Next it was the sharp hammer-and-anvil ring of spike heels on pavement—toing, toing, toing—as they retreated down the Schusters’ macadam driveway, turned left on the sidewalk, and halted at my gate, which was, of course, locked. I was alert now in every fiber. I slipped a finger between the pages of the novel I’d been reading and held my breath. I heard the gate rattle, my eyes straining to see through the dense leathery mass of the oaks, and then the voice called, “Hello, hello, hello!” It was a young voice, female, a take-charge and brook-no-nonsense sort of voice, a very attractive voice, actually, but for some reason I didn’t reply. Habit, I suppose. I was on my own porch in my own yard, minding my own business, and I resented the intrusion, no matter what it turned out to be, and I had no illusions on that score either. She was selling something, circulating a petition, organizing a Neighborhood Watch group, looking for a lost cat; she was out of gas, out of money, out of luck. I experienced a brief but vivid recollection of the time the gardener had left the gate ajar and a dark little woman in a sari came rushing up the walk holding a balsawood replica of the Stars & Stripes out in front of her as if it were made of sugar-frosted air, looked me in the eye, and said, “P’raps maybe you buy for a hunnert dollah good coin monee?”
“I’m your neighbor,” the voice called, and the gate rattled again. “Come on,” she said, “I can see you, you know—I can see your feet—and I know you’re there. I just want to take a minute of your time, that’s all, just a minute—”
She could see me? Self-consciously I lifted my feet from the floorboards and propped them up on the rail. “I can’t,” I said, and my voice sounded weak and watered down, “I’m busy right now.”
The fraction of a moment passed, all the sounds of the neighborhood butting up against one another—crows cursing in the trees, a jet revealing itself overhead with the faintest distant whine of its engines, a leaf blower starting up somewhere—and then she sang out, “I like your shoes. Where’d you get them? Not in this town, right?”
I said nothing, but I was listening.
“Come on, just a minute, that’s all I ask.”
I may live alone, by preference, but don’t get me wrong, I’m no eunuch. I have the same needs and urges as other men, which I’ve been able to satisfy sporadically with Stefania Porovka, the assistant pastry chef at the hotel. Stefania is thirty-two, with a smoky deep Russian voice that falls somewhere in the range between magnetic and aphrodisiacal and two children in elementary school. The children are all right, as children go, aside from a little caterwauling when they don’t get their way (which seems to be about a hundred percent of the time), but I can’t manage to picture them in my house, and by the same token, I can’t picture myself in Stefania’s psychotically disordered two-bedroom walk-up. So what I’m saying is that I got up from the porch and ambled down the walk to the gate and the girl of twenty or so standing there in blue jeans, heels and a V-neck top.
She was leaning over the gate, her arms crossed at the wrists, rings glinting from her fingers. Her eyes and hair were the exact same shade of brown, as if the colors had been mixed in the same vat, which in a sense I guess they were, and she had unusually thick and expressive eyebrows of the same color. From where I was standing, five feet back from the locked gate, I could see down the front of her blouse. She wasn’t wearing a brassiere. “Hello,” I said, regaling her with a cautious nod and the same approximation of a smile I put on for my customers at the bar.
“Oh, hi,” she returned, giving it the sort of emphasis that said she was surprised and impressed and very, very friendly. “I’m Samantha. I live up at the end of the block—the big white house with the red trim?”
I nodded. At this point I was noncommittal. She was attractive—pretty and beyond, actually—but too young for me to be interested in anything more than a neighborly way, and as I say, I wasn’t especially neighborly to begin with.
“And you are—?”
“Hart,” I said, “Hart Simpson,” and I put my hands on my hips, wondering if she could translate body language.
She never moved, but for a slight readjustment of her hands that set her bracelets ajingle. She was smiling now, her eyebrows arching up and away from the sudden display of her teeth. “Hart,” she repeated, as if my name were a curious stone she’d found in the street and was busy polishing on the sleeve of her blouse. And then: “Hart, are we bothering you? I mean, are we really bothering you all that much?”
