Snowstorms in a Hot Climate

  Over his shoulder, the door to the powder room swung open, and a small dark figure emerged. He registered my glance but didn’t take his eyes off me. I had to hand it to him. He had strong nerves.

  “All right,” I said, when she was almost upon us. “You have my silence.”

  “Terrific.” He made his voice public with a laugh, turning to greet her with impeccable timing.

  “What’s terrific?” She was looking at me rather than him.

  “Oh, we’ve just been discovering areas of common interest,” he said, glancing up at her. “You got to remember, I don’t get to meet too many professional historians these days.”

  “Oh no, you’re not going to talk shop.” She groaned, but you could tell she was pleased.

  “Uh-uh. We’ve finished our revision of the past, haven’t we, Marla? Now I suggest we get on with the present. Champagne I think. To celebrate the reunion.”

  And so mine host took charge, and under the grow lamp of his attention, small shoots of conversation began to appear. The champagne was accompanied by questions: my impressions of New York, the changes I found, my work, the trials and tribulations of teaching. Unspectacular subject matter but impressively handled. He appeared to find my replies riveting. He certainly listened, tossing back thoughts, playing with possibilities, picking up on my dust-dry humor, giving as good as he got. It was a game, of course, albeit consummately played. I remembered Elly’s description of that first night in Bogotá, and I knew I was being charmed and coaxed into complicity. But then, what option did I have? After all, wasn’t this just a social occasion? The meeting of Elly’s friends. No, I had wanted to see Lenny in action. Now was my chance. And all the time Elly sat and watched us spar until, gradually, as the illusion of relaxation grew, her apprehension faded and she too began to join in.

  Three minds with but a single thought—to avoid confrontation and observe the protocol of pleasure. And thus, against all odds, the evening began to blossom. After the second bottle of champagne—the credit should be shared—we floated on to the streets and hailed a taxi, cruising our way through the crimson New York twilight to an expensive, exclusive Japanese restaurant, where everything was opaque and cool, and where we sat on tatami and played at being Oriental, bowing our heads at silken, smiling waitresses and eating our way through an endless art exhibit of tastes, while gently but surely crippling ourselves on a warm stream of sake.

  And here it was that Lenny really came into his own, telling witty tales of his travels in Japan, mixing fact with fiction, the sacred with the profane. And because I am susceptible to intelligence, I allowed myself, temporarily at least, to be seduced by him. He, in turn, did not become complacent. Indeed, he never once forgot the complex energies of the evening. Thus he kept me in close contact while always being alert to Elly’s needs: a hand on the back of her chair, the odd touch, a way of recalling incidents shared which gave them an intimacy without excluding me. And she accepted his ministrations gracefully, unable to resist the temptation of pleasure from having us both—her lover and her best friend—so close. And as for him? Well, it was a virtuoso performance, and obscured for those few hours all shadows of the other Lennys, the cold, the cruel, the distant ones. And so I learned a lesson for times to come. That my battle was not so much with a dragon breathing fire as with Proteus changing shapes, and that whatever magic was woven around me, I should always be on my guard.

  Finally we picked up our pampered bodies and carried them home to the apartment in the sky, where all that remained to do was to sit out in the night air and sip bourbon. And it was there, on the balcony, that the spell wore off, and the ghosts of last night’s conversation came back to haunt our newfound bonhomie. And so I got up, excused myself, and retired to bed.

  After a while they too made their way to the bedroom. I heard footsteps and whispered voices. Then I felt my door open and caught sight of Elly’s white figure hovering like some Victorian angel over my bed.

  “I came to say good night,” she whispered. “And to tell you how happy I am that you’re here.”

  And I looked up at her, her face all snub and cubist in the night shadows, and said, “I think we should go to California.”

  To which she smiled. “Of course. Is tomorrow soon enough? All it takes is a phone call. What happened, Marla? Did you get sunburned already?”

