The Last Laugh Page 9

  Without another word, she turned away to her bedroom alcove, and I climbed into the sofa’s offering. As lights were extinguished, I realized that my whole body was alive with desire for this woman. In that desire, I fell asleep.

  When I awoke it was still dark, but the room was infused with a bluish glow. I was too groggy to bother finding out where this bluish light might be coming from. The sofa bed had become considerably more comfortable after a few hours of use; the mattress was feeling thicker and softer.

  “Are you awake?” I heard a voice whisper from out of the darkness. Sam was standing in the archway that separated her alcove from the main room, just a few feet from my sofa. Her voice was very soft, stroking the darkness with its gentle intimacy. The white terry robe hung looser on her body now. Her hair had dried and was hanging in little ringlets on her shoulders. I mumbled an assent, and she moved toward me in the nocturnal blueness and sat on the edge of the bed. She had abandoned her heavy mantle of defense—now she showed her undefended tenderness plainly for me to see. Everything that words had not said, her body was now telling me. It wore its longing for touch, its flickering demand to be held, like a heavy musk perfume. She hung her head slightly, waiting, shy, driven by the simplicity of human need. I took her hand in mine.

  My heart beat with greater vigor in my own chest. I felt the same quickening in the pulse in her wrist as I caressed it. Her breath drew in ever so slightly as she lightly sucked her lower lip into her mouth.

  There was music playing again, very faintly, so softly that it was more felt through the skin than heard. Still drugged by recent sleep, I did not question if she had left the stereo on from the night before, or switched it on again. Sarah McLachlan had made up her mind on the other side of the room, “I won’t fear love … ” We were fumbling our own way behind her.

  “I have feared love,” Sam murmured, still looking down into her lap. “I always turn away from letting myself be touched like this.” There was an explosion in my chest close to crying. I wanted to offer reassurance and did not know how. It was spoken with my hand, as it stroked the back of hers, as it touched the skin on her forearm, as it felt the soft hair on the top of her arm, as it traced the bones in her slightly arched spine, through her robe.

  “From the moment I first met you that night, I have been feeling with you. I can feel your courage and your strength. I am sorry to push you away from me; it is just my habit, such an old habit …”

  “It’s okay,” I murmured. “It’s all right.”

  As I put my arm around her shoulders, she leaned silently toward me. Her body was trembling. I again smelled the faintest hint of vanilla. I inhaled the warmth of her breath, in an endless savoring that knew no goal, no direction, only this endless, overflowing gentleness. Our lips united like long-lost friends who rush toward each other in mutual recognition. She moaned on an in-breath, as her body relaxed even more into mine. My heart was pounding. I could feel hers beat back from the other side of the robe. My left hand held hers, offering the gentle reassurance that words could never touch, while my right hand continued down her back, around the small of her waist, up and down each arm. When it finally made its journey from her hip down the outside of her left leg, it reached the nakedness of her skin. She was freezing cold.

  “Come here,” I whispered, and raised the comforter. She giggled softly. Our bodies met. I looked up for a moment and saw a painting hanging on the wall, in the corner by the door. It was Klimt’s The Kiss. Perfect, I thought. Like a perfect movie.

  Then we were swimming together in an ocean of liquid love, drowned so completely in it that only the liquidity itself remained, moving in huge waves. The line melted between where she ended and I began. The dance of passion in search of meeting itself flowed on and on. Our naked bodies became increasingly still, till only the slightest movement was enough to open another cavern of infinite and explosive yielding to the mystery.

  When I woke up, the sofa bed had restored itself to its original functional rigidity. Strangely, I was again wearing the T-shirt and sweatpants she had given me the night before. I sat up and looked around. Her bed was made and she was nowhere to be found, but I noticed the note on the coffee table: “I’ve gone to teach yoga. Please help yourself to breakfast. It was very nice to spend time with you, sorry for being a bit guarded. Just close the door, it locks on its own. Seeya. S.”

