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Authors: Lydia Adamson
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postcards from him. The authorities said he obviously did not wish to be ‘found.’
“And the truth is he really wasn’t ‘lost.’ People regularly claimed to have seen him. Some said they caught sight of him in the street—begging near Columbus Circle. Others said that he sometimes slept in one of those shanties in Riverside Park. It was insane. One didn’t know what to believe.”
Betty Ann poked at the crackling fire.
“Do you mind,” I said, “if I ask a personal question of you?”
“What question?”
“Did you have . . . Did you ever sleep with Dobrynin?”
Betty Ann burst into laughter then. I stiffened, startled—and a little insulted.
She walked over to lay a consoling hand on my arm. “Oh, please don’t think I’m laughing at you. Believe me, I’m not. I was just thinking of a joke people used to tell. I don’t recall the whole buildup, but the punchline had to do with the technical aspect of the word ‘sleep.’ Peter had truckloads of lovers, but probably very few of them actually
slept
with him. Like me.”
She smiled then. “How could you spend time with Peter and
not
have sex? He was a satyr. The interesting thing was that even though you knew it was just a throwaway for him, you weren’t offended. You looked on it the same way he did—as an amusing way to pass the time. What’s the phrase, ‘a sport and a pastime’? He made you feel good, as if you were rendering a direly needed service.”
She turned back to the photograph then.
“Peter was a little too big on throwaways, though. He went too far. And eventually he threw away his career . . . and his art . . . and his life.”
I could no longer see Betty Ann’s face. She had walked up to the photo and was staring at it intently.
“I really miss him. His lunacy as well as his art. Lord, was he crazy! He made a small fortune doing a series of sweater ads. Or jeans—whatever. Anyway, he went out and bought a forty-thousand-dollar Jaguar the morning after the check cleared. He left it idling in front of a bar one afternoon. And of course the car was promptly stolen. So what did Peter do? He bought another car—a jeep, for fifteen thousand. Which was towed for illegal parking. When he came out of the restaurant and found it was gone, he borrowed twenty dollars and went home in a cab. Never made the slightest effort to retrieve either of those cars.” She was shaking her head as she came back to join me.
“Did he have male lovers as well?” I asked. “Sleepovers or otherwise.”
“I should be very surprised if he didn’t. He was an affirmative-action satyr, if you will. All were welcome.”
I started to respond with a remark that might not have been in the best taste, but Betty Ann saved me from myself. She held up her hand to interrupt. “It’s time I showed a few manners,” she said. “I have one of those high-tech espresso contraptions. May I offer you some cappuccino?”
“To be honest, I thought you’d never ask.”
Off she went. Soon I heard the fierce and bizarrely comforting sucking sounds of the machine at work.
While she was busy in the kitchen, I went over to get a closer look at the satyr. Dobrynin seemed to be looking just over my right shoulder. I wondered if his sexual liaison with Betty Ann had been the pure fun for her that she had painted it to be. Perhaps he’d looked upon it as akin to going to bed with his kindergarten teacher. I even found myself wondering whether, if I’d known him, I too would have succumbed to his blandishments, become one of his famous shoehorns. I’d always thought of myself as immune to the type. But as the song goes, one never knows, does one?
The cappuccino was delicious. I drained it greedily. There were still one or two things I wanted to go over with Betty Ann.
“Tell me,” I said, “do you have any idea how a derelict with no shoes and no ticket could have gotten into the ballet?”
She laughed that delightful laugh again.
“My dear,
“And the truth is he really wasn’t ‘lost.’ People regularly claimed to have seen him. Some said they caught sight of him in the street—begging near Columbus Circle. Others said that he sometimes slept in one of those shanties in Riverside Park. It was insane. One didn’t know what to believe.”
Betty Ann poked at the crackling fire.
“Do you mind,” I said, “if I ask a personal question of you?”
“What question?”
“Did you have . . . Did you ever sleep with Dobrynin?”
Betty Ann burst into laughter then. I stiffened, startled—and a little insulted.
She walked over to lay a consoling hand on my arm. “Oh, please don’t think I’m laughing at you. Believe me, I’m not. I was just thinking of a joke people used to tell. I don’t recall the whole buildup, but the punchline had to do with the technical aspect of the word ‘sleep.’ Peter had truckloads of lovers, but probably very few of them actually
slept
with him. Like me.”
She smiled then. “How could you spend time with Peter and
not
have sex? He was a satyr. The interesting thing was that even though you knew it was just a throwaway for him, you weren’t offended. You looked on it the same way he did—as an amusing way to pass the time. What’s the phrase, ‘a sport and a pastime’? He made you feel good, as if you were rendering a direly needed service.”
She turned back to the photograph then.
“Peter was a little too big on throwaways, though. He went too far. And eventually he threw away his career . . . and his art . . . and his life.”
I could no longer see Betty Ann’s face. She had walked up to the photo and was staring at it intently.
“I really miss him. His lunacy as well as his art. Lord, was he crazy! He made a small fortune doing a series of sweater ads. Or jeans—whatever. Anyway, he went out and bought a forty-thousand-dollar Jaguar the morning after the check cleared. He left it idling in front of a bar one afternoon. And of course the car was promptly stolen. So what did Peter do? He bought another car—a jeep, for fifteen thousand. Which was towed for illegal parking. When he came out of the restaurant and found it was gone, he borrowed twenty dollars and went home in a cab. Never made the slightest effort to retrieve either of those cars.” She was shaking her head as she came back to join me.
“Did he have male lovers as well?” I asked. “Sleepovers or otherwise.”
“I should be very surprised if he didn’t. He was an affirmative-action satyr, if you will. All were welcome.”
I started to respond with a remark that might not have been in the best taste, but Betty Ann saved me from myself. She held up her hand to interrupt. “It’s time I showed a few manners,” she said. “I have one of those high-tech espresso contraptions. May I offer you some cappuccino?”
“To be honest, I thought you’d never ask.”
Off she went. Soon I heard the fierce and bizarrely comforting sucking sounds of the machine at work.
While she was busy in the kitchen, I went over to get a closer look at the satyr. Dobrynin seemed to be looking just over my right shoulder. I wondered if his sexual liaison with Betty Ann had been the pure fun for her that she had painted it to be. Perhaps he’d looked upon it as akin to going to bed with his kindergarten teacher. I even found myself wondering whether, if I’d known him, I too would have succumbed to his blandishments, become one of his famous shoehorns. I’d always thought of myself as immune to the type. But as the song goes, one never knows, does one?
The cappuccino was delicious. I drained it greedily. There were still one or two things I wanted to go over with Betty Ann.
“Tell me,” I said, “do you have any idea how a derelict with no shoes and no ticket could have gotten into the ballet?”
She laughed that delightful laugh again.
“My dear,
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