“For two short flights?”
“These are not short. Only my legs and breath are, which make the stairs long. But you have no elevator car, don’t lie to me,” and something in Russian, “but I will still walk upstairs.”
“Dan,” Diana says, “you must meet this madman, but first plant those.” I didn’t know I still held them. Maybe I put them down, picked them up when I came out here. I go into the kitchen. Bell rings. I press it, put the wrapped flowers in a tall glass of water, get a glass of green wine at the bar, go to the cheese table and slice a piece of brie and introduce myself. Phil and his wife Jane. Bell rings. “Translate,” I say. “I’ll get it,” someone says near the kitchen. “Sculptors,” Phil says. “That so? What do you sculpt, or what with?” “Rubber,” Jane says. “Plastic,” Phil says, “but I really hate those questions, for my own idiosyncratic reasons, but understand why people ask them.” “Because they’re interested I guess,” I say. “But you actually sculpt with those materials?” Bell rings. “Oh no,” Jane says. “Molding, twisting — you know.” “Something like that for me too, but it’s too difficult — and again excuse my idiosyncrasies — for me to explain.” “Some art forms are tougher that way I suppose,” I say.
Someone uncorks and passes around a bottle of green wine. First glass I drank too fast. Doesn’t taste much different than the cheap American chablis I buy for myself by the jug. Room’s crowding up quickly. Coughing, smoking, phone and intercom ringing, somewhere a glass breaking, most people seem to know one another and a few exchange big hellos and hugs. “Yes, top floor, you just had to follow the noise,” Diana says on the phone, forefinger in her other ear. “Excuse me,” I say to Phil and Jane, “but I’ve done something wrong.” I go into the kitchen, unwrap the flowers and bring them in their glass to the cheese table. “You brought them for Diana?” Jane says. “How nice. Not even three months since summer and you really begin to miss them,” and she puts her nose into one of the corollas, closes her eyes and breathes. “Smell them, hon. Remind you of something?” Man at the table says to me “And what school do you teach at?” and I say “Me? No place. Would if I could but not much room for what I do. Except if you count junior high school here on a per diem basis, and in some subjects I know as much of as my kids,” and he says “For some reason I thought you said you taught in New York,” and he puts some cheese on a cucumber slice and leaves and I look around the table for a vegetable tray, don’t see any and say to Jane “I could really go for a carrot or celery stick,” and she looks at the table and says “I don’t think she’d mind much if you raided the icebox.” “Alan,” Diana shouts to a man walking in. I recognize him from his book jacket I’ve home. I think he’s wearing the same book jacket jacket and the same or similarly designed striped tie. Does very well. Front-page reviews, interviews on TV and in magazines and the news. Recently in the photocopy shop down my block I saw him on the cover of the free TV Shopper and read the article about him inside and learned what neighborhood restaurants and stores this “famous Westsider” likes to go to. Diana quickly introduces him to a few people and he says hello and waves to several others he knows and she leads him over to us. “I want you to meet two very dear old friends of mine, Jane and Philip Bender. They’re both incredible sculptors.” “I know their work, you don’t have to tell me,” Alan says. “Fact is I almost owned one of them.”
“Which one of us did you almost own?” Jane says, shaking his hand.
“I’m sorry. I just came from another party and my communication processes got bottled up. Which one of you works in plastic?”
“Didn’t he just say he knew our work well?” Phill says to me and I shrug and look to the side. Someone’s cigarette smoke’s coming my way. I hold my breath and look back. It’s broken by my head, a little of it goes in Jane’s face.
“…didn’t say ‘well.’ And if your wife or you hadn’t adopted the other’s surname, I’d know which one of you works in what much better.”
“Excuse me, sir, I didn’t — I hope you don’t think I was saying it aggressively. Just my sick sense of whatever you call humor again, which likes to work against me.”
“Same here — unaggressive, though no one could ever accuse me of humor. And whichever of those two media you do work in, let me say I admire it tremendously.”
“Thanks. And I think I can say the same for us for your work too — in all your literary forms.”
“Even the porno novels?”
“You don’t write those that I know of.”
“See? Told you I had no sense of humor.” They all laugh. I smile.
