Blind Date

  She looked at him, lost in thought, and then the thoughts drifted. Her eyes still looked at him, at the room, but her mind was elsewhere. Her body was alive, but she was indifferent to it. The nurse returned to the room and resumed her post at Mary-Jane’s bedside.

  Levanter spent his days in the apartment, waiting for any sign of perception, staring into the eyes that remained open but did not see. Occasionally, he fed Mary-Jane and walked her to the bathroom, her head resting against his shoulder, his arm supporting her. He dressed and undressed her, combed her hair, helped to bathe her, to rub her dry, and to put her to sleep. At these times, she was his infant child.

  The last traces of life left her body as quietly as the thoughts had left her mind. He felt he was losing his only child, becoming an orphan himself. He moved back to his old apartment, which, as a gesture to chance, he had kept as an office while they were married.

  Each time his eye caught the photograph of Mary-Jane on his night table, the words “it was and it was not” returned to him.

  Walking past Carnegie Hall one evening, he saw a familiar face staring at him from a row of posters. The bold black letters of her name contrasted with her light hair and pale eyes.

  The concert was already in progress and the box office was closing. The ticket seller looked at him and mechanically announced that the concert was sold out. Saying nothing, Levanter took out pencil and paper. He made himself tremble. His left hand clasped his right wrist, restraining and guiding the hand over the paper, and he wrote in large uneven letters that he had to go in because he suffered from fits that only music could subdue. The woman read his note. Before she had a chance to refuse his request, he jerked his right hand free and spastically slapped his ear several times. The woman looked nervous, as if she feared he was about to have one of his fits. Hurriedly, she reached under the counter and passed him a ticket that someone had reserved but had not yet picked up. Levanter paid her and, still shaking, rushed inside.

  The hall was filled with the sounds that sprang from under the pianist’s fingers. The music she played elated him. His mother had played this piece, and he recalled how he had often listened to recordings of it, as if the music itself could bring back the emotion it had so often aroused in him in the past.

  His seat was near the back of the hall: he could hardly see the pianist’s features and seemed to be looking at her through the wrong end of opera glasses. He remembered clearly how he had felt the first time he heard her play. Yet he was no better able now than he had been then to define the sensation.

  He glanced around at the audience. People sat motionless, absorbed in the music that rushed at them, intimate and immediate, pure spirit without words, without gestures. No one stirred until the concert had ended.

  He could still hear the applause for her encores when he went backstage. He walked confidently past the guard, and, murmuring that Madame expected him, asked her maid to let him sit down in the dressing room. Stagehands brought several large baskets of flowers into the room; Levanter could see a crowd of admirers gathering outside.

  Pauline opened the door but stood with her back to the room, facing a group of photographers in the corridor. She autographed some programs and entered, closing the door behind her. Her face and neck were flushed with excitement. Midway into the room, she noticed Levanter. At first she looked surprised, then she simply asked him to open the wine on the table beside him. He filled two glasses. She dismissed her maid, sat down in a chair on the other side of the table, and took a sip of wine.

  “Another great success,” said Levanter.

  She smiled distantly. “A good audience. But the audience is gone now. All that’s left is the recording, a memory.”

  “But it’s a memory with feeling, which can be listened to many times,” said Levanter.

  “It can,” she said. “But only as a source of reflection; no more magic of the spontaneous.” She paused. “In that cavern in ValPina,” she said, “you told me about a baseball player who killed the girl he once loved.”

  Levanter nodded.

  “You told me about him for a reason. What was it?”

  “I hoped you would remember the story. And possibly you would remember the person who told it to you.”

  “How do you want to be remembered?” She looked in the dressing-table mirror outlined in white bulbs and patted her hair.

  “As a memory with feeling,” he said.

  “Without the magic of the spontaneous?”

  She stood up and went to examine the baskets of flowers. She read the cards and telegrams with them, smelled the blossoms, rearranged some leaves. As he gazed at her, he feared that he might lose courage.

