Seconds (9 page)

She was talking to him and tickling him suggestively. He stared down at her. “ . . . Never say die, that's my motto.” Her voice was matter-of-fact. “I mean, nobody's perfect. Rome wasn't built in a day. How about my getting some clothes on, and then you can sort of take them off me again. Maybe—”

“No, please. Just let me—smoke for a minute.” He looked away once more. She popped her gum.

“You've got to understand,” he said finally, “that I'm in an unusual state of mind. Everything's strange to me. I've been thrown suddenly from one kind of world into another, quite different, and I'm having to discover myself as a person, as a man, all over again, do you see?”

“No kidding.”

“It's hard to explain,” he began, but he went no further. The faint movement of her jaws as she secretly manipulated her gum seemed somehow to constitute an insuperable obstacle to communication, even if he had clearly in mind what he wished to express. “Nothing,” he said.

“Well, look. I'll come back tomorrow.”

“I'm not sure about tomorrow. Why don't you wait for John to get in touch with you.”

“Okay.” She shrugged her shoulders and lazily climbed off the bed. “You sure you wouldn't like to play around some more for fun-fun?”

“Not today, but thank you anyway. It's not your fault.”

“Okay.”

He felt ridiculous sitting there uttering conventional remarks, as if Sara Jane were someone who had come to his office to inquire about an account. She left him; he saw in the mirror on the closet door opposite a lean, almost satyrlike man sitting cross-legged on a bed, nude, and smoking a cigarette. He waved to the stranger, who simultaneously waved back and grinned at him sarcastically. From the studio, he could hear Sara Jane whistling as she got dressed.

T
hat would be the end of life sketches, he decided, until . . . well, until he managed to turn himself into the bona fide Antiochus Wilson, whom he imagined as a fairly rakish and casual man of the world, capable of ravishing a dozen young models without the slightest qualm. In the meantime, he knew he must make certain temporary concessions to his bankerish soul. After all, it stood to reason that the habits of nearly five decades could not be rooted out overnight.

“No more Sara Jane, John.”

“Very good, sir.”

“Actually, you see, I'm in the process of redefining my approach, um, to my painting, and I won't be needing live models at present. She's a good model, though. I trust she won't suffer from the loss of my business.”

“I doubt that she will, sir.”

“No, I suppose she won't.”

“Perhaps you'd be interested later on in some more mature models, Mr. Wilson?”

“N-no, I don't think so, John.”

“Are you sure you wouldn't like me to arrange that little cocktail party for the neighborhood people—?”

“Not yet, John. Not yet . . .”

F
or several days he lounged around the house, conscientiously spending hours in his studio practicing at the easel. He tried puttering in the garden, too, but the plants there were unfamiliar to him, spiny and sparse-leaved growths with little beauty. They did not seem to welcome care. Sometimes he lay on a lounge chair on the rear terrace, an unopened book in his lap, feeling the sun flow down on him.

Vastness enveloped him: the unrelieved blue of the sky, the great stare of the sun, the open and endless stretch of ocean far away, and the mindless horizons of his own slow thoughts. He longed, suddenly, for the confinement of his commuter train, for the jostling of crowded streets, for the close desk-clutter of a busy day; but once in the midst of these yearnings when he heard a car pull into the driveway in front, he leaped up in fright from his chair and fled inside to his room, emerging only when it became clear that the visitor was merely a deliveryman from the grocery.

He paced up and down before a mirror, glancing severely at his image from time to time. It was shameful to slink around in such a cowardly fashion, he told himself. He couldn't avoid meeting people forever by hiding in his house. He owed it to himself to act like a man—that was the crux of the matter. Besides, the monetary investment he had made in his rebirth demanded that he obtain a fair return.

