I'll Take Manhattan (52 page)

Quietly, Maxi used Angelica’s key to open the front door. The entrance hall was a good-sized room she observed disapprovingly. How odd of him to have used fine old parquet, rubbed to a golden glow. What a strange place to put a life-sized Maillol torso of Venus, a powerful, darkly gleaming presence that held its own, magnificent against the melting magic, the receding rainbow tides of the two large Helen Frankenthalers on facing walls. No furniture, she noted, with the exception of a superb Regency table against the third wall, all curves and carving and unquestionably authentic to her experienced eye. Well, it’s not all that difficult to buy good art if you have the money, she
thought, closing the door softly behind her, and she disapproved of the art-gallery school of decorating on theory. Maxi listened for the sound of life in the apartment but heard nothing. Cautiously she made her way into the living room. Well, Rocco had certainly developed a taste for luxury that was quite out of keeping with his mingy high-mindedness, a luxury that seemed to be set with a divine incongruity in an old barn in the country instead of on Central Park South. Sunlight poured into the two-story room and turned the walls, covered with wooden siding, into a source of subtle information on the beauty that weather can work on wood. Deep, downy, gray velvet sofas, separated by a Parsons table lacquered in Chinese red, turned their backs on each other in the center of the long room and faced the great twin fireplaces that were on each of the side walls. Old Indian cashmere paisley in tones of biscuit, red and coral covered the supremely elegant Regency armchairs; here and there on the old brick floor were scattered Chinese silk rugs in muted, rare colors that echoed the sunlight.

Maxi sniffed as scornfully as possible. The most valuable piece in the room was clearly the Egyptian sculpture she’d given Rocco for their first Christmas together, an early Ptolemaic piece, a statue of Isis almost two feet tall, made from red quartzite. You could see every detail of her body, for the Egyptian goddesses wore robes more sheer than any Bob Mackie creation and the Isis had the most delicious breasts and bellybutton, almost as nice as her own, but no head. And the Maillol Venus had no arms. Apparently Rocco didn’t like women enough to have one around who didn’t lack a part of her anatomy.

She jumped at the sound of a violent sneeze, and a smile of anticipatory relish curved her tightly appraising mouth into a dangerous weapon, the particular smile that even Maxi was not vain enough to know drove men mad.

She crept softly upstairs toward the sound of sneezing and swearing and the blowing of a nose. All ugly and swollen she knew it would be, like a caricature of W.C. Fields at his worst.

The door to Rocco’s bedroom was three-quarters closed. Inside she could see that it was dim, almost dark.
He must have drawn the draperies and gone to ground under as many covers and quilts as he owned. No man had ever been brought so low by a head cold as Rocco Cipriani. Bad Dennis Brady treated them by switching from tequila to hot grogs and Laddie, Earl of Kirkgordon, simply ignored anything less than pneumonia. It was the weather, he explained. His ancestors had
always
had colds and what was good enough for Bonnie Prince Charlie was good enough for him.

Maxi coughed lightly to warn Rocco. There was no point in sending him into cardiac arrest when she’d come to make him feel better.

“Angelica, I told you not to come near me.”

“It’s just me,” Maxi assured him. “Angelica was so worried about you that she insisted that I come over and make sure that you didn’t need a doctor.”

“Bugger off,” he snarled, sneezing deliberately in her direction. All she could see of him was a gloomy hump of Dickensian churliness.

“Now Rocco,” Maxi said soothingly, “you’re just making yourself miserable. There’s no need to act as if you’re at death’s door just because you have a little head cold.”

“Go ahead, gloat, but get the fuck out of my house.”

“Isn’t that a little paranoid? Why would I gloat over the suffering of any human being? Particularly the father of my child? I only came to reassure Angelica. However,” Maxi said cheerfully, throwing open draperies, “since I am here, I’ll do what I can to make you more comfortable.”

“I don’t want to be comfortable. I want to be alone! In the dark!”

“Typical, typical, everyone knows how men love to suffer. I bet you haven’t even taken any vitamin C,” Maxi said, eyeing the giant sprays of budding forsythia that stood in a superb Florentine jar on a table near his bed. Renaissance majolica unless she was badly mistaken. There was the source of his cold, although he’d never believe it.

“Vitamin C’s a crock. It’s never been proven,” Rocco wheezed, sliding farther down under the covers and trying to pull a pillow over his head.

