Don't Make a Scene Page 6

  “What do you mean?”

  “Don't be dense! Diane. She's nice, and I think she liked you.”

  “Most women like me,” Vladimir said.

  Vladimir could be so arrogant sometimes. It was almost endearing.

  “I think she's interested,” Chris said when they'd boarded the No. 1 train.

  “I need another woman in my life like I need a heel in the head.”

  “A hole in the head.”

  “A hole in the head.”

  The subject was dropped. From what Chris had gathered, Vladimir was in trouble with women in three countries; it was kind of refreshing that none of this ever really came up in conversation, as if it were a business-only relationship—which, of course, it was. Still: it was unnatural not to talk about personal things ever in a day-to-day business partnership. Weirdly, politics came up every day with Vladimir, and he took politics very personally.

  More interesting and less obvious to Chris: Why was Jan Mattias throwing him business? And why now? It had been over ten years ago and there had been no contact since. Jan often had his picture taken at premieres with starlets in tiny dresses. Chris didn't care if Jan needed to pretend that it had never happened.

  So what did Jan want, and why now? Except in situations of very difficult personalities or a mismatch with a client taste-wise, Chris never turned down work, especially high-profile public work. But he didn't trust the Bedford Street Cinema situation; Mattias's absence from the meeting only added to the ambiguity. Others would be bidding. Just as the office renovation had been offered out of the blue and then withdrawn, so the cinema project might simply disappear—snatched away out of spite, perhaps, or for some reason knowable only in the unfathomable mind of Jan Mattias. Not that Jan Mattias knew his own mind. Clearly not.

  But Chris wouldn't bring it up, as he and Vladimir didn't discuss their personal feelings or lives, current or historical. The topic of orientation had never come up, although it must have been clear to Vladimir from the moment Chris opened his portfolio, with the Queer Book Shop, the AIDS Crisis Center waiting room and all the restaurants on Eighth Avenue. No doubt he had the Latin male's homophobia and had moved on for reasons of practicality and respect. Chris was flattered that Vladimir respected his work.

  Vladimir had of course met Paul Zazlow, who often dropped by the office. Vladimir always greeted Paul cordially and chatted with him, sometimes at great length. But he'd never had anything to say about him.

  Paul, on the other hand, had choice words about Vladimir.

  “Oh my GOD!” Paul said to Chris, the night he'd met Vladimir for the first time. “The cross section can wait! I must address my energies to the Overthrow of the Regime!”

  Paul did a very good Vladimir imitation, with the intense eyes, forward-thrusting head and Latin drama. One day when Paul had stopped by for a studio lunch, Vladimir arrived late, coming from the doctor. Small talk about doctors and health insurance followed, and apropos of nothing, Vladimir said:

  “If I were that doctor, I'd be grateful to have me for a patient.”

  Paul burst into cackles.

  “I mean, I am funny, I am intelligent, I ask good questions. I liven up his day,” Vladimir said without irony. “He's lucky to have me.”

  Now, when Chris got home from work, Paul would ask, “How was Vladimir's desk chair? Was it aware of how lucky it should feel, being sat upon by Vladimir? And what about the waitress? Was she grateful to have Vladimir at her table?”

  Paul kept alive a running joke that Chris had a crush on Vladimir, because Chris had originally described Vladimir as being tall. “How tall is he?” was always Paul's first question: Paul was not tall at all.

  “I think he's six feet. Six-one,” Chris had said.

  “He is FIVE-SEVEN!” Paul accused, after meeting Vladimir. “Five-eight, tops!”

  “You think? Well, I don't know, he seemed very tall. He's so specific and says things with such authority, I guess he seems taller than he is.”

  As a matter of fact, Chris didn't have a crush on Vladimir. Vladimir was a talented architect, a great-looking guy, an angry, frustrated, amusing, somewhat lost person. As different as they were, their ideas meshed, and they worked well together. But no crush. Not everything had to turn into a thing. After spending a good ten years working and socializing exclusively with gay men where things often turned into things, Chris was glad to have a straight business partner, some straight clients and a few good straight friends. He felt his world was getting broader. Moreover, he'd had several romantic episodes with straight men who were on the fence. He had no need to live in that kind of frustration again. Not that Vladimir appeared on the fence in any way.

