make a name for yourself, meaning that if your mind leads you to interesting speculations, put them down, make an article, a book even, pass them on. Success she demanded, meaning the name that she gave you will be recognized. Gunther, Marta would say, it is permitted to be a dilettante if that pleases you, it is not a failure to depart the world leaving no grandchildren and no books. Passing through is okay, Marta, my heart cries, it would be a comfort to believe you! It is not my mother who is nagging me now, it is myself telling me that I am sixty and there is not much time to leave a mark.