Despite Andrei’s immense posthumous success under my byline, my own work has been consistently rejected by publishers: “Let’s not oversaturate the market”; “We’re not sure how to categorize this one”; a litany of insulting excuses… until today, that is.
I feel like celebrating, but I can’t think of anything appropriate. Take Tamara out for lunch? I fantasize further: maybe we could even go on vacation. Spend a few weeks in Venice. I’ve always wanted to see Venice. We can certainly afford it.
But we never travel. We never do anything together. We stay here, slaves to our habits and our grief.
Besides, I would never dare upset the fragile equilibrium of our tacit agreement with even anything as mundane as a lunch invitation.
Just then, Tamara walks into my study. She’s dishevelled, clearly having just woken. She’s wearing black panties and a white camisole that contrasts vividly with her skin. I’m still visited by images of our fantasy holiday; seeing her – so beautiful, so subtly out of my reach, the constant pain that haunts her imbuing her with an aura of delicate fragility that I find, despite myself, overwhelmingly arousing – I catch my breath in admiration.
She doesn’t notice, or she ignores me. Does it really matter which?
Nevertheless, for a second, I even half convince myself – both fearing it and desiring it – that she’ll propose an outing or even converse with me. But no. The inevitable words, full of mournful loss and despairing love, come out of her mouth: “Read to me.” Not even waiting for a response, she heads towards the living room.
I rise from my desk, my hand resting for a moment on the third volume of Andrei’s Proustian trilogy, but then, emboldened by my agent’s good news, I mischievously and pridefully grab a copy of my novel manuscript instead. Tamara won’t know the difference.
I join Tamara on the couch, and she snuggles up to me. She smells delicious. I nibble on her bare shoulder, and she moans, grabbing my hand and rubbing it against her breasts. She nuzzles my neck and whispers, “Read.”
Momentarily, I feel guilty for deceiving her. But I start to read my novel, and I quickly get seduced by the allure of my own words, my own characters.
I’m only a few pages into the manuscript when Tamara suddenly gets up.
She mumbles, “I’m tired…” – heading back to the bedroom, not even glancing at me, shutting the door.
For the next five days – after I stood him up for Tamara – Andrei didn’t answer my calls. Was my friendship ultimately as meaningless to him as his dalliances with his glamourous girlfriends? Had I finally suffered his inevitable rejection?
Tamara called me, and we saw each other once. We went for a walk on Mount Royal. She held my hand. She sensed my dark mood and did not push.
Her goodbye hug conveyed less promise than her first; she asked me to call her soon. Translation: if you want me, show it.
I mumbled that I would, knowing that I’d made a mess of what should have been a great evening. I had been much too distracted by my anxiety about Andrei.
Finally, I showed up at his apartment without calling. He hated it when people did that.
When I got there, there was a girl with him. She was stunning: the kind of face that stared back at you from magazine covers; long, shapely legs; delicate toes; toenails painted bright orange peeking out from elegant high-heeled sandals. She was crying.
I ignored her. I didn’t say anything. I stood firm and did my best to stare Andrei down. I needed to prove to him that I aspired to be his equal.
He surprised me. He smiled at me, turned towards the girl, and said, “Get out. Can’t you see that my friend is here now?”
She opened her mouth to say something, but then closed it sharply, visibly trying to hold on to some degree of dignity.
She didn’t even glance at Andrei, but she shot me a disdainful sneer as she hurried past.
The rain never lets up. I stay in all day. Tamara never leaves the bedroom. I hear her use the adjoining bathroom a few times.
Finally, at midnight, I open the bedroom door. I get undressed and slip into bed.
Tamara is feigning sleep. I know her body language and the rhythms of her breathing too intimately to be fooled.
We do not press hands against each other’s chest tonight. We do not whisper absurdities to each other. We do not touch. We do not have sex.
We’ve never skipped our ritual before; in sickness and in health.
A despairing loneliness chews on my innards, chasing sleep away.
Tamara gets up in the middle of the night. I hear her bustle in the kitchen. When she’s done eating, she climbs back into bed, carefully not touching me, and falls asleep immediately.
I stay awake until dawn.
I realize that the rain has finally stopped, the clouds finally gone. Sunlight hits Tamara’s bare shoulder. I yearn to kiss it, to taste her. But I dare not.
I didn’t know whether or not to believe Andrei, but I didn’t question him, didn’t push my luck. I was too relieved, thrilled, exhilarated that our friendship was still intact. He claimed not to care that I had stood him up. He hadn’t been in touch because he’d spent the last few days with the woman he’d just thrown out of his apartment. He had known it would only last a few days.
Suddenly, it seemed so egocentric to think that Andrei would have been affected by my absence the other night. I chastised myself for my arrogance and self-importance.
Nevertheless, I told him all about Tamara. Was it him or me who suggested that we all three get together for a meal? I did, I think, but was it only because he wanted me to?
I called her from his apartment; we would meet there on the weekend, and he would cook for both of us. Already, my mouth watered. Andrei was a fabulous cook.
We spent the rest of the night as usuaclass="underline" we pored over his latest writings until sunup.
I am running. The morning sun spurs me on. I am exhausted from my sleepless night. My muscles are complaining because of the days of inactivity I imposed on them during the recent rains.
But I run, nevertheless. I don’t even notice where. I just run and sweat.
I come back home. I look at the clock. It’s nine fifteen. I’ve been out running for three hours. I walk through the bedroom to get to the shower although I don’t have to. I could use one of the other bathrooms. But I want to gaze at Tamara.
She’s not in bed.
I call out her name, look through every room.
She’s not here. She’s never awake this early.
I go out again.
I run.
I run until the pain and exhaustion is all that I can feel. I just run; and sweat – so much that it’s impossible to distinguish the tears from the sweat.
I knew, of course, that whatever spark I ignited in Tamara’s imagination would be dimmed by the greater conflagration that Andrei would provoke. I was not wrong.
They were beautiful together, but I also knew that Andrei would soon tire of her.
Pathetically, I fantasized about consoling her after Andrei inevitably broke her heart. Fearfully, I never spoke to Tamara – about my feelings, about Andrei who discarded lovers like flakes of dead skin. Boldly, I imagined telling Andrei he had no right to use Tamara like a disposable mirror, when I could love her more truly than he ever would. Stupidly, I confronted Andrei in such a way.
It would be inaccurate to say that we had a fight. I said my piece, and he just laughed at me. I got angrier, and he just laughed harder.
“You’re my friend,” he said, between guffaws. “But go home now. When you get over your anger, come back, and we’ll work on one of your stories.” He was still laughing.