He dropped me home by cab. Before we parted, he handed me his card, and said, “If you wouldn’t mind, I would be grateful if you could phone me tomorrow to tell me if you’re all right. It would ease my conscience.”
“Okay,” I said, and looked at his card. The name on it was Nathaniel Powers and underneath were the words: Etiquette Expert.
“What’s your name, by the way?” he asked.
“Anna Graham,” I replied, and tried to think of some suitable parting words. “Thank you” came to mind, but felt strange, inappropriate somehow. It struck me as something one said regarding a nice experience. One could, of course, argue that his rescue of me was a nice experience, especially for me. But still.
So, as I stood in front of my building, watching him get back in the cab, all I said was good-bye.
Chapter Four
The next day, I just wanted to sleep, I just wanted to stay unconscious. The phone rang twice, and I let my machine answer. The first call was from a friend; the second was from my boss at Copies Always, wondering where I was.
The phone woke me up a third time, a few hours later. When I heard Damon leaving a message, I picked up. I was barely awake, and he asked why I sounded so strange.
“I was sleeping,” I said.
“In the middle of the day?”
“Yeah.”
“Is something wrong? You don’t sound well. I’m sure it’s my fault. I feel terrible about last night. I was rude. I abandoned you at the nightclub.”
“Yeah, but it doesn’t matter. It’s nothing, compared to …”
“Compared to what?”
“Compared to other things that can happen in life.”
“Like what? What happened?”
“Nothing. Nothing special. Just … nothing.”
“Tell me. What happened? I can tell something did.”
“Oh, I was just … slightly … attacked. Last night.”
“Attacked!”
He made me tell him the story, which I did as briefly as possible, so I could go back to sleep.
Then he said, “I wish I could have saved you myself. Why was I not there for you? I should have been there for you. Can you imagine if something had happened to you? Can you imagine the guilt you would have left me with?”
Once again I found myself subtly hurt by what he said, but I ignored it, out of exhaustion.
“Is there anything I can do for you?” he asked.
“No, it’s okay, I’m very well.”
“All right, I’ll let you get some rest. But I do want to see you again. Is that okay with you?”
At the mention of “rest,” I dozed off and missed what came after.
He shouted “Anna!” in my ear.
I asked him to repeat his question.
“Is it okay with you if we see each other again?” he said.
His syntax was too complex for me, at that moment. “Can you repeat that, more simply?” I asked.
He was silent, and then said, “I want to see you. Do you want to see me again?”
“I can’t remember,” I mumbled. “But tomorrow I’ll remember if I wanted to. Okay?”
“Okay. Sleep well,” he said, and hung up.
I fell asleep so quickly that I almost missed noticing how wonderful it was to be too tired to care about something one cared about too much.
When I woke up later, it was too late to call Nathaniel, as I had promised him. I felt guilty. I would call him tomorrow and amply make up for the oversight. I took a sleeping pill and went back to bed.
The next morning I was extremely awake and alert, unpleasantly so, in fact; painfully aware of everything that had happened to me, down to the last, horrid detail. I stayed in bed for forty-five minutes to straighten out my thoughts and figure out how I felt about things. I would see Damon again, since he wanted to, but things would have to change. He’d have to open up a bit. I would see Nathaniel too, if he wanted to. I’d thank him, and, who knew, in addition to saving me, he might succeed in distracting me, which, in the state I was in, was not necessarily the easier task.
I went to work at Copies Always and called Nathaniel during my lunch break. We had dinner that evening. He was fun to be with, much more straightforward than Damon. He told me about his etiquette expertise. People call him when they are in a crisis and urgently need to know about some rule or other. His etiquette hot line is a 900 number that costs $3.95 per minute, the average length of a call being six minutes. I asked him if that was all he did in life. No, he said; he also played the cello. I was thrilled: my favorite instrument. After dinner, we walked over to his place so that he could play it for me. When we arrived at his building, instead of following him up to his apartment, I sighed and said it was such a beautiful evening, and asked him if he would mind bringing his cello down instead, so that he could play some for me outside.
“You’re cautious and wise,” he said. “I’ll bring it down.”
We sat on a bench under some trees. He played me his own compositions. They were unusual, very beautiful and strange; sometimes even sinister.
When he had finished, I said, “An etiquette expert who’s an expert cellist. Funny combination.”
“You think so?”
“I think so. Is this all you do in life?”
He shook his head and said “No,” suddenly serious, almost gloomy. He took a ticket out of his coat pocket and handed it to me. “Tomorrow night, if you’re free, and interested.”
“What is this?”
“Why spoil the surprise? Although honestly, I doubt anything could spoil the surprise.”
The following night I went to the address on the ticket. To my astonishment, the ticket I was holding was my admission to a show of male strippers. Perhaps Nathaniel was just going to watch the show with me. Perhaps this was the third thing he liked to do in life: watch men strip. I held on to this hypothesis until I no longer could: there were no men in the audience.
From a purely objective point of view, he was very good. He had everything those men are supposed to have. He was one of the best. He went about it professionally, the audience seemed very pleased with him, and yet, I — who knew him a little better than the rest of the women — suspected, even sensed, that his heart wasn’t in it. But he put on a good act. There was a radiant smile on his face, much of the time. He rolled his hips energetically and strutted around the stage in apparent good fun.
Afterward, we went to a bar. I told him I had enjoyed the show, that I thought he was good. My critique was limited to remarking, “You dance well.” I did not feel comfortable expressing any of my other opinions, such as, “You rolled your hips wonderfully. You are very sensual.” Probably the most coveted compliment would have been, “You turned me on.” Although, on second thought, I didn’t get the impression this was the type of thing he was breathlessly waiting to hear. At least not in connection to his stripping. With regard to his cello playing, it would have gone over better, I think.
Later, I said to him, “Etiquette expert, expert cellist, male stripper. Are you hiding any more professions up your sleeve?”
A cloud swept over his face. “Yes. There is something else.” He slid a hand up his sleeve and took out a piece of paper. He held it up between his index and middle fingers, and said, “I always hide a profession up my sleeve.” He flipped the paper over. It was blank on both sides. He took out a pen, scribbled something on it, and handed it to me.
On the paper was an address, specifying the third floor, and underneath he had written “My guest,” and had signed his name at the bottom.
He then said, “If you’re interested and free. Tomorrow evening. At seven.”