  It was insensitive to assume that Vladimir didn't discuss his personal life just because he was straight and Chris was gay. Not everything was about straight and gay.

  National origin, on the other hand, came up every day. Chris was constantly waiting for Vladimir and lecturing him about the importance of being on time. It would be bigoted to conclude that this was a Latin problem. However, Vladimir seemed to spend at least half his time in the office reading articles online about Cuba and organizing protests over the phone. Chris had to physically stand over Vladimir until he turned off his computer, in order to get to meetings on time. If he didn't, like today, Vladimir would be late—up to two hours late.

  “Let me just check one thing,” Vladimir would say each time Chris tried to get him to leave for a meeting.

  “You checked ten minutes ago. He's still alive. What did you do before the Internet?” Still: Vladimir worked on weekends and stayed at the studio until midnight many nights, so what did it matter, if that was how he structured his time? Vladimir was an adult.

  They emerged on Twenty-third Street and saw a ragged man defecating on the sidewalk in front of a doughnut shop. New York was like a collective insanity pact. New Yorkers ignored the psycho-tics, the homeless, the crowds, the piercing racket, the lousy public amenities, the nightmarish scaffolding, the ubiquitous garbage and decay, in order to pretend that they had the best of everything. The cynicism (“Knock yourself out,” said the litterbug when Chris picked up his trash), the lazy mental habits (“Enjoy,” said the dry-cleaning clerk when Chris dropped off his clothing), the pushiness (“Could we cross this street sometime today?” said the hopped-up pedestrian behind him), the incessant and inappropriate yakking on cellphones in public spaces, the savage honking that penetrated their sixth-floor studio from truck drivers on their way to the Holland Tunnel, and other evidence of the decline of all civilized behavior in New York City left Chris breathless, exhausted and angry at the end of every day. He no longer saw possibilities on every corner. All he saw was soot and sludge, the rudeness of corner-cutters and the arrogance of chiselers who knew that in a city of eight million strangers running late, they would never be called to account or have to apologize.

  When they got back to the studio, Vladimir put the cinema measurements in the computer to come up with some general floor plans, and Chris began tracking down drawings of another theater he'd designed for a competition some time in the last decade (he hadn't gotten the job). He'd been doing this for twenty years. Historically, Chris had dreamed of big public works—airports, museums, stadiums, ferry terminals. Manhattan interiors were getting tedious: the smaller the job, the nastier the negotiations with the client and/or the co-op board. Suburban jobs tended to focus on how loudly the client could trumpet his financial health from the façade, and how cheaply it could be done. Vladimir had coined the phrase “dinero-driven design” one frigid morning in Westches-ter, when a client suggested that the front door be surfaced in gold leaf.

  They didn't take jobs where taste was an issue anymore, although it went against his grain as an office manager. Between work they ultimately turned down and bids and competitions they didn't win, Chris estimated that he spent more than 65 percent of his time working on things that didn't get built. In any other city—which would no doubt be more l
ivable—he would have a better shot at making a name for himself.

  Chris's brother was an engineer with a huge firm in Atlanta. He lived a fine life. Granted, a heterosexual life with children in a humid climate, but the family had space, a front porch, a patio, a thriving garden and a fully funded, well-appointed community center with an Olympic-sized swimming pool around the corner. They had barbecues year round, friendliness, neighborliness, a porch culture—possibilities unavailable here in the confrontation capital of the world.

  But now he had this new professional partnership, and it was working out so well.

  “By the way, what time are you coming in tomorrow?” Chris asked.

  “Ten o'clock.”

  “Would that be ten o'clock New York time, or ten o'clock Havana time?”

  Vladimir blew him a kiss. Now, that was a first.

  When Chris got home, Paul turned off the sound on New York One and came to greet him with a glass of scotch. Paul had thick, straight black hair and a magnificent, chiseled face; he was the sort of person everyone looked at on the street—male, female, straight, gay, young, old, everyone.

