Andre Aciman - Eight White Nights

When my friend joined us, he seemed surprised by the speed with which we’d managed to find and purchase two toys. He put his arm around her shoulders. She simply dug her hands into her coat pockets again and seemed preoccupied by the patterns on the floor. What a complicated woman, I thought. Then I corrected myself: perhaps not complicated at all; perhaps she was the more candid person of the three. Perhaps Clara was too. It was just I who needed them complicated, if only because finding guile in them was my way of making them like me, of assuming they spoke my language and that I could speak theirs.

There’d been a moment at the wrapping desk when we were both resting our hands against the counter. By accident, our hands had touched. She did not remove hers, and I didn’t remove mine. You’d think we were both totally engrossed by the fire trucks.

We separated a block later. I watched her reach for his hand and find it before springing through the slush to make it across the street before the light changed.

Yet she’d cheat on him in a minute, I thought, thinking back to Clara, who, for all her kisses at the party, was busy telling friends and strangers how easily she’d ditched Inky. I was sure she did the same with me: weep with me while listening to the Handel, have me over for tea, want me to spend the night with her, then double-cross me all the way downtown first thing the next morning.

I was hardly better myself.

On Ninety-fifth Street I had a moment of unbearable hesitation. Should I bother going at all? Had I even been invited? I couldn’t remember, but assumed I was always welcome there. I’d have lunch with them, even if they had already started without me. I’d drop the toys with the boys. We’d have cake. Then by four o’clock I’d call Lauren. It had been my intention earlier this week to bring Clara along and introduce her to Rachel and her friends and open up my life to her, bit by bit. Now, I’d call Lauren by three — to put Clara out of my mind.

Before ringing at their brownstone, I could already hear the hubbub of voices chatting loudly within. I even heard my own ring, and the effect it had on the noise in the house. At first silence, then the patter of feet, and the sudden burst of greetings. A stranger bearing gifts. It did remind me of my childhood.

We’ve so much food. And all this booze.

Rachel came out of the kitchen and kissed me. Her sister said she would fill a plate with a bit of everything. An Indian couple had brought a stew that was to die for, and there was still lots left.

I called this house the Hermitage, because there was something good and wholesome about it, though it was never clear who lived there, who didn’t, who was sleeping over and who just passing through. Always plenty of food, always new friends, children, and as always a bevy of pets, laughter, good fellowship, and conversation. What a relief to stop by this sanctuary and see everyone again, as if I were just dropping in on a sick friend, or just needed to pick something up or borrow a book, reconnect, touch base.

Sometimes I pass here by cab without stopping. Just look in through the large dining-room window to make sure everything is all right. Someone is always bringing in something from the kitchen, and around the dining table there are always people, good friends. Once, while passing by, I even caught sight of two bottles of white wine which they’d left outside the window to keep chilled. I’d taught them this trick, which my father had taught me. When the bottles were stolen once, Rachel decided the refrigerator was good enough.

As usual, I made my way straight into the kitchen. It felt safer there, and gave me time to settle in and get used to faces I hadn’t seen in a while. I found a huge uncut French cucumber and right away put it in my trousers. “They put people in jail for sporting such huge ones,” said Rachel. “And this while it’s resting,” I said, which brought a guffaw from all those in the kitchen. Someone suddenly burst in: “They’re fighting again.” “They should get a divorce,” said Rachel, “they’re jerks.” “Who’s the jerk?” asks her sister. “I am,” said the man who was just quarreling with his wife and who thrust his way into the kitchen to get a glass of water, “I’m the jerk, I am. I. Am. The. Jerk. See?” he said, ramming his head against the wall. “The biggest jerk on earth.”

The wife, who couldn’t resist, followed him into the kitchen. “At least no one’s hiding it from you.”

“What?” he asked.

“That you’re a jerk!”

“You people are so boring,” broke in Rachel’s ex-husband, who was already preparing dinner for everyone tonight. “Can we at least pretend we’re all still friends? Tomorrow is New Year’s, for Christ’s sake.”