“And this is Daniel Krin, Alan,” Diana says, “before you get into an endless trialogue about art buying and inflated reputations and phalli and pornography. But if you are thinking of buying someone, you’d be wise to scoop up these two soon. Value of some of their older work has quadrupled.”
“She’ll say anything for a friend,” Jane says, “and because she knows we’re dying to go to Machu-Picchu.”
“Will she? — Hello, Mr. Krin.”
“How are you?” We shake hands.
“I’m fine thanks I guess, and you?” and laughs.
“Just an expression. ‘How goes, adios, I’m well, thank the Lord, by jove and gum.’”
“Of course. My bottled-up processes — this time the incoming. Seriously now,” to Phil and Jane, Diana nipping my elbow and slipping away, “and all pornography and priapic testimonials to the rear for the time being unless you’re lusting to discuss them, which one of you works in rubber?”
Diana’s greeting some people at the door or maybe they’re leaving. That can’t be her. She’s at the other side of the cheese table, behind a tall unused samovar, brushing crumbs off the cloth into her palm, taking my bouquet to the bar, dumping the crumbs into an ashtray and accepting a sip of wine from a man and sticking one of the flowers minus most of its stem into his lapel. Diana have a twin? I put on my glasses. Woman who doesn’t look like her much. Hair the same though. Graying, snipped short, shampooed sheen, and an almost duplicate purple turtleneck jersey. I listen for another minute, say “Pardon me, folks, I think I see over there my long lost brother,” and walk off. “What was his name again?” Alan says and Jane knows but Phil forgets. I meet her, though not yet. She was standing in the center of the room where I am now. I don’t know when she came in. I doubt she was here yet. Room’s very noisy and crowded now and was probably like that when she got here. I think I would have spotted her right away or soon after. My glasses were back in my pocket but she wasn’t that far away when she did come nearer where I needed them to see her. White coarse blouse buttoned to the neck, Russian-type blouse’s stiff inch-high collar, lace where the cuffs end and as a collar fringe, large unobscured forehead, lots of fine kind of copper-colored hair knotted on top of her head, long neck, bony cheeks, big wide-awake eyes that later turned out to be a sea-green, taller than most of the women there, long skirt, so I couldn’t see what sort of shoes she wore, but around five-nine. I suddenly get the call and set my glass on the bar and make my way to the bathroom, saying as I go “Personal emergency, please, in a rush,” relieved to find it free, also combed my hair in there and splashed water on my face and dried it, for it had become uncomfortably warm in the living room, won’t be too long now before I see her. Maybe she was at this moment approaching the stoop or climbing the steps. I didn’t ring her in. Didn’t ring in anyone since the beginning of the party. She must have rung the downstairs bell though. Or someone leaving or entering opened the door as she was coming up the stoop or about to ring and let her in or maybe the door had been left open intentionally, forgetfully or because of some door-check failure. By then there must have been too many umbrellas in the hall for the one holder. I wonder what Diana thought when she took my bouquet off the table and put it at the back of the bar away from the bottles and glasses. Glass he stuck them in is okay and more than enough if maybe too much water. But why’d he place it where hands on all four sides reaching every which way could easily spill it? Coatrack must be filled by now. Rubbers and boots lined up or strewn around the hallway floor and wall. Probably around this time that someone wrapped a woman’s coat around mine and my sweater got knocked to the floor or put some other place, which could be what helped me forget when I left that I’d come with one, being quite high by then and not automatically seeing it on the shelf above my covered coat. Don’t know why remembering I had an umbrella presented no problem, though probably because the holder was right outside the door. Bell rings. One every minute from the time I got to the party it seemed. Just about now I said to a man by the bar something like “You know, these recurrent bell-rings remind me of a Japanese play I recently read where the single principal in it is from start-to-finish answering ten different doors for hundreds of imaginary guests and talking to himself about who’s probably ringing and what person and group and then troop he just let in and found an unoccupied space for. And whom, if he sees her at the door, he’s going to do everything short of shooting to keep out.” The man I said this to, after relighting his pipe and looking as if he thought over what I said, says “I saw a play like that once. A short one, on a long double bill, and both by the same famous Rumanian, who I think became famous because of that play. But this one had two characters in it who talked to each other continuously.”