Menage (8 page)

While his hostess put her children to bed and his host loaded the dishwasher, Zoltan, sated and satisfied, clasped his hands behind his back and paced slowly before the books. A surprisingly interesting
collection—more literary, less technical than he'd have expected, with an entire shelf of old, leather-bound editions, and no trash. He sidled up the alphabet alongside the shelves until he found himself staring at his own name on the spines of two familiar volumes nestled side by side at eye level with the likes of Beckett, Bolaño, and Blake. He pulled out a volume of Walter Benjamin, blew dust from the top, and flipped slowly through the pages. Thoroughly read, with neat but illegible scratchings in the margins. Dare he hope, then, that these people had perhaps some intimation of who he actually was? Pleasure flushed through him until the shelves of books abruptly recalled him to his duty—to work!—which, in rapid succession, increased his resolve, doubled his doubts, aggravated his anxieties and ambitions.

He was exchanging the Benjamin for one of his own books when the sound of footsteps sent him sliding into a seat in time to avoid being caught. Only to be caught several moments later examining Heather's flushed beaming face as Mack came in.

MACK SAID, “IT'S SETTLED
,
then? We'll keep him?”

“Sounds good to me,” said Heather.

The coffee table in the living room was mussed like a bed after love. A nearly empty cigarette pack, butts of half-smoked cigarettes cold in the ashtrays, coffee slopped into saucers, tangerine peels and grape seeds, crumpled foil from chocolate truffles, assorted glasses and their rings, an almost empty brandy bottle.

Zoltan rested his elbow on the mantel of the tall Rumford fireplace like a large bird of prey perched on a low branch. “For how long?” he asked, dangling a cigarette.

“If this works out,” said Mack, “then I hope you stay at least till you finish your book.”

“Heather?” said Zoltan in a low murmur, catching her in the dark gleam of his eye.

From the sofa where she slouched, Heather, who had given up smoking with her first pregnancy, lit her second cigarette of the night and blew a ring. “I say he stays as long as he's this charming.”

Two small flames still flickered tenuously in the grate over a mounting hill of ash. Mack had lifted himself from the sofa and bent over the neat stack of logs to select another when he caught sight of his watch. “My god! Do you people realize it's two-thirty? I don't know about you, but I have to be up before seven.”

“Two-thirty!” said Heather. “I don't feel the least bit tired though, do you? The night flew!
Doesn't it feel like we just finished dinner?” Her face was flushed, her voice euphoric.

“It's Zoltan's doing,” said Mack. “Kept me up till dawn in L.A. and now half the night here. Have to do something about this.”

Zoltan demurred. “I'm still on California time.”

Mack indulged himself in a noisy yawn. “Not that I couldn't go on talking all night, you understand, but tomorrow's Monday.”

“And Carmela is off tomorrow,” added Heather.

“Well, bottoms up.” Mack drained the last drops of brandy from his glass and began cleaning up.

While Mack stacked dishes on a tray, Zoltan crumpled the empty cigarette pack and tossed it onto the embers, watching to see the cellophane explode in a giddy burst of yellow spark and green flame. “If I may, I wish to propose a toast.”

“Oh, do,” said Heather, rising out of her slouch to lift her glass.

Zoltan squared his shoulders and cleared his throat. He raised an eyebrow and lifted his glass, then immediately lowered them both. “First, I have question. It is obvious what I gain in this extraordinary situation you offer, this writer's paradise, but not clear how you benefit.”

“As far as I'm concerned,” said Mack, settling down again beside Heather, “I'll be happy just to
see you back on your feet able to write your book. That's good enough for me.”

“Most gracious benefactor,” said Zoltan, with a mock bow. Then, seriously, “But why? if I may ask.”

“I like your work. I think it's important.”

Though he appreciated Mack's confidence, Zoltan wondered if he could possibly produce what Mack expected of him—especially now, with the publishing world a shambles and the pressures that had driven him east beginning to ease. “When you invited me to live in your house, I believe you had something else in mind? Something, shall we say, less … altruistic?”

“Mack says you promised to teach us—what was it?—the art of living?” said Heather archly, tucking her legs back under her. “Something essential like that?”

“Ah, yes, the art of living,” said Zoltan pursing his lips in his signature smirk. ‘ “
Mon métier et mon art, c'est vivre
.' Montaigne.”

“Meaning?” snapped Mack.

“ ‘My calling and my art is to know how to live.' But Mack will remember I told to him that is something everyone must learn himself.”

