The Unforgiving Minute (8 page)

I could see she really meant it and I crumpled meekly.

“Fine, I’ll really write to you often and please write to me a

lot, because I really need you.”

She answered gently, “I will, Robert. You know I love

you, although sometimes I wonder why … And, Robert, write to

your children. You know you’re not being fair to them. If you

don’t want them to know where you are, send the letters to me and

I’ll send them from New York. But, please, write them before you

lose them. Goodbye, caro, ti voglio bene.” With those words “Goodbye,

darling, I want you very much” she hung up softly.

I sat back and thought about my children, yearning for

them for the first time in weeks. My oldest, Robin, had

everything going for her. She was twenty-three years old,

exceptionally pretty with jet-black hair and blue eyes, very

bright and gentle and ladylike in her manner. She had started

medical school in July at New York University and was looking

forward to a career in pediatrics. My second child, Andrew, was

twenty-one and was a business major at the University of

Pennsylvania. He hoped to attend Wharton School of Business

there when he graduated next year. Andrew was tall, blonde and

extremely studious and mature in his manner. We always joked

that he was grown up at age ten. Sometimes when I was around

him, I felt like he was my father and that I had to worry about

misbehaving in his presence. I was proud of his no-nonsense

demeanor. He seemed to me to be what I really wanted to be. My

youngest, Gary, was a gregarious, popular, good-looking boy who

was a male version of Robin in looks. Gary was nineteen and

starting his second semester at Hofstra University in Hempstead,

Long Island. Although he was on the short side, he was muscular

and highly athletic. At present, in his sophomore year, he

played on the varsity baseball squad and ran the mile in track.

When last seen, he claimed to be pre-law, but his career choice

changed daily. Scholastically, Gary was as mediocre as the other

were excellent. He was still the kind of boy, however, that

people marked for future success. I knew that if anyone was

hurting from my antics, it was Gary. Athletics brought us very

close together. When he was young, we always played at sports

together. In recent years, we talked sports incessantly like two

tavern buddies. He had to miss me the most.

I made a mental note to drop a line to all three of them

and either send the letters to Ann Marie or mail them directly.

I didn’t, however, and filed it in my mind for future reference.

I looked in the mirror, straightened myself, and decided

to take a long walk. I stepped out into Brook Street and

marvelled at the section of London that is Mayfair. I truly do

not think there is another district in any city of the world that

compares. Mayfair is a section roughly bounded by Hyde Park on

the west, Oxford Street on the north, Bond Street on the east,

and Picadilly on the south. I have, in my time, walked every

block in Mayfair and even some of the back alleys. The American

Embassy is located in Mayfair and its modern-style construction

is contrary to the general architecture of the rest of the

neighborhood. It is across from Grosvenor Square, in which

stands a magnificent statue of Franklin D. Roosevelt. The

neighborhood is a mixture of luxury brownstones, fine hotels,

embassies, offices, and expensive shops. Oxford Street on the

north is absolutely the opposite. It is dirty, noisy, blustery,

and its image is definitely cheapside. When you take two steps

south to Mayfair, it’s like walking into Oz. I decided to walk

east to the theater district and try to get tickets for something

to fill the coming evening. I walked up Brook to Bond Street

before turning right towards Picadilly and drank in the sights of

Mayfair. The women were elegant and well-turned-out, the men

dressed impeccably, and some wore the traditional bowler hat and

carried the mandatory “brally” (umbrella). I turned right on

Bond Street and browsed the shop windows. Bond Street is where

most of the fine clothing shops are. One walks from New Bond

Street into Old Bond Street which terminates at Burlington

Arcade, which is kind of a mini-shopping mall except that it

looks like a well-lit, ornate tunnel with shop entrances on

either wall. Both Bond Street and the Arcade are filled with

interesting shops. There are designer clothing shops, bespoke

tailors, coin collections, unicorn collections, and even a shop

that deals in nothing but buttons, brass, and otherwise. The

dollar, in 1985, was in pretty good shape and the exchange rate

was fairly good. It was about a dollar and a quarter to the

pound. The converted prices in the Bond Street stores, despite

this, still looked rather outrageous to me. I exited the south

side of the Arcade into Picadilly. I decided to detour to my

favorite shirt shops, Turnbull and Asser and Hilditch and Key,

which are located on opposite corners of Jermyn Street, just

south of Picadilly. I have, through my professional career, been

a kind of a clothes nut. British clothes have been my passion.

If the exchange rate was favorable, I usually returned from

London laden with new clothing. The two shirt stores couldn’t

have been more different, although their products, in my mind,

were equal. Turnbull and Asser was a posh, well-decorated store

with two stories of clothing. It was richly carpeted with

beautiful dressing rooms and plenty of comfortable chairs for

waiting companions. It was the kind of place I liked to walk

around in even if I weren’t buying a shirt. I browsed

extensively and found at least four or five shirts I considered

buying. I was well-known there and, like most British

establishments of its kind, I was recognized immediately upon

entering. I informed them that I might return later in the week

and was bid a cordial goodbye. Hilditch and Key, where I was

also well-known, was quite the opposite in decor. It was a small

store with most of its shirts on shelves behind a counter.