  And if I answered, I have no recollection of what I said. Indeed I remember nothing more of that night, for which I am grateful, for the walls of the apartment were thin and I had no wish to hear their lovemaking.

  six

  The black guy who sold us the Greyhound tickets at San Francisco Airport looked like a baseball pro with the day off. I kept thinking he must be wearing roller skates, the way he darted around the booth checking timetables and punching tickets. His efficiency was designed to be admired. As he took our money, he flashed a smile which cracked his face from ear to ear. The teeth revealed were a monument to private dental care.

  “Ladies, the bus to Santa Cruz leaves in exactly eight minutes from the stop at the end of the Arrivals concourse. Take care, have a good journey, and thank you for going Greyhound.”

  We all grinned, none of us believing a word of it, but all colluding in the myth. Then Elly and I picked up our suitcases and headed for the sign of the dog.

  We had taken an afternoon flight from the East, sipping tea and watching the epic performance of prairies, mountains, and deserts unfold beneath us. It had not, to date, been the best of days. Morning had broken to unauthorized drilling in the back of my skull, a warning too late of the comparative strengths of English and American cocktails. Next to my bed was a scrawled note from Elly:

  I thought you used to be an insomniac? I’m at the store tying up loose ends. We’re booked on the 3:45 flight to San Francisco. Are you still up for it?

  Clearly not. At that point it seemed inconceivable I should travel as far as the bathroom, let alone the West Coast. Think big, start small. I crept out of bed. The door to their bedroom was closed. Thank God, Lenny was still unconscious. After a few gallons of water, my vision improved, but my head still hurt. In the kitchen the orange juice was sweet and thick with pulp, but I could manage only a few gulps. I filled a mug with black coffee and made my way out onto the balcony. I was practicing focusing when I heard the front door open. Elly doesn’t waste time, I thought, just before Lenny’s voice tapped me on the shoulder.

  “Good morning, Marla.”

  It was the casual look this morning. T-shirt, designer jeans, and sneakers. Casual with a capital C. Funny how Lenny’s clothes always drew attention to themselves—“Look at us. Look at us. We belong to Lenny.” I think I muttered something in reply.

  “You interested in contemporary history?” he said, pulling out The New York Times and burdening me with a couple of volumes of it. “More coffee?”

  I shook my head. Slowly.

  “You sure? You look like you need it. Got a hangover?”

  “Nothing a brain transplant wouldn’t cure.”

  He laughed. “Don’t worry. I have the perfect remedy.”

  At least it got rid of him for a moment. I sat staring down at the front page of the paper. From the kitchen I registered the sounds of the fridge, then the blender. I was grateful the noise wasn’t any closer. REAGAN URGES STRONGER PENALTIES FOR DRUG ABUSE. I read the headline twice. Lenny appeared with a tall glass of yellowish liquid.

  “What is it?”

  “I wouldn’t ask.”

  I cradled it in my hands, then took a sip. It tasted rancid. He waited for me to show my disgust. I took a breath and finished it in one long, foul gulp. As I put it down, I began to feel a fizzing in my stomach. Then I most definitely felt sick. Lenny had poisoned me. Of course. I had fallen straight into the trap.

  “You feel sick, right?” he said, leaning against the railing, watching, amused. I decided not to risk opening my mouth. “Good. That means it’s working. Give it a few minutes and you’ll feel like a new woman.”
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  To my relief the old one returned, feeling more herself than ever. For a while we sat in silence. Then he said, “So, you’re a historian, Marla. That gives us something in common. I’ve just finished that Günter Grass novel on the Thirty Years’ War, Meeting at Telgte. Have you read it?”

  I shook my head.

  “Pity. I would have been interested in your professional opinion. I think it’s pretty good. Brings it alive. But then, of course, he’s a novelist rather than a historian—more interested in atmosphere than in facts. You probably despise that kind of thing.”

  There was no doubt about it: Lenny wanted to talk.

  “I’m not averse to imagination in history, if that’s what you mean. Facts are just facts without interpretation.”

  “And history is interpretation?”

  “Yes, something like that.”

  “What about when interpretation becomes distorted?”

  “Then it ceases to be history.” I shrugged. “Maybe that’s when it becomes fiction.”

  “So what about Bergman’s Seventh Seal?”

