Satiated intellectually and gastronomically, we headed for one of the more intimate lounges (all leather and wood, an orange acorn fireplace with stovepipe rising to the roof) and had the good fortune to find Foderman sitting alone by the fire. He spotted us the moment we came in, signaled us to join him, and immediately asked if we would like some brady. Mindful of the risk we were taking (his generosity might necessitate a similar gesture from us in the future), we sat with him and allowed as how we might all enjoy a little Courvoisier.
Foderman without Schwartz was bagels without lox. Deprived of his conversational foil, he said nothing, watching instead for a waiter, like a black man trying to hail a cab on Madison Avenue. It was David who decided he might as well try breaking the ice.
“Did you ski today?” he asked, a perfectly reasonable opening gambit, considering the fact that we were in the heart of America’s vast snow country.
“Yes, I did,” Forderman said. “Ahhh, here he is now.” The waiter, another Austrian import, padded up and listened intently, head cocked, as Foderman ordered the cognacs. Then he smiled in perfect imitation of Bittner, and went back to the bar. A heavy silence descended, threatening to smother the fire in the acorn.
“Where’d you ski?” I asked.
“Oh, all around,” Foderman said.
“Enjoy yourself?” David asked.
“No,” Foderman said. “It’s no fun skiing alone.”
“On the contrary,” Sandy said. “There are only two things a person can enjoy doing alone. And one of them is skiing.”
“What’s the other one?” David asked, and grinned.
“Reading, smart-ass.”
“I thought you were going to say masturbation,” Foderman said, and blinked.
We looked at each other.
Foderman cleared his throat.
“Well,” David said.
There was another silence, lengthier than the last.
“It’s a shame Dr. Schwartz broke his leg,” Sandy said.
“You said it,” Foderman said.
“Have you skied together before?” I asked.
“Oh, all the time.”
“Where do you go?”
“Vermont, mostly. We belong to a ski club. We get on a bus at Fordham Road in the Bronx, and it takes us right up to Manchester. Drinks on the bus and everything. We go almost every weekend.”
“Are you married?” Sandy asked.
“Manny and me? No, we’re just good friends,” Foderman said, and smiled at his own little joke. He sobered immediately and said, “We’re both bachelors. Neither of us has found the right girl yet.”
“How old are you?” David asked.
“Thirty-five. There’s still hope, huh?”
“Do you want to get married?” Sandy asked.
“Is that a proposal? If so, it’s the nicest one I’ve had all day,” Foderman said, and smiled again. The waiter arrived at that moment, and put the cognac snifters on the table. Foderman passed them around like an old man doling sweet wine to his children’s children. Rolling her glass between her palms, Sandy said, “are you a good skier, Dr. Foderman?”
“Seymour, please. Yes, I’m very good, if I say so myself.”
“How would you classify yourself?”
“Advanced Intermediate.”
“I see.”
“I’m not an expert, you understand. But I’ve been skiing for a long time now, and I can handle myself. Advanced Intermediate is what I am. I can come down any trail on the mountain. In control.”
“That’s very good,” Sandy said.
“Drink, drink, you’ll wear out the glass,” Foderman said, and raised his snifter. “L’chayim.”
“L’chayim,” Sandy said.
“L’chayim,” David said.
“L’chayim,” I said, and shrugged.
We all drank.
“Where did you people ski today?” Foderman asked.
“What were the names of the trails, David?”
“Foxglove, King’s Row...”
“Hoarfrost, Sunglade...”
“I came down those trails,” Foderman said. “They were very interesting. Fang’s Row was a bit icy, but I don’t mind ice. I used to ice skate a lot when I was a kid on Bronx Park East. Manny says I like skiing on ice better than snow.”
None of us said a word. To a good skier, ice, snow, rocks, grass, and broken glass are all one and the same. You ski them. Seymour Foderman was a professed Advanced Intermediate, a definition suspect in itself, similar to a garbage man calling himself a Sanitation Engineer. It was Sandy who decided to get off this boring conversational tack.
“Are you from the Bronx, Dr. Foderman?” she asked.
“Seymour. Yes. Born and raised there. Right now I live on Mosholu Parkway. Near DeWitt Clinton High School. Do you know it?”
“Where’s your office?” David asked.
“In Manhattan. Eighty-first and Park. Do you people like skiing on ice?”
There is no discouraging amateurs. I looked at Sandy, and Sandy looked at David, and David looked at me.
“Ice is nice.” David said.
“I like ice,” Sandy said.
“I like ice with a little scotch and soda,” I said.
“A very good skier I know,” Foderman said, marching in where angels, “told me that the only thing you have to remember about ice is not to try to turn on it. Just ride it out, he said. Keep the skis flat, don’t try to edge, just ride it out.” We were all staring at him now. “That’s what this very good skier told me.”
“He’s probably right,” David said.
“Has that been your experience?” Foderman asked.
“You should do one of two things if you hit a patch of ice,” Sandy said, leaning forward.
“Yes?” Foderman said.
“You should either keep the skis flat, don’t try to edge, just ride it out... ”
“Yes, that’s what this man told me.”
“Or else you should dig your edges in hard and make your turn.”
“Oh. He said not to turn.”
“Well, that’s up to you,” Sandy said.
“The choice is yours, you see,” David said.
“I suppose it’s a matter of choice,” Foderman said.
“Exactly,” I said.
“It would seem better, though, to just ride it out.”
“Mmm,” Sandy said.
“Not that I’m afraid of ice,” Foderman said.
“If you fall on ice,” David said, “it’s harder than if you fall on snow.”
“Especially if you land on your head,” I said.
“My uncle landed on his head once,” Sandy said.
“Skiing?” David asked.
“No.”
“What, then?” Foderman asked.
“We never found out,” Sandy said. “The accident deprived him of the power of speech.”
“That’s a pity,” Foderman said. “He probably injured something in the interior hemisphere. That’s what controls speech.”
“Yes, probably,” Sandy said.
“My aunt got kicked by a horse once,” I said.
“In the head?” David asked.
“No,” I said.
“Where, then?” Foderman asked.
“In Central Park,” I said.
Foderman laughed and said, “You three are regular cards. I’ll tell you the truth, I wouldn’t mind skiing with you tomorrow.”
I hadn’t recalled any of us extending an invitation, but it seemed Foderman had accepted it nonetheless. Before we could protest, he immediately said, “What time do you usually go out?”
“Early,” Sandy said.
“Very early,” David said. “We have an early breakfast, and off we go.”