  I sat there for a moment, still rapt in lovemaking. I had no idea which impressions were factual and which were dreamed, they all seemed to blend into one another. The note seemed a little formal, relative to remembered passion, I had to admit to myself.

  I got up from the bed and then noticed the clock. It was a quarter to ten. I showered and retrieved the clothes that she had hung to dry above the heating vent in the bathroom. She’d left some cereal and rice milk on the tiny kitchen table. I ate a small bowl, folded the bed back into the sofa, then noticed the painting near the door. It was a Van Gogh. Not the Klimt. Sure enough, the door locked itself as I closed it behind me.

  CHAPTER 9

  WHICH IS THE MOST BEAUTIFUL?

  It was a miraculously sunny day for December. Not only did my body feel like I had just come from a night of exquisite lovemaking, but it seemed to me that everyone I saw on the street had as well. The entire city looked deeply, sexually satisfied. Instead of walking to the bus stop, I was filled with a boyish confidence and wandered back toward Joey’s apartment. As I retraced our steps of the night before, it didn’t feel like my feet were actually touching the ground. I was floating about two inches above the sidewalk in a state of utter satiation. I climbed the now familiar faded staircase and knocked on Joey’s door. It took a few minutes for him to answer, but he finally appeared, wrapped in an ancient-looking Eastern cloth, the kind that bicycle rickshaw drivers wear in Indian movies. He had a toothbrush in his mouth and massive amounts of white foam spilling out onto his goatee.

  “You’re just in time for your own arrival,” he mumbled, and went back into the bathroom, leaving me to face my adultery, even if only imagined, along with J.F.K. The place was full of the smell of brewing Turkish coffee.

  “D’ya drink coffee?” he asked, popping his head through the door.

  “Um, yeah, sure.” Joey disappeared again and produced some kitcheny noises from another room.

  “Come on in here, don’t be shy,” he called out. I stepped into the kitchen, which was a work of art in itself. All kinds of glass jars were arranged on shelves, displaying rice, other grains, various kinds of beans, and a wide assortment of spices. “This is Alan’s place, you know. They let me use it.”

  “Yes, they told me that.”

  “They’re very good cooks, you know. They have a café downstairs.”

  “Yes, I had a sandwich there last night.”

  “And … ” Joey added, with a twinkle in his eye. “How did you sleep?”

  “Oh,” I looked at the floor, still unsure where reality had ended and my erotic dream had begun. “I slept great, thanks.” I watched Joey pour the coffee. “On the sofa bed,” I added.

  Joey said nothing, but placed the coffee before me and sat down in front of his own. “It’s day two.”

  His reminder sent a wave of anxiety through my body. I was supposed to be learning something, passing some kind of test, but I had no idea what the rules were or what was expected of me. Like one of those dreams where you show up for an exam at school and realize you haven’t read the required textbooks. We drank our coffee in silence. I had the feeling Joey was constantly testing me, scrutinizing me, reading me like a book. He disappeared again and came back after ten minutes or so showered, fresh, and sparkling.

  “Well, watcha sittin’ around for? It’s a beautiful day, let’s go have ourselves some fun!”

  He opened the door of the apartment and bounded down the stairs like a teenager. I followed in hot pursuit. He was whistling a sea shanty to himself, saying good morning to every other person who passed him on the street. Everyone smiled bac
k, even those who had looked quite sullen on approach, as though he were some aged Disney character, sprinkling happiness dust and waking all he met from a trance of melancholy. He gazed with fascination at every shop window, even lingered wistfully for a long time in front of a display of an infinite assortment of vacuum cleaners. He led me down past the bike shop, past the food co-op, past the public utility office. We made a sharp left turn on Clarendon Street and entered the public park.

  The sun had not quite melted all the frost from the ground. School must have been out, because kids were Rollerblading. Young mothers and nannies pushed strollers, and old people were meandering along. A few were accompanied by dogs, some leading, and others being led by their owners.

