Barney's Version (45 page)

L
IKE I SAID
, it started out as a disaster. Jumpy as a teenager, counting the days to what I took to be my make-or-break lunch with Miriam, I decided to fly to Toronto the night before, checking into the Park Plaza, resolved not to stir from my room or drink a drop. But I couldn't concentrate on the copy of
Rabbit, Run
that I'd brought with me.
The New Republic
's account of Senator Kennedy's triumph over Humphrey in the West Virginia primary did not thrill me — remembering that bastard Joe Kennedy, I was suspicious of the son. Neither could I get excited by that front-page photograph in
The New York Times
of an exultant Nikita Khrushchev displaying some debris from the demolished
U-2
spy plane. Flinging book, magazines, and newspapers aside, I switched off my bedside lamp. But sleep wouldn't come, and, inevitably, Mrs. Ogilvy materialized, running her tongue over her lips, beginning to unbutton that dress that was a size too small.
⁷⁰
“That will do you no good, you condescending imperialist slut,” I said. “I am not even unfaithful to Miriam with my wife, so why would I bother with you.”

I tossed. I turned.
Remember, look directly into those blue eyes to die for, but DO NOT stare at her breasts. Or her legs. Animal
. I polished anecdotes that might please, possibly rewarding me with that dimple in her cheek, and stories that inadvertently reflected well on me, and dismissed everything I could think of as self-serving horse-shit. Hoping to calm my nerves, I smoked a Montecristo and then hurried into the bathroom to brush my teeth, and even my tongue, fearful of bad breath. On my route back to bed, as luck would have it, I was obliged to pass my mini-bar. It would do no harm, I thought, to check it out, maybe munch a few cashews. Well, one quick snort wouldn't do any harm. But, at three a.m., I was shocked to be able to count a dozen little empty bottles of Scotch, vodka, and gin on the glass table.
Drunkard. Weakling
. Charged with self-hatred, I slid back into bed and conjured up a picture of Miriam at my wedding, wearing a layered blue chiffon cocktail dress, and moving about with astonishing grace. Those eyes. Those bare shoulders.
Oh my God, what if I stood up to greet her in the Prince Arthur Room and she could see that I had an erection?
I made a mental note to jack off immediately before lunch, if only as a preventive measure. Then I slept, but only for a little while, literally leaping out of bed, cursing myself:
you've overslept, you idiot, and now you're going to be late
. I started to dress frantically and then had the good sense to look at my watch. It was six a.m. Damn damn damn. I undressed, showered and shaved, dressed again, and went out to tramp the streets until seven a.m., when the Prince Arthur Room would open for breakfast. “I booked a table for two for lunch,” I told the maître d', “and I want one by the window.”

“I'm afraid they're already reserved, sir.”

“That one,” I said, slipping him a twenty.

Back in my room, I found the red light on my phone blinking. My heart began to thud.
She can't make it. She's changed her mind
. “I don't lunch with grown men who jerk off in hotel-room toilets.” But the call was from The Second Mrs. Panofsky. I rang home. “You forgot your wallet on the hall table,” she said.

“I did not.”

“I've got it right in my hand with all your credit cards.”

“Count on you for good news.”

“It's my fault, is it?”

“I'll think of something,” I said, hanging up. And suddenly overcome by nausea, I fled to the toilet. Sinking to my knees, head hanging over the toilet bowl, I was sick again and again.
Congratulations, Barney, now you're going to smell like a sewer
. So I undressed again, showered again, just about brushed the enamel off my teeth, gargled, changed my shirt and socks, and hit the street once more. I had only gone three blocks when I stopped short, remembering that I had asked the maître d' to have a bottle of Dom Perignon in a bucket beside our table at 12:55.
Show-off
. A woman of Miriam's quality was bound to consider that ostentatious. Pushy. As if I was out to seduce her. “Did you think that if you bought me a bottle of champagne, I'd leap into bed with you?” I certainly had no such impure notions.
Honestly
. So I doubled back to the hotel and cancelled the champagne. But what if, against all odds, she did agree to come back to my room with me? I do have some good points.

— This is a multiple-choice question, Panofsky. Tick off a minimum of three good character points out of the following ten
.

