“He said he had a bit of trouble after dropping you off in Albuquerque, but some relative of his owns a garage, so he replaced, I don’t know, an alternator? Does that sound right?”
“Sure.”
“So he got a late start. Says he quit his job.”
“Sounds like you two hit it off.”
“We had a drink when he arrived. When are you coming home?”
“Day after tomorrow. I already booked a flight.”
“Is Boris cool with that?”
“I haven’t told him yet.”
Ann was drinking a glass of whiskey at the dining room table when I arrived. She seemed softer somehow, younger. She was already dressed for the party—a claret-colored bolt of cloth with a crazy faux fur scarf. She had lipstick on her teeth.
“What’d you get?” she asked.
“You’ll see in a minute.”
Ann took a sip of the whiskey, then another.
“You should pace yourself,” I said. “It’s going to be a long evening.”
“Yes it is,” she said. “I don’t like going to parties and I don’t like throwing parties.”
“Neither do I.”
“Does anyone?”
“Sorry for being so annoying this morning, Ann. Sometimes you’re an easy target.”
Ann smiled. “Sometimes I’m a real bitch.”
I looked over at Ann’s drink. “I’m going to get one of those,” I said. I got up from the table and went over to the bar. “Where’s Boris?”
“He’s at my place,” she said. “He said he couldn’t take all the activity here.”
“Whose party is it?”
“Mine. I had to invite a lot of my crowd. Boris wanted a hundred people and he just doesn’t have that many friends.”
“That’s so sad,” I said, without much conviction. “Anyone I know?”
“No,” said Ann, “Wait. Do you remember my friend Julia?”
“Julia…”
“She’s a buyer for Cygnet, downtown.”
“Leather goods?”
“Mostly. Her supplier from Florence, Silvano, says he knows you.”
“Silvano?” I was horrified. I looked at the paper bag with my leather skirt and suddenly everything began to make awful sense. I started laughing, took a drink, and laughed some more. “Ann, this could be the worst party that Boris has ever thrown.”
“That would be hard.”
“I think it has a good chance.”
By ten, when the guests started arriving, Ann was blasted. I envied her. I’d managed a good buzz by eight, which is when Boris showed up with a bag full of Chinese takeout. He had an odd manner about him, as if he were play-acting at having fun. I appreciated his fakery, but his tension sliced through my fog, leaving me antsy and bored.
“Cut her off,” he said, gesturing to Ann.
“You cut her off.”
We both looked at her. She was straightening a framed picture of Boris with tangled, long hair (the top of his head was still bald) standing on a beach. Was this Rupert? Maybe Ann was wondering the same thing. She knocked the frame over, then straightened it in a way that left it precariously close to the shelf edge.
“Boris,” I added, “maybe she isn’t drunk. Maybe we’re just sober.”
I headed for the bar. “I had a Pernod earlier, then a vodka tonic. I did a shot of Jagermeister, some Drambuie. I don’t know. Another Pernod?”
“Pernod is revolting,” said the dark-haired bartender. “The only people who drink it are college students vacationing in Europe.”
“Right,” I said and smiled. “What do you suggest?”
“He’s got some really good Chianti back here. I’ve been drinking it all evening,” he said.
“How about a whiskey sour?” asked the blond waiter. “Everyone’s drinking martinis, but a whiskey sour is the real Rat Pack.”
“Sounds great.” I watched as he smashed a lemon.
“So this Boris,” said the blond pouring a heavy dose of whiskey, “is he your old man?”
“By old man, do you mean husband, boyfriend, or father?”
The bartenders looked at each other and shrugged simultaneously.
“Well, let me just say,” I said grabbing my drink, “that he is indeed my old man and we’ll leave it at that.”
Silvano arrived shortly afterward. I don’t know how I managed to avoid eye contact with him, Boris’s apartment being rather small, but I did. I knew that Silvano would not confront me in public; public confrontations were not bella figura. At the same time, I didn’t want Silvano to see me with Boris because Boris was embarrassing to me; Boris was not bella figura. I stood with my drink in an awkward conversation with Boris’s lawyer, a young guy named Rand Randley, who was into climbing mountains. He belonged to the Adirondack Club, or something like it. It meant that he had climbed all the Adirondacks.
“How many Adirondacks are there?” I asked.
And he answered me, but the information never made it into my head. I saw his mouth moving. I saw the number floating in the air and then it evaporated. I also saw, from Rand Randley’s overly friendly expression, that he was as tortured as I was by the conversation, but neither of us could seem to stop.
“That’s a lot of mountains,” I said. “Can you excuse me for a minute?”
“Absolutely,” said the lawyer.
I escaped into the bathroom. There was a young man in there, midstream. He was wearing tight blue jeans, ironed and starched, with fade lines down the front.
“Excuse me,” he said, “but I’m urinating.”
“That’s all right,” I assured him. “Everyone does.” He had some kind of southern accent and I wondered how Ann knew him.
He waited for me to go. “Can I have some privacy?” he asked.
“I’m afraid not.” I lit a cigarette. “You’re going to have to leave.” It took him a minute to understand what I meant by this, which struck me as odd. He zipped up and took off, and I began to feel very annoyed at my life.
A part of me wanted to talk to Silvano. I missed him on some level, but I didn’t know what to say. I’d gone down the street to buy an orange soda and never come back. Silvano didn’t expect me to stay anyway; he couldn’t have. But I was going to have to face him, him or Boris. There was also a small angry crowd of people knocking on the door, so I left the safety of the bathroom. And when I saw Boris navigating across in my direction, rather than run, I merely drained my drink and leaned back against the wall, crossing one leg over the other in complete resignation.
“What’s the matter with you tonight?” he asked.
“Must be love,” I replied.
“Very funny. I have to speak to you in private.” Boris glanced around the room. “Maybe we could stand in the corridor?” he suggested.
I sighted Silvano, who was looking at me with pained and fatherly concern.
“The corridor?” I said, making for the door, “is not very private. Isn’t there anywhere else?”
“We could go up to the roof,” said Boris.
“The roof would be wonderful.”
Boris and I walked to the elevator in silence. He was drunk. Boris was like that. Dead sober one minute, non compos mentis the next, although he was pretty articulate no matter what. Sometimes what he was articulating would have been better off unsaid. No, Boris never really got a buzz or was pleasantly tipsy. The thought occurred to me that I was being lured out for some quick sex, which would at least be easy to accomplish and might pass a few minutes of a party that was fathomably, palpably boring. We got into the elevator and Boris pressed the button for the top floor. He smiled at me, toying with something in his pocket as the elevator ground its way skyward. I smiled stiffly in return. We made our way up a narrow staircase then, after some trouble and bilingual profanity, Boris managed to unlock the door. Finally we were out.