  “As you know, half the buildings in New York don't take dogs,” Paul said as they settled into the sofa. “The other half don't take lawyers. So today I had my nightmare client: a lawyer with a dog.” Paul worked as a real estate broker for the largest firm in the city. He enjoyed everything about his job—the voyeurism, the office politics, the awful personalities, the entrée into his clients’ personal and financial lives, crisscrossing town every day and holding all the keys. He lived and breathed favors, secrecy and drama. He would never, ever leave New York.

  Scenes of local violence flashed on the TV. Chris took a sip of the drink and told Paul about the cinema project, omitting any reference to Jan Mattias.

  “And what's new with Vladimir?” Paul asked. “How about that keyboard? Was it sufficiently impressed to be pushed by the fingers of Vladimir?”

  Chris thought about Vladimir blowing the kiss. What did it mean to him?

  “He had the chorus girls of MGM reminiscing about Havana in the good old days.”

  “More Cuba!” Paul said, crunching ice, eyes on the TV.

  “We met a lovely person today,” Chris said, unknotting his tie. “I think Vladimir had an immediate positive effect on her.”

  “How tall?”

  He reminded himself how lucky he was to have found Paul. “There's a show at the Atlanta museum that I'd like to see,” he said, removing his shoes.

  “Don't even start,” Paul said.

  “It's a weekend.”

  “I know you. You want to plant tulips and start all over in May-berry.”

  “Atlanta is not Mayberry”

  “Even the idea of thinking about this idea gives me hives.”

  On the other hand, Paul could be so rigid. Chris tried to stand up.

  “I missed you today,” Paul accused, blocking him with his knees.

  “Me too,” Chris said, and untangled himself to go wash up. Paul was a positive force in his life, after years of celibacy, which had followed years of mindless roving, which had followed years of denial and despair. “If we don't have anything planned that second weekend in January, I think I'll go then.”

  “You don't believe it, but you do have roots here.”

  “I don't have trees here. I want something to survive me.”

  “You mean other than me?”

  The last day of October, with a dreadful feeling, Diane packed two suitcases and three small tote bags with vital things. In the afternoon, she had a moving company put her furniture, summer clothing, books and videos into a storage locker in Queens. Three other tenants were moving out at the same time, and the halls were filled with boxes, furniture, vacuum cleaners and bicycles. Part of her was frightened that she might lose something, and another part wanted to be rid of all the broken and mismatched things she'd acquired.

  Random memories surfaced as she packed. Behind, beneath and amid the furniture, she found buttons, coins, the missing remote control device, dust, paper clips and hair, hair, hair. Also, business cards: of a British film distributor (specialty: Orchids); a school administrator from Rockland, Illinois (specialty: Mission Furniture); a TV-commercial producer she'd had two dates with a decade earlier (specialty: The Godfather). She had a Rolodex full of cards from people she hadn't seen or spoken to in fifteen years. For some reason, she hadn't been able to throw them out, though surely these people had moved on, personally, professionally. Something about all the hair gave her a feeling of futility. She dumped the Rolodex down the incinerator shaft whole, gave her keys to the super, hailed a cab on Hudson Street, and rode uptown without looking back.

  NOVEMBER

  DIANE LET HERSELF into the dark house quietly, holding her breath as she passed the master bedroom at the top of the stairs. She was trying to spend as little time with her parents as possible without offending them. This was easy as they were in bed by eight-thirty. They sat around in their bathrobes in the morning, drinking coffee from five till nine, reading the newspapers and discussing, no doubt, her irregular hours, her lack of a mate, a graduate degree and now even a place to live. When she opened her door, the sprawl she'd expected had been replaced by streamlined surfaces; everything on the bed and floor had been put away neatly. There was a note on the desk: “Darling, let's talk in the morning. Love, Mom.” What was there to talk about? She had no leads. She couldn't give them an exit date. They couldn't be angry that she was a bad houseguest—all she did here was sleep. With the commuting and the apartment hunting, she didn't even have five minutes to squeeze juice in the morning.