“But we don’t know for sure, do we? Anyway even you
know you need liquids. I’m going to make you a pitcher of fresh orange juice and leave it for you.”

“Just leave. I don’t have any oranges. Out. Out!”

Maxi disappeared, closing his door, before he could actually rouse himself to throw her out bodily. She had brought a bag of oranges from home, anticipating this deplorable state of gender-specific need. Men, in her experience, never had oranges at hand. Lemons, yes, apples sometimes, but not oranges. She tiptoed down the stairs and found the kitchen. It was, she saw at once, four times as big as her own, and much more cheerful. Of course, it didn’t have a view of the World Trade Center, she told herself while she squeezed the oranges, but it did have a highly polished eight-burner cast-iron range, a floor of golden travertine marble, a huge wooden worktable that looked Pennsylvania Dutch and a burnished bronze refrigerator full of champagne. She peeked into the freezer. As she had thought, many bottles of vodka, all frozen to that thick, glacial condition that makes it go down the throat like a kiss blown by a friendly iceberg. Thoughtfully she added three-quarters of one entire bottle to the pitcher of juice and tasted it. You couldn’t even tell it was there because of the sweetness of the fruit. She put the pitcher in the refrigerator to get colder and went in search of the linen closet. Nothing made a sick person feel better than clean crisp sheets. Well! So India wasn’t the only person she knew who was depraved on the subject of linen. Rocco had everything you could buy at Pratesi, all in solid white with severe geometric borders in dark brown, navy blue and deep purple. Did himself well, didn’t he? Pratesi could be even more expensive than Porthault although if you flew to Milan for it the trip paid for itself. She gathered up thousands of dollars worth of pure Egyptian cotton and returned to the kitchen for the juice and a big glass and made her way back upstairs.

Noiselessly she opened his door. As she had thought, he was fast asleep. Maxi burrowed under the covers and found Rocco’s big toe. It was the gentlest way to be awakened. She tugged on his toe with a light touch until he stirred, and kept tugging until he emerged from under his pillow.

“Juice time,” she trilled as prettily as Julie Andrews.

“I don’t fucking believe it,” he moaned and sneezed ferociously. She gave him a fresh Kleenex and a full glass of orange juice, holding it with impersonal dignity. He drank deeply and grunted something that could be taken for thanks. She poured another full glass and put it into his hand.

“You’re dehydrated. That can be dangerous,” Maxi warned him.

“Later. Just put it down. And go.”

“I will, but only when you’ve finished,” she promised. He drank it quickly, to show her how anxious he was for her to leave, and then fell back on his pillow and closed his eyes. Maxi waited a few minutes for the vodka to have its calming effects on his nervous system.

“Rocco?”

“Yeah.”

“Feel any better?”

“Maybe. A little.”

“In that case I suggest that you take a nice long shower, and while you’re doing that I’ll make your bed.”

“Shower? You’re crazy. Change of temperature at a time like this could kill me. Kill me.”

“Don’t take a hot shower, take a room-temperature shower. I guarantee it’ll make you feel so much better, honestly.”

“Sure?”

“Positive. And fresh, cool, lovely sheets … wouldn’t they feel good?”

“Couldn’t hurt. Since you’re here. Then you’ll go? You promise?”

“Of course. More orange juice?”

“Maybe—try another glass. Seems to help.” He tottered happily toward the bathroom, carrying the glass with him. Maxi bustled about. One thing she could do was make a damn good bed. She heard him in the shower, not singing but not sneezing either. She moved the forsythia to the hallway with the pile of discarded bed linen and pulled the draperies almost shut.

Ten minutes later Rocco emerged to find an empty bedroom, with just enough light in it for him to make out
his newly made bed with the quilt pulled high, just the way he liked it. With a sigh of relief he flung himself into the heavenly sheets and stretched out, groaning with pleasure.

“
Aiiiii
!” He bounded off the mattress. His foot had just touched something alive.

“For goodness’ sake, it’s only me,” Maxi whispered. “I thought you could see. Sorry.”

“Whatcha doing in my bed?”

“I must have fallen asleep. It’s such a big bed to make, so hard to get around.”

“You’re naked,” he pointed out.

“I am?” she said sleepily.

“Uh-huh.”

“Hmm … that’s odd, so I am.” She yawned. “I must have thought I was at home. Do forgive me.”

“Don’t scare me again. Hate being scared.”

