I suppose you could say I had lost the adultery struggle. On the extenuating other hand, however, I intended to commit adultery not in a spirit of self-indulgent lust but more in a spirit of intellectual inquiry. Indeed, it would not be farfetched to call it . . . research. If you add to this analysis the tit-for-tat factor (Jake had not been a man of total fidelity) and the helpful-to-my-readers factor (engaging in adultery would certainly broaden my range of expertise) and the preponderance-of-good-over-evil factor (in my wrestling matches with my heart of darkness I win about 92 percent—well, okay, 85 percent—of the time), my answer to question (a) is that I indeed could be an adulteress/adulterer and still feel like a basically good human being.
I also concluded that limiting my adulterous activities to a narrow—a very narrow—time frame would contribute both to my sense of goodness (I would not, after all, be making extracurricular sex a way of life) and to my ability to minimize the lying and sneaking and cheating (as well as the likelihood of getting caught). Furthermore, I decided that the best way to work adultery into my already tight and overprogrammed schedule was to get it over with as quickly as possible.
Frankly, I don’t understand why adultery is as popular as it is, considering how time-consuming it is. I mean, it isn’t just the time involved in actually having sexual relations. It’s all the support systems, like locating matching bras and panties, plus panty hose without a run in the thigh. Like getting your hair done, a pedicure, a manicure. Like applying lotion not only to your hands but to your heels and elbows as well, which, of course, we should all be doing anyway—but do we? And then there’s this constant searching for a working pay phone in order to call your lover without being overheard or (for the more paranoid) being tape-recorded by a less-than-trusting husband. There are so many time pressures on women today as they try to have it all (though, as I tell my readers, they can have it all but they can’t have it all at once) that I am slowly coming to the conclusion that one of the best arguments for marital fidelity is the incredible convenience of it.
Anyway, to get back to question (b), I decided that setting aside no more than a week, say, for adultery (who dreamed I could do it in less than twenty-four hours?) was the best way to limit my lying, sneaking, etc.
As for question (c)—and as I also tell my readers—there is nothing like sitting down and making a list, either lettered or numbered, to give you a sense of clarity and control. I therefore sat down last November and listed the types of men I wanted to carnally know, focusing initially on the generic, not the specific, and choosing the types that I chose for assorted complicated reasons that only my former analyst need comprehend: (1) a younger man; (2) a married man; (3) a black man; (4) a political activist; (5) a genius; (6) a celebrity; (7) a man of a different religious persuasion; and (8), I blush to add, an identical twin. Actually, I thought it might be nice to carnally know both identical twins, simultaneously, but although, like Publius Terentius Afer, nothing human is alien to me, I immediately banished that thought as . . . overreaching. Besides, the number of men on my list, counting only one twin, struck me as a little bit excessive, and I decided I had to . . . not prune, really, but consolidate. Which eventually I was able to do, having established that I could satisfy eight different needs with only three different men, all of whom—it conveniently turned out—were already uncarnally known to me.
There was Louis, a dedicated black activist who, at age twenty-nine, also met the younger-man requirement.
There was Philip, the world-famous TV pundit who had been flirting with me for years at my friend Nora’s New Year’s Day parties and who, if you didn’t listen too closely, could pass for a genius.
And there was Joseph Augustus Monti.
• • •
My concern about falling in love with the men with whom I committed adultery—question (d)—might strike you as rather outdated at a time in our social history when sex (despite its risks) has become regarded as a form of entertainment. Like bowling or bridge or going to the movies. Like ordering in a pizza with mushrooms and anchovies. No big deal. Nevertheless, I found it hard to imagine how people who take off their clothes and lie down together can “have sex” without “making love,” without feeling a tenderness, a connectedness, an involvement with each other that could lead to major emotional complications. But as I contemplated the three men I had selected to become my short-term lovers, I realized that the danger of love was remote. Like Elvis Presley, whom in my youth I had passionately disapproved of and just as passionately lusted after, these men spoke to my loins, not to my soul. I could not fall in love with Louis. I could not fall in love with Philip. And I could certainly not fall in love with Mr. Monti.
