"I didn't get a chance to tell you, but while I was out I found us a place; we can't get in for a week, but it's on the ocean in Malibu."
The doorbell rings; it's the FedEx man delivering the Bose noise-canceling headset that he ordered for Cecelia.
"You didn't have to do that — now you won't have anything to get me for Christmas."
"It's a long way to Christmas; I'm sure you'll think of something else."
"We can both wear them and not talk to each other," Cecelia says, opening the box.
"And you can play music through them," Richard says. "And if you go on a plane it's great for cutting down the engine noise — that's how I discovered them."
Richard loads the car. The movie star comes walking down the street. "Is this a bad time? I was going to call, but I didn't have your number."
"I'm just heading out," Richard says. "Temporarily relocating."
"Listen," the movie star says. "My sister is starting a group, a kind of a reading group, about religious thought, I think she wants to start her own religion — would you like to join?"
"Thanks for thinking of me," Richard says. "It sounds interesting."
"We're starting tonight, with the Jews — understanding the Jews."
"Are you Jewish?" Richard asks the movie star.
"Of course not," he says. "But my parents are."
Richard doesn't know quite what to do with that.
"Think about it," the movie star says, "give me a call; I'm in
the phone book under Edward Albee."
"Do you get many calls about the real Edward Albee?"
"He's dead, isn't he?"
"No."
"Really? Wow, maybe I should pick someone else. What about Holden Caulfield — is he still living?"
"I'm not sure," Richard says, not wanting to pop the bubble.
"What about the pictures?" Cecelia asks, coming out with the last bag. "You can't just leave them in there, can you?"
He completely forgot about the paintings. He goes back, takes the paintings off the walls, wraps them in sheets, and carefully puts them into the car — seat-belting the de Kooning into the backseat and easing the Rothko into the trunk, closing with caution. There are others he could take, but these are the two key pieces.
Cecelia toots the horn. "I'm not going to be able to enjoy my day off if it doesn't start soon."
"Where to?" he asks, starting up.
"You can just drop me at Fairfax."
"You should take tomorrow," he says, "the whole rest of the week, really — paid, of course. There's not much to do at the moment. I'll check on the house again tomorrow."
Cecelia nods. "I appreciate that… and the headphones. If you need something, or you get yourself into trouble, call me. It's not so far. I can come."
"Have a good afternoon," he says when she gets out of the car. Have a good afternoon, why did he say that? It's not exactly warm and friendly. It's something you say to the guy at the gas station after you sign your credit-card slip. It's something you say to someone you care nothing about — have a good afternoon. He's known Cecelia for as long as he's been in L.A. — she was recommended by a business connection who could see that, as a newly single fellow and a greenie in town, he was going to need some special attention. She started off working two days a week, and within a couple of months was full-time. It wasn't that he needed so much looking after, it was that he liked having her around.
HE PULLS INTO the driveway of the Four Seasons.
"Luggage, sir?"
"Just what's in the car."
"The suitcase, sir?"
"Yes, the suitcase, the laptop, the grocery bags, everything, everything in the car is coming up with me. There's a painting in the trunk; you'll need an extra man — someone very careful, if you don't mind."
Richard takes the de Kooning under his arm.
She is in the lobby, waiting. "You're not going to rape me, are you?"
"I wasn't planning on it. I've got a lot of fish with me and I need to make sure that it goes into a refrigerator." He motions towards the luggage trolley that's coming through the front door with the contents of his car piled onto it. Behind the trolley, a bellhop carries the Rothko painting — holding it out in front like a shield.
"I've never met a man at a hotel," she says.
"Do you have any luggage?" he asks.
"Just this bag," she says, patting her purse, which is enormous. It could double as a file cabinet, a walk-in closet.
"Car, sir?"
"Yes," he says. "I left it with the man outside."
"I'll just get someone to show you to the room."
"How's your leg?" she asks in the elevator.
"Fine," he says. "There's a bruise, a big green bruise."
He feels like Ben in the film The Graduate, checking into a hotel, riding up in an elevator with a woman he hardly knows.
"It's so strange," he says. "We named our son Ben after Ben in The Graduate. 'Plastics. There's a great future in plastics. Think about it,' " Richard quotes the film. "My ex-wife was my own personal Elaine. I was crazy about her."
The bellman opens the door and leads them into a two-bedroom suite. Is this his wife's usual room — or have they given him/her an upgrade of sorts? Does she travel with an assistant, or is the second room in case Ben wants to come at the last minute?
"It's nicer than my house, nicer than where we went on our honeymoon."
"Where do you live?"
"Hancock Park — it's perfectly fine, totally normal except for me."
"Will you be needing the treadmill, sir?"
"Not this time, thanks."
Richard sits the de Kooning on a chair and props the Rothko against the wall.
"Are you sure about the treadmill? We usually deliver it ahead, it goes in the second bedroom, but there was very little time to prepare."
"All right, fine, put it in the bedroom. And a fridge — I'll need a fridge."
"There's one in the kitchen. Shall I put the groceries away?"
"Shall I" — where is this guy from? Most people can't speak English at all, and not only does he speak it, but he "shall I" s.
"Yes, that would be lovely."
"Is everything satisfactory?" the man asks while he's putting the groceries away.
"Yes." Richard has never said yes so many times.
"How much is this room?" she asks.
"The rate card is posted in the closet, along with information about the hotel, fire and earthquake safety, and your in-room safe."
The crying woman looks in the closet. "Sixteen hundred ninety-four dollars a night," she whispers.
"I'm sure I'm not really paying that," he says.
"Is there anything else I can do?" the bellman asks.
"No, thank you, you're wonderful, we're fine," Richard says, validating everyone and handing the man some money.
It's late afternoon. The day is nearly over and he's spent most of it adjusting, transiting, transitioning. He feels out of order. Richard goes to the window; the view is of a particular kind of L.A. stillness, smog, haze, a timeless, frozen quality. You can't tell what time of day it is by looking out; you have to look at your watch.
He and the crying woman sit on the sofa, facing the television, which is tuned to Headline News — sound off. When you look at it carefully the room is ugly, faux fancy but boring. Everything is sturdy, durable, banal, bland, no personality, no character — it just is. All of the furniture has rounded edges — is that a safety issue, so sleepwalkers don't stab themselves, or would you call it a style point? He wants there to be something annoying about the room — some jarring chintz, vibrating striped wallpaper, a clash between bedspread and carpet — he wants something to be annoyed about.
The doorbell rings; a plate of fruit and some bottles of still water, "compliments of the manager."