Nude Men (8 page)

“Have
you
ever hang glided?” I ask.

“No, it was never my cup of tea,” she says, pushing the hair out of her face, probably desperate for me to shut up. She looks around at the people more eagerly than ever, and I decide to point it out to her.

“Are you studying subjects for your paintings?” I ask.

“How perceptive,” she says, smiling, probably relieved that I dropped the subject. “Recently,” she goes on, “I realized more clearly than ever that movement is an excellent thing to study for painting. Especially now, for my new, more moderate paintings. Everything is more subtle, so I have to start observing things that don’t seem relevant for painting. Like voice, conversation, and intelligence.”

I’m a teeny bit jealous that she looks at other people so much. Obsessively Infatuated Martyr.

“I like optical illusions,” she adds.

I can’t think of anything else to say, so even though I don’t really care about the answer, I ask, “Where is the dancing magician?”

“She should be out soon. She’s getting ready. It takes her a long time.”

I wonder why she is smiling when she says this. The waiter comes to take our order for dessert.

Henrietta says, “I would like the
poires aux amandes sur une mousse de vin blanc
.”

I say, “I would like the homemade honey ice cream, please.” The background music suddenly stops, and a different music begins. It sounds rather Arabian.

A woman comes out on the stage, carrying a box full of objects. She puts it down in a corner. I guess this is Laura. She has not been announced, but since she starts dancing, it must be her. She is dressed rather normally (for living, that is, not dancing), wearing boots and a loose jacket, no special costume, except for a top hat, which looks out of place with the rest of her outfit. The hat is held on her head by an elastic under her chin, so that it won’t fall off when she dances. She’s not bad-looking, except that her mouth seems a bit deformed. She twirls and skips and raises her arms. I can tell right away that her dancing is very amateurish: the kind bankers might do, on the spur of the moment, in the privacy of their homes. The magic has not come yet. She bounces, taps her feet. She pulls a flower out of her boot and raises it triumphantly, leading me to believe with disbelief that this flower-out-of-boot business is to be considered a magic trick. I’m bewildered. She does a touch of tap dancing, a touch of belly dancing, a bit of moonwalk, a modest leap, and pulls a small toy rabbit from inside her jacket. Oddly Incompetent Magician. I’m astonished. She skips some more, jumps, spins, kicks up one leg, and takes a big white marble out of her mouth, which explains why her mouth looked deformed. She is much prettier now. She raises the shiny wet marble to the audience victoriously. It’s appalling. I try hard not to grimace. She claps her hands, slaps her thighs, swings her arms, pivots on her heels, and from her other boot pulls out a stick, which I think is supposed to be a wand. She waves it wildly, at first like a lasso, then, more appropriately, in the manner of a witch. She turns her back to the audience for a few seconds, doing something we cannot see. She then faces us and (ta-da!), she is wearing glasses. Her grand flourish of a pose leads us to understand that she has just accomplished her fourth magic trick, unless the wand-out-of-boot was supposed to be one, in which case this would be the fifth. It’s exhausting, trying to pinpoint her tricks; I must give her credit for that.

Not trusting my own judgment, though, I lean toward Henrietta and whisper, “I don’t understand.”

“There’s nothing to understand,” she whispers back.

“It’s very unusual. Is she very successful?”

“No.”

“Then how does she get hired?”

“Connections, first of all. The club belongs to a friend of her father’s. Other than that, the way I see it is that the dancing compensates for the mediocrity of the magic.”

“The dancing? But it’s as... problematic as the magic.”

“Well, the magic makes up for the lack of skill in the dancing.”

“The overall effect is not unpleasant, though,” I lie. “Lack of competence in magic and dance mix quite well.”

For the first time, Henrietta laughs rather hard at my wit and looks at me with interest through her squinting eyes. I want to milk my witty idea, so I add, “That’s what you have to look at: the whole.” This does not make her redouble with laughter, but oh well.