• • •
Mr. Monti was not at all lovable when, the day after his appearance on our front porch, Marvin and I showed up at his office with the hundred and fifty thousand dollars and no Wally. “You wanted your money back and my client out of your life,” said Marvin reasonably. “Your money is here. My client is gone. Your terms have been met.”
Marvin stretched out his hands palms up, in a fair’s fair gesture that complemented the sweet reasonableness of his voice. Behind his horn-rims, his eyes gazed steadily at Mr. Monti, his whole manner suggesting that while the practice of law might, for some folks, be viciously adversarial, men of good will could surely work things out. Knowing Marvin’s reputation as one of the bigger barracudas in the Washington legal profession, I watched his genial performance with admiration. Only a slight tension in his tight runner’s body execrably clad in a discount Syms suit hinted at his ability—should sweet reason fail to prevail—to viciously tear out his adversary’s throat.
Most adversaries. Maybe not this one.
Mr. Monti leaned back in his desk chair and sighed. “You think so, huh?” he said softly. “You think that you can walk in here in those cheap hundred-and-forty-dollar shoes”—Marvin flushed with pleasure, having never spent more for shoes than $32.99 at Payless—“and sell me a bill of goods that my terms have been met?”
“That’s my understanding of—”
“Well, understand this, Kipper. I don’t just want your client out of my life. I want your client out of my life permanently.”
I decided that the moment called for a constructive intervention—something philosophical with a down-to-earth touch. I had on just the right outfit to strike that note—a black-and-white silk with a slit skirt to show off (let me not indulge in false modesty here) my fabulous legs. I was there without the approval, or even the knowledge, of my husband, and I can’t say that Marvin Kipper was thrilled with my presence. But, as I pointed out to him while we were riding up in the elevator together, “Marvin you can never tell when my grasp of the human condition will come in handy.”
I thought that time had come.
“Mr. Monti,” I said, “what, after all, do we mean by permanent? Even our greatest symbols of permanence are subject to change. In time the Rockies may crumble, Gibraltar may tumble, and we all have to live with that reality. Even you, Mr. Monti.”
“What’s your point, Mrs. Kovner?”
“That Wally is gone. That as far as any of us, in any ultimate sense, knows, he is gone permanently. And that, until he stops being gone, your terms have—in fact—been met.”
Mr. Monti rose from his chair, walked around his desk, and stood over me.
“I want it in writing,” he said to me, bringing his face quite rudely close to mine. “No, I want it in blood.” He smiled a dangerous smile and lowered his voice. “Symbolically speaking, of course.”
• • •
Symbolically speaking is not, believe me, the kind of verbal expression that leaps to the lips of Joseph Augustus Monti. He learned it, I regret to admit, from me. He learned it one evening last January, in that delicate period after Wally and Josephine had announced their decision to marry but before they’d announced that Wally would not be converting. Mr. and Mrs. Monti had invited, us four Kovners to dine with them, thei
r three daughters, and two sons-in-law at their extensive and expensive spread in McLean, Virginia. Also in attendance were a professor from Georgetown University (I never quite caught his name but he bore an eerie resemblance to the somnambulist in The Cabinet of Dr. Caligari) and Father Pezzati, a cheerful, fat-cheeked, roly-poly priest. Wally had already met all the Montis, and all of us Kovners had already met Josephine, but this was the initial full-fledged family-to-family encounter, and I was eager for us to make a good first impression.
I was therefore relieved that Jeff, a tawny Michael Douglas type (What can I tell you? I’ve got two gorgeous sons), was looking untypically virtuous in pinstripes, having eschewed his signature chartreuse suspenders and diamond-stud earring for the occasion. We had picked him up at his Watergate apartment, and on the way out to McLean he had expressed his interest in “doing a deal” with the widely diversified Mr. Monti.
