One night last week at Le Bernardin, Iris -- tossing her hair, lighting a cigarette and speaking in the usual breathless baby voice all that the same instant -- told me that Louis (her always-misbehaving ex) has just "shacked up with girl" he met on a recent business trip to Russia.
I forget what her name is but it's Russian, she's a real beauty. He bought her a diamond watch and a Chanel suit and a lot of other cool stuff. She has these eyes that when they look at you it's all over for your feelings, you're ready to do anything to please the girl or to impress her or even maybe just to spend a few more minutes with her eyes on you. I was over at Louis' place and she was just sitting there, nothing special, on the divan with one leg crossed over the other, bouncing her foot up and down, and it wasn't possible to pay attention to anything or anyone in the room but her. Louis is besotted -- calls her his fatal beauty, his princess, his doll, his kitty cat, his lie, his despair, his life, his death. I remember the name now. It's Olga. Eyes looking at you from under dark bangs, and that stunning beauty you can't rest after seeing, you can barely so much as breathe, you're a goner. She's such a little dove, such a sad Russian beauty.
I call up Louis that evening. A week later we're walking along the beach at Montauk, the three of us, and she and Louis are holding hands lightly -- she just places her fingers in his palm and lets him hold them. Louis is a big man; he eats well. He used to be handsome. He's a little on the heavy side now; he has flesh on his face that wobbles when he laughs or gets excited.
He tells a joke. Olga looks at him, squinting a little, from under her black bangs. She laughs a thick, vulgar laugh that startles you coming as it does from a doll like body.
She’s so old she barely recalls the fall of Communism. When she shuts her eyes, the eyeballs flicker visibly under the lids. For some reason, I suddenly imagine her wearing ballerina tights; sweat glistens on her neck, and the practice hall is silent but for rushed breathing and the squeak of ballet slippers on the parquet. Snow whirls against the chilled windows. A man in a worn black sweater claps his hands to signal the end of practice. She rushes to the changing room with the other girls, all as thin as storks. You can see the outline of her vertabrae when she bends to pick up a towel . . .
Louis catches up with me in the kitchen where I'm uncorking a bottle of Riesling. He gives me one of his heavy, damp hugs and a couple of sloppy Russian kisses -- he's been doing that since he and Olga started dating. He starts telling me about Olga's family, mother and father and grandmother -- what wonderful, plain, salt of the earth people they are, not criminals like his other Russian friends. He'd like to do things for them. I pours himself some of the wine and starts drinking as he leans against me and squeezes my elbow, talking and talking, yakety yakety yak yak. Olga drifs into the doorway and stands there. Louis turns to look at her, and she gives him a smile full of devastating Russian grief.
Louis laughs, grabs me by the waist, and presses his bulging stomach against me as I try to shove him away, and this whole charade is for Olga's benefit -- he's always trying to amuse her, like laughter will keep her from ever picking up her sparse things one day and walking out on him.
Olga smiles at Louis but not at me and leaves the kitchen. Louis lets go of me and I pick up my glass and sip to cover my confusion. He’s beaming. Isn't she just so gloriously beautiful? he keeps saying, shaking his head in that can't-believe-my-luck sort of way. To die for, I say. He crows in triumph. Yes! To die for! His eyes shine.
He grabs my elbow again. I gaze into his eyes as he tells me he wants to ask me a question. It’s an, er, hard thing to find the words for. He doesn’t want to sound, well, um, never mind, the point is . . .
Oh. You're offended, he says sadly when he's finished asking. No. I shake my head. I'm not. I lift the wine glass and drink. I've had almost half of the just uncorked Riesling already. Louis says, It sounds worse than it is. Really. I shrug. I’m trembling a little. I'm sure it does, I reply. But couldn't you, you know, think about it? I shake my head. No. No way. Louis lets go of my elbow and steps back, his shoulders collapsing. Well, just remember -- I was stinking drunk when I asked you to do this. We both laugh. And now, before I can stop the words from coming out of my mouth, I say I'll think it over.
You will?
I will.
Let me know as soon as you can. I'm sure you'll come to the right decision.
I stroll out onto the deck and find Olga posed against the railing, chin pressed to shoulder, like someone getting ready to play an invisible violin. The slender, graceful line she makes, standing like that against the sunset lit water, knocks the breath out of me. At that moment, something dark in me rises up into the spilling last light and says, Allelujia. Yes. Yes.
I know then I’ll never be able to pass up the chance to have Olga resplendently naked in my arms, even if it means tolerating Louis hovering over us with the Sony camcorder -- or, worse, deciding on impulse to join us in bed -- in what promises to be a truly memorable night of passion.