  “I live half a block away,” he said. Then, before she had a chance to react, he forced himself to plead, “Come there with me. Please.”

  She bit her lips. Without a word, she went behind a screen and came out moments later in a simple dress. She reached for her coat, and he helped her on with it. Behind her back, he brushed his face lightly against her hair.

  As they walked out into the corridor, Pauline gently touched his arm and stopped him. “Why?” she asked.

  Levanter felt at ease now. He reached for her and drew her close, his lips grazing her neck, his face buried in her hair. She folded her hands behind his neck, and he felt her body against him, pliant and vulnerable.

  “Why?” she repeated.

  “I’m afraid of losing you,” he said. The sound of his words brought him a faint memory, so faint that he dismissed it.

  “Why?” she asked again.

  “I want you to fall in love with me,” he said, “to want me as I am now. Somehow, I think you’re my last chance.”

  She disengaged herself from his embrace and stepped back.

  “Your last chance? For what?”

  “To be wanted, rather than remembered. To have a fresh emotion, a sensation that isn’t just a ricocheted memory. To be part of that spontaneous magic.”

  When they stepped from the elevator and approached his apartment, he noticed that the door had been painted while he was out. The paint had already dried, but when he inserted his key into the lock it would not turn; paint had seeped in and hardened inside. He was going to lose her because of a drop of paint, he thought.

  Pauline was amused. “Are you sure you live here?” she asked.

  Levanter was fighting the lock. It would not budge. “You wouldn’t happen to have any nail-polish remover on you, would you?” he asked.

  “I don’t even have a nightgown,” she answered.

  Levanter didn’t know what to do. It was nearly midnight; the superintendent did not live in the building.

  Pauline came to his rescue. “Where would the painters keep their supplies?” she said.

  They went down to the basement. Among the broken refrigerators and vacuum cleaners, the mops and pails, Pauline found a can of turpentine and Levanter poured some into an empty bottle lying nearby. Back at his door, Pauline handed him her comb and he dripped the turpentine down the handle, straight into the lock. He inserted his key. The door opened.

  He turned on one small lamp. The dim light outlined the contours of the desk, bookshelves, TV set, copying machine, two armchairs, his old convertible sofa, and the small rocker.

  Pauline took off her coat and placed it on the sofa. Quickly, Levanter stacked some of her recordings on the stereo; the first clicked as it fell into position. He drew the curtains over the windows and the terrace door, took off his jacket and laid it over her coat, then went to her, backing her against his desk. He slid to his knees and gently raised her dress up around her waist. He tugged her panties down and she stepped out of them. Mutely, he found her flesh hidden in the silky fur between her thighs. It was moist and fragrant, and he pressed tighter against it, warming it with his breath. When he felt her hips quiver, he opened her with his fingers, and his tongue moved inside.

  Images of her in ValPina whirled through his mind: in the hotel lounge, on the midstation t
errace, at the underground lake. He remembered trying to catch her eye, hoping she would respond.

  She started to shiver; a wave of tremors ran through her and she shoved her flesh into his face. Then she pulled away, almost lifting herself onto the desk with her hands. He kept his mouth over her, as he pushed her thighs against the desk. She put her hands on his shoulders. Then, just when she seemed ready to surrender to her own passion, she shrank back, whispering. “I can’t, I never could.”

  He continued to kiss her, sensing the yearning that coursed through her. Her hands clutched his shoulders, caressed his neck and hair. Writhing and jerking, she again seemed on the verge of giving in to her own surging when, in despair, she repeated, “I can’t.” He stopped touching her. She slid onto the floor with him, her arms around his neck. He began to undress her, slowly, tossing her clothes onto an armchair. Then he quickly took off all his clothes.

