“Because of Gretchen?”
“Gretchen would have driven me to it, not stopped me. Because of Gretchen, seriously!”
“I was just curious.”
Then, after a pause: “For your nymphormation, namphibalence strikes women too.”
“And do you feel any now?” I asked, delighting in my own boldness, knowing that she’d know exactly what I was referring to, “because right now I feel absolutely none,” I added.
“I know you don’t.” This was the closest she had ever come to me.
“How do you know?”
“Because I just do.”
“You don’t miss a beat, do you?”
“No. But then that’s why you like me?”
“Remind me never to have anything to do with women who never miss a beat.”
“When do I start reminding you?”
“Start now. No, not now. Now is too lovely and I’m having such a good time.”
And then, before I could add anything more, came the one gesture that could change lives. She brought her hand to my face ever so slowly and, with the back of it, caressed my face on both sides.
“I’m lying so very, very low, you’ve no idea. Not like your typical French movie, I’m afraid. In magazine lingo, I’m this close to being not a well person,” she said, bringing her thumb as close to her forefinger as possible.
“Perhaps you shouldn’t read magazines.”
She let the comment pass.
“Can I say something?”
“By all means,” I said, feeling a knot tightening in my stomach.
“I’d be so wrong for anyone these days,” she added, meaning for you.
I looked at her.
“At least you’re honest. Are you honest?”
“Seldom.”
“That’s honest.”
“Not really.”
After that, people began to interrupt us, and unavoidably Clara’s attention was drawn to the others in the greenhouse, which was when she reminded us of the Midnight Mass.
•
We arrived at the Cathedral of St. John long after Mass had started. None of us minded being late. All we did was join the thick crowd bottlenecking the entrance and then just stood there, watching people file through the nave looking for an empty spot among those who were already seated and taking the chalice. The atmosphere was dense with candlelight, music, banners, and the shuffle of infinite footsteps working their way up and down the central aisle. “We’re staying ten minutes, not more,” said Clara as she and I went as far as the cordoned-off ambulatory, then back the way we’d come, squeezing through the crowd, finally running into those of our group who were headed toward the transept. “Runcible Jews,” she said, meaning all of us. We found a tiny free corner to lean on in one of the vaulted chapels and stared at the tourists, as we listened to a New Agey organ piece struggling to sound inspirational.
Perhaps it was the combination of Clara, church, snow, music, our romance with France, and the votive tapers we each lit in silent wish-making that made me think of Eric Rohmer’s films. I asked Clara if she’d ever seen his films. No, never heard of him. Then she corrected herself. Wasn’t he the one where all that people did was talk? Yes, the very one, I replied. I told her there was a Rohmer retrospective playing on the Upper West Side. She asked where. I told her. “To some of these tourists it must be magical indeed, coming all the way to New York City from who knows where and stepping into this Midnight Mass,” she said. She’d been coming here as far back as she could remember. I pictured her with her parents, then schoolmates, lovers, friends, now me. “One day they’ll open up the transept and finish building this cathedral.” I remembered reading somewhere that the cathedral had run out of funds, fired its stonecutters, its masons, put away their tools. In a hundred years they might — but then might not — start rebuilding. “The man who’ll lay the last stone here isn’t even born yet.” These were the party girl’s last words before rounding everyone up and herding us to the main portal. It put things in perspective, I thought. The gas jets of a century ago and the last stonecutter a century from now. Made me feel very, very small — our quags, our party, our unspoken darts and parries, our night on the terrace watching the beam pick its way through this silver gray night as we spoke of eternity, in one hundred years, who’d know, who’d want to know, who’d care? I would. Yes, I would.
On our way back through the snow, she and someone from the party whom I hadn’t met yet darted ahead, holding hands, then started throwing snowballs at each other. There was no traffic headed uptown, which was why we all walked on Broadway itself, feeling like privileged pedestrians reclaiming their city. Finally, when we were about to cross Straus Park, Clara came back to me, put her arm under mine, and insisted that she and I walk through the park, her favorite spot in the world, she said. Why? I asked. Because it was in the middle of everything but really nowhere, just elsewhere — tucked away, safe, nothing touches it, a private alcove where you come to turn your back on the world. Or to lie low, I said, trying to make fun of her, of us — even the statue of Memory was lying low, she said. Indeed, the statue was lost in thought, drifting elsewhere, wrapped in Hopkins’s wiry and white-fiery and whirlwind-swiveled snow. I want a strong, ice-burning shot of vodka, she said as we were leaving the park. And then I want something sweet, like dessert. But yes, like Hopkins, she added. Why am I so happy tonight? I wanted to ask. Because you’re falling in love with me and we’re watching it happen, the two of us together. In slow, slow motion. Who’d know? you ask. I know.
•
We all crammed in the elevator, dropped our coats at the coat check, and rushed upstairs, back into the greenhouse. Our tables had been cleaned and were laid out for dessert and more drinks. After vodka was poured for everyone, I resolved to wait awhile and after the second round of desserts began to make signs that it was time for me to go. It was already long past two in the morning. The more I feigned veiled uneasiness to signal my imminent departure, the more I felt compelled to hasten it. Perhaps all I wanted really was for Clara to notice and ask me to stay.
Eventually she did. “Are you really leaving?” as if it was something she couldn’t have imagined unless she’d thought of it first.
“What, leaving already?” exclaimed Pablo. “But you’ve just arrived.”
I smiled benignly.
“I”—and there was a loud emphasis on the I—“will pour him another drink.” This was Pavel. “Don’t want you leaving on an empty stomach.”
“We certainly don’t want that,” added Beryl.
“So are you staying or you’re leaving?” asked Pablo.
“Staying,” I conceded, knowing that I wasn’t conceding, since I was doing exactly what I wanted.
“Finally, a decision,” said Clara.
How I loved these people, this greenhouse, this tiny island away from everyone and everything I knew. This shelter from time itself. It could last forever.
“Here,” said Pavel, offering me a large snifter. Just when I was about to take it from him, he withdrew it ever so slightly, and as I got closer to take it, he applied a kiss to my cheek. “I had to,” he said loud enough for everyone to hear. “Besides, it’ll make him so jealous, and I love Pablito when he gets jealous.”
“I must instantly apply the antidote,” said Beryl. “The question is: will he let me?”
“He might.”
“Oh, he definitely might,” said Clara, with implied indifference that unmoored me totally.
“Well, before I plunge, I had better ask,” tittered Beryl.
“It’s not you he wants. But then that’s why he’ll let you kiss him the way she kissed you, big frontal mit frotting too.” Rollo again.