I have to admit the question took me by surprise. Bothering me? I never even knew she existed until thirty seconds ago—and who was this we she was referring to? “We?” I said.
The smile faded, and she gave me a long, slow look. “So you’re not the one who complained—or one of the ones?”
“You must have me confused with somebody else. I don’t have the faintest idea what you’re talking about.”
“Peep Hall—” she said, “you know, like peephall.com?”
It was warm, midsummer, the air charged with the scent of rosemary and lavender and the desiccated menthol of the eucalyptus trees. I felt the sun on my face. I slowly shook my head.
She rubbed the palms of her hands together as if she were washing with soap and water, shifted her eyes away, and then came back to me again. “It’s nothing dirty,” she said. “It’s not like it’s some sleazoid club with a bunch of Taiwanese businessmen shoving dollar bills up our crotches or we’re lap-dancing or anything like that—we don’t even take our clothes off that much, because that totally gets old—”
I still had no idea what she was talking about, but I was beginning to warm to the general drift of it. “Listen,” I said, trying to unhinge my smile a bit, “do you want to come in for a beer or maybe a glass of wine or something?”
My house—not the one I grew up in, but this one, the one I inherited from my grandmother—is a shrine to her conventional, turn-of-the-last-century taste, as well as a kind of museum of what my parents left behind when they died. There isn’t too much of me in it, but I’m not one for radical change, and the Stickley furniture, the mica lamps, and even the ashtrays and bric-a-brac are wearing well, as eternal as the king’s ankus or the treasure buried with Tutankhamen. I keep the place neat—my parents’ books commingled with my own on the built-in bookshelves, rugs squared off against the couches and chairs, cups and dishes neatly aligned in the glass-front cabinets—but it’s not particularly clean, I’m afraid. I’m not much for dusting. Or vacuuming. The toilets could use a little more attention. And the walls on either side of the fireplace feature long, striated, urine-colored stains where the water got in around the chimney flashing last winter.
“Nice place,” Samantha breathed as I handed her a beer and led her into the living room, the house as dark and cool as a wine cellar though it must have been ninety out there in the sun. She settled into the big oak chair by the window, kicked off her heels and took first one foot, then the other, into her hands and slowly rubbed it. “I hate heels,” she said, “especially these. But that’s what they want us to wear.”
I was having a beer too, and I cradled it in my lap and watched her.
“No running shoes—they hate running shoes—and no sweats. It’s in our contract.” She laughed. “But you don’t know what I’m talking about, do you?”
I was thinking about Stefania and how long it had been since I’d had her over, how long it had been since she’d sat in that chair and done something as unselfconscious as rubbing her bare white feet and laughing over a beer. “Tell me,” I said.
It was a long story, involving so many digressions that the digressions became stories in themselves, but finally I began to gather that the big white house on the corner, where she lived with six other girls, was meant to represent a college dorm—that’s where the “Peep Hall” designation came in—and that the business of the place was to sell subscriptions on the Internet to over-lathered voyeurs who could click on any time of day or night to watch the girls going about their business in living color. “So y
ou’ve got all these video cameras around,” I said, trying to picture it. “Like at the bank or the 7-Eleven—that sort of thing?”
“Yeah, but much better quality, and instead of just like two of them or whatever, you’ve got cameras all over the place.”
“Even in the bathroom?”
Another laugh. “Especially the bathroom, what do you think?”
I didn’t have anything to say to that. I guess I was shocked. I was shocked. I definitely was. But why not admit it? I was titillated too. Women in the shower, I was thinking, women in the tub. I drained my beer, held the bottle up to the light, and asked her if she’d like another one.
She was already slipping her feet back into the shoes. “No, no thanks—I’ve got to go,” she said, rising to her feet. “But thanks for the beer and all—and if they do come around with a petition, you tell them we’re not doing anything wrong, okay?” She was smiling, swaying slightly over her heels. “And I don’t know if you’re into it—you’re on-line, right?—but you should check us out, see for yourself.”