  He took her hand and led her to the rocking chair. He sat down, spreading her legs, and guided her over himself. The chair rocked gently, its movement bringing him deeper into her, making her straddle him more tightly. He clasped his arms around her hips, and she rested her hands on the back of the chair behind his shoulders. Heat from their bodies filled the narrow space between her breasts and his chest. In the gleaming light, he saw her eyes, wide open, fixed on him. His lips brushed hers, the taste of her flesh still on his tongue, and when he felt her tongue upon his, he realized that it was the first time Pauline had kissed him.

  The chair rocked, and they clung to each other, rising and falling. Her eyes remained open, anguished, staring at him. The next record dropped onto the turntable. They rose from the chair, and he led her slowly to the bedroom.

  She lay flat on her back, her legs apart, her arms at her sides, and she watched him as he walked over to the closet, opened it, and pulled out a full tie rack. He selected several ties, one after another, choosing only those which were soft enough.

  He returned to her and she did not move. He raised her hands above her head and tied each wrist to a bedpost, taking pains not to knot the ties too tightly. She did not stiffen when he tied them, nor when he fastened each ankle to a post at the foot of the bed. She was spread-eagled. He pushed two pillows under her, lifting her body in an arch, her chest rising, her belly concave, her thighs flat, her flesh open. He picked up one more tie and an elastic band; gathering her hair into a ponytail and securing it with the band, he slipped the tie through and attached her hair to the railing of the bed. He put a small pillow under her neck.

  Levanter began to trace his fingers gently along Pauline’s neck, the underarm, down to her thighs, then up again, diagonally, over her belly and breasts. His torso brushing against her breasts, his flesh against her hips, he hovered above her like a bird of prey, descending only to nip at her skin, biting until it swelled, pressing his flesh against hers, then lifting himself until only the tip touched her skin. A ripple went through her, and his hands followed it. He kept teasing her until her body was taut; her whole being seemed to be a thin membrane he could pierce at will. He started to enter her, then to leave, to enter again, and leave again; he remained stilled inside her, then twisted, at times bulky and stiff, at times slender and pliant, drawing himself tightly into her, contracting and releasing. She strained, the veins in her neck and arms swelling, the ties threatening to cut through her, and she drew her body up, attempting to pull free, her eyes blank, unseeing, her mouth open but uttering no sound. He crouched between her thighs and wedged his fingers into her flesh. His hand parted it, slowly feeling the tender cords. She tensed and contracted, trying to pull back, but the bonds held her tightly in place. Like a burrowing animal, his hand crept into her, his fingers twisting, spreading the slippery tissues, probing deeper and deeper. She shivered, and he waited for her to ask him to stop but she did not. He pushed his hand farther in, and as her muscles gripped his wrist, he could not tell whether he felt her pulse or his own. Her body rose higher. Her face tightened; she moaned, “No!” A sudden current ran through her like lightning; then, just as suddenly, the tension that gripped her dissolved. He lost the feeling of his own shape; in the ultimate moment, when his vision shrank, he heard her whisper, “Yes!” and, as its sound ebbed, her body softened, freed from its own bondage, no longer struggling against any restraints.

  He took his skis from the gondola rack and walked to the start of the run. He was the only passenger in the last PicSoleil gondola on the final day of the skiing season. All the other lifts were already closed, and the attendant warned him that no skiers had come up that day. This would be the first time that he had the mountain range entirely to himself. The Aval was his favorite run, and he could ski it blindfolded. He would be in ValPina in less than half an hour.

  He felt exhilarated. The unbroken whiteness of the endless slopes staggered him with their permanence and grandeur. A descent was like life: to love it was to love each moment, to rejoice in the skill and speed of every moment. Soon, skiing down these fields, he would appropriate them as if they had been set there just for him, to be fleetingly possessed, the possession vanishing an instant after it took place. Finally only the memory of having possessed the mountain would be his.

  The air was unusually still, with only occasional cold streaks. To the right, over the plains, the sky was filled with slowly churning dark brown clouds. But to the left, over the miles of glacier, where storms formed, the sky was blue, the sun bright, and the faraway white peaks seemed to grow straight out of the ice. He was sure he could reach the first valley of the Aval before the fog from the plains slowed him down.