Heather tilted her head and smiled coyly. “Then why
do
we need you?”

“Ask your husband. It is he who invited me here.”

“Since you're here now, I'd rather ask you.”

Zoltan lowered his voice to a croon and tossed it back to her. “Tell me what you desire of me, Mrs. McKay.”

“Too soon to tell.”

“Then say what you hope.”

Her eyes shone with excitement as she returned the intense gaze the writer had locked on her. She could not remember the last time she had received such penetrating attention, or when she had felt such giddy exhilaration. She tried to think of something to say; nothing came. Then, feeling her throat begin to tighten, she asked in a small voice, “The truth?”

“If you dare,” said Zoltan.

“Come on, Heather. Tell us what you want out of this,” said Mack.

“Okay.” She reached for her glass. “This is easy. I hope to learn whatever secrets you have to teach us. But even if I turn out to be a lousy student, at least I'll have someone interesting to talk to.”

Zoltan nodded slowly, as if sealing a pact. Again he raised his glass, and again he fixed his glittering gaze on each of them in turn, bringing it to rest on Heather.

“The toast, the toast!” said Mack impatiently.

“Here is the toast: that we each find what we are looking for.”

Mack lifted his empty glass to his lips and said, “Hear, hear.” But Heather drank in silence, without taking her eyes from Zoltan's. After a moment he nodded to each of them, then drained his glass, and tossed it with a grand flourish into the fire, where it shattered.

Heather was astounded. To her dismay, she felt her throat close down and tears well up in her eyes. Before the betrayal of her body was complete and the tears overflowed the lids, she snatched up the fruit bowl and hurried to the kitchen, hoping no one had seen.

11
       
SHE STOOD OUTSIDE ZOLTAN'S
door holding a breakfast tray. It was five minutes past eleven. Once again she calculated the hours: though they'd all stayed up till three the night before, Zoltan had had a full night's sleep, unlike Mack, who'd gotten up at six-thirty, or Heather herself, who'd been listening expectantly for the first flush of Zoltan's toilet since she'd helped the children dress.

But suppose she had miscalculated and he was at that very moment hard at work? Then her interruption would be a clear transgression. If he were still asleep, she had no right to wake him, even though she had picked up fresh cream and croissants in the village after dropping the children at their school. But she had to risk it. From
the moment Zoltan's lips had burned into her hand and his eyes had skewered her—no, even before that, from Mack's announcement a month ago that Maja's lover might come to live with them—she'd assumed he would become her lover, too. Not Maja but she would be the apex of this beguiling triangle. Reading Zoltan's books in bed at night to prepare herself for his arrival, studying the impossibly complicated map of Eastern Europe she had clipped from the
Times
and used as a bookmark, she had imagined his face nuzzled between her breasts or thighs, seen his intense gaze twine with her own. She wondered if his chest would be covered with hair, if he reached his climax slowly or quickly, if he cried out, if his kisses were gentle or hard.

And he? Did he think of her the same way? He must. His books revealed him as a man of passion. And those voluptuous glances and provocative questions he addressed to her: what other meaning could they have? He and Mack had shared Maja; now they would share her, and by some ancient geometry of the heart, justice would be served.

She put an ear to the door to listen for cues, aware that in an hour she would have to fetch the children home, and soon after that Françoise would arrive to play with them. Silence. With her
pulse pounding in her ears, she lifted her fist and knocked.

Zoltan opened his eyes. Crisp white curtains stirred at the window, sunlight streamed into the unfamiliar room. His eyes were heavy and dry with interrupted sleep, the way they felt when Maja used to spy on his dreams in the mornings, staring down at him, her head resting in one hand, until he woke. As soon as he opened an eye she would begin speaking of her dreams until he had forgotten his own. Sometimes they would make love, but the day would usually be ruined anyway; he was not a morning person. He never complained to her about her watching him, knowing she would deny it or else denounce him angrily; still, when she killed herself he felt it as a nasty rebuke. “One minute, please,” he called out, reaching for the dark blue silk kimono at the foot of his bed, the gift of a Russian production assistant who'd claimed to love him.

He opened the door to see Heather holding a tray yet seeming poised to flee. Her wavy hair was pulled back in a ponytail, her long feet were bare, and a pale lilac-colored shirt open at the throat grazed her jeans at the hip.

“Come in.”

“I hope you don't mind, I thought you might like your breakfast in here this morning, since it's your first day.”