We were at the door. She handed me the empty beer bottle, still warm from the embrace of her hand. “You really should,” she said.
After she left, I opened another beer and wandered through the downstairs rooms, picking up magazines and tossing them back down again, opening and shutting doors for no good reason, until I found myself in the kitchen. There were dishes in the sink, pans encrusted with one thing or another on the stove. The drainboard looked like an artifact, the one incomprehensible object left behind by a vanished civilization, and was it merely decorative or was it meant for some utilitarian purpose? The windows were a smudge of light. The plants needed water. I’d been planning to make myself an omelet and then go up to the university for the Monday Night Film Society’s showing of The Seventh Seal, a film so bleak it always brought tears of hysterical laughter to my eyes, but instead, on an impulse, I dialed Stefania’s number. When she answered, there was an edge to her voice, all the Russian smoke blown right out of it by the winds of complexity and turmoil, and in the background I could hear the children shrieking as if the skin were being peeled from their bodies in long, tapering strips. “Hello?” Stefania demanded. “Who is it? Is anybody there? Hello?” Very carefully, though my hand was trembling, I replaced the receiver in its cradle.
And this was strange: it was my day off, the only day of the week when I could really relax, and yet I was all worked up, as if I’d had one too many cups of coffee. I found myself drifting through the house again, thoughtfully pulling at my beer, studying a lamp or a painting or an old family photo as if I’d never seen it before, all the while making a wide circuit around the little room off the front hall where the computer sat on my desk like a graven idol. I resisted it for half an hour or more, until I realized I was resisting it, and then I sat down, booted it up and clicked on www.peephall.com.
A Web page gradually took shape on the screen. I saw the house on the corner, a big shapeless stucco box against a neutral background, and in front of it, as the image filled in from top to bottom, the girls began to materialize. There were seven of them, squeezed shoulder-to-shoulder to fit in the frame, and they were dressed in low-cut tops and smiling as if they were selling lip gloss or plaque remover. Samantha was second from the left, staring right at me. “Twenty-four hours a day!” screamed the teaser. “Watch our young sexy College Girls take bubble baths, throw sexy Lingerie parties and sunbathe Nude poolside! You’ll never miss an Intimate Moment!” To the left, in a neat pulsating sidebar, were come-ons for related sites, like See Me Pee and Hot Sexy Teen Vixens. The subscription fee was $36 a month. I never hesitated.
Once I was in, I was presented with an array of choices. There were forty cameras in all, and I could choose among the two bathrooms, three bedrooms, the pool, kitchen, living room and deck. I was working on my third beer—on an empty stomach, no less—and I wasn’t really thinking, just moving instinctively toward something I couldn’t have defined. My pulse was racing. I felt guilty, paranoiac, consumed with sadness and lust. The phrase dirty old man shot through my head, and I clicked on “The Kitchen” because I couldn’t go to “Upstairs Bath,” not yet anyway.
The room that came into view was neat, preternaturally neat, like the set for a cooking show, saucepans suspended from hooks, ceramic containers of flour, sugar, tea and coffee lined up along a tile counter, matching dishtowels hanging from two silver loops affixed to the cabinet beneath the sink. But of course it was a set, the whole house was a set, because that was what this was all about: seeing through walls like Superman, like God. I clicked on Camera 2, and suddenly a pair of shoulders appeared on the screen, female shoulders, clad in gray and with a blond ponytail centered in the frame. The shoulders ducked out of view, came back again, working vigorously, furiously, over something, and now the back of a blond head was visible, a young face in profile, and I experienced my first little frisson of discovery: she was beating eggs in a bowl. The sexy young teen college vixens were having omelets for dinner, just like me … but no, another girl was there now, short hair, almost boyish, definitely not Samantha, and she had a cardboard box in her hand, and they were—what were they doing?—they were making brownies. Brownies. I could have cried for the simple sweet irreducible beauty of it.
