Story of a Sociopath

  “Things haven’t been easy for me either. You know that better than anybody. My mother’s lie really affected me—it threw my whole existence into question. I was left not knowing who I was, without a place in the world.” I said this with conviction, trying to appeal to her. It worked.

  Esther stood up and came over to me. She looked at me sadly before hugging me. Her embrace was maternal—there was no trace of the passion with which she’d embraced Jaime. I didn’t move and she, noting my coldness, went back to sit in front of the computer.

  “I have work to do. Tomorrow we have a meeting with that dog food company. It’s the first time we’re meeting with them, but I want to present them some ideas. Can you help me?”

  I agreed. We worked for a couple of hours, which served to create some emotional distance between the two of us. When we went to bed I noticed that Esther was trying not to touch me. She must have still felt Jaime’s lips against her own. If she had been any other woman I would have reveled in forcing her to have sex with me, but I had no power over Esther and I didn’t want to give her any motive to go running to my brother. I could only hope that the shadow of Jaime was fading.

  If I had been a different kind of person I would have packed up my things in a suitcase that night and left forever. Yes, I could have allowed her to be happy. But I didn’t. Even today I can imagine the amazement and gratitude that would have spread over her face if I had shown such generosity. The scene could have happened like this:

  “You know something, Esther? I love you too much to stop you from being truly happy. You love Jaime and he loves you—well, you two should make a go of it. You don’t have to worry about me. I know that John made Jaime promise that he wouldn’t come between you and me, and my brother is the type who’d sooner die than break his word. But it’s the twenty-first century, and there’s no place for that sense of honor. I’m leaving. I want you to be happy, at least to try, and if things don’t work out…well, you know what Lauren Bacall said to Humphrey Bogart: Just whistle.”

  Esther would have embraced me with gratitude.

  “I love you too, Thomas, it’s just that…I don’t know what’s happened between us, but the truth is I don’t love you in the same way anymore. Jaime…well, you know your brother, he’s suffering, but he won’t break the promise he made to your father. There’s only one way of convincing him. Perhaps if you were the one to release him from this burden…”

  If I had loved Esther as she deserved, I would have dialed my brother’s number. Jaime would have been startled to hear my voice at that time of night and his stomach would have dropped as he heard me say that I’d never forgive him if he didn’t make Esther happy.

  —

  But I didn’t do that. I spent the rest of the night feeling the warmth of her body near mine, knowing that her sleep was racked by suffering.

  —

  I let a few days go by before I asked her to marry me. She listened to me in silence, not showing any emotion.

  “Let’s leave things as they are. I don’t want to get married,” she replied.

  “I love you, you know that. I’m lost without you.”

  “I know you love me, but we don’t need to get married. I’d prefer to continue as we are.” The flaring of her nostrils revealed her discomfort.

  “Well, we could at least move into a bigger apartment in a better part of Manhattan. What do you think?”

  “I’m fine here. This is my first home, which I’ve been paying for through my own work. You’re used to nicer places. I won’t get mad if you decide to leave.”

  “No, Esther, I don’t want to leave. I like this place too, but I thought it would be better for us to have someplace where we could host our best clients—you know, do the social side of business—but if that doesn’t matter to you then it doesn’t matter to me either.”

  I was lying, of course. I didn’t enjoy living in Nolita. I wanted us to move somewhere around Madison or Fifth Avenue…I’d seen a couple of apartments on the Upper East Side with enough space not only to host clients, but also for Esther and I not to be always in each other’s way. Sometimes I missed not having my own space to work. But it was clear that I had to pay a price to be with her and that any mistake I made could be decisive, so I didn’t ask her to move again.

  I wondered why I was this dependent on Esther, whom I never wanted to defy. Paul Hard gave me the key to understanding the matter one day at lunch, over a good bottle of Burgundy, though at the time his idea seemed crazy to me. Only with the passage of time have I come to see that good old Hard was right.

  Paul knew the two of us well. He thought particularly highly of Esther, who, in addition to running our advertising agency, had helped give his school a veneer of respectability. She made him invest some of the money he’d earned at our agency into fixing up the academy and hiring a couple more instructors better qualified than the ones who had taught us. She even designed an ad page that made Paul’s school look like an academically acceptable place.

  “Esther calls the shots for both of us,” he said to me as he finished off his glass of wine.

  “You think so?”

  “What I don’t understand is why she’s with you—or you with her.”

  I didn’t like what he was saying.

  “Hey, just because you’ve been divorced three times doesn’t mean we all have to screw up our relationships. We love each other and that’s that.”

  “You love each other? I mean, I wouldn’t say you two behave like a couple in love.”

  “Well, we are,” I said, annoyed.

  “No, I don’t think so. Esther acts like your mother and you let yourself go along with it. Even if there are times you could push back against her, you don’t, as if you’re afraid she’d get mad.”

  “You don’t know what you’re talking about,” I protested through forced laughter. “I assure you, when I look at Esther I don’t exactly see my mother. I don’t like to make big speeches, but I will say that she’s the woman for me.”

