Girl in the Moonlight (14 page)

She nodded her head. “Yes.”

“You know, I still love you,” I said. “I never stopped.”

“Don’t, Wylie. Please.”

“No. You told me that I would forget you, but I haven’t. I don’t care if you’re getting married. I will always love you.”

She stepped forward and kissed me passionately, quickly.

“Good night, Wylie,” she said. “Thank you.”

I stood there watching her walk away. My disregarded words still hanging in the air, the taste of her still on my lips.

O
N THE SCALE BETWEEN LOVE AND LUST, THERE ARE MANY
stops. It is nearly impossible to define
love,
in English at least, because its definition, not to mention its place within our culture, is so broad. Unlike the Eskimo’s famous fifty words for snow, in English the word
love
means everything from how a person may feel about chocolate cake to the devotion a couple may feel after many years of marriage.

Then there is maternal love, sexual love, patriotic love, aesthetic love, and much, much more besides. When John Lennon sang “All you need is love,” he was playing it safe.
Love
can mean just about anything. It is a word of infinite nuance, but for that very reason also has a stunning inadequacy. The ancient Greeks had four words for love:
eros,
for physical love;
agape,
for spiritual love;
philia,
for social love, and
storge,
for familial love. Even that doesn’t seem like enough though.

Lust, however, is love’s younger sibling. It is uncomplicated, straightforward. It relies on only one thing: egotistical desire. Lusting after something means wanting to possess it whether or
not it wants to be possessed. Certainly, it is possible to desire an inanimate object, such as a car or a painting, but mostly lust is physical. The hunger one human feels for another.

As with all desire, there are gradations of intensity. There are the thousand small lusts we feel every day. A man may spot a pretty girl sitting by herself at a bar, and, for a moment, he lusts after her, wonders what she would be like naked, what size her nipples are, what her smell would be like. And then he loses interest as the conversation turns to a different topic. These lusts are easily forgotten. There are also grander lusts. Lusts that upend civilizations, destroy marriages and lives. Zeus’s lust for Europa, Paris’s lust for Helen. Later, Lancelot and Guinevere. Tristan and Iseult. Abelard and Héloïse. Invariably lust that is fulfilled seems to end badly. After all, there is a reason it is considered a sin.

The feelings I had for Cesca lay between lust and love. There is no question I lusted after her. For days after I would see her I could think of nothing else. I would lay awake at night and masturbate with her image in my head, wishing she were with me. I did not do this with every pretty girl I knew. There were girls, and later women, who were extremely attractive, some even beautiful, but none of them affected me in quite the same way Cesca did.

Why the brain fixates on one person instead of another is a mystery. Our synapses fire, our hormones surge, our hearts beat faster. Granted, Cesca was exceptionally beautiful, but that wasn’t it entirely. There was something else about her that drew me to her as much as her beauty did. From the very first minute I saw her before I fell out of the tree, something inside me knew that in some indiscernible way she would be inextricably tied to my life. It was like tasting a food for the first time and not only liking it but recognizing it, as though in a past life it had been your favorite dish. That was how I felt about Cesca: As though I had already known her and loved her for many years.

What I didn’t know, of course, was whether she felt the same way about me. There were times when I thought it might be possible, that maybe she loved me too. Other times I felt that loving Cesca as I did indicated that there was something flawed about me. What was it that attracted me so deeply to her? Why was I so willing to love someone who caused me such pain? Someone who was willful, stubborn, selfish—but also capable of great warmth, loyalty, and vivacity. By fixating on her, did I render myself emotionally unavailable to other potential relationships? Or was I simply like the stubborn gambler who believes that by always betting on the same number, one day I will hit the jackpot?

It was in December during my sophomore year. Returning after dinner one evening, I found a piece of paper slipped under my door. We had a communal telephone on the floor and took messages for each other. “Call Cesca,” the note read, followed by a Manhattan phone number.

“Carlyle Hotel,” answered a voice on the other end. I knew the Carlyle. It was not far from our old apartment. It had a famous bar with paintings of animals on the wall. Bobby Short sang there at night. My parents had taken me once years ago.

Confused, I said, “I’d like to speak to Cesca Bonet, please.”

“One moment, please.” Silence. Then, “I’m sorry, sir. We have no guest here under that name. Might there be another name?”

I thought. What was the name? “How about Oppenheim? Gavin Oppenheim?”