That night—and it was a long night, a night that stretched on past the declining hours and into the building ones—I never got out of the kitchen. Samantha appeared at twenty past six, just as the blonde (Traci) pulled the brownies from the oven, and in the next five minutes the entire cast appeared, fourteen hands hovering over the hot pan, fingers to mouths, fat dark crumbs on their lips, on the front of their T-shirts and clingy tops, on the unblemished tiles of the counter and floor. They poured milk, juice, iced tea, Coke, and they flowed in and out of chairs, propped themselves up against the counter, the refrigerator, the dishwasher, every movement and gesture a revelation. And more: they chattered, giggled, made speeches, talked right through one another, their faces animated with the power and fluency of their silent words. What were they saying? What were they thinking? Already I was spinning off the dialogue (“Come on, don’t be such a pig, leave some for somebody else!”; “Yeah, and who you think went and dragged her ass down to the store to pick up the mix in the first place?”), and it was like no novel, no film, no experience I’d ever had. Understand me: I’d seen girls together before, seen them talk, overheard them, and men and women and children too, but this was different. This was for me. My private performance. And Samantha, the girl who’d come up my walk in a pair of too-tight heels, was the star of it.
The next morning I was up at first light, and I went straight to the computer. I needed to shave, comb my hair, dress, eat, micturate; I needed to work on my novel, jog up and down the steps at the university stadium, pay bills, read the paper, take the car in for an oil change. The globe was spinning. People were up, alert, ready for the day. But I was sitting in a cold dark house, wrapped in a blanket, checking in on Peep Hall.
Nobody was stirring. I’d watched Samantha and the short-haired girl (Gina) clean up the kitchen the night before, sweeping up the crumbs, stacking plates and glasses in the dishwasher, setting the brownie pan out on the counter to soak, and then I’d watched the two of them sit at the kitchen table with their books and a boombox, turning pages, taking notes, rocking to the beat of the unheard music. Now I saw the pan sitting on the counter, a peach-colored band of sunlight on the wall behind it, plates stacked in the drainboard, the silver gleam of the microwave—and the colors weren’t really true, I was thinking, not true at all. I studied the empty kitchen in a kind of trance, and then, without ceremony, I clicked on “Upstairs Bath.” There were two cameras, a shower cam and a toilet cam, and both gazed bleakly out on nothing. I went to “Downstairs Bath” then, and was rewarded by a blur of motion as the stone-faced figure of one of the girls—it was Cyndi, or no, Candi—slouched into the room in a flannel nightdress, hiked it up in back, and sat heavily on the toilet
. Her eyes were closed—she was still dreaming. There was the sleepy slow operation with the toilet paper, a perfunctory rinsing of the fingertips, and then she was gone. I clicked on the bedrooms then, all three of them in succession, until I found Samantha, a gently respiring presence beneath a quilt in a single bed against the far wall. She was curled away from me, her hair spilled out over the pillow. I don’t know what I was feeling as I watched her there, asleep and oblivious, every creep, sadist, pervert and masturbator with thirty-six dollars in his pocket leering at her, but it wasn’t even remotely sexual. It went far beyond that, far beyond. I just watched her, like some sort of tutelary spirit, watched her till she turned over and I could see the dreams invade her eyelids.
I was late for work that day—I work lunch on Tuesdays and Thursdays, then come back in at five for my regular shift—but it was slow and nobody seemed to notice. A word on the hotel: it’s a pretty little place on the European model, perched at the top of the tallest hill around, and it has small but elegant rooms, and a cultivated—or at least educated—staff. It features a restaurant with pretensions to three-star status, a cozy bar and a patio with a ten-million-dollar view of the city and the harbor spread out beneath it. The real drinkers—university wives, rich widows, department heads entertaining visiting lecturers—don’t come in for lunch till one o’clock or later, so in my absence the cocktail waitress was able to cover for me, pouring two glasses of sauvignon blanc and uncapping a bottle of non-alcoholic beer all on her own. Not that I didn’t apologize profusely—I might have been eleven years late with my thesis, but work I took seriously.