  “You know something? I don’t know much about your life, but I still remember the day you all graduated. Your mother was a very beautiful woman and she seemed to be devoted to you, hoping you would pay her some attention. It seemed that you were bothered by her being there. And then that girl, Lisa…She was a real piece of work. She hated Esther. She was jealous of her.”

  “Jealous? How dumb. What bothered Lisa about Esther was that she was at the top of the class. Both Lisa and I knew we weren’t exactly great students.”

  “You’re wrong. What bothered Lisa was that you seemed to respect and confide in Esther more than anybody else. It was clear that you didn’t get along with your family, especially your mother. But we all need a mother and Esther seemed to fill that role for you. She’s still doing it. The truth is she’s the person you can always turn to. Protective, loyal, generous. Just like a mother. There are women who are actually playing the role of mother to the men they live with and have children with. They end up confusing love with the maternal instinct. That’s the way they are.”

  “I didn’t know you were a fan of dime-store psychology. If that’s your conclusion, you couldn’t be more wrong. I adore Esther.”

  That conversation with Paul made me reflect on my relationship with Esther. But I completely rejected everything he’d said to me. I flat-out refused to accept his opinion. If I had gone to any of those overpriced psychiatrists on Fifth Avenue I’m sure they would have diagnosed me along the same lines that Paul did: I didn’t get along well with my mother but I still needed one—someone whom I could confide in, who would accept my faults, who would sacrifice herself for me, renounce her own life so that I could be happy. That woman was Esther. That’s why I needed her so desperately. Even though I didn’t want to admit it, deep down I’d always feared that the maternal instinct that Paul talked about wouldn’t last forever. Many years have passed since that conversation with Paul, and from this side of history I have to admit that he was right. That, I??
?ve come to realize, was the reason behind the permanent lack of sexual tension between Esther and me. But back then I couldn’t even consider the possibility.

  If reality didn’t agree with me, too bad for reality.

  The truth is that I was compensating for the sexual dissatisfaction I felt with Esther with countless other obliging girls whom I’d promised a shot in the Big Apple.

  Paul was very familiar with the agencies that provided models for commercials. They had everyone, from charming grandmas to babies, not to mention statuesque young girls who dreamed of being supermodels.

  Some of these girls, ambitious to a fault, couldn’t achieve their dreams, so they ended up becoming occasional companions to men like me.

  The only problem was that I had to meet these girls in hotels, and I was worried that someone I knew might see me and mention it to Esther.

  We took on an ad campaign for laundry detergent, and in the lineup of models there was one who caught my eye. She was Japanese and I was quite taken with her for a couple of months. Her name was Misaki and she was around forty years old. It was actually Esther who chose her.

  Misaki was surprisingly tall. Slim and angular, with hair as black as night and pearl-like skin. When I saw her during the filming of the detergent commercial I made up my mind to sleep with her. She didn’t look like Yoko, but even so she reminded me of her. I longed for Yoko, so much so that at times I was tempted to call her to hear the alarm and terror in her voice. I imagined that my absence would have helped her to gain back some of her health, and that annoyed me greatly. But I couldn’t leave New York until I was certain that my relationship with Esther wouldn’t change. So for almost a year I didn’t leave Esther’s side, apart from my jaunts with the girls from the ads.

  There was one modeling agency in particular, Zafiro, that managed to get some of the most gorgeous models in the city. I usually insisted on using their girls for our ads.

  Sometimes I would see one of those girls in gossip magazines, hanging off the arm of some actor or some businessman freshly arrived in the city. I smiled, thinking about how they had been in my bed just as they were now in the beds of their new companions.

  I became most taken with Olivia. Slim, with white skin and immense green eyes, she caught people’s attention. The daughter of an Italian mother and a Swiss father, she had moved to New York because she was desperate to be an actress. When I met her she had appeared in only a couple of TV spots and played a small role in one film, and she still hadn’t managed to distinguish herself from the hundreds of beauties like her who were fighting tooth and nail to get to the top of their profession. In her case, her handicap was her height.

  She was no more than five foot five, too short to be on the runways, and she had no particular talent for acting either. But she never gave in, so besides the ads she made her living providing company to old guys or lost souls like myself. Five hundred dollars for an hour of company was good pay for someone whose only merit was her ephemeral beauty.

  I met Olivia thanks to Esther; she picked her for the ad that would help us make our name in New York. Our success was assured when it won Commercial of the Year at the Effie Awards. The ad had been Esther and Paul’s work—a small insurance company that wanted to go big had hired us for it.

  I focused on negotiating contracts and handling the management side of the business, while Esther and Paul concentrated on the creative work.

  Esther was looking for two women for the ad, one representing the American Midwest, and another with a more ambiguously ethnic look. Olivia attended the casting call, and neither Esther nor Paul hesitated in choosing her.

  If I hadn’t gotten there first, Paul would have been the one who ended up enjoying Olivia.

  Olivia would also benefit from the award we received for the commercial, though this was more because guys wanted to sleep with her than because it did anything to advance her dream of becoming the next top model.

