Mario Puzo - Fools die

We had a great evening. Everybody stared at us in the restaurant, and I must admit that Janelle looked absolutely smashing. In fact, she looked like a blonder and fairer version of Marlene Dietrich, Southern belle style, of course. Because, no matter what she did, that overwhelming femininity came off her. But I knew that if I told her that, she would hate it. She was out to punish me.

I really enjoyed her playing the dyke role simply because I knew how feminine she was in bed. So it was a sort of double joke on whoever was watching us. I also enjoyed it because Janelle thought she was making me angry and was watching my every move and was disappointed and then pleased that I obviously didn’t mind.

I drew the line at going to a nightclub, but we went and had drinks at the Polo Lounge, where for her satisfaction I submitted our relationship to the stares of her friends and mine. I saw Doran at one table and Jeff Wagon at another, and they both grinned at me. Janelle waved to them gaily and then turned to me and said, “Isn’t it wonderful to go somewhere for a drink and see all your old dear friends?”

I grinned back at her and I said, “Great.”

I got her home before midnight and she tapped me on the shoulder with her cane and she said, “You did very well.”

And I said, “Thank you.”

She said, “Will you call me?”

And I said, “Yes.” It had been a nice night anyway. I had enjoyed the double takes of the maitre d’, the doorman, even the guys who did the valet parking, and at least now Janelle was out of the closet.

– -

There came a time soon after this when I loved Janelle as a person. That is, it wasn’t that I just wanted to fuck her brains out; or look into her dark brown eyes and faint; or eat up her pink mouth. And all the rest of it, the staying up all night telling her stories, Jesus, telling her my whole life, and her telling me all her life. In short, there came a time when I realized it was her sole function to make me happy, to make me delight in her. I saw that it was my job to make her a little happier than she was and not to get pissed off when she didn’t make me happy.

I don’t mean I became one of those guys who are in love with a girl because it makes them unhappy. I never understood that really. I always believed in getting my share of any bargain, in life, in literature, in marriage, in love, even as a father.

And I don’t mean I learned to make her happy by giving her a gift, that was my pleasure. Or to cheer her when she was down, which was just clearing obstacles out of the way so that she could get on with the job of making me happy.

Now what was curious was that after she had “betrayed” me, after we started to hate each other a little, after we had the goods on each other, I came to love her as a person.

She was really such a good guy. She used to say like a child sometimes, “I’m a good person,” and she really was. She was really so straight in all the important things. Sure she fucked other guys and women too, but what the hell, nobody’s perfect. She still loved the same books I did, the same movies, the same people. When she lied to me, it was to keep from hurting me. And when she told me the truth, it was partly to hurt me (she had a nice vengeful streak and I even loved that too), but also because she was terrified I’d learn the truth in a way that would hurt me more.

And of course, as time went on, I had to understand that she led a hurtful life in many ways. A complicated life. As who indeed does not.

So finally all the falseness and illusion had gone out of our relationship. We were true friends and I loved her as a person. I admired her courage, her indestructibility with all the disappointments of her professional life, all the treacheries of her personal life. I understood it all. I was for her all the way.

Then why the hell didn’t we have those deliriously good times we had before? Why wasn’t the sex as good as it had been, though still better than anyone else? Why weren’t we as ecstatic with each other as we used to be?

Magic-magic, black or white. Sorcery, spells, witches and alchemy. Could it really be true that spinning stars decide our destiny and moon blood makes lives wax and wane? Could it be true that the innumerable galaxies decide our fate day by day on earth? Is it quite simply true that we cannot be happy without false illusions?

There comes a point in every love affair when, so it seems, the woman gets pissed off at her lover’s being too happy. Sure she knows it’s her making him happy. Sure she knows that it’s her pleasure, even her job. But finally she comes to the conclusion that in some way, the son of a bitch is getting away with murder. Especially with the man married and the woman not. For then the relationship is an answer to his problem but does not solve hers.

And there comes a time when one of the partners needs a fight before making love. Janelle had come to that stage. I usually managed to sidetrack her, but sometimes I felt like fighting too. Usually when she was pissed off that I stayed married and didn’t make any promises for a permanent commitment.

We were in her house in Malibu after the movies. It was late. From our bedroom we could look over the ocean, which wore a long streak of moonlight like a lock of blond hair.

“Let’s go to bed,” I said. I was dying to make love to her. I was always dying to make love to her.

“Oh, Christ,” she said, “you always want to fuck.”

“No,” I said. “I want to make love to you.” I had become that sentimental.

She looked at me coldly, but her liquid brown eyes were flashing with anger. “You and your fucking innocence,” she said. “You’re like a leper without his bell.”

“Graham Greene,” I said.

“Oh, fuck you,” she said, but she laughed.

And what had led to all this was that I never lied. And she wanted me to lie. She wanted me to give her all the bullshit married men give to girls they screw. Like “My wife and I are getting a divorce.” Like “My wife and I haven’t screwed in years.” Like “My wife and I don’t share the same bedroom.” Like “My wife and I have an understanding.” Like “My wife and I are unhappy together.” Since none of this was true for me, I wouldn’t say it. I loved my wife, we shared the same bedroom, we had sex, we were happy. I had the best of two worlds and I wasn’t going to give it up. So much the worse for me.

Once Janelle laughed she was OK for a while. So now she went and drew a tub full of hot water. We always took a bath together before we went to bed. She would wash me and I would wash her and we’d fool around a little and then jump out and dry each other, with big towels. Then we’d wind ourselves around each other, naked under the covers.

But now she lit a cigarette before getting into bed. That was a danger signal. She wanted to fight. A bottle of energy pills had spilled out of her purse and that had pissed me off, so I was a little ready too. I was no longer in so loving a mood. Seeing that bottle of energy pills had set off a whole train of fantasies. Now that I knew she had a woman lover, now that I knew she slept with other men when I was away back with my family in New York, I no longer loved her as much, and the energy pills made me think that she needed them to make love to me because she was fucking other people. So now I didn’t feel like it. She sensed this.

“I didn’t know you read Graham Greene,” I said. “That crack about the leper without his bell, that’s very pretty. You saved that one up just for me.”

She squinted her brown eyes over the cigarette smoke. The blond hair was loose down over her delicately beautiful face. “It’s true, you know,” she said. “You can go home and screw your wife and that’s OK. But because I have other lovers, you think I’m just a cunt. You don’t even love me anymore.”