The Fermata (35 page)

“You must be starving,” said Joyce. “I know I am. Some bread?”

“Thanks.”

Chewing, she regarded me. “Do you have more to say?”

“Yes.” I had felt confident, even cocky, moments before, but I now noticed that my hands were unsteady as I stuffed a piece of bread in my mouth. “I’ve never told anyone what I’m telling you,” I said. “I tried to tell someone obliquely, but it wasn’t a success.”

Joyce said, “Why are you telling me, then? I mean, I’m delighted that you are—I think. But don’t you want to continue to keep all this to yourself if you’ve kept it to yourself for this long?”

I said, “I’m tired of having this big secret life and not being able to tell anyone.” And suddenly I did feel enormously tired of it. I felt as if I was going to get slightly weepy, but fortunately I didn’t. “I like you and I just want to tell you. I’ve written about it in the memoiry thing that I’ve been working on, and though I haven’t shown that to anyone, having done that, gone public on the page, I seem able to accept more easily the fact that people will know. It feels inevitable now, though of course it isn’t. It’s the next step. Also, I’ve used the Fold to do things that might make you uncomfortable, if you knew about them, and if they are going to make you uncomfortable, I’d rather that happened now and not later.”

“The Told’?”

I went into the terminology in some detail. We ordered. I told her about the equation with the garment-care symbols, and about colliding with the parking meter and stealing two shrimp. I gave her a bowdlerized account of my experience in the electromagnet. Finally I worked up the nerve to mention
that at selected times in the past I had used the Fold to take off women’s clothes without their knowledge.

“Ah—
now
I see where we’re going,” Joyce said. “That’s not so good. That is not so hot.”

“I know, I know, I know, I know,” I said, shaking my head. “But when I’m doing it it doesn’t seem bad. It seems wonderful, good, positive—it seems like the most constructive thing I could possibly be doing. I just don’t understand why it should be so bad and wrong for me to take a woman’s clothes off, as long as she doesn’t know about it. I mean really, what’s the big deal?”

“How much of their clothing do you take off?” She sipped some wine, looking at me intently. Her eyes were the color of peat moss; her pupils were dilated.

“Oh, it depends,” I said. “Sometimes I don’t take any off, sometimes I go down to the bra, sometimes I do go a touch further.”

“You’ve never told anyone about this practice of yours?”

“Not directly. I’ve come close several times, but no.”

She touched her mouth with her napkin. Then she narrowed her eyes. “But now you’ve decided to tell me. And you know why? I know why. You’re telling me because you took my clothes off, didn’t you? Didn’t you?”

“Yes.”

She let her hand fall to the table. Now she looked sad—sad rather than shocked. “I can’t believe you did that.”

To draw her attention away from her disappointment in me, I asked, “You mean you can’t believe that I am telling the truth, or you can’t believe that I would do something that rude and crude?”

“Both,” she said. “God, I’m so fucking
sick
of liars and sneaks and cheats and weirdos. God.” She wiped her eyes and
sniffed. “Last year I was in a relationship with a guy for two months, and it turned out that he was married. He simply forgot to tell me that he had a nuclear family in Washington, D.C. And now this.”

“I’m sorry,” I said. “But can I say that right now I’m the opposite of the married guy? I’m trying not to deceive you. I’m telling you right out that, yes, I took some of your clothes off. I assumed you wouldn’t mind. If I had known as a definite fact beforehand that you would have minded, I wouldn’t have done it. I know I was probably deluding myself. You looked wonderful. Your pubic hair was like a bicycle seat.”

“Oh Jesus. When was this?” She looked up at me, as if establishing the date would help.

I took off my glasses and put my hands over my eyes to think. “It’s hard for me to get dates right, because I’ve been spending so much time lately in the Fold, writing. It was the first week I worked at MassBank. You were walking across the floor one time wearing that blue-gray knit dress.” I put my glasses back on, which made me remember that she had said back then that she liked my glasses. I felt there was still hope. “That is a really nifty dress. You had your hair in a French braid, if that’s what they’re called. You were carrying some files. And I just
wanted to see more of you
. What can I say?”

“Arno, wouldn’t it have been just as easy to ask me out?”

“No! It was very, very hard to ask you out today. It’s just not something I do lightly.”