He stopped in front of the mirror and shook his finger sternly at the image. Yet it was no craven creature that confronted him there, but instead a handsome and self-possessed man of the world, ironic and knowing, with a slightly lecherous twist to one corner of the mouth. Wilson gaped at the reflection—and the gape became, almost magically, a satanic leer. My God, he thought, that's me. He strode nervously about again and paused once more at the glass. Again, he was filled with wonder at the renewed consciousness of what the company had wrought. He swelled his chest and flexed his muscles, watching in fascination the subtle play of expression on the face of Antiochus Wilson. There seemed to be a remarkable disparity between his own emotions and what was reflected in the features of the image. The timidity he felt was nowhere evident in the attitude of the man in the mirror, and in fact it—that is to say,
he
—appeared as bold as a lion; indeed, the longer he examined himself, the less timid he felt, and the more confident the figure looked to him, until finally he had the impression that if he remained transfixed much longer, he would rush out of the house and commit the Lord knew what acts of libertinism.

He turned from the mirror, still tingling with self-approbation. No more creeping and cringing, that was clear. No more hiding, either. He swaggered from the room—“I'm off to the beach, John!”—and headed out toward the car.

He drove recklessly along the route John had previously indicated to him, wishing that he were behind the wheel of one of those little European sports cars instead of a mere sedan. When he arrived at the beach, he changed into his trunks outside the car, despite the fact that the beach was not completely deserted, and that at least one of the bathers within view was a woman. But at that moment, still in the thrall of his vision of himself, Wilson cared not a bit for conventional morality. He laughed aloud, and before leaving the car he took one last look in the rear-vision mirror on the side. “You devil,” he muttered, cheerfully.

He flung down his towel and sprinted into the water, plunging and snorting as he fought the waves. He was irked, however, to discover that he had neglected to remove his wristwatch. Moreover, the coldness of the water quickly took the edge off his high spirits, and in addition to that, he experienced a painful twinge in his lower back; it reminded him that he was not, after all, a youngster of twenty, and so, somewhat chastened, he emerged and plodded across the sand to his towel.

There were only six figures visible along the great curve of beach. The nearest was a woman who was sketching with a pencil on a large pad. She was not at all bad-looking, Wilson thought; her figure was good, too, and it seemed to him besides that she had cast a couple of glances in his direction. He wondered whether he should saunter over. The banker within him counseled caution, but the memories of the man in the mirror were still fresh in his mind, and so he rose to his feet, lighted a cigarette, and obeyed the predominant impulse.

“You're sketching, I see,” he declared—and was shaken by the realization that although his appearance was that of a rakehell, the words would necessarily be those of the banker.

But the woman was not repelled by the inanity of his remark. She smiled up at him invitingly. “Oh, yes,” she said. “I sometimes do a little drawing just to pass the time.” She put the pad aside.

“Oh, please go on,” he said. “I don't want to interrupt you.” He craned his neck, pretending to admire the latticework of lines that represented a meeting of sea and sky, wondering how a man of the world would proceed to develop the situation. Perhaps he ought to sit beside her; but he reflected that she might consider this too forward, and so he stood uncomfortably pondering the problem, until she asked him if he wouldn't like to sit down.

“Thank you very much,” he said. As he sat, however, the twinge in his back reasserted itself, and he became increasingly aware of the divergence between his exterior and interior selves. He wished he had brought along a pocket mirror to peek at once in a while, to renew his confidence, but he supposed that even if he had, the woman would think it odd of him.

“I sketch a little myself,” he remarked, for the sake of conversation.

“Oh—then I shouldn't even let you look at what I've done,” the woman exclaimed, and coquettishly moved as if to turn her drawing pad over.

“No, really,” said Wilson, “you're very good.” He politely motioned to forestall her. Their hands touched. She glanced at him, not with hauteur but with a bold calculation, letting her fingers slide slowly, as if by accident, across his wrist.

Wilson was alarmed. He had no idea of what to do. He longed to leave. And yet at the same time he strongly suspected that his features were communicating a formidable impression of lustful intentions. He was trapped, a sheep in wolf's clothing.

“Wouldn't you like to take a dip?” he inquired.

“Oh, but the water's so cold.” She sighed deeply, not so much to indicate her disinclination to swim, Wilson feared, as to demonstrate the fullness of her bosom. “Anyway,” she added, “I have to go back to my cottage and fix my lunch.”

