Susie came out of Mr. Hrbik’s office. “Hi, you guys,” she said, trying for cheer. Her eyeshadow was smudged, her eyes pinkish. I’d been reading modern French novels, and William Faulkner as well. I knew what love was supposed to be: obsession, with undertones of nausea. Susie was the sort of girl who would go in for this kind of love. She would be abject, she would cling and grovel. She would lie on the floor, moaning, hanging onto Mr. Hrbik’s legs, her hair falling like blond seaweed over the black leather of his shoes (he would have his shoes on, being about to stalk out of the door). From this angle, Mr. Hrbik was cut off at the knees and Susie’s face was invisible. She would be squashed by passion, obliterated.
I was not sorry for her, however. I was a little envious.
“Poor bunny rabbit,” Babs said behind her retreating back.
“Europeans,” said Marjorie. “I don’t believe for a minute he was ever divorced.”
“Listen, maybe he was never even
“What about those kids of his?”
“Most likely his nieces or something.”
I scowled at them. Their voices were way too loud; Mr. Hrbik would hear them. After they had gone it was my turn. I went in, and stood while Mr. Hrbik sat, going through my portfolio, which was spread out on his desk. I thought it was this that was making me nervous. He flipped through the pages, hands, heads, bottoms, in silence, chewing his pencil. “This is nice,” he said at last. “You have made progress. This is more relaxed, this line here.”
“Where?” I said, leaning my hand on the desk, bending forward. He turned his head to the side, toward me, and there were his eyes. They were not purple after all but dark brown.
“Elaine, Elaine,” he said sadly. He put his hand over mine. Cold shot up my arm, into my stomach; I stood there frozen, revealed to myself. Is this what I’d been angling for, with my notions of rescue?
He shook his head, as if he’d given up or had no choice, then drew me down, between his knees. He didn’t even stand up. So I was on the floor, on my knees, with my head tilted back, his hands caressing the back of my neck. I’d never been kissed that way before. It was like a perfume ad: foreign and dangerous and potentially degrading. I could get up and run for it, but if I stayed put, even for one more minute, there would be no more groping in car seats or movie theaters, no skirmishes over brassiere hooks. No nonsense, no fooling around.
We went to Josef’s apartment in a taxi. In the taxi Josef sat quite far apart from me, although he kept his hand on my knee. I was not used to taxis then, and thought the driver was looking at us in the rearview mirror.
Josef’s apartment was on Hazelton Avenue, which was not quite a slum although close to it. The houses there are old, close together, with frumpy little front gardens and pointed roofs and moldering wooden scrollwork around the porches. There were cars parked bumper to bumper along the sidewalk. Most of the houses were in pairs, attached together down one side. It was in one of these crumbling, pointy-roofed twin houses that Josef lived. He had the second floor.
A fat older man in shirtsleeves and suspenders was rocking on the porch of the house next to Josef’s. He stared as Josef paid the taxi, then as we came up the front walk. “Nice day,” he said.
“Isn’t it?” I said. Josef paid no attention. He put his hand lightly on the back of my neck as we went up the narrow inner stairs. Everywhere he touched me felt heavy.
His apartment was three rooms: a front room, a middle room with a kitchenette, and a back room. The rooms were small, and there was little furniture. It was as if he’d just moved in, or was moving out. His bedroom was painted mauve. On the walls were several prints, which were of elongated figures, murkily colored. There was nothing else in this room but a mattress on the floor, covered with a Mexican blanket. I looked at it, and thought I was seeing adult life.
Josef kissed me, standing up this time, but I felt awkward. I was afraid someone would see in through the window. I was afraid he would ask me to take off my own clothes, that he would then turn me this way and that, looking at me from a distance. I didn’t like being looked at from behind: it was a view over which I had no control. But if he asked this I would have to do it, because any hesitation on my part would place me beneath consideration.
He lay down on the mattress, and looked up as if waiting. After a moment I lay down beside him and he kissed me again, gently undoing my buttons. The buttons were on an outsize cotton shirt, which was what had replaced the turtlenecks now that it was warm. I put my arms around him, and thought: he was in the war.
“What about Susie?” I said. As soon as I said it I realized it was a high school question.
“Susie?” Josef asked, as if trying to remember her name. His mouth was against my ear; the name was like a regretful sigh.