—
Fuck you
.

Checking out my room, just in case, I saw that the bed hadn't been made yet. I phoned housekeeping to complain, and room service to order a dozen red roses and a bottle of Dom Perignon with two glasses. “But, Mr. Panofsky, you cancelled your champagne order.”

“I cancelled the bottle for the Prince Arthur Room, but now I want a bottle for my own room, properly chilled, no earlier than two p.m., if that's not too much trouble.”

Footsore come noon, badly hung over, weary, emotionally exhausted, I decided a cup of black coffee in the Roof Bar would be just the trick, but, on impulse, I ordered a Bloody Mary instead. Nursing it, I found I still had another three-quarters of an hour to kill when all that was left in my glass were ice cubes. So I ordered another. Then dug into my pocket for that list of interesting conversational topics I had prepared. Had she seen
Psycho
? Read
Henderson the Rain King
? What did she think of Ben-Gurion meeting Adenauer in New York? Should Caryl Chessman have been executed? Floating on new-found confidence after my third Bloody Mary, I glanced at my
watch: 12:55. And was consumed by panic yet again.
Hell, I had forgotten to masturbate this morning, and now it was too late. My props. I had forgotten them in my room
. Her father had been a socialist, and so I had brought along the Penguin edition of Laski's
Liberty in the Modern State
, as well as the latest issue of
The New Statesman
. I made a dash for my room, shoved
The New Statesman
into my jacket pocket, and got to my table in the Prince Arthur Room at 1:02, and there she was, Miriam being directed to the table by the maître d'. Rising to greet her, I managed to hide my compromising tumescence behind my linen napkin. O, how beautiful she appeared in her saucy black leather hat and black wool dress, her hair cut shorter than I remembered. I longed to compliment her on her appearance, but I feared she might consider that flirty. Gauche. “Great to see you,” I said. “Care for a drink?”

“What about you?”

“Oh, a Perrier will do. Say, this is an occasion, don't you think? What about a bottle of champagne?”

“Well now …”

I summoned the waiter. “We'd like a bottle of Dom Perignon, please.”

“But you already can —”

“
Just bring it, if you don't mind?
”

Lighting one Gitane off another, I groped for one of the
bon mots
I had rehearsed, but all I could come up with was, “Hot today, isn't it?”

“I didn't think so.”

“Neither did I.”

“Oh.”

“Haveyouseen
HendersontheRainKing
?”

“I beg your pardon?”

“
Henderson the
— I mean
Psycho
?”

“Not yet.”

“I thought the shower scene — But what did you think of it?”

“I suppose I'd have to see it first.”

“Oh, sure. Naturally. We could catch it tonight, if you —”

“But you've obviously seen it already.”

“Oh yeah. That's right. I forgot.” Shit, is he going all the way to Montreal to fetch that bottle of champagne? “In your opinion,” I asked, beginning to slide in sweat, “should Ben-Gurion have agreed to meet Eisenhower in New York?”

“I think you mean Adenauer.”

“Of course I do.”

“Did you invite me here to be interviewed?” she asked. And there it was, the dimple in her cheek. I'm going to die right here and go to heaven.
Don't you dare lower your gaze to her bosom. Keep it at eye level
. “Ah, there he is.”

“Room service wants to know if you still want the other bottle in your —”

“Just pour, will you, please?”

We clicked glasses. “I can't tell you how glad I am you could make it today,” I said.

“Well, it was good of you to fit me in between your business appointments.”

“But I'm just here to see you.”

“I thought you said —”

“Oh, sure. Business. Yes, I'm here on it.”

“Are you drunk, Barney?”

“Certainly not. I think we should order. Ignore the prix fixe. Have whatever you want. They ought to air-condition this place,” I said, loosening my tie.

“But it's not hot.”

“Yes. I mean no, it isn't.”

She ordered a pea soup to begin with and I, unaccountably, asked for the lobster bisque, a dish I hate. As the Prince Arthur Room began to tilt and sway, I groped for a witty remark, a knock-out aphorism that would put Wilde to shame, and heard myself say, “Do you enjoy living in Toronto?”

“I like my job.”