  “It all looks so beautiful,” I ventured. “I feel so overwhelmed with love. You know last night I—” Joey took no interest in my attempted confession, but grabbed me by the arm and led me into the park’s magnificent greenhouse, kept at tropical temperatures throughout the year. The air was full of the warm, wet smell of soil and luscious tropical plants. It’s one of the most famous in the country, boasting a unique collection of roses from all over the world that seemed to be in bloom at any time of year one chose to visit. He showed me one of the hybrid roses, red on one side and orange on the other.

  “There’s a lot of roses here,” he said, stating the obvious. “Now tell me, which rose is the most beautiful?”

  I took his question in earnest and began inspecting one after the other, but it was difficult because there were so many and each was so different.

  “Which one is the most beautiful?” Joey asked again, studying me intently.

  “Well, this one here is very pretty,” I said, choosing a soft orange-pink specimen.

  “How does it smell?” he went on.

  I bent over the rose and inhaled its delicate perfume. “Apricot.”

  Joey bent over to smell it, too, and closed his eyes in a moment of intense savoring. He swooned, with his eyes closed in rapture. Was it parody or real?

  “You like that rose, do you, Matt?“

  “Um, yes, it’s a very … ,” I paused, “intriguing little rose.” I was much more interested in talking to him about Sam, finding out more about her, telling him about the brewing intimacy, both real and imagined, that had reawakened my heart.

  “When was the last time you smelled a rose as good as that?”

  “I can’t remember smelling a rose that good,” I answered, not fully engaged by the conversation.

  “But are you sure it’s the most beautiful one here?” he asked, with great concern.

  I had no idea what he was playing at, but offered a few other specimens as backup. Just at that moment, Joey appeared to completely lose interest in the roses and gazed off toward another part of the greenhouse.

  The middle of the greenhouse hosted a lotus pond. Green leaves sat flat on the surface of the water with the lotus flowers rising up above them. He stood there and looked at the lotus flowers, eyes filled with adoration.

  “Look,” he said. “The lotus is growing out of the water.” His botanical commentary didn’t seem to offer any very useful information. “But the lotus itself is completely dry. It grows out of the water, it gets its life from the water, it makes the pond beautiful, but can you see one single drop of water on the lotus?”

  I had to admit the lotus was totally dry. It bored me completely, relative to thoughts of my beloved Sam.

  With that he turned and led me back out of the greenhouse. I tried to continue my confession. “I feel really touched by Sam,” I said. “She’s very beautiful.”

  Joey looked up into the sky, which was almost completely cloudless. He appeared to be lost for a moment. Finally, I followed his gaze and saw a pair of swallows circling overhead.

  “See the way they dance?” he asked.

  I saw them flying in interweaving patterns, sometimes very close, sometimes apart.

  “Tell me something now. I just can’t tell who is chasing whom. Which one is following, and which is being followed?”

  I watched for a while, the dance, the in and out of the patterns, the separation, the coming back together, always in harmony. And for the life of me I couldn’t distinguish who was the leader and who was the follower. They seemed to be free in flight yet connected.

  Joey led me on.

  “I slept at her house, Joey, on the sofa.” He was making faces at a baby in a stroller now. “This morning I felt such fullness in my heart. We looked into each other’s eyes last night and I’ve never ever in my life experienced such love, such ecstasy. I feel we have a destiny together.”

  Joey remained silent.

  The edge of the park was bordered by a low concrete wall. Students from the local high school had undertaken an enormous project one summer to paint a mural the entire length of the wall. It featured endangered animals from all over the world and had won awards for its high quality and intricacy. It was truly a splendid sight.

  “’Ain’t that something?” Joey asked.

  “It’s beautiful,” I replied, flatly.

  “Just look over there at those eagles, don’t they look like they’re flying right out of the wall at you?”

  “Yes, very realistic.”

  “Oh, and look at those panda bears there,” he went on, “they don’t look like paint and concrete at all, do they? They look quite … ” he hesitated, and smiled mischievously, “cuddly.”

  “Very cute pandas.”

  “Which of these animals do you like the best?” Joey asked.

