Lives of the Circus Animals Page 23

  “Sorry,” he said. “I tried calling. But I only got your machine.”

  “I turned my cell phone off.”

  “I see. Yes. Well.” He cleared his throat and looked down at his shoes: baby blue Nikes.

  Jessie realized she should probably ask him in. But she didn’t want to let Henry Lewse enter her grubby privacy. So she just stood at the door in T-shirt and panties, talking to her boss. Or rather, her ex-boss. Or maybe not quite ex-boss.

  “I thought we could go out for breakfast,” he finally said. “And then we can talk and iron out our differences.”

  “Oh? Yes. We could,” she muttered.

  “Where shall we go?”

  “Uh, there’s the diner downstairs. Why don’t you just go there? Get a cup of coffee and I’ll meet you. All right?”

  “Downstairs?” he asked dubiously.

  “Yes. Go out the front door, turn right, and it’s at the end of the block. I’ll get dressed and join you in fifteen minutes.”

  “Fine then. See you in fifteen.” He smiled at her, a bashful, guilty, irritated smile. Then he leaned into the apartment, grabbed the door, and pulled it shut. He had been embarrassed talking to his undressed assistant?

  She remained by the closed door, staring at the cone of daisies in her hand, wondering again if she were awake or dreaming. She looked at the half window under the loft bed. It was still raining. She looked at the clock in the kitchen. It was after ten. Which was late for most people, but early for Henry. Nevertheless, he had come all the way downtown to apologize to her. Jessie was surprised, touched, and suspicious.

  Not until she stood at her sink, splashing cold water on her face, did she remember her little hippo. What the hell was that about? When did her unconscious get so fucking whimsical? And what fine truth was he going to tell her?

  43

  The Vandam Diner was on the ground floor of an old printing factory, a stark space with a high ceiling full of heating ducts and a few Impressionist posters on the walls. Jessie had suggested the place only out of habit, but she liked the idea of Henry waiting for her in such an ugly, commonplace setting.

  She saw him inside, seated in a booth under the fluorescent lights. He did not appear insulted. He looked up when she came through the door. And he broke into a smile. “Oh good. You came.”

  “You didn’t think I would?”

  Ali, the Pakistani manager, came over. “Good morning, Jessica.” He set her usual cup of coffee on the table. “This is your friend?” He sounded concerned, as if afraid this older man were a lover.

  “Henry Lewse,” she said. “My boss. This is Ali Mohran. Who feeds me when I don’t feel like cooking. Which is most of the time.”

  The two men nodded at each other but said nothing.

  Jessie ordered her usual English muffin and Ali departed.

  She watched Henry, waiting for him to speak, feeling he should make the first move. She was in a position of power here and wanted to enjoy it while it lasted. She blew on her coffee and sipped it.

  Henry smiled the same mixed smile that he’d smiled upstairs, an uncertain combination of bashfulness, annoyance, and guilt.

  “Jessie?” he finally said. “Why did we lose our tempers yesterday? What were we fighting about?”

  “I have my theories,” she said. “What do you think?”

  He took a deep breath. “I think I made a very bad mistake.” He leaned forward on his elbows. “Jessie. Please. Will you come back? I need you. And not just for my bills or business, but as a friend.”

  “A friend?”

  “Yes. Someone with whom I can talk.”

  “But I’m only an assistant.” She hissed the syllables at him.

  He frowned. “I said far worse things. Which we don’t need to repeat.”

  “No. We don’t.”

  “I was a total anus yesterday. But I was in a terrible mood. I was feeling old and stupid and unloved. When you got all shirty with me, I forgot myself. I was unkind. Terribly unkind.”

  “I wasn’t very civil myself,” Jessie admitted. “You felt unloved?” She remembered Toby happily bopping around the apartment in his underpants.

  “I know I take you for granted,” said Henry. “I apologize. What else can I say? I’m an artist. And like all artists, I can be terribly self-absorbed. But now and then, I do remember you, Jessie. And I appreciate you. I do.”