I counted to ten and then I said, “I'm getting a divorce.”

“Oh, I'm so sorry.”

“Wedon'thavetodiscussitnow, butitmeansyou'llbeabletoseemeagain, because I'llnolongerbeamarriedman.”

“You're talking so fast I'm not sure I can make out —”

“Soon I'll no longer be a married man.”

“Obviously, if you're getting a divorce. But I hope you're not doing this on my account.”

“What can I do? I love you. Desperately.”

“Barney, you hardly know me.”

Then, as luck would have it, a fulminating Yankel Schneider, whom I hadn't seen since we had been ten-year-olds together in primary school, loomed over our table: not quite Banquo's ghost, but close enough. “You're the bastard who made my life a misery when we were children, imitating my stammer.”

“I don't know what you're talking about.”

“You're unfortunate enough to be his wife?”

“Not yet,” I said.

“Please,” said Miriam.

“Leave her out of this, if you don't mind?”

“He used to mock my stutter, and I would tear my hair out in bed, and my mother had to literally drag me kicking and screaming to school.
Why did you do it?
”

“I didn't, Miriam.”

“What pleasure did it give you?”

“I'm not sure I even remember who in the hell you are.”

“For years I used to dream I would be in my car, you would be crossing the street, and I would run you over. I put in eight years with an analyst before I decided you weren't worth it. You're filth, Barney,” he said and, taking one last drag of his cigarette, he dropped it into my lobster bisque and strode off.

“Christ,” I said.

“I thought you were going to hit him.”

“Not with you here, Miriam.”

“I'm told you have a vile temper, and that when you've had far too much to drink, like now, which is hardly flattering, you start looking for a fight.”

“McIver?”

“I'm not saying.”

“Don't feel well. Going to be sick.”

“Can you make it to the toilet?”

“So embarrassed.”

“Can you —”

“Got to lie down.”

She helped me to my room, where I immediately fell to my knees, retching over the toilet bowl, farting resoundingly.
I wished myself buried alive. Or drawn and quartered. Pulled apart by horses. Anything
. She wet a towel and wiped my face and finally led me to my bed.

“This is so humiliating.”

“Sh,” she said.

“You hate me and never want to see me again.”

“Oh, shettup,” she said, and she sponged me with that wet towel again, and made me drink a glass of water, supporting the back of my head with her cool hand. I resolved never to wash my hair again. Lying back, I closed my eyes, hoping to shut out the spinning room. “I'll be all right in five minutes. Please don't go.”

“Try to sleep.”

“I love you.”

“Yes. Certainly.”

“We're going to get married and have ten children,” I said.

When I wakened, maybe a couple of hours later, she was sitting in the easy chair, her long legs crossed just so, reading
Rabbit, Run
. I didn't speak out immediately, but took advantage of her being so absorbed to feast on the sight of such beauty seated there. Tears slid down my cheeks. My heart ached. If time stopped now, forever, I thought, I would not complain. Finally, I said, “I know you never want to see me again. I don't blame you.”

“I'm going to order some dry toast and coffee for you,” she said, “and, if you don't mind, a tuna sandwich for me. I'm hungry.”

“I must stink something awful. Will you not go if I have a quick shower?”

“I take it you find me predictable.”

“How can you say such a thing?”

“You were expecting me to come to your room.”

“Certainly not.”

“Then who were the champagne and roses for?”

“Where?”

She pointed.

“Oh.”

“Yes. Oh.”

“I don't know what I'm doing today. I'm not myself. I'm a mess. I'll phone room service and have them take it away.”

“No, you won't.”

“I won't.”

“Now what shall we talk about?
Psycho
, or Ben-Gurion's meeting with Adenauer?”

“Miriam, I couldn't lie to you. Not now, or ever. Yankel was telling the truth.”

“Yankel?”

“The man who came to our table. I would block his path on the playground and say, ‘D-d-do you p-p-piss in b-b-bed, p-p-prick-face?' And if he stood up, terrified, obliged to answer a question in class, I would begin to giggle before he could get a word out, and he would collapse in tears. ‘N-n-nice going, Y-y-yankel,' I'd say. Why did I do such dreadful things?”