The feeling of relief that swept over him at this announcement was short-lived, however, for the woman made no move to pick up her things, but remained curled languorously at his side, gazing at him.

“Is it, um, far?” he asked, politely.

“A few miles.” She sighed again, more deeply this time; Wilson turned his head.

“Look at those gulls!” he exclaimed enthusiastically, pointing to a pair of specks a mile away.

She paid no attention to the gulls. “The place belongs to a friend of mine, actually,” she continued, letting a handful of sand trickle teasingly across his forearm. “I borrow it once in a while for a few days. It's nice to get off sometimes all by yourself, don't you think?”

“Absolutely,” Wilson responded, with caution.

“No one around to bother you,” she went on. “Just complete quiet and peace. Not even a telephone, and no neighbors or anything.”

“That sounds fine.”

“And it's such a clean, simple little place. Just a stove and an icebox, that's all. And a bed.”

Wilson's spirits sank further still. There could be no mistaking her intentions now. He tried to gather his courage by examining all that he could see of himself—his sinewy arms and legs—and turned his head bravely to face her again.

She was smiling with an air of sensual complicity, her eyebrows suggestively arched, waiting for the Lothario at her side to make the obvious suggestion—a little lunch together.

But he only mumbled: “It all sounds—cosy.”

“Yes, it is.” She fluttered her eyelids at him.

He felt suddenly betrayed. What right did the company have to manufacture a façade for him that was so completely at odds with his inner nature? He should have been given the opportunity to choose a more moderate version.

“Well,” she said, “I guess I'd better be on my way.” For the first time, she seemed a little vexed. She gathered up her pad and pencils slowly, occasionally glancing at him.

He did not dare even to smile politely, for fear his alien face would transform the smile into a wolfish leer and again inspire her advances.

She stood up finally, brushing off the sand. He stood, too, and to avoid her gaze pretended to take great interest in his sodden wristwatch.

“I'm afraid it's stopped,” he said.

“Maybe it never got started,” she snapped; without another word she marched off, a woman scorned.

Wilson sat down again, humbly staring out at the ocean. He took the back off the watch, to inspect its works, but it slipped from his fingers into the sand. In despair, he let it remain where it had fallen, thinking that it was probably now beyond repair.

In a little while, he walked over to pick up his towel and plodded back toward his car, peering around for signs of his frustrated companion. She was nowhere in sight, but just as he was about to climb into the car, he heard his name called out by someone behind him.

Wilson turned, in surprise. A little man wearing a loud Hawaiian shirt above his trunks was standing some twenty paces away, his hand upraised in greeting.

“Good to see you back with us, Tony,” the man cried. He started to walk toward the car, but Wilson leaped inside, started the engine with feverish haste, backed away, turned, and drove off at top speed. His earlier doubts and fancies were most powerfully revived. The salutation of the beefy man at the airport, which he had dismissed as coincidence, now assumed a more sinister aspect, as did even the airline stewardess's inquiry as to whether he had been her passenger before.

He went at once to his room, where he changed out of his trunks and lay down. He thought of summoning John, but he was quivering from head to toe, and he decided it would be unwise to confront his servant until his agitation had abated. Sitting up, he sought the reassurance of the mirror on the closet door, but the sight did not allay his anxiety, for he seemed to be looking not at the image of himself, but into an adjoining room, where a stranger sat on another bed, eyeing him sardonically.

He thought of taking a drink, a trip, of growing a beard and hiding away somewhere in the mountains. The woman had been bad enough, in emphasizing the difference between what he seemed and what he was, but if the implication of the little man's familiarity proved correct, then what?

That evening he was still upset, but nonetheless he was determined to have matters out with John once and for all.

“Look here, John,” he began. “Things can't go on like this.” He described his disturbing encounter with the man at the beach, and reminded John of the similar episode at the airport. “It's a damned outrage,” he declared. “There seem to be people who know
me,
but at the same time I don't know
them.
”