Indiscretion Page 9

  There are weekends along the coast at Ansedonia, with the Barkers. A Yale classmate who married an Italian woman, a contessa. Maddy tells me it is the Hamptons of Rome. Harry buys a Vespa.

  They discover trattorias. Nino, Della Pace, Dal Bolognese in the Piazza del Popolo for the people watching but not the food, the Byron in Parioli, but their favorite is in the Piazza S. Ignazio, located on a hidden square not too far from their apartment. I went there with them when I visited early on. It is one of those fine old Roman restaurants where, at the end of the meal, they place on the table bottles of digestivos, Sambuca, Cynar, amaro, homemade grappa steeped with figs or fruit. On the wall, photographs of unfamiliar Italian celebrities.

  What is most remarkable about the restaurant is the staff, who, appropriately enough, are out of a Fellini movie. Every one of the waiters has something wrong with him. One has a pronounced limp. Another a speech impediment. The third a tumor like a truncated horn projecting from the top of his forehead. They are all very nice and adore the Winslows, who dine there at least once a week.

  “We don’t even bother looking at the menu anymore,” Harry says. “They just bring us whatever they have special, and it’s always good.”

  At some point in everyone’s life, whether in a restaurant, watching one’s child play soccer, or walking through the streets alone, the question is asked, what else do you need? It is a question that once asked is almost impossible to answer. You may require nothing more at that exact moment to eat or drink, or you may be content with the bed in which you sleep, a favorite chair, the immediate wants and possessions of life. Then there are the intangible things, love, friendship, passion, faith, fulfillment. But you think about the question over and over again, because few of us have what we need—or few of us think we do, which is almost the same thing. It can become a drumbeat. What else is there? Have I done enough? Do I need more? Am I satisfied?

  There is an innate greediness that is part of the human condition. It drove Eve to eat the apple; it impelled Bonaparte to invade Russia and caused Scott to die in the frozen wastes of the Antarctic. We have different names for it. What is curiosity other than greed for experience, for recognition, for glory? For activity to distract ourselves from ourselves? We hate the idea that we have come as far as we are going to go. And we are not content with what we have or how far we have come. We want more, whether it is food, knowledge, respect, power, or love. And that lack of contentment pushes us to try new things, to brave the unknown, to alter our lives and risk losing everything we already had.

  Harry often made up stories for Johnny at bedtime. One of my favorites was about the Penguin King. Johnny was mad about penguins. He knew all about the different types. The emperor, the Adélie, the rockhopper. Where they lived, what they ate. Many nights at Johnny’s bedtime, I would stand by the foot of the bed with Maddy while Harry told the story. Each time it was slightly different, but it always started out the same way.

  “There was once a Penguin King who lived at the South Pole with his family, Queen Penguina and all their princes and princesses. The princes and princesses were very cute. The Penguin King was the biggest and strongest penguin, and even the sea lions were afraid of him. But the Penguin King was sad.”

  “Why was he sad, Daddy?”

  “He was sad because he was tired of snow and ice and sea lions. He was tired of swimming. He was even tired of Queen Penguina and the princes and princesses.”

  “Oh, no. That’s terrible. So what did he do?”

  “One day he told Queen Penguina and the princes and princesses and all the other penguins at the South Pole that he wanted to see the rest of the world. He wanted to see New York City and France and Beijing and deserts and skyscrapers and trees. All the penguins started to cry and said, ‘Don’t leave, don’t leave. You’re our king.’ The princes asked, ‘Who will protect us from sea lions? Who will feed us krill?’ The princesses asked, ‘Who will keep our feet warm?’

  “ ‘I’ve made up my mind,’ he told them. ‘I need to see the world.’

  “They all cried as they watched him waddle off. He waddled farther than he had ever waddled before. He waddled for two whole days. He came to the ocean and saw a big ship. ‘Perfect,’ he said. ‘That’s just what I need to take me to see the rest of the world.’ ”

  “No, don’t go on the ship,” Johnny would interject.