“Thank you, sir. Connecting you now.”

The phone rang. There was no answer. “I’m sorry, sir. There doesn’t seem to be an answer,” interrupted the clerk. “Would you like to leave a message?”

“No. Please let it ring some more.”

Finally, Cesca answered.

“Hello, Cesca? It’s Wylie.”

“Wylie,” she said. Her voice sounded panicked. “I’ve been waiting for you to call. I left you a message hours ago.”

“I know. I just got it. I was out. Are you all right?”

“Yes. I don’t know. I’m so confused. Can you come over? Where are you? I need to see you.”

I hesitated. My college was two hours away.

“Please come. I’ll wait.” She gave me her room number.

It was nearly nine on a Tuesday night, and I had classes the next day and an early morning training run with the heavyweight crew. “Of course. I’ll come. I’ll be there as soon as I can.”

“Thank you.”

I sped down the Merritt Parkway. I still had my old pickup. The roads were empty, and I made good time. Less than two hours after I had spoken with her, I was driving through the familiar streets of the East Seventies, and, not wanting to waste time hunting for a parking spot, I put my truck into the garage next to the hotel. I checked my wallet and hoped I had enough to cover it. I would also need to buy gas.

Just before eleven, I walked into the empty lobby. No one challenged me, so I went to the elevator and took it to her floor. At the door, I rang and then knocked. There was no answer. I rang again, leaning on the buzzer. Once. Twice. Finally Cesca came to the door. Her eyes were bleary.

“You came.” Her voice thick.

“I said I would.”

“Sorry. I fell asleep.”

I followed her into the suite. There was a bedroom on the right. We went into a little sitting room. There were boxes and bags everywhere.

She sat on a sofa. A table in front of her had an empty vodka bottle and a full ashtray on it. She was wearing only a long dark T-shirt. Her legs and feet were brown and bare. Red toenails.
When she uncrossed her legs, I could see a glimpse of white lace.

“Do you want a drink?” she asked. “I have more vodka in the kitchen.”

“Sure.”

She stood and wove to the little kitchenette. I heard her grabbing ice from an ice maker. The sound of ice falling on the floor. Then, “Oh shit.”

“Can I help?” I called.

“No. Everything’s fine.”

She returned carrying two glasses filled with vodka and sat next to me on the couch, where she lit a cigarette.

“Thank you for coming. I didn’t realize how late it was.”

“I was happy to come. I was worried about you. You sounded terrible on the phone. What’s the matter?”

She leaned forward and buried her face in her hands. “Oh God. I’m such a mess.”

I put my hand on her back. “What’s the matter?” I asked again.

She began to sob.

“Cesca?”

“I don’t want to get married.”

“Why not?”

Another sob. “I don’t love him.”

“What do you mean?”

“Gavin. I like him. He’s rich. Good-looking. He treats me well. We have great sex. But I’m not in love with him.”

“Where is he now?”

“Who fucking knows? I can’t remember. Europe. Australia? He travels all the fucking time. This is his apartment. I’ve been hiding out here for a week, not wanting to see anyone. He’s never here.”

“When did you talk to him last?”

“Yesterday. No, two days ago, I think. I can’t remember.”

“Did you ever love him?”

She leaned back and took a sip of her drink. “No,” she answered, shaking her head. “No, I don’t think so.”

“So why did you agree to marry him?”

“Oh, I don’t know,” she groaned. “I suppose it seemed like a good idea at the time.”

“But not anymore?”

“No.”

“Does he love you?”

“I don’t know. I guess so. At least, he tells me he does.”

“But you don’t feel like he does?”

“How do you know when someone loves you? I mean, really know. Does it mean they treat you differently? Are they kinder to you? More patient? More honest? I really don’t know. You know what I think it means? I think it just means that you lie more to people. You pretend more to spare them pain until one day you can’t lie and pretend anymore and your real feelings come out and then it’s all over. My parents were in love and looked what happened. Your parents too. And don’t even get me started on Uncle Roger. The only perfect relationship I’ve ever seen is my grandparents’. But I don’t know that for a fact either. They come from a different generation. My grandfather never hid anything from my grandmother. She knew everything because he told her, and she accepted it because what choice did she have? Back then, people married for life. They were braver.”

“And you don’t think that Gavin and you can be that brave?”

