“If I didn’t say it before, then I’m sorry, and I’ll say it now: thank you.” “I shouldn’t need any thanks, but I do.” “Of course you do.”
“No,” she said. “I shouldn’t need anything from you. That’s not the way it’s supposed to be.”
I said, “It’s manners, Marilyn. You’re a hundred percent right.” She said nothing. She said, “Is it.”
“Is it what.” “Manners.”
I said, “I don’t understand.”
“Is that how we’re supposed to behave toward one another? Decorously?” “I thought so.”
“I see,” she said. “News to me.”
“Why wouldn’t we be polite to each other?”
“Because,” she said, looking at me, “I love you, you fucking idiot.” She had never told me that before.
She said, “When people ask me how you are and I can’t say, I am humiliated. But they ask and I’m supposed to know. I have to tell them something. Right?” I nodded. A silence.
She said, “You’ll never guess who called me.”
“Who.”
“Guess.”
“Marilyn”
“Play along, will you.” The drawl crept into her voice. “Have a little holiday spirit.” Holidee spurrut. “Kevin Hollister,” I said. “No.” “Who.”
Guess. “George Bush.” She snickered. “Wrong.” “Then I give up.” “Jocko Steinberger.” “He did?” She nodded. “What for.”
“He wants me to represent him. He said he doesn’t feel like he’s getting enough personal attention from you.”
I was stunned. I’d known Jocko since he burst onto the scene as part of a group show organized by the late Leonora Waite. First her artist, then mine, he had always been a stalwart member of the gallery roster. I considered him moody but by no means treacherous, and the fact that he had gone to Marilyn, without speaking to me first, cut deeply. Losing Kristjana had been my doing, and no tragedy, but now I was down two artists in six months, an alarming rate of attrition.
Marilyn said, “He has new stuff and he wants me to show it.”
“I hope you told him no,” I said. “I did.”
“Good.”
“I did,” she said, “but now I think I’m going to tell him yes.”
A silence.
“And why’s that.”
“Because I don’t think you’re doing a very good job of representing him.”
“Really.”
“Nope.”
“Don’t you think you should give me the chance to talk it over with him before you make that decision for me?”
“I didn’t make the decision,” she said. “He did. He approached me, remember.”
“Tell him to talk it over with me,” I said. “That’s what you’re supposed to do.”
“Well I’m not doing that.”
“What’s the matter with you, Marilyn.”
“What’s the matter with you.”
“Nothing’s the m”
“Bullshit.”
A silence. My head throbbed.
“Marilyn”
“I haven’t seen you for weeks.”
I said nothing.
“Where have you been.”
“Busy.” “With what.” “The case.” ” ‘The case?’ ” “Yes.”
“How’s that coming.” “We’re making progress.”
“Are you? That’s good. That’s wonderful news. Hooray. Are you going to shoot any guns?” “What?”
“You know,” she said. “Bang bang bang.” “I don’t know what you’re talking about.” “Yes you do.”
“I honestly don’t,” I said, “and if it’s all right with you, I’m not done talking about Jocko yet. Just where do you get off thinking you can” “Oh please,” she said. “Answer me, how do you think you” “Stop talking,” she said.
A silence. I stood up to leave. “Drink some water,” I said. “You’ll have a headache if you don’t.”
“I know you’re fucking that girl.” “Excuse me?”
“‘Excuse me,‘“she mocked. “You heard what I said.” “I heard it, but I don’t know what you’re talking about.” “Blah blah blah blah, blah blah blah blah, blah blah blah.” “Goodnight, Marilyn.” “Don’t you walk out.”
“I’m not going to stand here and listen to you make a fool of yourself.” “You walk out of here and you do not know what I will do.” “Please calm down.” “Tell me you fucked her.” “Who?”
“Stop that,” she screamed.
A silence. “Tell me.” “I fucked her.”
“Excellent,” she said. “Now we’re getting somewhere.” I said nothing.
“You can’t lie to me. I know. I get reports from the field.” “What are you talking about?” Then I said, “Isaac?” “So don’t bother.” “Jesus Christ, Marilyn.”
“Don’t act so goddamned entitled,” she said. “That’s your problem. You’re spoiled.”
“Yes, well, I hate to break it to you, but you’re not getting your money’s worth with him. I slept with her once, and that was before any of this got started.”
“I don’t believe you.”
“Believe what you want, that’s the truth.”
“You weren’t fucking me,” she said. “You have to be fucking someone.” “For God’s sake I was in the hospital.” “So what.”
“So I wasn’tI’m not going to indulge this.”
“Tell me you fucked her.”
“I alreadydo you have to keep saying that?”
“What.”
” ‘Fuck.’ “
She started laughing. “What would you call it?” “I call it none of your business.”
In a single motion she was up out of the chair, tumbler in hand. I ducked and it shattered against the wall, bits of glass and water and scotch spraying across the top of her copy machine.
“Say that again,” she said. “Tell me it’s none of my business.” I stood up slowly, my hands raised. In the carpet was a wet spot where the tumbler had been.
“When did you fuck her.”
“What’s the purpose of this.”
“When.”
A silence.
“About two months ago.”
“When.”
“I just tol”
“Be more specific.”
“You want the time and date?”
“Was it during the day? Was it at night? Was it on a bed or a couch or the kitchen counter? Do tell, Ethan, inquiring minds want to know.”
“I don’t remember the exact date.” I paused. “It was the night of the funeral.”
“Oh,” she said. “Oh, well, that’s extremely classy.”
I quashed the impulse to snap at her. Instead I said, “You can’t be this upset. It’s not as though you haven’t slept with anyone else in the last six years.”
“Have you?”
“Of course I have. You know that.”
She said, “I haven’t.”
I didn’t know what to say. Under normal circumstances I doubt I would have believed her, but just then I knew she was telling the truth.
She said, “I want you to leave.”
“Marilyn”
“Now.”
I stepped into the hallway, into the elevator, my head racing with esprit d’escalier. Obviously, there had been some sort of miscommunication, a root misunderstanding of the terms of our relationship. Someone had not spoken up. Mistakes were made. I reached the first floor. The doors parted and music flooded in. The party was in full swing. I got my coat and went into the street. The snow was like cream, and I could see we were in for a blizzard.
interlude: 19Ç9.
Like most people, doctors tend to fear him, and in that fear, they never come right out and say what they want. It drives him mad. The one on the telephone, the superintendent, keeps talking in circles, such that Louis cannot fathom the reason for the call. More money? Is that it? He can give them more money. Already he pays fees that Bertha deems extortionate, a peculiar position for her to take, considering that the arrangement was entirely her idea, and that those fees come out of bank accounts to which she has never contributed a penny.