Moroccan cushion on the end of my sofa, a tender triangle ofsoft white leather. (Come on, lady, stop being precious; and what have you got to be sad about anyway?)
Because it rained all day today, because I’m jealous of Betsy Gore-Heppel, because I’m worried about my mother’s health, because I still haven’t found Mary Swann’s notebook, because I had “words” this morning with dear old Professor Gliden about the intertexuality of Edith Wharton’s novels, because my only mail today was an oil bill, because Stephen Stanhope sent me flowers, because of Nicaragua, because the Pope made a speech on television reminding me of my lost faith, because I’m sick of my beautiful clothes (those shoulder pads, those trips to the dry cleaners), because the rain continues and continues—because of all this I broke down tonight and phoned Brownie, who hasn’t phoned me for two weeks.
He’s been incredibly busy, he explains. (All my senses gather to a fine point of attention.) He has had to hire three new assistants at the Brown Study and a full-time accountant. He has just spent two days in Peoria going through a lady-and-gentleman library (his phrase) that was up for auction. After that he made a dash for St. Louis to look at some Wonder Woman comics, which were in lousy condition, though he
did
pick up an excellent signed first edition of Disraeli’s
Sybil
for which he has a buyer already committed. Next week he has an appointment in Montreal to look over some sizzling love letters written more than a hundred and fifty years ago.
Being eclectic keeps him hopping. He’s busy,
too
busy, he says. He’s exhausted. Depleted. A wreck.
Why then this frisson of exaltation running beneath his complaints? I can hear it in every word, even in the little spaces between words, his busy air of enterprise or cunning. “Why don’t you come over?” I suggest. “I’ll make a fire. We could talk.”
The pleading in my voice dismays me. Oh, Lord, why do I love Brownie?
A good question. His crinkly hair, ending in snaky ringlets. The crinkly way he talks and thinks at the same time. His wrists. His wristwatch and the way he’s always checking the time as if comparing it to that other clock inside his brain that runs to a different, probably threatening, rhythm. His cool impartial stare. His little shoulders, the Einsteinian hunch of them. His sweaters with their tender broken elbows. His helpless need for money and his belief that he’ll never get enough of it salted away for his old age—which he doubts he’ll reach. His fingertips on my shoulder, tapping out messages, subliminal. The strength and shortness of his legs, so short that when we walk along in the park together I can hear the rush-rushing of his feet on the gravel. His collection of costumes, Victorian capes, military jackets and the like. The shrewd way he handles his thready old books, his willingness to sock them away for ten years, twenty years, until their value multiplies and zooms.
Treasure, treasure
, his ridgy brow seems to say, meaning by treasure something very different than I would ever mean. The way his mouth goes into a circle, ready to admit but never promise the possibility of love. That almost kills me, his blindness to love.
“Next week for sure,” he promises.
After Montreal he goes back to California to have a look at the Stromberg collection of Plastic Man comics, the only cache he knows that rivals his own. There’s a rumour out that Stromberg’s ready to deal. “I’m getting a cash package together just in case,” Brownie tells me. “But after this is over, I’m definitely going to slow down.”
Brownie told me once about an economist who cornered the world market on Mexican jumping beans. Thatimpressed him. Now
he’s
out for control of
Plastic Man
, every last copy, but after that he’s going to relax, he says. He’s planning to take it easy, maybe read some of the books in his store. He hasn’t read a book in ten years, he
Because it rained all day today, because I’m jealous of Betsy Gore-Heppel, because I’m worried about my mother’s health, because I still haven’t found Mary Swann’s notebook, because I had “words” this morning with dear old Professor Gliden about the intertexuality of Edith Wharton’s novels, because my only mail today was an oil bill, because Stephen Stanhope sent me flowers, because of Nicaragua, because the Pope made a speech on television reminding me of my lost faith, because I’m sick of my beautiful clothes (those shoulder pads, those trips to the dry cleaners), because the rain continues and continues—because of all this I broke down tonight and phoned Brownie, who hasn’t phoned me for two weeks.
He’s been incredibly busy, he explains. (All my senses gather to a fine point of attention.) He has had to hire three new assistants at the Brown Study and a full-time accountant. He has just spent two days in Peoria going through a lady-and-gentleman library (his phrase) that was up for auction. After that he made a dash for St. Louis to look at some Wonder Woman comics, which were in lousy condition, though he
did
pick up an excellent signed first edition of Disraeli’s
Sybil
for which he has a buyer already committed. Next week he has an appointment in Montreal to look over some sizzling love letters written more than a hundred and fifty years ago.
Being eclectic keeps him hopping. He’s busy,
too
busy, he says. He’s exhausted. Depleted. A wreck.
Why then this frisson of exaltation running beneath his complaints? I can hear it in every word, even in the little spaces between words, his busy air of enterprise or cunning. “Why don’t you come over?” I suggest. “I’ll make a fire. We could talk.”
The pleading in my voice dismays me. Oh, Lord, why do I love Brownie?
A good question. His crinkly hair, ending in snaky ringlets. The crinkly way he talks and thinks at the same time. His wrists. His wristwatch and the way he’s always checking the time as if comparing it to that other clock inside his brain that runs to a different, probably threatening, rhythm. His cool impartial stare. His little shoulders, the Einsteinian hunch of them. His sweaters with their tender broken elbows. His helpless need for money and his belief that he’ll never get enough of it salted away for his old age—which he doubts he’ll reach. His fingertips on my shoulder, tapping out messages, subliminal. The strength and shortness of his legs, so short that when we walk along in the park together I can hear the rush-rushing of his feet on the gravel. His collection of costumes, Victorian capes, military jackets and the like. The shrewd way he handles his thready old books, his willingness to sock them away for ten years, twenty years, until their value multiplies and zooms.
Treasure, treasure
, his ridgy brow seems to say, meaning by treasure something very different than I would ever mean. The way his mouth goes into a circle, ready to admit but never promise the possibility of love. That almost kills me, his blindness to love.
“Next week for sure,” he promises.
After Montreal he goes back to California to have a look at the Stromberg collection of Plastic Man comics, the only cache he knows that rivals his own. There’s a rumour out that Stromberg’s ready to deal. “I’m getting a cash package together just in case,” Brownie tells me. “But after this is over, I’m definitely going to slow down.”
Brownie told me once about an economist who cornered the world market on Mexican jumping beans. Thatimpressed him. Now
he’s
out for control of
Plastic Man
, every last copy, but after that he’s going to relax, he says. He’s planning to take it easy, maybe read some of the books in his store. He hasn’t read a book in ten years, he
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