“Tell me exactly what happened,” she said.

“When I took off your clothes? Do you really want to hear this?”

“No, it’s hideous, but go on.”

“Well—I just snapped my fingers and got everything to stop and I scooted over to you in my chair and lifted up
your dress. It was so light, it felt so good, the knit. I lifted it up over your pantyhose and over your hips and made a sort of knot in it at your waist. Your legs felt really warm through the pantyhose. Pantyhose material is strange stuff, like a substance from another planet, unpleasant when you first touch it, and yet the warmth of your skin radiates through it and humanizes it. So I kind of whisked my hands over your legs and I felt your hipbones, and before you know it, I had pulled your pantyhose down and I had my hand in your pubic hair.”

“ ‘Before I know it’ is right,” said Joyce, pointing her knife at me. “I didn’t know it, Arno. I didn’t have a clue that your hand was in my pubic hair. Doesn’t that trouble you?”

“No, because I fell in love with you with my hand in your pubic hair.”

Joyce made an exasperated sound. “Everything’s ruined and out of order! I was really pleased that you asked me out for dinner tonight. Really pleased. And now it’s all confused.”

“I also went to your apartment. I borrowed your keys.”

“No.” Joyce was incredulous. “No.”

“Yes. I’ve seen your mattress pad.”

“Arno, this is terrible. I don’t know what to think. First of all, I don’t believe a word of it.”

“Under an antique bottle in your sunporch, I put a fortune-cookie fortune I found in a bowl on top of your refrigerator. It says, ‘Smile when you are ready.’ ”

“You need help.”

“I beg your pardon! I’m not a bad person. If you ask me to go away now, I’ll go away. I’m harmless. I’m just a temp! I was curious about your apartment, that’s all.” I waited for Joyce to say something, but she didn’t. “All right. This evening has nosedived. Still, I’m glad to hear that you were pleased to be
asked out. That’s something. Would you like some more wine?”

“Just a touch, thanks. Ope, ope, that’s plenty.” She drank a little of it. I let her think things over. We were silent for a stretch.

“I should go,” she said.

“Okay,” I said.

Then she said, “Prove it to me. I want you to do what you say you can do right now.”

“You want me to stop time?”

“Yes, I do.”

“All right. I’ll do it right now. Ready?”

She nodded.

I snapped my fingers. I sat still for a while, breathing softly, nearly as motionless as the rest of the animal and vegetable kingdoms. Then I began tapping my hand on my napkin. I refilled Joyce’s water glass. I went to the bathroom and checked how I looked. I looked fine—a little sheepish and worried about the eyes. I sat down again and poked around at my plate, but I didn’t want to eat anything without Joyce “there.” I didn’t enjoy the enveloping silence this time, as I usually did; it was like sitting at a table with someone who wasn’t speaking to me. In fact, it wasn’t
like
that, it
was
that. I didn’t want to be under the Fermata at all just then; I wanted time to be rolling forward at a nice brisk clip, so that Joyce would get used to the things that I had told her and forgive me for them, if forgiveness was still a possibility. It might take weeks.

I snapped my fingers. “I just did it,” I said.

“What did you do?” She looked quickly down at her dress and back at me. “I had absolutely no sense of anything happening.”

“I didn’t do that much. I was chastened by your reaction, so I took it easy. I refilled your water glass.”

Joyce looked at her water glass suspiciously, “It was already that high.”

“No, really, it was about a quarter full,” I said.

“I’m sure it was that high. I’ve been drinking mostly wine.”

“Should we debate water levels?” I said. “Or should you simply tell me what you want me to do, what will prove to you that I really can stop time, so that I can Snap out right now and do it?”

“You could … “Joyce looked around the room for inspiration. I saw her eyes alight on the waiter. “I don’t know. Anything. What would you want to do?”

I leaned forward. “See those two men? I could switch their ties. But I don’t really want to do that. I hate practical jokes. It’s hard enough to tie my own tie. The Fold is sexual for me.” I looked pensive for a moment, then brightened. “I could take off your bra and put it in your briefcase in the coatroom. I’d be happy to do that. Would that convince you?”

“Yes, it probably would,” said Joyce. “But hold off.”