Back onstage, Laura takes a tennis ball from the box, holds it in her hand, slowly turns her back to the audience, and when she faces us again, her hand is held out in front of her, gloriously empty. I feel like hiding under the table with embarrassment for her. She resumes her skipping, shakes her head, wriggles her shoulders, leaps, waves the wand. From the box she takes a little orange hard candy, wrapped in a conventional transparent wrapper. She unwraps the candy, pops it in her mouth, and presents her open empty hands to the audience, letting the wrap, per flutter to the floor. It’s heartrending. She rocks her head, undulates her hips, flutters her fingers, flaps the sides of her jacket like wings, curves her spine concave and convex, shuffles her feet, meanders, zigzags. She takes off her top hat, pulls out some sort of stuffed animal, raises it with a flourish. Ludicrous. I smile stiffly. She bends her legs, twists and wiggles her body as though she has ants in her pants, shakes her hair, crouches, stands up, and pulls a knife out of her sleeve. I think: Oh, good, maybe she’ll do something traditional, like swallow it.

But no, she drops it in the box on the floor. She takes a handful of white powder from the box, vigorously extends her wand, as though casting a magic spell, and throws some of the white powder in the direction of the wand, which thankfully is not aimed at the audience. She casts many rotten powdery magic spells in various directions, like a proud witch. Suddenly, she bows, and all her hair falls forward, and it is rather pretty; she has nice hair.

People clap very softly. To clap with less enthusiasm would not be possible, but I am surprised they are clapping at all. A young man at a neighboring table claps with the tips of his two index fingers, to the amusement of his female companion. The performance lasted ten minutes at the most. Laura, the Obstinately Incompetent Magician, bows again and disappears backstage.

“How long has she been doing this?” I ask.

“A few months. Four or five, I think.”

“How does she make a living?”

“Her family is rich. She doesn’t do this show for the money, and she doesn’t do it to become successful. She does it for the respectability.”

“How does she figure she gets respectability from this?”

“It’s work. It’s more respectable than not working.”

“Why did she choose this particular work?” I ask.

“She probably thought of it off the top of her head. She’s a very easygoing person.”

“Then why does she care about respectability?”

“She doesn’t care about it passionately. It’s simply more comfortable to be respected than not. She also gives lessons to children, which adds to the respectability, because it’s additional work.”

Henrietta stops talking, looks above my head, and smiles. I look above my head too. It’s Laura. She joins us, and Henrietta makes the introductions. Laura smiles warmly and shakes my hand firmly, to indicate intelligence and strength of character.

“It was good tonight,” says Henrietta to Laura.

“Oh, thanks. I was very nervous,” replies Laura, glancing at me.

I feel I should say something. “You didn’t look nervous,”

I say.

“Thanks, but I was,” she answers, looking modest.

“How was the lesson this afternoon? Was Sara good?” asks Henrietta.

“She’s very talented, but I can tell she doesn’t practice enough.”

Henrietta nods gravely.

Poor Sara. Poor little, little Sara, to have to endure these inane dancing magic lessons. I sympathize with her completely and utterly.
And to have to practice at home!
I can just imagine Laura’s wise words: “One does not take one’s wand out of one’s boot in that manner. One takes it out in
this
manner.... Make sure your back is completely turned to the audience before you put on the glasses.... Be sure your pose is very grand and flamboyant after each and every magic trick, or people might not realize you’ve just done a trick. People are not always very bright, especially when they’re eating, so you have to help them understand that they have just been entertained.”

Henrietta asks her friend if she has had dinner and whether she wants to order something. Laura says no, thanks, she’s not hungry. They start talking about Laura’s brother. Laura doesn’t seem at all as dumb as her show might suggest. In person, she is extremely normal, and therefore my mind starts to drift, I can’t concentrate. Normal people bore me, not because I feel superior but because I don’t understand them or what they are saying. They make me feel like a child watching the news; I look at the pictures but think of other things.