  “Yes, well—” Jessie lowered her head. She knew she was being bullshitted, but she couldn’t help smiling. After all, Henry wanted her back badly enough to go to the trouble of bullshitting her.

  “Will you come back, Jessie? I can’t promise you an entirely new man. But I will try, now and then, to show you the appreciation that I know you deserve.”

  She could not say no. But she did not want to give in so easily. “Let me think about it,” she said. “We said some very bitter things to each other yesterday. And I can’t pretend that I don’t still feel hurt.”

  “Those things were said from feelings of the moment. My long-term feelings for you, Jessie, are feelings of respect and admiration.”

  “Yeah, right.”

  He drew his lips together in a pout, annoyed she was not yet in the palm of his hand. “But you will think about it?”

  “I’m thinking about it now,” she said coldly.

  Ali brought Jessie her muffin. “Thank you,” she told him, as sweetly as possible for the sake of contrast.

  Henry folded his hands on the table. “I would offer you a raise, Jessie. But I know that this isn’t about money.”

  “No, it’s not,” she admitted. “But money might help me think better.” She was smiling again. Henry could be so cheap. He had only the vaguest notion of money, but he usually erred on the cheap side.

  “All right. What do I pay you a week?” he asked. And before she could answer, he said, “I’ll pay you a hundred dollars more.”

  My God, she thought. He really does want me.

  “Will you come back? Does that change your mind?”

  “I told you,” she insisted. “I have to think about it.”

  He frowned. “Your muffin’s getting cold,” he said. “Eat. Eat.” He waved his hand at it.

  She tore open a squib of honey and dripped it over the pores.

  Henry watched her. He began to smile again, a timid, half-embarrassed smile. As if he knew she was going to say yes.

  Then he said, “What do you know about Tobias Vogler?”

  “Tobias? Oh. Toby.”

  “Yes. Him.” He spoke dryly, coolly.

  He’s played me so smoothly, thought Jessie. Here is what this visit is really about. Not me, but Toby. She almost burst out laughing. Henry was so transparent.

  “I know little about him,” she admitted. “Except that he saw Caleb for six months. And Caleb dumped him.” She made a scornful snort. “After the other night, you know him far better than I do.”

  “One would assume,” Henry muttered. “Only, not to put too fine a point on it, our knowing was rather imperfect.”

  “Oh?”

  “We don’t need to go into the details.”

  “Hey. God is in the details.” She took another squib and squirted more honey on her muffin. “What? He wouldn’t go to bed with you?”

  “He went to bed with me. He just didn’t want to do anything.”

  “Ah. He couldn’t get it up?”

  “No, it was up. We couldn’t get it off. And believe me, I tried.”

  Did she really want to picture this? She asked the questions in order to embarrass Henry, but Henry was beyond embarrassment.

  “So he must like you some,” she said.

  “Oh he likes me. But only for my fame, so called. My presumed stardom. If he only knew. But that doesn’t bother me. I no longer expect to be loved for myself, you know.”

  She blinked. “Really?”

  He shrugged, but then shifted around to sit sideways in the booth. “Do you know what the sickest thing about this situation is? What’s mo
st preposterous after Tuesday night?”

  “You want to see him again.”

  “Exactly. And not just want. Need. I must see him again. Damn. I must be in love.” He laughed at himself, a scornful crow of a laugh. “So much so that I’ve even agreed to go to this thing that he’s in. Some sort of studenty performancy thing.”

  “Oh.”

  “Ah, the avante-garde piffle that one sees out of love.”

  “It’s not so avant-garde,” she assured him, even as she thought, Why does this hurt? Why isn’t this funnier? “But Toby didn’t stay with you last night?”

  “No. Yesterday was a matinee day. I don’t even know my own name on matinee days. But I woke up this morning alone. And I wanted to talk, Jessie. With you.” He was facing her again, with moist blue eyes, like an apologetic Siberian husky. “Then I remembered what we’d said to each other and you weren’t going to come in. And I felt very sad. Very stupid and very wrong. And here I am.”

  “And that’s why you want me back?” she said. “So you can have somebody you can talk with about your broken heart?”

