Janice’s eyes lovingly moved across the treasured corners of her world and, as always, finally came to rest on the pièce de résistance—the one item that had plunged them recklessly ahead on the perilous course of buying the apartment; the ceiling.
Deeply paneled in a variety of rare woods, varnished to a high luster, the ceiling was a magnificent work of art. Two large paintings, wrought by the brush of a true master, had been set into the woodwork, dividing the ceiling into two parts. Janice discovered, after much research, that the paintings were in the tradition of Fragonard, featuring woodland nymphs cavorting licentiously in cool, shaded glades. It was a stunning, breathtaking sight that literally startled new guests, and Bill and Janice loved playing it down, pretending to accept the ceiling as a matter of course, sometimes even expressing slight irritation at its gaudy vulgarity.
But alone, they would lie together on the hearth rug, holding hands and gazing spellbound at their ceiling museum, themselves stunned at the fantastic luck of having found and acquired such a treasure so soon after their marriage. They had rushed into buying the apartment just as they had rushed into marriage, impatient to get started on their lives together.
Devoted opera fans, Janice and Bill first met at a matinee of La Traviata in San Francisco. Both were in school at the time, Janice completing her senior year at Berkeley and Bill doing graduate work at San Francisco State. Each was potlucking for a single that blustery Saturday afternoon, hovering about in a throng of waiting enthusiasts for a cancellation. A second before curtain, a pair of the best seats became available. More expensive than Janice could afford, she quickly grabbed one ticket. Bill took the other.
Strangers, they sat together during the first act in perfect silence, drinking in the dolorous Verdi strains like two parched souls at a desert oasis. During the first intermission Bill offered Janice a cigarette. They smoked and talked opera. During the second intermission Bill bought Janice a drink at the Opera Bar. That night they had dinner on Fisherman’s Wharf.
Seven days later they spent the weekend together in a motel in Sausalito and made love. They were married upon Janice’s graduation and immediately went to live in New York.
Eleven years of perfection, Janice thought, in a setting unmatched.
Janice was feeling beautifully relaxed as she walked to the liquor cart and poured herself another scotch. She’d let Bill have his martini before telling him about the man.
She was dicing a carrot in the tiny kitchen when she heard the sound of a key fiddling with the lower lock. It was a tentative, groping sound. It wouldn’t be Bill at this hour; it was much too early.
Janice stood rooted, clutching the small paring knife, hardly breathing as she heard the soft, scratching noises of metal against metal. She knew she was safe, really; there were two locks plus a chain bolt to protect her. Still, she felt vulnerable and in terrible danger. If the man had the nerve to sneak past Mario and the elevator men and find his way to their door, then he was capable of doing anything.
Suddenly, the tumblers turned with a noisy click. Janice froze. She heard the key move up to the second lock and find its way home with much less trouble. The tumblers turned. Janice took a step back toward the kitchen wall. The skin of her hand clutching the knife was white. The chain tightened across the narrow opening with a sharp clatter.
“Oh, c’mon, open up.”
Bill’s voice.
With a cry of relief, Janice sprang to the door, undid the chain, and flung herself into his arms as he crossed the threshold.
“What is it, hon?” Bill asked gently.
“Nothing,” she whispered. “I’m just surprised to see you.” Then, pulling herself together, she smiled and added, “I’ve got a glass chilling for your martini.”
Bill gently disengaged himself from her and in a voice that seemed to trip delicately over eggshells, quietly said, “Do … not … mention … that … word … please.”
He and his assistant, Don Goetz, had entertained a new client at 21, and their lunch had been mainly liquid. The client, president of a thriving health food chain, obviously didn’t practice what he preached and kept Bill and Don chugalugging doubles until they both could hardly stand on their feet.
Walking gingerly and with care, Bill started up the stairs to conk out for a while before dinner.
“You’ve got about an hour,” Janice called after him with forced cheeriness. “And don’t forget the Federicos tonight for bridge.”
Bill’s response was a groan of agony.
Janice returned to the front door and locked it again, including the chain bolt. She saw her empty glass on the butcher’s block in the kitchen, picked it up, and carried it back into the living room. As she poured her third drink, soft, unintelligible voices penetrated from the floor above. Bill’s gentle-gruff baritone. Ivy’s light laughter. Loving, comfortable sounds.
“One club.”
“Pass.”
“Two spades.”
“Pass.”
Carole Federico studied her hand, biting her lips.
“Pass.”
Bill laughed aloud, seeing her blunder. Russ Federico glared at his wife angrily.
“Are you out of your mind, didn’t you see my jump bid?”
“But we’ve got a partial, and that gives us game,” protested Carole.
“Damn it, I gave you a jump shift. I indicated we’ve got enough points for slam!” Russ threw his cards on the table. “Of all the goddamn stupid things to do!”
The Federicos took their bridge seriously, and the Thursday night sessions generally wound up in a fight. The game would get going at eight sharp but would never continue beyond ten. By that time, after a series of minor faux pas, Carole would always pull the granddaddy of them all, sending Russ into a towering rage and cuing Janice to put on the coffee.
The Federicos were slightly younger than the Templetons. Bill and Russ had come to know each other on the elevator, going down each morning. Occasional smiles and good-mornings had gradually ripened into conversation and then friendship. They would often walk to work together.
Russ and Carole had moved into Des Artistes in ’70, having purchased one of the smaller apartments. They were married five and a half years and were childless. Russ owned a small sound recording studio on Fifty-seventh Street. Like Bill and Janice, they couldn’t abide TV, loved bridge, and, best of all, were passionate about opera and owned a fabulous library of records, many of which were collectors’ items.
Their first evening together was at the Templetons’. Janice had spent the entire day preparing a cold veal tonnato, celery aspic, and a creamy chocolate mousse spiked with Grand Marnier. The Federicos were impressed and adulatory, proposing toast after toast from the jeroboam of Mouton Cadet they had contributed to the meal. Afterward the relationship was firmed with one of Russ’ rarest discs, a 1912 Victor recording of Alma Gluck singing selections from Faust, Aida, and Manon Lescaut.
The forceful combat of the lieder singers worked the opera toward its tragic conclusion. Janice sat in the rocker watching the others as they intensely savored the concluding strains. No one spoke, ever, during these musical sessions. Russ’ eyes were half closed in an expression of deep appreciation. Carole stared at the floor. Bill lounged sideways in the big club chair, his hand covering his eyes in a keenly listening attitude; however, Janice suspected he was dozing.