“I know I can’t. And I don’t want to get married to someone who I have to lie to. When we’re together, he’s always so polite, so considerate, but I know he’s not telling me everything either. Why get married just to be miserable?”

“Then don’t.”

“It’s not as simple as that. I was nearly married once before,
and I called the wedding off. That was awful. I promised myself I’d never do that again.”

“So what are you going to do?”

“I don’t know. It’s so fucked up.” She lit another cigarette.

I sat there silently for several moments.

“So why am I here?”

She looked at me. “You’re here because I trust you. For some reason, you’re the only person I’ve ever met who has never judged me. Even my family. My mother would be furious. Gavin’s handsome, rich, charming. He’s also family. My third cousin or something. I don’t know.” She waved her hand vaguely in the air and took another drink. “Whatever.”

I reached out for her hand and gently massaged it, stunned by her words, grateful for them.

“So what do you think I should do, Wylie? Where did you get that name, anyway? Wylie, Wylie. It’s a hell of a funny name. It’s like being named Sly or Tricky, isn’t it? Are you sly or tricky, Wily Wylie?”

“It’s an old family name. From my mother’s side.”

“An old family name. Aren’t you grand? We don’t have any old family names in our family. We’re a new family. I’m getting another drink. Excuse me.”

When she returned, she sat on the couch next to me, her feet tucked up under her legs, and asked, “So what should I do, Tricky Wylie?”

“Well, would you consider marrying me?”

She laughed and put her hand on my cheek. “You’re so sweet. But I’m trying to get out of a marriage, not into one.”

“Okay, is there anyone else you’d rather marry?”

“No. I don’t want to get married. The whole idea scares the crap out of me.”

“So what brought all this on now? The wedding’s months away, isn’t it?”

“Yes, but all the planning. I received samples of stationery yesterday. Jesus. That’s when it hit me. I thought, I can’t go through with this.”

“Well, it seems to me that you’ve only got two choices: marry Gavin or not. If you don’t want to, then you should tell him as soon as possible so you don’t drag things out.”

“Fuck, I don’t want to think about it,” she groaned and lay sideways on the couch. Then, sitting up: “Am I a bitch? Am I a bitch for wanting to marry someone for love?”

“No, of course not.”

“Wouldn’t you want to marry someone for love?”

“My offer still stands.”

She smiled. “Of course it does. Dear, sweet Wylie. Maybe I should take you up on your offer. Would you like that, Tricky Wylie?”

This time she leaned over and kissed me on the mouth. Her breath tasted like vodka and cigarettes. She was on top of me. We kissed on the couch for several minutes before she stood up and said, “Come with me,” and led me by the hand into the bedroom. The room was dark, the only light from the living room. The bed was unmade. Clothes were scattered over the furniture. I nearly stumbled on a shoe.

“Sorry it’s such a mess. I told the maid not to come today,” she said. “I’ll be right back.”

She went into the bathroom and closed the door.

I stood there, staring dumbly after her. Thinking that if there was a god of second chances, I should be thanking him.

I was sitting on the bed when she emerged from the bathroom, naked. More glorious than ever. The light from the bathroom shining behind her.

“Come here,” she said, biting her bottom lip and giggling. “I know this is what you want.” She grabbed my belt buckle, pushing me onto the bed. As before, she engulfed me, devoured me. Hers was nothing like the limited, tentative lovemaking I had
encountered with other girls. It was fierce, passionate, relentless. She left me drained, spent, unable to move. All the time I was thinking, This is Cesca’s neck, Cesca’s breast, Cesca’s hand, this is her, this is her, this is her. I remembered it all.

In the morning I lay on the pillow staring at her while she slept, her head on my chest. I didn’t ever want to move. I wanted to burn the perfection of the image into my brain. It was like finding out that God is real or how Columbus must have felt when he did not sail off the edge of the world and instead put his feet down on the dry sand of San Salvador. The overwhelming relief. The gratitude. The immeasurable, unalloyed joy. Later, when she stirred, we made love again, slowly this time, fearlessly, our bodies revealed by the sunlight coming through the window. She shuddered in ecstasy, demanding everything I could give her.

We slept more and then ordered room service. College was forgotten. Unimportant in comparison. Crew practice was long over, so were most of my classes. I would have to answer for my absence later, but at this moment I had the outlaw’s scorn for the orthodox. “Stay,” she said, over coffee. “Please. We’ll make a day of it. I don’t want you to leave just yet.”