  “What about it?”

  “Fact or fiction?”

  I was becoming aware that I was feeling distinctly less accommodating than the night before. Of course, it might just have been the ragged end of the hangover. But something told me that the feeling was mutual.

  “Neither. Swedish art doesn’t count.”

  He smiled. “How about your own period? Anglo-Saxon Britain, isn’t it? Have you ever seen a movie which captured that for you?”

  “Absolutely. Tony Curtis and Kirk Douglas in The Vikings,” I said with a perfectly straight face. “A breathtaking re-creation of an early medieval soap.”

  He raised an eyebrow. “You don’t like talking about your job, is that it?”

  “People don’t usually ask. It’s not exactly an immediately arresting period.”

  “Is that why you chose it?”

  Ten out of ten, Lenny. “I don’t know. Certainly I like the fact that it’s underpopulated. By historians at least. Not like the Tudors or the Borgias. Researching them is like shopping in a supermarket on Christmas Eve: too many people squabbling over the same dead flesh. In Anglo-Saxon history you can go for years without meeting another living soul.”

  “And you like that?”

  “Yes, I like that.”

  Blood out of a stone. I was weary of his concentration. There was too much of the inquisition about it.

  “Elly tells me you’re leaving today,” he said, changing the subject as if he had read my thoughts. “It doesn’t give us much time to get to know each other. I’d been looking forward to that.”

  “You could always come out and join us.” I felt forced into being charitable. “Later.”

  “I’m not sure I should disturb your reunion. You two have a lot of catching up to do. Although I gather you’ve done some of it already.”

  “Yes,” I said softly. So was this what it was all about? “Some of it.”

  “Elly assures me you’re a very discreet person.” He smiled. “But then I guess I had proof of that last night.” Still I said nothing. “I do hope you can help her, Marla. She worries me. She doesn’t seem to be able to relax anymore. There’s a kind of perpetual tension about her. Maybe you’ve noticed?”

  This time he waited, as if he seriously expected a reply. What kind of treaty did he think we’d signed last night? Détente does not mean disarmament. “No, I can’t say I have. But then it’s been a long time.”

  He nodded. “Anyway, I want you to know how happy I am that you’re here. I know you’ll do her a lot of good.”

  How is it that you know when someone’s lying? Is it really in the eyes? Or maybe it’s the voice. Or the body. Because something has to set off the alarm bells, and just at that moment I had developed a severe case of tinnitus. I decided it was my turn to change the subject. There was something I was curious about.

  “I have a question.”

  “Be my guest.”

  “It’s about the flight. Last night. I wondered if perhaps you’d spotted us meeting at the airport—Elly and I?”

  There was just the hint of a frown.

  “It was just that you didn’t get home until so much later. I thought perhaps you’d seen us in the arrivals hall and decided to give us some time together.”

  He laughed as if the theory brought him genuine pleasure. “God, no. Nothing so ingenious. You had disappeared long before I cleared Customs. I had a slight problem. You see, I had no luggage to clear. It wasn’t on the plane. I spent the best part of three hours waiting for them to track it down. They finally located it revolving around an empty conveyor belt in Miami. They flew it back first thing this morning. That’s why I was up so early. I tell you, it’s the first and last time I ever fly British Airways. Speaking of which, you’re booked on American Airlines this afternoon. I hope that doesn’t offend your patriotism. So, you know California?”

  “A little,” I said, admiring what Elly would have called the stage management.

  “But not J.T.? I’ll be interested to see what you make of him. I don’t know what Elly has told you, but he’s quite a character.”

  “You’re good friends.”

  “Like you and Elly.” He smiled. We go back a long way.”

  No time to reflect on this or anything else. The front door rattled Elly’s arrival, and she entered like a small whirlwind, all heat and hurry. I stashed the conversation away to be regurgitated later. We were almost late for the plane.