“The guy’s made a bundle,” Jeff informed us, “buying old rental properties real cheap, and then the neighborhood—whoosh—takes off, and he’s selling these suckers for five, six times his investment.” Jeff shook his head respectfully. “I don’t know where he gets his crystal ball, but I’d sure like to take a look in it sometimes.”
“Yes, but you won’t get into all that tonight,” I gently asked and/or suggested, never quite sure where Jeff’s hustling heart might lead him.
“Certainly not,” Jeff answered in a huffy there-she-goes-underestimating-me-again tone of voice. “I just intend to lay a little groundwork.”
Wally, looking divine in his gray tweed social-worker jacket and Mel’s Lethal Weapon longish wavy hair, greeted everyone with hugs, kisses, and handshakes and his big, broad, utterly irresistible smile. Jeff laid some groundwork with his “honored to meet you, sir,” greeting to Mr. Monti, accompanied by a smile which, though not as sincere as Wally’s, can certainly warm up a room.
Although the boys inherited their great bodies and strong, even features from their father, they definitely got their knock-’em-dead smiles from me. It’s not that Jake doesn’t have a perfectly pleasant one; it’s just that he often seems to be hoarding a portion of it for a more worthwhile occasion. Still, cautious smile, cautious blue suit, and all, he too, I thought, made a fine first impression. And, of course, I did my part as well, having enhanced my self-confidence with a trip to the hairdresser, where Lawrence of Elizabeth Arden clipped and colored my hair into a jaunty tangle of gold-streaked caramel curls.
In the interests of rapprochement, I had chosen to wear something with papal overtones—a bright-red dress with a high collar and long sleeves. It was by far the brightest item in the Montis’ vast living room, which was decorated entirely in beige and white. Very traditional. Very tasteful. Very damask and velvet. Very beige and white.
As I often advise my readers, compliments should be precise, never global. If possible, they should also be genuine. I found, as I looked around the room (so different from our own audaciously eclectic green, brown, gold, and rust interior), that I could sincerely praise the flower arrangements, which ranged from a single white rose set in an exquisite bud vase to masses of white tulips exuberantly bursting from a fat china tub. I also assumed, when I cooed to Mrs. Monti about the beauty of these flower arrangements, that I had embarked on a sweet and safe subject. I was wrong.
Mommy is great with flowers,” said Gloria, the oldest and most pregnant of the three Monti daughters. “But they’re always white. Look, I’m not saying use every color of the rainbow, but why not red roses, why not yellow tulips? Branch out, live a little, I keep telling her.”
“And I keep telling her,” said Mrs. Monti, her voice trembling with emotion, “that she’s got her own house to put red roses in. I don’t want them in mine.”
Annette, the middle and less pregnant of the daughters, shook her head with disgust. “But Mommy, you can’t just keep doing the same white flowers year after year, decade after decade. You’ll . . . you’ll stagnate.”
“Watch your mouth there, missy,” warned Mr. Monti, as he poured wine into glasses set on an ornate silver tray. “I don’t want to hear any ‘stagnates’ around here.”
A silence descended upon the room. When Mr. Monti had finished filling the glasses, he walked around handing out the drinks. “I’m only serving wine,” he said, “but you can have whiskey if you want.”
There were no requests for whiskey.
Josephine, the youngest and (please, God) the only non-pregnant Monti daughter, roused herself from her customary reticence to make her contribution to the great flower debate. “If Mommy likes white, I support her right to white.”
Father Pezzati who, as I eventually figured out, was not hard of hearing but merely inattentive, now eagerly joined the conversation. “Of course you do, my dear. Of course you do. I presume everyone in this room supports right to life.”
Without missing a beat, the Monti contingent murmured their assent. Particularly enthusiastic were the sounds coming from the beige-on-beige striped damask couch, upon which languished—like three variations on the Madonna theme—Mrs. Monti and her two pregnant daughters, all built on a heroic scale, with thick black hair, flawless complexions, and magnificently reconstructed (it takes one to know one) noses. It was clear that their capacity for challenge and dissent had completely exhausted itself on the flower issue. They were now eager to return to the familial harmony which, as Wally had told me, was never breached (at least until he came into the picture) on anything more controversial than tulips and roses. Mr. Monti liked his women docile and devout. And while he was willing to tolerate a brief debate on the merits of right to white, right to life was a closed subject in the Monti household.
