Two women were approaching, one in her forties, the other in her twenties, and Jonathan moved to greet them.
“Sasha! Allison!” Jonathan said. He embraced them both. “Thanks for being here. It makes it so much easier to get through these things.”
You were terrific, it went great, they told him. Jonathan made the introductions.
“Sasha Petrof, Allison Meeker, this is Russell Peters, one of my good friends. Russ, Sasha is my editor, the person who has almost convinced me to share her delusion that I can write. And Allison’s her assistant, and she’s—well, she’s the person I depend on for everything.”
Both women were very good-looking. Sasha was lean and tall, chicly dressed; Allison was shorter and more voluptuous, a quality that seemed to embarrass her, and dressed more like a kid, but expensively. They both carried the same costly bag (Sasha was married to a Wall Street guy and Allison was the daughter of a Wall Street guy). Peter shook hands with them. Sasha’s fingers were narrow and he could feel the bones and knuckles. The skin was moisturized, but a little rough nevertheless. Shaking Allison’s hand, in contrast, was more like grasping a ripe plum. Peter noticed how in chatting with Jonathan they both had the same coded look, a look that was intended to be understood by Jonathan but not the other person standing there.
Sasha addressed Peter. “Allison and I were talking before. We hadn’t known that Jonathan’s mother had died when he was so young. Is that something he’s ever really talked about?”
“No,” Peter said. “No, he never has.”
“Did you know?”
“If you had asked me, I would have told you Jonathan’s mother was living.”
“Really? Jonathan, you’re so private, not even your friends …?”
Jonathan glanced at Peter. “No, I don’t talk about it … well, the cancer. I’ll tell you about it sometime, Sasha. I’m not sure what came over me tonight.”
They chatted a little bit more about Jonathan’s publicity schedule. Then Sasha made a whoop. How could she have forgotten! The review in the paper! She had called Jonathan but hadn’t reached him.
“Oh, that,” Jonathan said bashfully. “I guess it was okay.”
“It was just terrific!” said Sasha. “Some wonderful things. Really insightful.”
“Just so long as there’s a money quote,” said Jonathan, skillfully making the cynical crack of a noncynic.
“Oh, there was! There was!” said Sasha, laughing. Allison, her lips moist, glowed with awe.
After some more talk, Jonathan said, “Well, we need to get downtown for dinner. I guess we should get going.”
“Yes, I’d better run home,” said Sasha. “You were great, Jonathan. Really great. We’ll talk.” She embraced him and gave him an all but undetectable extra squeeze.
“Bye, Jonathan,” said Allison. “You were great.” She embraced him and gave him an all but undetectable extra squeeze.
In the cab downtown, Jonathan leaned his head against the seat and let out a sigh of exhaustion. He started talking. “Do you have any idea how hard it is to be screwing both your editor and her assistant? Christ, it’s complicated. Allison … God … Allison. She has this way of lifting her legs up and putting her heels on your back and sort of massaging it with them. The thing about Allison—God. She’s young and not that experienced, but it’s the enthusiasm. The zest. She just loves it. Though, of course, in the hands of the master … She’s such a kid, unsure, and I so dig that, you know?”
Peter, actually, didn’t know.
“But then when Sasha is tough and businesslike it’s also one of the most exciting things. ‘No, Tom, I will not give him a two-book contract!’ I remember once we were, uh, in conference and she was running late. She had herself completely put back together in about two minutes and was all business. I just wanted to grab her and start all over again. I love the way her hands feel, sort of corrugated.”
The cab proceeded down Park Avenue South, with its disturbingly narrow “parks.”
“But, you know, there have been some real close calls, with both of them. And it’s not only that. I have to remember which one I’ve said what to, and when all three of us are together, there’s the chance that somebody is going to make a slip. I mean, usually it’s only two people out of three, but here it’s all of us! Then when I call for Sasha I get Allison, and of course I’ve got to give her some of the old okeydoke. ‘Oh God, Allison, you are so beautiful.’ And then she switches me to Sasha, and immediately I’ve got to go through it with her. ‘Oh, God, Sasha, I just can’t stop thinking about you, I think it’s the backs of your knees …” Jonathan looked over at Peter with a leer. “All true by the way,” he said before continuing. “Then back to Allison to make the appointment, and I have to hope she won’t be mooning when Sasha brings her something to type or some damn thing.” He shook his head wearily. “Yep, it’s hard. Especially with Mags, too, you know, that chick from the fancy soup place? Old Maggie Mae. Catholic girls. Jesus. There’s nothing like seeing the crucifix bouncing around their collarbone. Sometimes she clenches it in her teeth.”
All the while that Jonathan spoke, Peter had been staring at a tear in the back of the taxi’s front seat. It was vaguely K-shaped and had been covered with dark red tape, a shade lighter than the rubbery purplish seat back itself. The edges of the tape were gummy and dirty. The cab, making the usual sudden starts and stops, jounced Peter around, but he kept staring at this cicatrix. His brow and lips and nose and chin were all shut up like a drawstring pouch. He really had no thoughts about what he was hearing, or rather his many thoughts formed an undifferentiated, scowling black cloud in his mind. It was all disgusting and infuriating. This was not because, in general, Peter was puritanical about such activities as Jonathan described. Over the years, he had listened to his friend’s accounts again and again, and while they were often repellent, Peter could not help but find it fun and exciting to hear them, and to admire Jonathan in the way that all men, in truth, admire another’s promiscuity.
For some time, though, Peter’s reaction had been more judgmental when Jonathan talked like this. “I don’t suppose,” he said finally, “that the fact that you’re married makes it any more complicated.”
Jonathan said nothing for a moment and then looked over at Peter with a kind, condescending expression. “Ah, Peter,” he said. “When you’re older, you’ll understand these things better.”
Peter continued to study the ill-repaired gash.
“Don’t sweat it, old sport,” Jonathan said, putting his hand on Peter’s shoulder. “Nothing’s going to happen. Nobody’s going to get hurt.” He laughed. “I’m going to be sent to hell, is all.”
Peter and Jonathan entered the restaurant. It was small and crowded, with stark décor and very large windows.
“You are the first to arrive,” the maître d’ said. “Would you like to sit at the bar, or shall I escort you to your table?”
They went to the table and ordered drinks, a martini for Jonathan and a beer for Peter. Jonathan asked for the wine list, and as he studied it he made a running commentary. Sipping his beer, Peter began to undergo the physiological changes that he always experienced when he was anticipating the appearance of Jonathan’s wife: his heart began to pound, his arteries throbbed, he felt pressure in the hollows of his hands, he swallowed several times, his stomach did flips. He imagined that he would feel the same way just before his first skydiving lesson. What was ridiculous was that he had been in this situation a thousand times, so it made no sense to still have these