“Mind? I'm … I'm overwhelmed. Thank you.”

“By the window?”

He nodded and pulled his robe tight around his hips. If this was family life—a gentle push in the morning, someone to care for you but not too much—no wonder Mack was so productive. Zoltan took his bearings: a table before a sunny window, a sofa bed (now gaping open, barely leaving a path from the door), a desk, a computer—all he could want. And a woman to see to his needs. For the first time in months he had an intimation that he might actually begin to write again—if he could keep his life simple: eat well, rise early, work regular hours, concentrate, like any ordinary American. “Do you know what time it is?”

Heather heard the question as a reproach. “A little after eleven,” she confessed, stung with remorse. “I'm really sorry.” The tray was suddenly as heavy as a sleeping child, rendering her incapable of budging from the doorway. “We've all been up for hours, you see,” she pleaded, “so I thought—”

“No, no. I should be up. I have work to do, and I have not yet unpacked. Come in. Please.”

She squeezed past the open bed to deposit the tray on the table and poured him a cup of coffee from the thermos.

“You will join me?” said Zoltan.

“But … I didn't bring a cup.”

“Ah, but you must get one then.” As she was the gracious hostess, he would be the gracious host.

In the kitchen, her sanctuary, Heather leaned against the counter and took deep breaths as she tried to assess what was happening. For weeks she had imagined every possible form for this first morning alone together, yet now that it had begun she felt totally unprepared. She must reek of desire; it was palpable; how could he not sense it? And having invited her to join him despite their tacit rule of privacy, mustn't he return the feeling? Otherwise he would simply have thanked her and closed the door. And now? It was her house; it must be up to her to get things started. She shooed Tina out the kitchen door, took a mug from the cupboard, and hurried back just in time to see him emerge from the bathroom wiping his lips with a towel, still wrapped in his dashing kimono.

He was taken aback to see her perch on the open bed and pour herself some coffee. He did not know how to respond. Should he sit beside her or remain
standing? To sit at the desk would be awkward. While he considered the alternatives he stirred sugar and cream into his cup, sniffed deeply, took a sip. “Ah … superb.”

Heather raised her coffee mug to him, forcing herself to look steadily into his eyes, as they had done the night before.

He could not interpret her paradoxical demeanor, a strange combination of shy and shameless, modest and bold. Zoltan held up his cup and smiled back at her.

Encouraged, Heather balanced her mug and inched backward on the bed until she was leaning against the sofa back. Last night she had amazed herself when Zoltan had brought her to tears; now she was even more amazed to find herself boldly acting out her desires. It was completely out of character. When it came to defending her rights or acting on principle or standing up for the children, she could be as forceful as anyone. In the few years they had lived in this town she had campaigned to protect a nearby river and organized an early reading program for local kids. But in matters of the heart she had always been shy to the point of timidity, never the one to initiate anything. If Zoltan's demeanor had left her any doubt that he shared
her desires she certainly wouldn't now be stretching out on his bed, crossing her legs modestly at the ankles, as she waited for him to make a move.

From his post near the window, Zoltan watched in alarm. Was he imagining it, or was Heather making herself at home on his bed? He set himself to spreading jam slowly across half a croissant, hoping she would reconsider and leave. But when after his first bite he looked up, he saw that not only had she not moved off but she had commandeered the entire length of the bed and was now watching him intently, her body spread invitingly across the mattress. Abashed to feel his own body respond, he put down the croissant and abruptly began to pace in the tiny space remaining. A ticklish situation. She was a devilishly attractive woman, almost more attractive this morning in her bare feet and dishabille than yesterday. All the while she lay there speaking innocuous pleasantries, she was rhythmically tapping one arched lean foot against the other in a way he thought calculated to arouse him. Or was that simply the way of these Americans, these Daisy Maes and Daisy Millers? They routinely objected to being valued for their sex yet shamelessly put themselves forward. No sooner had he extricated himself from the clutches of one of them
(who would stop at nothing, even suicide, to possess him) than he seemed to have walked into the web of another. Only this time he was certain he was innocent. Her own husband had brought him here; he was sure he'd done nothing to provoke this wanton overture. Why did American men allow themselves to be led around by the nose by their outrageous wives? If he was not careful, if he didn't handle the situation with extreme delicacy, neither compromising Mack's nor bruising Heather's mysterious yet tremendous egos, he would be evicted from this Eden before he'd written a single word.