  She undressed, throwing clothes on the floor. After a shower, she spent some time deciphering the “Apartments for Rent” section of The Village Voice. Many sounded familiar from previous weeks. Queens and the Bronx were not options. Washington Heights was not realistic. Brooklyn, if she had to.

  Vladimir had come to the cinema twice since the meeting to look at the space. He'd made quick work of preliminaries in her office, declined the movie, agreed in principle to drinks or dinner at some undefined other time, and had gone out to measure, draw or take photos. Once, Vladimir and Chris had spent a rainy evening measuring foot traffic in the lobby, and the three of them went around the corner for a quick coffee afterwards. The conversation had been friendly but limited; the goodbye had been inconclusive. No wedding ring. No personal details revealed, except that Vladimir rented an apartment in a building he'd helped renovate. He carried a black nylon bike messenger bag and often wore black jeans and sneakers. When he didn't shave, he had more of a mustache than a beard. The lack of information was maddening, but she expected a visit from him the following afternoon, and she couldn't stop herself from looking forward to it.

  In the morning, Connie was seated at the kitchen table, fully caf-feinated.

  “Your father and I were thinking,” she began, as Diane hit the bottom of the stairs.

  “Sorry, Mom, I have to catch the 9:02,” she said, running out the door.

  “What about buying an apartment?” her mother shouted after her.

  “I'm seeing three places for sale today—I'll call you!”

  Diane ran three blocks, and propelled herself across the intersection just as barriers fell over the Boonton Line tracks. This was the third day in a row she'd done this; she looked at all the calm commuters lined up for the Midtown Direct, armed with newspapers, umbrellas and stainless steel travel mugs of coffee from home. These people had thought far enough ahead to realize that they should be married and commuting calmly by now.

  She fell into a window position in a three-seat row and caught her breath. The last thing she wanted was to own property. But nobody was moving, and the rental market was absurd. And why not subscribe to a newspaper if you had a permanent home address? Christmas nonsense was everywhere. She had to get gifts for family and for everyone at the theater. When?

  That morning, she saw six possibilities. Although
the apartments for sale were in much better condition than the apartments for rent, all the apartments were still too small, too dark and in the wrong neighborhood. She hit the theater just as Floyd finished seating the first show, An American in Paris (Vincente Minnelli, 1951).

  All afternoon, she hovered near her phone, but Vladimir didn't call. She was reminded of a prospect from at least five years earlier, an advertising executive (specialty: New Restaurants), who asked who her favorite leading men were and, not seeing himself in any of her choices, stopped calling her.

  At six she called Vladimir. He said he'd been working on sight lines and columns, and had completely forgotten about stopping by. He'd call her another time.

  Oh dear, said a voice in her head that sounded a lot like Connie.

  Bobby Wald swung into her office to chat about Gene Kelly. Bobby liked to watch movies and talk about them. Granted, the level of discourse was not very high, but he absorbed what interested him. He was a regular guy. Still Bobby Wald should have found some kind of focus by the age of forty-two or forty-three.

  “What are you up to these days?” she asked him.

  “I'm making a coffee table in walnut,” he said. “I love wood.”

  Diane inhaled, expecting the specialist's lecture to unfold.

  But Bobby stopped there, with a goofy smile. Apparently, that was all there was to say about it. The gorgeous, exotic practicing architect was not calling, and the boy-next-door who dropped out of architecture school was popping by with regularity. Diane never saw her friends anymore, not even the cineastes. Why?

  She lined up at Port Authority for the bus to New Jersey. Vladimir would age nicely, she thought—amusing that this was now part of the job description. She wondered what his situation was. His partner was probably gay, but that didn't mean anything. Vladimir shook her hand with both of his hands, but he had done the same with everyone at the meeting. The Renovation Committee was meeting the following week to look over the designs from three different architectural firms. If Vladimir and Chris didn't get the bid, there would be nothing standing in the way of romantic involvement. If they did, the professional association didn't automatically mean that a personal situation was out the question—they weren't in the military, after all. And almost anyone associated with the cinema would be happy for her, she hoped. She wouldn't have to persuade herself to be interested in this one. What did it take to rate a lousy phone call? She should stop thinking about him now, to avoid disappointment.