  He put on his skis. The bindings clicked. As always before a long nonstop run, he did a few limbering-up exercises: he bent his elbows and knees several times, twisted his torso back and forth, sat down on the back of his skis and got up without using his hands. He pushed off. A sudden gust of wind sent him skidding sideways; for a moment he almost lost his balance.

  The wind changed direction and pushed him from behind. He was speeding toward the ridge, skis rattling on the crusty snow. His sunglasses steamed a bit and an unexpected cold blast chilled his body. The slope was getting steeper, and he was still gaining speed.

  The wind changed direction again. It came in gusts, blowing against him, slowing him down. He was surprised to encounter cold wind coming from the vineyards, which were already turning green. The temperature seemed to be dropping rapidly. He was wearing only a light racing parka over his shirt, thin gloves, and no head covering. Visibility decreased; he could no longer distinguish the distant peaks and could barely make out the ridge.

  When he turned to look across the valley toward ValPina, he saw a funnel of brown mists steaming up at him like the fumes of industrial wastes. In seconds, the frosty dew had enveloped him and even the tips of his skis were hidden from view. But he kept going down. He was only a short distance from the ridge.

  Under his skis he could feel the frozen traces of other skiers. He knew he had reached the ridge, even though he could see only inches in front of him. Beyond the ridge opened the first valley of the Aval, protected on two sides by massive slopes, dropping steeply toward the second of the three valleys. He expected the visibility to improve in the valley and the strength of the wind to decrease.

  He crossed the ridge and discovered that he had been mistaken. He was in the center of a boiling, hissing cloud. He remembered the route well and assumed that he could find his way to the bottom of the valley, below the center of the storm. He had gone a few hundred yards when a mass of savagely icy air came from below at great speed. He fought it obstinately, and only when he was not able to move forward one more inch did he stop skiing. The turbulence around him increased and he began to fear that he would be swept down onto the rocks lining the slopes. The wind, pumped by invisible bellows, lifted him, then pushed him against the fall line, throwing him to the ground. He understood that he was caught in one of those spring storms that might end in hours or last for days. Shivering, struggling for bre
ath, he knew that to crawl down was to risk falling into a crevasse or being trapped in the valley by an avalanche. He had no choice but to abort the descent, to spend two hours climbing back up to the PicSoleil gondola station.

  There were no pockets in his parka, and he had to keep rubbing his hands together to maintain the warmth. His face went numb and his neck became rigid with cold. He could not move his lips; his nostrils were filling with icy flakes. He touched his ears but could not feel his hands on them. To bring the blood back, he bent down and, with hands that now felt nothing, picked up a mound of snow and began massaging his face and ears. He twisted in pain and stopped the scrubbing. Closing his eyes, he forced himself to remember the dead German soldiers he had seen as a child during the war, their chins, noses, and ears missing, their teeth flashing through the holes in the frostbitten cheeks. The image was more agonizing than the pain he was causing himself, and he kept rubbing until sensation returned.

  He started to walk uphill to find the ridge and the large rock that stood next to it, thinking that behind it he might be able to shelter himself from the wind. But he had lost his sense of direction and suddenly feared that he had walked too far up. He was probably above the ridge, he thought, traversing a giant slope that was taking him farther and farther away from the ridge and from the only path to the gondola station.

  I must keep climbing, he repeated to himself. I must keep climbing. He dragged himself up in the fog, aware of losing all sense of time and distance, trying to detect by the sound his skis made on the icy sheet whether he was still following the tracks of other skiers.

  Each time he thought he had lost the track, he took off his gloves and, with his skis spread, bent down and trailed his fingers over the crusty surface, seeking the traces. Soon his hands were too cold and he could not tell what he was touching. But he kept plodding uphill, step after step, convinced that if the clouds lifted even for a second he would find out where he was.