Andre Aciman - Eight White Nights

This was the most honest thing about me that I’d ever managed to say to her. This way of speaking was new to me, and I wasn’t sure I liked it.

How was I going to let down my guard with her tonight and ever attempt to recapture last night’s kisses with this plague standing between us?

•

When we arrived at the bar, things couldn’t be worse. A man wearing a dark blue suit, a white shirt, though without a necktie, was sitting at the table next to what had become ours, and no sooner had he seen Clara than he stood up and embraced her. No introductions, of course, until he turned to me and introduced himself. On his table were what looked like loose galleys of a book of black-and-white photographs.

He was nursing an oversized martini with a bunch of olives skewered on a long toothpick that he hadn’t touched. There followed an awkward moment, during which Clara and I were trying to decide our seating arrangement. It only made sense that she should sit next to him on the banquette, which spanned from his table to ours, but this precluded my sitting next to her, as had become our habit. She would be in between us, but the men would be sitting too far apart. So I did the obvious: I sat across from her, facing the two of them. She hesitated for a moment, which I took as a positive sign, but then she opted to sit so close to him that we found ourselves occupying his table. I was furious with her for not insisting that I sit next to her. Yet Clara’s hesitation had pleased me, as had the waitress’s histrionic enthusiasm: Here they are! The man, whose name was Victor, didn’t seem to pick up on Clara’s momentary hesitation or on the waitress’s clamorous greeting.

I wondered what he knew about Clara and me. Were we just friends? More than friends? What were we anyway? And what were they? He explained he had decided to come here for a drink after spending the evening with his assistant. He wanted to go through the pictures one last time before turning them in in the morning. Somehow he wasn’t pleased. He’d just come back from two shows, one in Berlin — grand, just grand! — the other in Paris— sensationnel! — and London and Tokyo in three weeks — could you ask for more? What was the subject? I asked, trying to make conversation. Manhattan Noir, which, given his French accent, he pronounced Manattàn Noir. Clara threw me a quick squint. There was mirth and collusion in it. We knew we were putting this on hold for parody and demolition later on.

Victor, dapper blue suit and starched white shirt, French cuffs, couldn’t be happier with the project. Next year’s Christmas coffee-table sensation, he explained, trying to make light of the project. But he was clearly pleased with himself. Even the gleaming white shirt and wide-open sans cravate louque was going to be the subject of ridicule once we were alone together, to say nothing of his name in bold letters on the cover: Victor Francois Chiller. The initials made me want to laugh.

Talk of Manhattan Noir kept us animated and laughing way past midnight. Everyone had a theory about Manhattan Noir. We took turns: The noir city in each of us, even if we’d never seen a film noir before. The noir city we love to catch glimpses of, because it takes us back to another Manhattan that may never have existed, but exists by virtue of films and their afterimage. The noir city we sometimes long to live in. The noir city that disappears the moment you go out to find it. The noir city that is more in us than it is out there in the real city, I threw in. “Well, let’s not get carried away,” he said.

She corrected his pronunciation. Not Manattàn but Manhattan. Not aunting hower of ze nait but haunting hour of the night. He thought the joke and his English pronunciation very funny and, with confident hilarity, placed an arm around Clara’s shoulder, pulling her toward him each time he laughed out loud, which forced her to rest her head on his shoulder. Perhaps, sensing his arm around her, she had automatically leaned toward him as a way of being pardoned for joking at his expense. Or was it: press the touch button and she’s instantly yours?

His arm stayed there awhile. He caught me staring at it. I looked away and turned my eyes to her, only to sense that she too had caught me staring and, like him, had instinctively looked the other way. Neither of them moved; she didn’t lift her head away from his shoulder, and he didn’t remove his arm. It was as though both were independently frozen in that position, either because it was too late to undo the gesture or because they wanted to show there was nothing awkward or improper in it and that — come to think of it — they could do as they pleased, seeing they had absolutely nothing to hide or be ashamed of, and would stop if and when they were good and ready.

Were they, was she doing this to spite me — was she egging him on? Or was she too weak to stop him, or was this her message to me? You have no rights, no claims, and if I want to lean on his shoulder or touch his hand or feel his balls, well, I’ll do so in your face — live with it.

Was theirs perhaps the threadbare familiarity that lingers among ex-lovers?

Or was it a murky friendship between man and woman, the way ours was no better than a murky friendship between man and woman?

Was I perhaps misconstruing everything? Or had I not even scratched the surface? My doubts, like proofs of the Pythagorean theorem, suddenly outnumbered the stars.

Or, with the Xanax wearing off, was it this morning’s anxiety speaking again, making me spin these thoughts, all the while urging me to keep a straight face before them — in case I was making it all up?

Which was worse: making it all up and not enjoying anything, or watching them together and not knowing anything?

Tossing and turning. Not tossing, but turning. .

Clara, I’ve disappointed you, haven’t I?

Oh, Hieronimo, Hieronimo, what have they done to your mind? Your thoughts are all scrambled, and the sedge is withered by the lake. I could feel it coming on again.

I excused myself to go to the bathroom. I knew the bathroom would break my heart. I splashed some water on my face. I liked the cold water in the stinky bathroom. Dabbed my face again. Wet my nape, wet my wrists, the area behind the ears. I remembered the pressure of the steel nut against my head and how it had dented the skin on my forehead. Poor, poor scalawag. And my trying to cool things down a bit, thrilled to the marrow of my boner, me with my how-do-I-leave-graciously-after-we-go-at-it-tonight? Last night she’d lowered the collar of my turtleneck and kissed me there. Hands groping everywhere, all the while I’m reining in Sir Lochinvar, charger and steed, till we kissed by the blessed bakery of blessed memory. Happy, happy, happy hour. Tonight, her heart’s with another man. Turncoat. Clever trick, that, hesitating before taking a seat next to his. Ah, you think that would fool Printz Oskàr? Why wasn’t this last night, why couldn’t it be last night, turn back the clock, undo the bad dream, unmake every mistake, put time on splints, work things back to the point where I’d taken the wrong turn and found myself standing in the snow in Straus Park after we’d kissed and heard her say, “We met here this morning, here we are again.” Ach, Sir Tristram, you bald-pated simpering sop, I thought you were all glittering with the noblest of carriage, but you’re only a Guido. I thought you great in all things, you’re but a puny. Bear down, old fool, and sink hereunder.

When I came out, she didn’t see me approach. They were talking.

This was a party and I wasn’t invited.

They were about to order a second round. I decided not to. She was surprised. Didn’t I want fries with ketchup?