as she had introduced Richard and his snooty friend Rhoda; and Max and Serge, two distinguished art dealers who thought no one was aware of their deeper relationship; and their rich clients Jean and Angelica Landman, who argued even when they said nothing.… Tamar knew a few people.
Dining with Tamar’s friends, Malkiel was really sitting in for her. She was in Washington. More investigative reporting on the Pentagon. That was what she did best: ferreted out secrets, turned them up and classified them, processed them and revealed them to the public—she loved all that as much as she loved love. I miss you, Tamar.
“Hey, Malkiel, you off in the desert?” Bianca asked.
“Pardon?”
“Come on, you naughty boy. We’re here, and you’re here, but your head’s somewhere else. Don’t deny it.”
“I’m sorry.” Malkiel blushed.
“At least tell us where I brought you back from.”
“Nowhere, really.”
“You’re a rotten liar. I’ve never understood what Tamar sees in you.”
A forgotten memory resurfaced, upsetting him. A summer Sunday on Fire Island. Tamar in a bad mood because she was scooped on a story. Malkiel, who had nothing to do with it, was annoyed that she wouldn’t snap out of her sulk. So he, too, sulked. As usual, Blanca—pardon: Bianca—took matters in hand. Sweet Tamar, she said, I know a sure cure when things go wrong: grab hold of your man and kiss him till he passes out. Doctor’s orders, you hear? Tamar wouldn’t dignify that with an answer. Bianca flared. Listen to me: you give your imbecile lover a big kiss right now or you’ll be sorry; I’ll take care of him myself, you understand? And as Tamar still did not react, Bianca proved how she kept her word. There she was in front of Malkiel, sitting on the sand, facing him. Languorously she kissed him on the mouth. Hey, she cried, that’s good! She did it again. Tamar was disgusted and never even looked their way. Playing the game—was it a game?—Malkiel let himself be swept along. He closed his eyes, thought of something else, and received the kisses. Opening his eyes again, he saw Bianca’s smiling face close to his own, he noted her tanned breasts. The blazing sun beat down, and Malkiel turned away. Beside them, Paul, Bianca’s husband, laughed as if at a good joke. Tamar was not laughing.
That evening she would tell him, “You let me down,Malkiel. I know it was a game; but love isn’t a game you can play with just anyone.”
“No,” Bianca said again, “I really don’t know what Tamar sees in you. You kiss well enough, but—”
“Stop it,” Malkiel said.
“Why?”
“I can’t hear what you’re saying. Too much of a crowd. Too much noise. Hard to hear. Hard to think.”
“Now you’re boring me. No one’s asking you to think. As far as I know, you’re a reporter. It’s your job to listen. And to amuse people.”
“That’s not on the menu,” said Pietro, the maître d’, who took personal care of this table.
But apparently it was; yes, it was. Paul was brilliant, Bianca charming, Susie drinking and Angelica flirting. Max and Serge were describing their last auction.
They all seemed happy. “Business good?” Damn good. “And the new gallery in San Francisco?” Almost ready to open. “And you, Malkiel? Still working?” Still working. “Who stars in tomorrow’s obits?” An eighty-eight-year-old Indonesian general. A dancer. A model. AIDS. Malkiel felt better: They had something else to talk about. The twentieth-century plague. Punishment from heaven? “Poor heaven,” Bianca said. God should find another way to pass the time.
At the newspaper, a special team was assigned to cover that disease, or that evil, depending on how you saw it. Two reporters were following several victims, three others were interviewing specialists, a reporter with a medical background was setting up a round table with six researchers from Sloan-Kettering and the Pasteur Institute. They were even thinking of
Dining with Tamar’s friends, Malkiel was really sitting in for her. She was in Washington. More investigative reporting on the Pentagon. That was what she did best: ferreted out secrets, turned them up and classified them, processed them and revealed them to the public—she loved all that as much as she loved love. I miss you, Tamar.
“Hey, Malkiel, you off in the desert?” Bianca asked.
“Pardon?”
“Come on, you naughty boy. We’re here, and you’re here, but your head’s somewhere else. Don’t deny it.”
“I’m sorry.” Malkiel blushed.
“At least tell us where I brought you back from.”
“Nowhere, really.”
“You’re a rotten liar. I’ve never understood what Tamar sees in you.”
A forgotten memory resurfaced, upsetting him. A summer Sunday on Fire Island. Tamar in a bad mood because she was scooped on a story. Malkiel, who had nothing to do with it, was annoyed that she wouldn’t snap out of her sulk. So he, too, sulked. As usual, Blanca—pardon: Bianca—took matters in hand. Sweet Tamar, she said, I know a sure cure when things go wrong: grab hold of your man and kiss him till he passes out. Doctor’s orders, you hear? Tamar wouldn’t dignify that with an answer. Bianca flared. Listen to me: you give your imbecile lover a big kiss right now or you’ll be sorry; I’ll take care of him myself, you understand? And as Tamar still did not react, Bianca proved how she kept her word. There she was in front of Malkiel, sitting on the sand, facing him. Languorously she kissed him on the mouth. Hey, she cried, that’s good! She did it again. Tamar was disgusted and never even looked their way. Playing the game—was it a game?—Malkiel let himself be swept along. He closed his eyes, thought of something else, and received the kisses. Opening his eyes again, he saw Bianca’s smiling face close to his own, he noted her tanned breasts. The blazing sun beat down, and Malkiel turned away. Beside them, Paul, Bianca’s husband, laughed as if at a good joke. Tamar was not laughing.
That evening she would tell him, “You let me down,Malkiel. I know it was a game; but love isn’t a game you can play with just anyone.”
“No,” Bianca said again, “I really don’t know what Tamar sees in you. You kiss well enough, but—”
“Stop it,” Malkiel said.
“Why?”
“I can’t hear what you’re saying. Too much of a crowd. Too much noise. Hard to hear. Hard to think.”
“Now you’re boring me. No one’s asking you to think. As far as I know, you’re a reporter. It’s your job to listen. And to amuse people.”
“That’s not on the menu,” said Pietro, the maître d’, who took personal care of this table.
But apparently it was; yes, it was. Paul was brilliant, Bianca charming, Susie drinking and Angelica flirting. Max and Serge were describing their last auction.
They all seemed happy. “Business good?” Damn good. “And the new gallery in San Francisco?” Almost ready to open. “And you, Malkiel? Still working?” Still working. “Who stars in tomorrow’s obits?” An eighty-eight-year-old Indonesian general. A dancer. A model. AIDS. Malkiel felt better: They had something else to talk about. The twentieth-century plague. Punishment from heaven? “Poor heaven,” Bianca said. God should find another way to pass the time.
At the newspaper, a special team was assigned to cover that disease, or that evil, depending on how you saw it. Two reporters were following several victims, three others were interviewing specialists, a reporter with a medical background was setting up a round table with six researchers from Sloan-Kettering and the Pasteur Institute. They were even thinking of
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