  “Well, too bad you weren’t there to warn him because that’s exactly what he did. The Penguin King waddled down to the ship and commanded the men there to take him aboard. They were very tall but did what he told them. They took him on the ship and gave him lots of fish to eat.

  “Some time later, he couldn’t tell how long for sure, the ship stopped. To his surprise, he was put in a box and taken off the ship. When the box was opened again, he was surrounded by other penguins. There was a funny smell. Like rotting fish. ‘Where am I?’ he asked. ‘You’re in the zoo,’ the other penguins told him.

  “ ‘What’s a zoo?’ he asked.

  “ ‘It’s a prison,’ they told him. ‘No one ever gets out of here.’

  “ ‘But I am the Penguin King,’ he said.

  “ ‘Not here you’re not. Here you’re just another penguin.’

  “ ‘What have I done?’ asked the Penguin King. ‘I should never have left my family and my kingdom. How could I be so stupid?’

  “He sat down and cried and cried. He missed Queen Penguina, and all the penguin princes and princesses. He would never see any of them ever again. He would never again protect them from sea lions or go swimming in the deep ocean or warm the feet of his children. ‘If only I could go back home, I’d never leave again,’ he said.”

  “So what happens next, Daddy?”

  “What do you think should happen?”

  “I think Queen Penguina and all the penguin princes and princesses become ninjas and find a boat and rescue him!”

  Harry laughs. “Great idea. Okay, so one night when he was dreaming of snow, there was a tapping on his cage. He looked up. It was Queen Penguina and the princes and princesses. All his children were there, even the youngest, who had grown now and had lost their childish gray feathers. They were all wearing black. Outside the guards had all been tied up.

  “ ‘What are you doing here?’ asked the Penguin King. ‘Run away or else they’ll put you in the zoo too.’ He couldn’t bear the thought of them suffering as he had.

  “ ‘No, they won’t,’ said Queen Penguina. She had never looked so beautiful. ‘We have traveled for months to find you, and no one knows we are here. Come with us quickly, and we can all get away.’

  “So the Penguin King followed his beautiful wife and their children to the river, and they all jumped in. He was so happy to be swimming again, and he gave his wife and children the biggest hugs in the whole world. ‘I am so lucky to have such a wonderful family. I can’t believe I didn’t appreciate you all more. I promise I’ll never leave again.’ And then they all swam home, and they all lived happily ever after. The end.”

  Johnny almost always wanted a happy ending, and Harry was always willing to oblige. But one night after Johnny had gone to bed, Harry confessed that he really thought it should have a different ending.

  “How do you see it ending, sweetheart?” asked Maddy.

  “The Penguin King is left to rot in the zoo. Serves him right too, if you ask me.”

  2

  In early November a call comes from Harry’s editor in New York. He wants to discuss the new book. Can Harry fly over for a day or so? The publisher will be there. Other executives. They’ll book the ticket. Business class, of course. This is a lavish gesture, one that reflects their high expectations. The Winslows’ New York apartment, the bottom two floors of a brownstone east of Lexington, has been sublet. It won’t be a problem to put him at a hotel. When can he come?

  He doesn’t want to make this trip but says he will. Maddy has to stay in Rome, though, because Johnny is in school. In New York, they had sitters who could look
after him, but not there. It’s not the same thing. “What if something happens? I need to be here,” she says. He will only be gone for two nights. Three at the most. It will be the first time they have slept apart since he left the Marines.

  A week later he lands at Kennedy. A driver is standing outside customs, waiting with his name on a sign. After the old stones of Rome, New York seems ridiculously modern. It is jarring yet reassuring to be surrounded by the sound of English being spoken, the advertisements for familiar products, Yankees caps, the large cars.

  The day is spent in meetings. The weather is colder here than in Rome. He is wearing a new blue cashmere coat Maddy bought him at Brioni. He shakes hands with the senior people, many of whom shepherded his last book through. He is hailed like a returning hero. A young woman brings him espressos. “Would you like anything else, Harry?” asks Norm, the publisher. A lunch is brought in. Sandwiches, pasta salad. There is a PowerPoint. Charts, graphs, sales projections. Hollywood is interested. Later in the hotel he takes a nap. Reuben, his agent, is taking him out for dinner. Afterward there are several parties they could stop by.