But not, needless to say, in the Kovner household. The question was whether integrity required us to state our positions or whether, in the interest of Wally and Josephine’s future happiness, we should keep our mouths shut. Fortunately, the Georgetown professor leaped in with a lecture on when life begins. This, according to him, was not at conception but at the moment that you and your mate decide to conceive. Why this should be so was explained at great length, taking us through our drinks, the announcement that dinner was served, and the first coarse, a hearty cheese-encrusted onion soup. It was obvious, as we moved on to the beef Wellington and scalloped potatoes, that the Montis weren’t into nouvelle cuisine.
“If life begins with the intention to conceive,” said Jake, as he performed microsurgery on his beef, “I’d love to hear your definition of when life ends.” He addressed his comment to the professor but Father Pezzati replied instead.
“In the deepest sense, my son, life never ends.”
“Yeah,” said Annette’s husband, Victor, his sandy mustache quivering, his blue eyes alight with religious fervor, or maybe too much red wine. “That’s what immortality is all about.”
Gloria’s husband, Albert, who, like Victor, was employed by his father-in-law, was eager to add his insights to the subject. “You ask a question like that,” he reproached Jake, “and the next thing you know, you’re turning off the respirators, you’re taking out the food tubes, you’re playing God.”
“That’s exactly right,” said Mr. Monti.
Gloria patted Albert’s hand and looked proud. Mrs. Monti purred, “Such a bright boy.” Victor tilted his wineglass approvingly at Albert. Annette actually clapped.
There was a rustle from the far end of the table where Wally and Josephine, their dinners barely touched, their pinkies (his left, her right) tightly intertwined, had been sitting in a romantic stupor.
“Maybe God . . .” Josephine began, her huge eyes wide with anxiety, her free hand rummaging through her long Botticelli curls. “Maybe God . . .”
Josephine was the only blue-eyed, red-haired Monti; the only small-boned, delicate Monti; and the only Monti female with a heart-shaped face, a Michelle Pfeiffer mouth, and her own (tiny and flawless) original nose. Furthermore, she was soon to become the only Monti woman to finish college, having already made
it into her junior year at Catholic University. Unfortunately, she had also been the most intimidated of the Monti women—until she and Wally had met in the stacks of the library and he had started urging her to express herself.
“Maybe God,” she began once again, “wants us to make these decisions. About the tubes. And the respirators. Maybe God wants us to take responsibility.”
I smiled a private smile, recognizing that one of my favorite phrases—“taking responsibility”—had made the trip from me to Wally to Josephine. Now that, I told myself, is what immortality is all about.
“God does not want us turning off respirators,” said Mr. Monti with the confidence of one who converses daily with the Lord.
“Render unto Caesar the things that are Caesar’s,” said Father Pezzati, “and unto God the things that are God’s. Life and death belong to God.”
“That is correct,” said Mr. Monti.
“Then how come,” asked. Josephine, “with all those shoot-outs and murders and stuff, you’re against gun control, Daddy?”
“Guns don’t kill people; people kill people,” said Mr. Monti. “Besides, the Bill of Rights guarantees the right of every citizen to bear arms.”
Jake got into the act. “That’s actually the gun lobby’s distortion of what the Bill of Rights . . .”
I silenced him with a quick kick to the ankle, just hard enough to get his attention but not hard enough to cause him—as has happened in the past—to yell “Ouch! Shit! Cut it out, Brenda.”
Josephine, terrified but persistent, was not yet finished. “And if death belongs to God, Daddy, how come you’re in favor of war?”
“That’s enough, Josephine,” Mr. Monti replied.
“And how come—”
“I said, enough!” Mr. Monti thundered.
“—how come you believe in the death penalty, Daddy?”