Rachel in the kitchen was busy cutting the fruit tart I had brought. She turned to me once the kitchen was cleared of people. “And I want you to be nice to the Forshams,” she said. There was reproof in her voice. “But I am nice.” “Yes, but I know you’ll say something nasty, even without meaning to; you’ll imitate them, or make fun of their boy, I know you’ll do something.” Clara would have encouraged me to do nothing short of that. The Forshams always dropped in on Sundays. I called them the Connubials, or the United Front of Wedlock Appeal. She played bad cop, he played supercop. She was never wrong and he was just perfect.

“And what’s with the disappearing act?” Rachel asked as she continued putting things on a large salver. Julia walked in. “Ask him.” “Ask him what?” “Ask him where he’s been all week and why he doesn’t answer his phone.”

I decided to tell Rachel about Lauren so as not to say anything about Clara. Halfway through my story, though, she told me to follow her into the living room, which was when she told me to start the story all over again. “Tell everyone? Including those I don’t know?” “Including, and especially, those you don’t know.” This, I knew, was my punishment for not promising to be nice to the Forshams. It was also the price for my disappearing act, she said. I loved being put in the pillory.

They listened to the story about the toy store, laughed when I imitated rotating functionality.

“Just like that — because of the way she tapped the fish tank?” someone asked.

She tapped with two fingers, the index and the middle finger, in succession. I wanted to kiss her.

Rachel was serving the wedges of tart. She had asked me to bring in two large espresso pots. In the middle of the room stood a very large glass plate on which lay an uncut hollowed circle of wobbly Jell-O for the children. It jiggled each time someone took a step in the room.

“What fish tank?” asked the Forsham wife.

“The girl he met.”

“What girl he met in what fish tank?” asked the husband.

“So when were you planning to call?” someone interrupted.

“Around three.”

“Want us to spot you?”

“No, thank you.”

“Can we listen in, then? We promise, we won’t make a sound.”

I loved the teasing.

Julia brought me a plate with all kinds of leftovers. Gita, the Indian lady, insisted I have a second helping of biryani. She was wearing a sari over blue jeans. Her husband was busy explaining the scales on the piano to their five-year-old son. I took a seat on a low stool, put the square plate on my lap, and, resting my back against the large television set, began eating. Someone brought me a glass of red wine. Here’s a napkin, said Rachel, hurling a folded cloth napkin at me. I loved this.

•

One of the guests began to discuss the Rohmer festival that was playing down the block. Tonight was to be the last night. I made a point of not saying anything, because I knew that once I mentioned Rohmer, I’d have to spill out everything about my evenings with Clara. At first they wouldn’t suspect anything, but before long they’d sniff out a rat and start plying me with questions, and my evasive measure would only give me away. Which is why they kept prodding. And which was exactly what happened once Julia seemed to remember that I loved Rohmer, didn’t I? I did, I said, continuing to stare at my food. Had I been to see any of the movies this week? Yes. Which ones had I seen? Before I could answer with All of them, the Forsham husband said he’d once seen a Rohmer film but still couldn’t understand what all the fuss was about. He doesn’t appeal to everyone, said Julia, who suddenly recalled seeing a Rohmer film with me a few years earlier. I tried to change the subject. The Forsham woman thought there was something sick and twisted in wanting to touch a minor’s knee. Her husband couldn’t agree more: “He likes the knee more than he likes the woman it belongs to. Fetishistic!” “My point exactly,” echoed his wife, “fetishistic.” Julia brushed the comment aside and told the Forshams’ son to keep his fingers off the Jell-O unless he was going to eat it, in which case he had to ask for it. In the kitchen she had described him to me as the most repellent child in the world. “Why didn’t you tell me?” she asked, turning to me, after giving the boy a second menacing stare. “We could have gone together.” “I went at the last minute,” I said. Was I going tonight? I didn’t think so, I replied, surprised at the total lack of hesitation with which I found myself lying to a woman who was one of my best friends. “Maybe you can bring Lauren along.”