  They eat in a restaurant popular with publishing executives. The maître d’ shakes Harry’s hand warmly, and says how good it is to have him back and how everyone can’t wait to read the new book. When is it coming out? Many people stop by their table. Some sit down for a drink or to swap industry gossip. Harry is tired. He is drinking to keep himself awake. He tries to beg off, but Reuben insists they go to at least one of the parties. It’s in Chelsea, near the river. Another of Reuben’s clients. He promises it will be fun. The younger generation. Not like us. You’ll learn something. Come on up for just one drink, says Reuben. Harry agrees but finds himself yawning and glancing at his watch in the car downtown. It is too late to call Maddy.

  How do I know all this? Harry wrote it all down, and I read about it later. Every moment of the trip and much more besides. Isn’t that what writers do? It isn’t real until it’s on the page. Although I didn’t know a lot of the details until years after.

  The party is in a cavernous loft. Reuben introduces Harry to his other client. He is much younger than Harry was when his first book was published. Harry is fairly sure he and Reuben are two of the oldest people at the party. The young author is friendly and tells Harry how much he admired his book. He is skinny, with dark curly hair, intense brown eyes. He looks about twelve. The face of a trickster. Harry cannot even remember his name. He knows he has never heard of the young man’s book, let alone read it. I’ve been living in Rome, he says by way of excuse. Reuben tells me it’s terrific.

  There is a meritocracy among writers. Even if Harry is older and has won a prize, he knows he is not much further ahead of this young man. He does not have a corpus of published novels to fall back on. His career can still go either way. It is the next book that will prove whether his is a real talent or just a fluke.

  And then it happens—inescapably, inevitably, like turtle bones being thrown, like the tide going out.

  A woman’s voice behind him. “Harry. What are you doing here?”

  He turns around. Claire.

  “Great to see you,” he says easily, giving her a kiss on each cheek. Her skin is warm, soft. “That’s how they do it in Italy,” he laughs. “It’s a great custom.”

  The days slip away between them. For a moment, she is flustered.

  “I thought you were in Rome. Are you back already?”

  “No. My publisher needed me to fly over for a few days. I arrived this morning.”

  “How’s Maddy? And Johnny? Are they here?”

  “Both are very well. They stayed in Rome. How are you?”

  “Fine,” she says. “Really good. Look, I’m sorry about what happened. Between us, I mean. I hope you forgive me.”

  “Nothing to forgive,” he says. “If anything I should be flattered. Water under the bridge, right?”

  They get a drink. His tiredness has left him. They talk about Rome. She has never been there. It’s magical, he tells her. Everyone should live there at least once in their life.

  “You look well,” he says. There is something different about her. She has a new job. An editorial position at a magazine. Better money, more respect. She is coming up in the world. There is something else. She has cut her hair. During the summer her hair was long. Now it is shorter, more stylish. It makes her look older, sophisticated.

  I have also seen her. We had a drink shortly after the Winslows left for Rome. I had never seen her in high heels before.

  “Well, you know,” she says. “What are you doing here?”

  “Reuben brought me. He’s my agent. Remember, you met him on the street that time? He felt I should become acquainted with the younger generation.”

  “Does he represent Josh?”

  “Is that his name?”

  “Yes. It’s a party for him.”

  “Friend of yours?”

  “We dated for a while.”

  “You don’t know how happy I am to see you. I don’t know a soul at this party except Reuben.”

  “Let me introduce you to some people,” she says.

  Soon a small crowd has gathered around them, wanting to meet the famous Harry Winslow. The men thin and studiously scruffy, dressed in black. The women waiflike, many of them drinking beer from bottles. He is seated on a sofa. The center of attention. A peddler of stories opening his sack. He takes out one first, then another. Claire brings him a whisky on the rocks. He has lost count of how many he has already had. But he knows precisely when she leaves and when she returns. He is performing for her.

