Jay McInerney - Bright, Precious Days

“Yeah, but the question you should be asking yourself is, Why? ”

“I couldn’t agree more,” Corrine said.

“I’ll see you all at the National Book Awards,” Russell said. He suddenly felt slightly queasy, and it wasn’t the dancing shrimp. It hadn’t occurred to him that others had decided against the book; he thought he’d preempted it.

As the plates were cleared, he changed the subject, asking Washington for his prognostications on Manhattan real estate. His friend had always been much savvier about financial matters, and since he’d ascended to the executive suite of the publishing house where Russell had once toiled, his income had taken a big jump, though he certainly made less than his wife, who worked for Lehman Brothers as in-house counsel. He and Veronica owned a three-bedroom loft in a former factory a few blocks from the Calloways, although, with its doorman, gym and spa, it seemed light-years away in space and time.

A rumor had reached Russell that his landlord was thinking of forming a condominium for the purpose of selling off the five apartments in the building, and while it was possible the Calloways could continue to rent, Russell wanted, not unreasonably, he felt, to become a home owner for the first time in his life.

“I’m fifty years old and I’ve never owned any real estate,” Russell said. “How pathetic is that?”

“Up to this point you’ve had a pretty good deal,” Washington said. “Rent control — now, those are two of the happiest words in the language.”

“Unless you’re a landlord,” Veronica interjected.

“True, but I feel like it would be nice for once to own the roof over my head.”

“Actually, in a condo, the association owns the roof.”

“Stop being a wiseass, Wash. You know what I’m saying.”

“You wish to be a man of property. A chatelain.”

“What I want,” Corrine said, “is to have more than one bathroom before my hair turns gray.”

“We can do that if we own it,” Russell said.

“Oh God, can’t we just find a grown-up apartment? We have two children.”

“We’ve got to get in the game first, and if there’s a conversion, we’d get an insider price here. Plus, I want equity in an asset that’s bound to appreciate. I feel like I’ve missed out on this incredible real estate boom, and if we wait much longer, we’ll never be able to buy in.”

“The whole point of booms,” Corrine said, “is that they go bust.”

The conversation was interrupted by the preparation of the next course, which consisted of big matsutake mushrooms grilled at the table over a small charcoal brazier and spritzed with fresh lime juice. These, the waiter explained, were a great delicacy in Japan, “like Japanese truffle.” Even Corrine thought they were delicious, although she was highly skeptical of the following course, a deconstructed teriyaki chicken — teriyaki ice cream, over which the waiter ladled chicken demi-glace — and she completely rebelled against the fifth. “Chef calls this transgressive fusion,” he announced, placing the square plates in front of them.

“Jesus, what the fuck,” Washington said. “Is that like Chuck Palahniuk making sweetbread sushi?”

“This is lily paste dumpling wrap around foie gras. And this twenty-four-karat gold leaf,” the waiter continued, dusting each of the dumplings as Russell watched his wife’s expression grow incredulous. “And this,” he said, sprinkling what looked like bacon bits over Corrine’s plate, “crushed quail skull.” She refused to try it even after the other three declared it delicious. Russell was the only defender of the next course, the uni soufflé, and the situation threatened to turn ugly with the arrival of a plate laden with what looked like creamy comma-shaped extrusions of semifreddo.

“This shirako, ” the waiter said proudly.

—

“I can’t believe we were supposed to eat fish sperm,” Corrine said in the cab. “Jesus, Russell.”

“Not my favorite, I have to admit.”

“But you ate it.”

“Well, I tasted it. I certainly didn’t finish it. But I think I owed it to myself and the establishment to at least try it.”

“That’s so disgusting. I don’t even want to sit next to you.”

“I’m not saying I’d do it a second time.”

“Has it ever occurred to you that your obsessive gourmandism may have something to do with Storey’s eating issues?”

“Whoa, hold on here. That’s a reach.”

In recent months, Storey had developed a passionate interest in food and had gained some ten or fifteen pounds. Russell wanted to point out that it didn’t resemble his own passion — the word obsession was slander — in that it was fairly indiscriminate. They’d both been concerned, though reluctant to discuss it with her for fear of making it more of an issue. Corrine said it would be a huge mistake to make her feel self-conscious, even though she was horrified by corpulence and considered it a sign of moral weakness. It was one of her few prejudices.

“You have an unhealthy interest in food,” she said to him, “and now she seems to be developing one, too. At breakfast she wants to know what’s for lunch, and at lunch she asks about dinner. And she’s started watching that damn Food Network.”

“Look,” Russell said, ready with his defense, “this all started right after Hilary decided to tell the kids she was their real mother. That has to have rocked her world, whether or not she’s talked about it openly. The fact that she hasn’t seems pretty strange to me. If there’s been a sea change in her behavior, that might be a good place to start looking for an explanation.”

“Maybe, but you don’t have to make them both think food’s so damn important.”

“Do you have a problem with my weight?”

“No, you’re looking pretty good, considering, but that’s only because you’re blessed with a high metabolism. And if you really want to know, you could lose a little around the middle.”

“Is that why you don’t want to make love anymore?”

“Don’t be ridiculous. And anyway, we’re talking about our daughter. ”

“I’m not being ridiculous. Things were good last fall — I felt like we were sexually attuned again for the first time in years — and then it went to shit again.”

“That’s a little extreme.”

“Think about it. When was the last time?”

“I don’t know, a couple weeks?”

“Seven weeks. I practically had to beg for it.”

“I didn’t know you were keeping track.”

“I am.”

“There are cycles in a marriage; you know that.”

“Yes, I do. But it’s not like the fucking weather. It’s not out of anyone’s control. It’s volitional.”

“Complaint registered.” She sighed theatrically and threw herself back against the seat. “Now can we finish talking about Storey?”

“We can. I think that her sudden bingeing might just as likely be a reaction to your food and weight phobias as to my issues. But honestly, I think it’s just a phase. Like your lack of interest in sex.”

He considered this a rather neat rhetorical maneuver, although it became clear, as the silence in the cab stretched several blocks and followed them into the elevator, that it was at best a Pyrrhic victory. They each greeted Jean, and separately said good night to the kids, who’d just turned out their lights. Ferdie was curled up with Jeremy, who asked, “How was the secret restaurant?”

“It was pretty fun.”

“Mom didn’t like it.”

“No, she didn’t.”

“What was the secret?”

“The secret was that they have shrimp that dance.”

“That’s weird. Night, Dad.”