  The Greyhound, on the other hand, was punctual to the minute. We settled ourselves in the back seats, a small ocean of space between us and the nearest passengers. Outside, California appeared like a movie set, sharp acrylic light on Technicolor landscape. Santa Cruz and our host were just an hour away over the hills and the redwood forest. Over the rainbow to blue skies and paradise living. And another man of mystery, this one so enigmatic that he didn’t even have a proper name. It was time to open a file on this latest character. Beginning with his initials. What exactly did J.T. stand for?

  Elly turned from the window laughing. “Your guess is as good as mine. Why don’t you ask him? I’ve never had the nerve. Boy, if you think Lenny plays his cards close to his chest, you wait until you meet J.T. He’s a one-man secret society. What do I know about him? Let’s see … That he and Lenny met in Bogotá, five—maybe six—years ago. He was set up by then; Lenny was just starting out. They got on, worked together for a while—something of a legendary partnership I gather—then split up and went their separate ways, east and west. But they still keep in touch. Sit out on each other’s porches, drinking beer and reliving the good old days.”

  “You sound as if you disapprove.”

  “Approval isn’t the right word. I just have a little trouble with the whole ‘We were there together, amigo’ routine, that’s all. It’s a bit like being the girl in the Butch Cassidy legend. A lot of fun until you’re the one who gets left behind.”

  “Aren’t there any women in the business?”

  “Oh sure, but you don’t often find them running the show. They work on the ground, moving it on once it comes in. And there are some who bring it in: the mules, lovely señoritas tightrope-walking their ways through Customs. But usually in someone else’s operation. For the most part it’s all much like life in the fifties. The ladies stay home and spend their old men’s money. I tell you, it’s a very traditional business, despite all the hype and the glamour. You’re looking at a kept woman.”

  “Come on, Elly. Profit margins like Hermosa’s don’t make themselves. You earn your living. You and Lenny both know that. What about J.T.? Who launders his banknotes?”

  She shook her head. “No one. Or not that I’ve come across. Anyway, they don’t need cleaning anymore. He’s retired.”

  “What happened?”

  “As usual, I don’t know the details. It was a couple of years ago now, just before Lenny and I got together. J.T. used to run a big operation aro
und the Palo Alto area. Same deal as Lenny, bringing it in and moving it on. Then, just after he’d cleared a big shipment, someone got busted and the links led directly to him. They never touched him, but he saw it as an omen. He’d made his killing anyway, plowed it all into real estate. There was so much money moving around California in those days that no one looked too closely at where it was coming from. Land was safe, small holdings led to big profits, and once you’d bought in you could push all your earnings through it. He was a rich man. He’d already bought a chunk of coastline and started putting down houses on it. He sold off a few and built one for himself. That’s where he lives now, in early and comfortable retirement, although he doesn’t splash it around.”

  “What does he do with his life?”

  “Search me. He certainly hasn’t reentered society, that’s for sure. He’s crazy about stargazing and gardening, that’s all I know. Grows enough to feed a small army, and gives most of it to the chickens. He’s the kind of guy who a hundred years ago would have made a great rancher. He’s built like an ox, doesn’t like company, and isn’t really interested in the twentieth-century bits of life. One of nature’s genuine eccentrics.”

  “But you like him?”

  She smiled at herself. “Yes, I suppose I do. Although I don’t quite know why. He’s a bit of a misfit really, less glamorous than Lenny. Maybe I’ve just come to mistrust the gloss. Also, he was good to me. Helped me when I needed it.”

  Of course, it had been to J.T. she had come after the separation. And it had been J.T. who had advised her to leave Lenny. Although not in so many words …

  “It was funny. He never said it directly. But I knew what he meant. Brotherly advice.” She pulled a face. “Except, of course, I ignored him.”

  “What did he say when he found out?”

  “I don’t know. We never discussed it. He just left me at the airport and I flew out. Since then nothing. That was part of the deal. He didn’t want Lenny to know I had been there and neither did I. It was our secret. When I rang him to ask if we could use the guesthouse, he didn’t say anything, just agreed to meet us. It was as if the conversation had never taken place. That old cocaine silence—no wasted words. I think you’ll like him. My guess is contact will be kept to a minimum, and with the exception of the odd delivery of carrots and kohlrabi we won’t see him again until the day we leave.”