  The room is a blur, but he is enjoying himself. Young men and women want to know about his new book, his views on modern literature, terrorism, the Middle East. Is it true he was really a fighter pilot? One young man asks if he had ever shot down an enemy plane.

  “No,” he answers, “I was a peacetime soldier.” He tells a story about the time he was forced to ditch a plane in North Africa during a training flight and had to spend the night in a Moroccan whorehouse. Everyone laughs.

  Claire is perched behind him on the arm of the sofa. They are like magnets drawn to each other. He is a hit, as she knew he would be. His success is hers. I didn’t know you knew Harry Winslow, she is told. Oh yes. We’re old friends.

  It is past midnight. The waiters are packing up. The party is winding down.

  “We’re going to a bar,” she says. “Want to come?”

  Harry looks around. No sign of Reuben. “Sure, why not?” he answers. It’s already morning in Rome.

  Outside they hail a cab. Claire gives an address. He is carrying her laptop and gym bag.

  “Where are we going?” he asks.

  “We have to stop at my place first. I want to drop off my bags. We won’t be a minute. The bar’s practically right around the corner. Do you mind?”

  “No, it’s fine.”

  She lives in the East Village. It is a new apartment for her, rented in early September. The building is modest, an old tenement. No doorman. Rusty fire escapes hang over the sidewalk. A key to get in, an intercom with the embossed names of tenants, many covered over by newer arrivals, some handwritten. Then a heavier second door with security glass. “I’m on the third floor,” she says. “There’s no elevator, we’ll have to walk.” He carries her bags.

  The marble stairs are rounded with age. This has been the first stop for generations of New Yorkers. The difference is that now the neighborhood is fashionable, the rents expensive. Worn tiled floors. Cast-iron banisters. Water-stained walls. Chinese menus slid halfway under doors.

  “Here we are,” she says. More keys to get in. A dead bolt. “It’s not really that unsafe,” she says. “These locks are left over from the eighties.”

  The apartment is small, unfinished. She could have been here a week or a year. A bookshelf along one wall. A small kitchenette on the other. A couch, a small dining table covered with scattered papers, a pair of shoes, an empty wineglass with cru
sted sediment in the bottom. Dishes in the sink. Boxes stacked in the corner. The untidiness of single life. A bedroom off to the left. He can tell the refrigerator is the sort that would be empty except for maybe old milk, a brown lemon, wine, decomposing Chinese food, jars of mustard.

  “It’s not much, but I don’t have to share it,” she says. “Would you like a drink? I won’t be a moment.”

  She finds a nearly empty bottle of whisky and pours the remnants into a coffee mug. “Sorry,” she says. “I don’t entertain very often.”

  “No, no. It’s great. This you?”

  There are photographs arrayed along the top of the bookshelf. A little girl on a street in Paris. A smaller boy, obviously her brother, stands next to her. The colors have faded. It is the face of a disappointed child.

  “Yes. I was about eight when that was taken.”

  “And this one?”

  “My mother.”

  It is a small family history. These are photographs set out to remember what one leaves behind. There is one of her with friends at what looks like a college football game. Another with a friend, a garden party. Each is wearing a white dress. On the shelves there are the usual books. The Bell Jar. Les Fleurs du Mal. T. S. Eliot. Vonnegut. Tolstoy. Gibran. Some newer titles too. Both of his books. The first one only recently back in print. He grins self-consciously and runs his index finger down their spines.

  “If you don’t mind, I suppose the least I could do is sign them for you,” he says, taking out his pen.

  “No, I’d love it.”

  With a flourish he writes To Claire, who has excellent taste in literature. Harry Winslow.

  He hands them to her. She reads the inscriptions. “Thank you,” she says, leaning in to give him a quick kiss on the cheek.

  “One day they’ll be worth just about what you paid for them,” he says with a smile.

  She smiles back. “I’ll be right out,” she says.

  Harry collapses in the chair. He is tired. There has been too much to drink. It is time to leave.