Stephen Dixon - Fall and Rise

Blouse, neck, hair, breasts, forehead, cheek, collar, cuffs, skirt, can’t see her shoes. She squeezes through the crowd that came together behind the man who squeezed through first. Her back’s to me. She seems to have a large round rear and small waist. I picture her ironing one of those cuffs and me moving flush up against her rear, arm around her waist, other hand cupping her breast, fiddling with her nipple, neither of us in clothes. She’s behind some people now and all I see is her hair, then what seems her hand pouring wine from a bottle into a man’s glass. Go over, say hello or if she’s still with the man then stay close to say hello when he momentarily looks away or talks to someone else and maybe even leaves her. I head for the bar, turn to the food table, I wouldn’t know what to say. “Hello, how’s by you, the family?” Might be original enough to tickle her but I doubt it. A funnyman she might think, one who isn’t afraid to make a fool of himself, but I doubt it. Earnest approach then. “I wanted to meet you, plain as that, what can I say?” She looks earnest herself but the approach might what? Put her ill at ease or touch her in some not too positive way and then she could silently blame me for her sudden awkwardness or whatever it might come to when before she was feeling so good. Just go over. Say and do nothing. Or say nothing but do something. Pretend to want more wine. Just want more wine, since when do you have to pretend, and while there look at her and if she’s not looking at you continue to look at her and if she then looks at you, maybe then you can make one of a number of moves. But finish your wine first. Or go over with it. She’ll know the real reason you’re coming over, but if she’s interested, and for an intermittent minute she seemed to be, she won’t care what’s the excuse.

I drink up and start for the bar. “Excuse me, excuse me.” She’s still talking to that man. What did I expect? And if she was talking to anyone, what did I tell myself to do? I look for Jane and Phil. Nowhere around. I told myself to get near her and at the right time strike. I go to the food table, put my glass down, slice some cheese, but too much cheese tonight, too much food for now. Sit down. I head for the couch. “Excuse me, excuse me.” It’s filled. Look for a chair. All filled. Diana’s talking to someone. Seeing me she lifts her eyebrows as if saying still not having a good time? You look lost her eyebrows say. I smile, holdup my hand, thumb and index finger joined, indicating the obvious. She smiles. I turn to the bar. Woman’s not there. Good. Could mean she’s by herself somewhere where I could get to meet her. Good also means I can go to the bar now because she’s not there. I need to? Not that I’m high but I might be slightly. No, I need something to hold. Some people smoke. Others jingle change. I go over, “Excuse me, excuse me,” and pour a glass of red wine. Woman at the bar’s pouring a thick liquid from a decanter into what looks like a silver thimble the size of a double-shot glass. “Vodka? Is it for someone special or can anyone have it?”

“Since it isn’t hidden, I think everyone.” She gives me another silver glass off a tray. Hieroglyph-like characters scratched into it that are probably Cyrillic. “You don’t think a problem mixing spirits and wine?”

“My first,” setting the wineglass down. “Never even tasted it.”

“Then pour it back if it can be done without spilling.”

“I don’t know — won’t people mind? And judging by the wine bottle neck, I think I’d need a funnel.”

“Funnel and people indeed. Take chances.” Holding the decanter and her glass in one hand, she pours my wine into the bottle with the other. A drop runs down the neck but never reaches the bar. “Hold ready. It’s real Russian and ice-cold,” and she starts filling up my silver glass.

“Half will be fine.”

“The custom in Russia is to pour all the way up. But you want to stop half with such beautiful vodka, you must be much better man than I.”

“You can say I’m a man at least. Ah, pour all the way.”

“Please, you have to excuse me, but try as I have I can’t be my equal in English.” She fills my glass and holds up hers. “To the Western Wind. May it blow and blow.” We clink and drink. “Pretty good, yes? We never saw this good there in all my years. You’ll forgive me?” As part of the crowd breaks for her I see that woman by the food table, alone it seems and looking at me and then at her fork coming off her plate. Wait a moment so the woman I just spoke to doesn’t think I’m following her and then go over, say prosit or how goes it or nas zdorovie if I can remember how to pronounce it or just hello and after her hello show her the glass and ask if she knows what the Cyrillic letters mean or if she thinks the snowy troika and onion dome scene also tooled-in is just for foreign consumerism. No, no plotted approach and she might be married, in love, living with the man she’s married to and in love with and who’s here or coming later. But if so why’d she look at me way she did?