  It took me a while to take in the whole array. Finally my eyes rested on a pair of tigers, leaping out of the wall with fierce energy.

  “The tigers,” I said.

  “You really like them tigers,” Joey said.

  “They’re beautiful.”

  “I wonder if we could get them off the wall and keep ’em?” Joey mused. “We’ll have to ask.”

  We walked deeper into the park, and all around the lake, with its swans and weeping willows. Again, I felt compelled to broach the subject of my newfound love. “I think I’m falling in love with Sam,” I finally blurted out.

  “You and many others,” he laughed. “But she’s married, you know.”

  This came as a complete surprise. I knew I was still married, but she showed every sign of being as single as can be. “She’s married?” I asked. “Who to?”

  “She’s married to that which you will marry, too, if you have any sense.”

  Joey was obviously talking about some kind of impersonal, spiritual marriage.

  “But Joey, I love her personally. Don’t you ever feel a love for a person?”

  “Yeah, I feel a very personal love, Matt. I’m on fire with love.”

  “OK, well for whom? I didn’t know there was someone like that for you. You just seemed so … alone.”

  He turned to me, his blue eyes sparkling with amusement. “There’s only one person right now, Matt, who’s special to me. And that person has my heart completely.”

  “So spill the beans, Joey. Who is it?”

  “It’s you.”

  A shock ran through my body. All was clear. Joey liked young men, and I was his prey. At that moment he turned to an old lady standing just next to us and addressed her directly, looking into her eyes.

  “I’m in love. I’m completely in love with whoever stands before me in this moment.”

  The old lady smiled nervously, giggled, and sidled away toward the greenhouse. As she increased her distance from us, she broke into a trot.

  “I mean that I love what’s before me, and when it ain’t before me no more, it’s no longer here. That kind of love won’t get you in trouble. You watch what happens when you start clingin’ to this and that. You’re gonna end up with a bunch of dead flowers and broken concrete from the kids’ mural. Every rose has its beauty, Matt. Feel it all. Be like the lotus, a part of this world, but untouched by it. Be like a swallow, endlessly dancing in the open sky, but without any clingi
ng.”

  With that he spotted some children flying kites. Within minutes he was part of the gang, taking turns with this one and that, offering a wealth of information about the aerodynamics of wind-borne flight.

  We walked down Florida Street, and back onto West Broad Street. It was time for lunch. Joey led me into Alan’s café. We sat down, and pretty soon both Alan and June came to sit with us, and produced soup and enormous sandwiches. “How’s it going, mate?” Alan asked me, with an invigorating pat on the back. Before I could open my mouth, Joey answered for me.

  “The boy’s smitten,” he chuckled.

  “Sam?” asked Alan, with a grin.

  “Acute Samitis,” nodded Joey.

  I began to study the sprouts in my sandwich with great intensity. This man is absolutely heartless. He has the sensitivity of a sleepwalking bull. My shame marinated slowly into anger. I had just decided to get up and leave, when first Alan and then June moved back behind the counter to do their work, and I was left alone again with Joey, my humiliator.

  He looked at me. His eyes smiled as his mouth stayed somber. “It’s only day two, you know. If you’re serious, everything has to go.”

  His words were sobering. I had completely forgotten both his promise and the commitment it had inspired in me. I had assumed our work was restricted to the evening meetings, but now a deeper truth dawned on me. Absolutely nothing would be held sacred.

  We finished our food in silence. I relaxed into the presence of the man, deeper than his actions or words. I remembered back to long ago when my father would take me to the beach on a Saturday afternoon. He was a quiet man, serious and shy. He lived his life behind thick glasses and a measured manner of speech. He would roll up his gray polyester pants, take off his shirt and sit on a rock in the shade, while I played in the waves, sometimes alone, sometimes with other children. His presence was always a reassurance, a safety net; nothing could go wrong with my father’s eyes gently resting on me. Decades of insecurity separated that memory from this lunch with a man I hardly knew, but the feeling of protection remained the same.