  “Well, yes,” said Henry, without a shred of shame.

  “Am I supposed to feel flattered?”

  “I’m only being truthful,” he explained. “This boy is just one of several things that I want to talk about with you. And talk is just one of several things that I miss about your company.”

  It was hard to say which was weirder, Henry’s blunt honesty or the fact that Jessie did feel flattered.

  “But enough about Toby,” said Henry. “Let’s get back to us. When do you think you can tell me your decision?”

  “I can tell you now,” she said.

  “Yes?” He lifted his chin at her.

  “A hundred more a week?” she said.

  “That’s fair, isn’t it?”

  She closed her eyes. She deliberated over teasing or toying or bargaining for more money. But she found herself nodding instead.

  “You will come back?” he said.

  “Why not?” She opened her eyes and laughed. “I was never really gone, was I?”

  “Excellent. When? You can take the rest of the day off. Or, if you like, you can ride back with me by cab.”

  “I’ll ride back with you. Why not?” she repeated, with a resignation so dry it sounded bitter even to her ear. “Let me just finish my breakfast first.”

  “Whatever you want, Jessie. It’s all yours. Anything your heart desires.”

  Henry was just as the critics said he was: a pure actor, as clear as water, as transparent as glass. Every thought or emotion read perfectly. He needed her only because he needed an ear. But that was something, wasn’t it? It was good to be needed. It was better than being alone. It even felt good to be used. Being used brought you deep inside the machinery of the world.

  44

  The city was still dark and glossy with rain as they rode uptown in the taxi. A string of tiny ruby lights glowed over the long, straight avenue. Then, one by one, the rubies turned into emeralds.

  “No big crises while I was away?” asked Jessie.

  “Not at all,” Henry told her. “But you were only gone a day.”

  “Feels longer.”

  “It does,” he agreed. “I’m so glad to have you back.”

  And he was. He was feeling very moral right now, very proud of himself for being humble enough to go downtown and apologize to an assistant. You can be a charmer when necessary, he told himself.

  All day yesterday and most of last night, he had felt it tug at his thoughts, the sense that he-they-someone had made a terrible mistake. He’d forget, then remember, then forget all over again. The joint at bedtime, for example, reminded him of Jessie—she had bought excellent grass—then softly erased her, and he decided to call Toby. But this morning he went into a mild panic as he understood that no one was coming in today. There would be nobody to take care of him. Worse, there would be nobody to talk to. So he needed to set things right. Everything would be fine. So long as you do not let pride stand in the way, there is nothing that cannot be revised or repaired or corrected. Except death.

  They arrived at the building and rode up in the elevator. Jessie unlocked the door—she had kept her set of keys. Henry went to the kitchen to make himself a pot of tea. Jessie went back to her desk.

  “Henry!” she called out. “There’re fourteen messages here. Don’t you ever check your machine?” Without waiting for an answer, she pressed a button and started it: a motet for computer and human voices.

  Henry filled a kettle and thought, Yes, this is how life should be lived. An assistant handles the dull stuff and I devote myself to love and art and beauty. I wonder what Toby’s doing right now?

  “Henry? Come out here. You better listen to this.”

  He found Jessie sitting at her desk with a fist at her mouth. She was staring at the answering machine. It was already playing its next message. A familiar female voice with a Yorkshire burr pleaded with the silence.

  “Henry? Jessie? Somebody? Please! Dolly Hayes again. I’ve been calling and calling. Nobody calls back. Adam Rabb has rung me up five times in the past two days.”

  “Adam who?” asked Henry.

  “Rabb,” said Jessie. “The producer you had lunch with Monday.”

  Dolly’s voice turned cold as piss. “It’s a sweet deal, Henry. If you do want to sell your ass for a high price, here’s your chance. But if we don’t get it, you’ll have nobody to blame but yourself.” Beep.

  The computer voice added, “Wednesday. Five-fifteen, P.M.”

  Another message from Dolly followed.