I finish my drink. Another? One more like that and I’ll be slurring through my nose. Maybe she just wants to have something extra to talk about later with her husband, lover, whatever, on their way home or just home if he didn’t come with her and won’t be here or on the phone if he’s out of town or lives alone and phones her at home later. I pour a quarter of a glass and will just sip. “Did you talk to anyone interesting?” she could say. “Not really,” he could say if he’s here or on the way, “you?” “A translator. Daniel Krin — ever hear of him? But whoever hears of translators or remembers their names, except for what’s-his-name again who does the famous German with the shaggy mustache and the other who only does prize-winning Latin-American novelists who if they haven’t received a prize yet get one soon after he translates them. He came over, for a while prior was flashing his eyes. I couldn’t just walk away, mouth filled with my fork and all those eatable edibles still on the table. Besides, he looked fairly interesting and I wanted to have something unusual but juicy to talk about with you other than those exotic foods. And he was fairly interesting, simplifying the supposedly inexplicable difficulties of translating this intricately simple Japanese poetical work. Then because I wanted a long uninterrupted answer from him so I could dish out more food for myself and chew it slowly, I asked if he also wrote poetry and if not what was stopping him and if it was a block what was he doing to break it and so forth. He said he used to but gave it up when he found he was short one minor gift and that was the real raw talent for apparent intelligence and cleverness to make up for the major one, or something with that twist. But because he still loved poetry, which he said most poets suddenly don’t once they give up writing it, he decided to do the next best thing to creating poetry which was translating it.”

I put my glass down and excuse myself through the crowd to the food table. She’s not there. I look around. Still. Maybe in the bedroom. I open the door. No light’s on and only the cat’s there lying on the dresser and eating what looks like a sock. Maybe she left. I close the bedroom door and see her coming out the front door. Her coat’s on. Her fur hat. She’s going over to Diana. As she goes she glances at me. She’s alone, though her companion could be in the hallway, struggling with his rubbers. I’ll keep my eyes on her from this ten-foot distance. After she says goodbye to Diana and maybe others I’ll catch up with her on the stairs. I’ll say “Wait.” She’ll say “What?” I’ll say “I’m sorry I waited so long to speak to you, to introduce myself to you, those are what I’m sorry for. You can’t believe the number of excuses I gave myself for not going over and speaking to you and the conversations I imagined we had here and you’ll later have about me, even one where you’d now say something to me like ‘I’ve no idea what you mean.”’ No. I’ll say “Wait.” She’ll say “What?” I’ll say “You’re obviously going, that’s obvious, and I only wish I’d spoken to you sooner.” “Same here,” she might say. That’d be great. Or “Excuse me, sir, but do l know you? Because when I saw you staring at me before I thought maybe I did from some time back or that you were just putting on the make.” I move to them. Diana says to her “Oh no, not so soon.” “What can I do? I told you about the other party.” “Delay it.” “Wish I could.” “But this one’s really just starting. People’ll see you leave, they all might go. You speak to any old friends? But you haven’t time to talk. I’ll call tomorrow.” “If you don’t, I’ll get in touch with you.” “Actually, do that, since I’ll probably forget by the end of tonight everyone I promised to call tomorrow. Goodnight, Helene. I’m sorry you couldn’t stay.” She called her Helene. They kiss cheeks and Helene turns to the door without seeing me. I start over to her. She walks to the door. I continue after her. We’re going at the same pace. Someone says “Dan.” I turn around. It was to another Dan. I continue. She’s out the door and heading for the stairs. I’m about ten feet behind her. “You’re not going also, Dan,” Diana says. Helene, snapping her fingers, steps back and reaches for the umbrella and sees me. I turn to Diana. “No, excuse me,” and then to Helene “Hold it, please wait.” “Me?” she says, pulling out an umbrella. “Yes, don’t move, at least not off this floor. I want to speak to you. It’s important. Someone we both know.”