“Of course you do,” Maxi murmured maternally, pulling his head to her marvelous breasts like sun-warmed fruit of the gods. “Of course you do, poor thing, poor,
poor
Rocco, it’s so terrible to have a cold.”

“I’m catching,” he sighed, starting to suck on one of her nipples.

“No, no, don’t worry, I never caught your colds.” She was kissing his shoulder and a particularly tender spot at the back of his neck where he was especially fond of being kissed if memory served.

Memory served. Blissfully, sweetly, and soon irresistibly, memory served, lulled by Russia’s gift to the world and assisted by Maxi’s dexterous lips and limbs, memory was gloriously celebrated.

Hours later, toward twilight, Rocco woke up with a floatingly light head and a profound sense of uneasiness. Something had happened. He wasn’t sure what. He wasn’t sure when or how but
something
had happened. Instinctively, with inching caution he explored his bed. It was empty. Something was still wrong. He turned on his bedside light and looked around the room. Nobody was there. He got out of bed and listened to the sounds of his apartment. He could tell at once that he was entirely alone. Why
did he feel so worried? He returned to his bed and gazed at the ceiling. Memory returned. Oh God. Oh no.
That bitch
. Memory unveiled itself further, disclosing details. Not once, not twice, but three times. He knew it. She was trying to kill him. Three times in a row. What was he supposed to be, fourteen fucking years old? She’d raped him, that’s what she’d done, or was it sexual harassment? Could you claim rape three times in one afternoon? Angrily he realized that he was grinning like an imbecile. Rocco whacked his pillow until the feathers flew out of it. How like her, to take advantage of a sick man. A vampire, that’s what she was. She knew, that vicious, unpardonable, victimizing, manipulative, unspeakably evil creature, she knew perfectly well that when he had a head cold he always got horny.

“So, schmuck,” he said out loud to himself, “how come you’re not sneezing?”

“Maxi, could you come into my office for a minute?” Monty asked, grabbing her by the arm. “Your office is a madhouse and we have to talk.”

It was early in the morning of Monday, April 15, and Maxi had just started working on the final corrections of the proofs of the September issue of
B&B
which was to go to press in a week. The article by Madonna called “The Easy-to-Come-by Joys of Narcissim” needed more pictures and Dan Rather’s piece, “Nobody Knows How Shy I Am,” had developed into a regular column, with celebrities vying with each other to expose the adolescent terrors they still endured. “Those Necessary Lies: Why You Must Never Feel Guilty” by Billy Graham had brought so many readers’ letters that more of them had to be reprinted on the letter page than anyone had expected and the “I Wish I Were” monthly article for September, in which Johnny Carson
wished he were Woody Allen and Elizabeth Taylor wished she were Brooke Shields, had somehow gotten screwed up, so the way it read now Woody Allen wished he were Brooke Shields. What was more disturbing, something in the “pace” of the issue that was laid out, pinned page by page on the walls of her office, was slightly off to Maxi’s eye.

“Couldn’t it be after lunch, Monty?” she pleaded. “This stuff is urgent.”

“Now, please.” When Monty said something in that emphatically unalarmed tone of voice, Maxi had learned to question him no further. She led the way to his office, tucked away in a far corner of the additional space she’d rented after the first issue had sold out. On the way she passed Julie’s all-white office where her fashion editor was huddled over the telephone. Ever since the story linking Jon and Justin had appeared in the newspapers Julie had tried to avoid her, but Maxi had seen her proudly concealed anguish and immediately guessed at its cause. She felt intense sympathy for Julie but to express it would be to show her that she knew why her friend was so deeply wounded, and Maxi judged it was best to let her be for a little while. Eventually time would heal, Maxi thought, as she walked along the busy corridor and responded to greetings. It was an old cliché, cold comfort indeed, but it happened to be true. If she had found out that Rocco was gay when she worked on
Savoir Vivre
, how much time would it have taken her to get over him? Six months? No. More. A year? Probably more. Her reverie was interrupted by Monty who ushered her into his office, closed the door firmly behind him, and stood with his back to it so that nobody could come in.

“Lewis Oxford just called. He must have gone crazy but he sounded sane. He told me that he was putting us on notice that Amberville Publications is shutting down
B&B
. Everybody here is fired as of the end of this business day. He has already called Meredith/Burda to notify them that Amberville will not authorize payment for printing the September issue. They’re calling all our suppliers to tell them not to extend us a penny’s credit. He’s acting on direct orders from Cutter Amberville, who is acting for your mother.”