  Esther was anxious as the Effie gala approached. We knew through Paul that the jury had liked our ad, but the world doesn’t work fairly—the award doesn’t normally go to the best, but to whoever did the best job gaining the goodwill of others.

  Paul assured us that we had every chance, and for several weeks he had been immersed in a flurry of activity for which we received barely any explanation. But the bills he was running up for lunches and dinners at high-end restaurants gave me a shock. So much so that I had to talk to him.

  “You know, I wouldn’t mind having lunch several times a week at Balthazar or Cipriani either, not to mention champagne at the Plaza,” I said, handing him the bills that had been piling up on my desk.

  “I’m sure you wouldn’t, but you don’t have an excuse and I do. You think they’re going to give us the award just because Esther made a great ad? Of course not. The members like it, they say it’s the best of the year, but that doesn’t mean we’re going to win. You’re old enough to know how these things work.”

  I resigned myself to his explanation, though I did order him to find less pricey places to entertain the members of the jury who he thought would be best disposed toward our cause.

  On the night of the gala Esther was extremely nervous. The day before I practically had to force her to agree to buy an Armani dress. She resisted, saying the dress was too tight, and she couldn’t see herself perched on those stilettos that she’d surely trip over. But she ended up putting them on, and her eyes lit up when Paul came to find us and whistled when he saw her.

  “I’ve never seen you looking so gorgeous. You look like a model,” he said, giving her a kiss.

  She really did. The dress was a midnight-blue sheath, its only adornment an embroidered neckline with discreet gemstones that sparkled in the light. She was the picture of restraint and elegance. At the salon her chestnut-brown hair had been gathered in a low bun. I was sure that this very restraint and elegance would make her stand out from all the other women at the gala.

  Barbara and Olivia, the two girls from our commercial, sat at our table. Barbara was the typical all-American mom, whose image had been called on for countless other ads—washing machines, laxatives, things like that.

  I’ve always hated how these galas, whatever the occasion, invariably feature hosts who insist on telling a string of jokes that everyone roars with laughter at. That night was no exception. I was nervous too, wondering whether the money Paul had thrown around had done anything for us other than allowing him and his friends to dine lavishly at my expense.

  When the host revealed that the big award of the night was going to Global Communication, for the commercial “An Assured Life,” Esther broke down in tears. I made her stand up, and indicated that Paul should stay in his seat. I wanted that moment of triumph to be savored by her alone. I knew she’d appreciate the gesture and would think I was truly generous.

  “Please come with me,” she whispered nervously.

  “It’s your ad, go get your award,” I said, hugging her.

  She went up to the podium amid deafening applause, as the commercial played on-screen.

  “Thank you to everyone who voted for us. I’m so happy, and for me this award is real encouragement to keep going forward. I want to tell you that this award isn’t just for me; it’s for all of us who work at Global Communication. Without the drive and the confidence of Thomas Spencer and the advice of Paul Hard this dream wouldn’t have been possible. Thank you…thank you…”

  As Esther spoke I slid my hand over Olivia’s thigh. She didn’t stop me. Real encouragement.

  That night Esther truly made an effort in bed. She’d had a couple of glasses of champagne, but more importantly, she had won the praise of the sacred cows of advertising, and had even received job offers from two of the biggest agencies. Finally the advertising gurus had discovered her talent, which pleased and worried me in equal measure.

  The morning crept up on us between our chatter and embraces, and I decided to go all in so as not to lose her.

  “I want t
o make you an offer,” I said, pouring myself another glass of the champagne we had beside the bed.

  She tensed up, thinking that I was going to propose to her again. It vexed me that the mere idea that I was going to ask her to marry me made her nervous.

  “This is a perfect night, Thomas. Let’s enjoy it without getting all serious.”

  “I think you’ll like my proposal. It’s not what you think it is.”

  I saw the curiosity in her eyes. I hugged her and whispered in her ear: “I want you to be my business partner. Global Communication will be ours, equally. Do you accept?”

  She pulled away from my arms, looking at me in surprise. She seemed hesitant, as if she didn’t fully comprehend what I had just said.

  “But…well, that would be amazing. But I don’t have the money to buy half your company.”

  “Who said you’d have to put in a single dollar? I want us to go straight to the lawyers today. I’ll give you half the business. That’s it.”

  “I can’t accept.”

  “Of course you can! I don’t pay you a monthly salary. You deserve much more—the agency would be nothing without you.”

  “You’ve risked your money and I—”

  “You’re risking your talent. You risked it by leaving a safe job to come to Global Communication. I owe you, Esther. The truth is that I owe you so much I’d need a thousand lifetimes to pay you back for everything you’ve given me.”

  She cried. She couldn’t help the tears from flowing, and she hugged me so tightly I couldn’t breathe.

  “You’re so generous!”

  “Generous, me? Hardly! What I don’t want is for those Manhattan vultures to swoop in and steal the best creative in the city from me. It’s sheer selfishness,” I said, laughing. There was some truth behind my words.

  “Partners? But how would it work?” she asked excitedly.

  “Come eight o’clock I’ll call my lawyers’ office and get them to draw up a transfer document for half the company. I want us to sign it today.”