I said, “If you could snap your fingers right now and stop time, suspend all cause and effect, what would you do?” I leaned forward again and began speaking in a soft coaxing urgent voice. “There’s the waiter there. I saw you check him out. He’s got a nice butt, right? Think about it. This entire room is
filled
with cock. There is cock in every direction. Prosperous cock, arrogant cock, dumb cock, smart cock, old-regime cock, new-age cock. What would you do?”

“At the moment, if I could stop time, I’d stop time and use the facilities. Excuse me.”

While Joyce was gone I stared at the flower in the bud vase
and felt up the table under the tablecloth to discover what sort of surface it had. It had a rough surface. I didn’t think; I just waited. Our salads came.

Eventually Joyce returned. “Hi.” She swept her hand over the back of her dress as she sat down, so that she wouldn’t make wrinkles. “You didn’t follow me in there, snapping your fingers, did you?”

“No, I was out here the whole time.”

Joyce’s mood seemed to have shifted slightly. “I was thinking that this power you say you have would open up some interesting possibilities,” she said. “At the bank, for instance, I could think of lots of things you could find out.”

I told her I wasn’t all that wild about white-collar crime.

“Or,” she continued, holding up her hand, “it would be very handy for working mothers. Or forget working mothers. It would be very handy for me. I could take a whole day to catch up. A silent paradise. No phones. I need it bad. I’d fill four tapes.”

“That’s true,” I said. “It’s funny, though. The idea of having time to catch up sounds so luscious. But in reality I’ve found that big chunks of raw time don’t help that much. Parkinson’s Law becomes the dominant force. Parkinson’s Law and loneliness. You have to time the time-outs, and mix them in with life—that’s were the art comes in.”

“Still,” said Joyce, “I’d love to know what it was like, to wander around Boston when it was totally still. Nothing moving but me. Everyone like a statue. Are you really serious that you can do this?”

I nodded.

She put her napkin on the table and sat up straight in her chair with her hands in her lap. “Tell me what color bra I’m
wearing. Don’t take it off. Just tell me the color and the make.”

“Frankly I feel a little weird now doing it,” I said, flapping my arms to signal uncertainty and moral confusion.

“Go ahead!” she said. “I’m letting you. I’m still not sure I believe you anyway. You have to demonstrate you’re not lying to me.”

I snapped my fingers and went around to Joyce’s side of the table and, after some groping, tore the small label off her bra. I also kissed her lightly on the mouth, so that I could tell her I had. I took my chair and turned everything back on. “You’re wearing a red bra,” I reported. “It is”—I peered at the label—” an ‘Olga Christina.’ It says, ‘Gentle machine wash warm, wash with like colors, no bleach, line dry, no iron.’ ”

“It’s my favorite bra.”

“All I did was unzip the back of your dress and reach in. I want you to know that I didn’t really grope at your breasts or do anything in any way proactive.” I held out the bra label between my two fingers. She took it and set it down beside her bread plate. “I did also kiss you briefly,” I added.

“Really? Where?”

“On the lips.”

She made an mmm-expression with her mouth to see if she could detect any residual sensations.

“No after-tingle?” I said, feigning incredulity.

“Nothing,” said Joyce. “How did it go, the kiss?”

I said that it had gone very well.

“I’m glad to hear it,” she said.

By the time we had finished our salads there was a definite feeling of amity in the air.

“You know,” I said, “while I was snapped out just now,
tearing the label off your bra, I thought of something. I bet there is a way you could experience the Fold-cleft with me.”

“I doubt it,” she said.

“Well, this is what I’m thinking, anyway. The Fermata seems to know that I am physically one individual, and it exempts me from the general freeze. But what if we confuse it? What if my naked penis is in your vagina when I snap my fingers?”

Joyce laughed a this-is-all-just-a-little-too-much laugh, but I could see that the notion wasn’t inconceivable to her.

I went on. “I think there’s a good chance, if we did that, that the Fermata would read us both as one single entity. We would have to be in a real state of union, though. I’d have to be
way
in there, and your legs would have to be really locked around me. We’d have to be holding each other extra tight, and probably we’d have to be kissing, too. We’d probably have to be in love. Our tongues would have to be chasing each other around, and your hands would have to be gripping my thrusting buttcheeks—”

Joyce raised her hands. “Okay, I got it, I got the general idea.”