I think of Henrietta and of the movie we will go to see soon, and should I do anything while we’re watching it, like touch her and/or make astute comments about the editing, dialogue, or plot? No, of course not; I’m just raving in my head right now. I may be socially inept to a certain extent, but I’m not quite
that
bad.

A tall, blond, and extremely good-looking man comes to our table. He could be one of Henrietta’s
Playgirl
models.

“Sorry I’m late,” he says to Laura. “Did I miss your show?”

“Yes,” she says pleasantly. “It doesn’t matter.”

He kisses both Laura and Henrietta on the cheek. Henrietta says to me, “Jeremy, this is Damon, my ex-model and Laura’s brother. I have a
mad
crush on him.”

I do have just enough sophistication, finesse, and knowing what fork to use, to realize that she’s joking, or she wouldn’t gay it right out.

“Damon,” she says, “this is Jeremy, my present model.”

She does not add that she has a mad crush on me, which means she might. Damon shakes my hand.

They talk, and I go back to watching the news. I blink with intelligence and laugh mechanically when they laugh. I am even able to appear bright and perky every time they address me, and to answer “I don’t know” with shrewdness in my tone, astuteness in the pacing of my three words, and wisdom in my eyes.

Movie, movie, movie, I begin chanting in my head, while tears of boredom start running down my mind. Movie, movie, movie. Almost, almost, almost. Soon, soon, soon, soon. Move, move, move, move.

“Let’s dance!” says Henrietta. A few people are dancing in the open area between the tables.

I dance with Henrietta. Laura dances with her brother. I spot a dollar bill on the floor, being trampled by people’s feet. I point it out to Lady Henrietta. “Do you want to get it?” I scream at her over the music, which has grown louder.

“No, it’s okay, but you go ahead,” she says.

I shake my head.

I see a thread dangling from my shirt-sleeve button. I pull the thread out completely. The button detaches itself. I put it in my breast pocket. Lady Henrietta is watching me. 1 smile. Ornamentally Interesting Moron. Outstandingly Intelligent Mute.

We switch partners (not my idea, of course). I feel a little panicked, dancing with Laura. I keep getting the urge to take a Kleenex out of my pocket and raise it triumphantly, to be her Worthy dance partner.

Finally, we are about to leave. Henrietta asks Laura if she’d like to join us for the movie. Laura accepts, to my great disappointment. It was supposed to be a private date, at least the movie was. Damon is invited, too, but says he already has plans, and adds, “unfortunately.” Henrietta acts very disappointed, and I am suave enough to know she’s not sincere; it’s all fashionable flattery.

We see
We Are the Taurus,
the film about the toreador caught in the love triangle. I sit in the middle. Overwhelmingly Impressive Matador. Laura’s hands are resting calmly on her lap. She’s a relaxed, well-balanced person. Henrietta is sitting normally too. Halfway through the movie, I notice that she is not looking at the screen. She’s looking at the head of the man sitting in front of her. Toward the end of the movie, she is sitting forward in her seat, looking very closely at his head.

“Are you okay?” I whisper in her ear.

She whispers back to me, “That man is an O.I.M.”

“What’s an O.I.M.?”

“An Optical Illusion Man.”

Wow. So
that’s
what I am. I’m an Optical Illusion Man! It sounds almost like the Invisible Man. Almost a superhero! “What does that mean?” I ask.

“It means he’s almost something but not quite, or maybe he is and it’s impossible to tell if he is or isn’t. One second you think he is, and the next you are certain he isn’t.”

I look closely at the back of the man’s head, to see what he almost is or isn’t. I feel very intelligent and perceptive, because I notice right away what she means. The man almost has a bald spot. His hair is thinning in the middle of his head. One moment I think he does have the bald spot, and the next moment I think no, no, he definitely doesn’t have it yet. It is a strange sensation, and it is the first time I have ever noticed an optical illusion in a person. I suddenly become anxious at the thought of what optical illusion Henrietta sees in me.