  “Very well, Henry. I tried. It’s eleven here, so it must be six there. I just got off the phone with Rabb. I told him you hadn’t called back. So he told me and I quote, he was tired of us jerking him off. There are other Grevilles in the sea.”

  “Oh shit,” said Jessie.

  “Oh shit,” Henry agreed.

  “I was tempted to lie and say you and I spoke and you’re considering the offer. But I decided against it. In part because I don’t like lying. But also to teach you a lesson, Henry. I trust this message will get a reply out of you. But I’m going to bed. Good night!”

  “Greville?” said Henry. “Remind me again what a Greville is?”

  “A novel. Big bestseller. The next Silence of the Lambs.”

  “Oh shit,” Henry repeated.

  Other messages followed, all unrelated, none important. The voices twittered away while Henry lowered himself to the sofa and let the terrible news sink in.

  And it was terrible news. So close yet so far away. You want to be a realist, you want to be a whore, and a man shows up with a big bag of money but you’re off in the lav having a wank. Nevertheless, Henry experienced the strangest tickle. He had just lost something big. And he took a peculiar satisfaction in losing. Losing felt so solid and real, more interesting than winning.

  “I look forward to seeing you next week,” Rufus concluded—Rufus Brooks was calling from Hollywood, where Henry would not be going anytime soon. “Until then.” Beep.

  “Thursday, ten-twenty, A.M.,” said the computer. It was the last message. The silence that followed was very deep.

  “I’m sorry, Henry. I’m really sorry,” said Jessie. “We blew it.”

  He nodded, then squinted at her. “We?”

  She made a face; she couldn’t look at him. “If I hadn’t quit yesterday, maybe we would’ve heard from Dolly and you could—”

  “Don’t even consider it! Not your fault. No use crying over spilt milk.” But she was right. It was her fault. Partly. If he changed his mind and became angry over losing this role, he could blame her, couldn’t he?

  “But Adam Rabb offered you the part at lunch?” she asked.

  “Did he?” said Henry, trying to remember the lunch. French food, wasn’t it? With very good wine. “We discussed a movie, but he never offered me a part. Not in so many words.”

  But before he could work it out, the ph
one let out a loud electronic chirp.

  Jessie glanced down at the caller ID. “England,” she said and grabbed the receiver. “Hello? Dolly.”

  Henry waved his open hands back and forth across his face.

  “Yes. I just got your messages.” She winced at Henry. “I took yesterday off. Doctor’s appointment. No, you’re right. I couldn’t have chosen a worse time. I’m fine now. Oh yes. Right in front of me.”

  Henry angrily shook his head, then stood up, intending to flee.

  “I’m sure he will. Here.” She held out the phone.

  “Henry!” a tiny voice buzzed in the earpiece. “Henry! Are you there? Talk to me, Henry!”

  He glared at Jessie and took the phone. He turned his back to her. “Dolly, dear. Good morning,” he said in his creamiest tones.

  “Finally.” Her voice was as sharp as a school bell. “Where the hell have you people been? Don’t you ever check your messages? Bloody hell, Henry, you still live in the Stone Age!”

  “We just got in, Dolly, and played your messages. Jessie was at the doctor’s and we—”

  “Stuff the doctor, Henry. I’m in no mood for your games.”

  He took on a somber demeanor. “So this Greville thing is dead? I’m sorry. There’s no way we can get back to this producer?”

  Dolly let out a long, exasperated sigh. He imagined it racing through the cable under the Atlantic, terrifying whole schools of fish. Or did phone signals travel by satellite nowadays?

  “What’s the saying?” said Dolly. “God looks out for fools, drunks, and Americans? You belong to only one of those categories. Even so.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “Your bad manners are golden, Henry. Rabb assumes we have other porridges cooking. And he believes that once you win your Tony next month you’ll be untouchable. So he has given us yet another chance. And another ultimatum. Will you play Greville? Yes or no? He needs to know by today. And to persuade you that he’s in earnest, he has named a price. He is offering three million.”

  “Three million,” repeated Henry. Such a large, improbable number. “Is that dollars or pounds?”

  “Only dollars, darling. So the answer’s no?”