Looking around, you would never know that this was one of the

finest shirt shops in the world. I was particularly fond of

their shirts, as they were fuller cut and longer in length than

most shirts. You could be in a wrestling match and one of their

shirts would never come out of your pants. Again, I saw at least

four or five shirts I liked, and exited. Walking toward the

theaters I realized that if I bought anything I would either have

to send it home or add it to my already-bulging luggage. This

certainly wasn’t going to be one of my customary trips to London.

I walked east on Picadilly and arrived at Picadilly Circus. The

word circus in Britain refers to the Latin word for circle. In

America we would call it Picadilly Circle.

Picadilly Circus is very similar to Times Square in New

York and year by year is fast approaching it in sleaziness. As

it is in New York, most of the theaters are within walking or

short cab ride distance. I really wanted to see the new Andrew

Lloyd Weber show, “Starlight Express,” but it was playing in

another part of town, near Victoria Station. I strolled block

after block, looking for something to occupy my evening. I

finally settled on a British comedy (always dangerous, since

there is a type of British comedy that does not transfer well to

the American mind), which was allegedly a bedroom farce about

adultery among members of parliament. I was able to acquire a

very good orchestra seat for what was a fraction of New York

theater prices. After purchasing the ticket, I strolled the Soho

district, which houses many theaters and, among other things,

includes London’s Chinatown. There are also many strip

joint/bars in Soho which are always fun to stop in for a drink in

the afternoon. This time, however, I didn’t stop at one. I did

not want to get into anything that would stir up my libido. I

even kept myself from eyeing passing women, although I have

always found English women the most feminine and gentle of all

the women in the world. I had a funny kind of admiration and

curiosity about English and Oriental women, and yet had never had

a love affair with either. It suddenly came to my mind that

seeing a play about adultery would not be good for me. I walked

back to the theater and got a courteous refund. I purchased

instead a ticket for a play about a London cabby. The play was

allegedly a comedy but I was keeping my fingers crossed. I

flagged down a cab and opted for an afternoon at the hotel.

London cabs are a unique experience. These square, black, old—

fashioned-looking vehicles are the roomiest of their kind in the

world. An NBA basketball player could stretch comfortably with

room to spare. As a bonus, they are driven by the most skilled

drivers I have ever seen. Each driver, before being licensed,

must pass an extensive course in which, among other things, he

must be a living map of London and its environs. You will never

find a London cabby who does not have a working command of the

English language. The whole cab situation is directly the

opposite of New York, where half the drivers don’t speak English

and the other half don’t know their way around the city. I

settled in my seat and observed the London hubbub around me. It

was now around two in the afternoon and I thought I would have

high tea instead of lunch. That would enable me to call room

service (the butler) for an after-theater snack or to skip dinner

altogether. All of the gourmet eating in France during my

relationship with Jane was threatening my waistline. The hardest

part of a trip like this was not partaking in the wonderful food

experience that is Europe. Add my propensity for drinking and

you don’t exactly have a prescription for top-notch physical

fitness. It was at that moment that I decided that very soon I

would have to check into a spa and whip myself into shape.

At one time I jogged two miles every day, rain or shine,

but somewhere in the last few years the discipline seemed to

leave me. When I arrived at the hotel I went to my room, washed

up, and went to the tea room downstairs for high tea. High tea

is far more than a cup of tea. It also includes tiny sandwiches,

scones with clotted cream, and jam and pastries. These are

served in three courses all with freshly brewed tea with heavy

cream. Claridges requires a coat and tie for gentlemen at high

tea and the ladies are turned out with equal elegance. I sat

down and ordered from the very dignified maitre d’ and waited for

my order. While waiting, I observed a scene that, for some odd

reason, has haunted me to this day. A tall, thin man of about

seventy-five or eighty years came walking into the tea room. He

was using a cane and, from his gait, he looked as if he might

recently have had a stroke. He was wearing a three-piece navy

blue suit with regimental striped tie and gave the impression

that at one time of his life he was incredibly handsome. His

hair and silver mustache were impeccably groomed. Assisting him

was a woman, perhaps in her late sixties, who was still

beautiful. She wore a red silk dress and her walk and manner

were a thing of beauty to behold. They sat at a table and held

hands like young lovers and looked into each other’s eyes with a

love that was evident by its burning intensity. She attended to

him as a mother would attend to a favorite child. When he sat, I

could see that one of his hands was shaking so much he could

hardly eat. She helped him and yet still related to him as a

lover rather than a nurse. I couldn’t take my eyes off them. My

imagination ran rampant. I tried to make up stories in my mind.

Were they married? Were they lovers who had a long-running

affair? As I looked at them, I imagined them ten or fifteen

years ago. Certainly they must have been, and in many ways still

were, an exquisite couple. I found myself envious of what they

had. This was obviously a man and a woman who possessed a deep

and undying love they both would take to their graves. I

wondered if I had ever had anything close to that in my life.

They are to this day forever ingrained in my mind. I still find

myself making up their story. I wanted so much to walk over to

them and strike up a conversation, but they were so wrapped up in

each other that it seemed a sin to do so. Usually, I can’t eat

alone unless I read a newspaper or a book. In fact, I brought

with me a copy of the London Times for just that purpose.

Instead of reading, I spent the best part of an hour observing

them. Whenever I read or think about love between a man and a

woman, I think of them. I hoped they were staying in the hotel

and that I would see them again, but that was the last time I

physically saw them, although I have seen them mentally for

years. At first they made me feel good, but afterward, in my