(Not for those easily offended by verbal profanity.)
***
He is the kind of man who, these days, would be described as handsome, but he is not. What he possesses is not an ineffable, philosophical beauty, but a prudent, almost calculating attractiveness. All the same, when I sit across from him I feel my spine grow straighter. My wavy hair falls naturally into place, into the style I have been working to achieve since my senior year in college. Talking with him I find myself speaking smoother, the vowels drawn from deep in my throat, slung from one corner of my cheek to the other and then exhaled fluidly, like a flawless stream of smoke.
Like him, his home invokes an unguarded contentment. The apartment was recently refurbished, but the walls were left unpainted and the wooden floors given a pale, natural finish, its owner preferring casual, uncomplicated furniture and having an all-around blasé approach to interior decoration. His armchairs are more comfortable than mine, allowing my legs to cross effortlessly without any need for continual readjustment. Despite his being somewhat shorter, when sitting we are of equal height, as if by some phenomenon his lightness allowed him to float or for him gravity did not exist.
Every time I have visited him in this apartment, a pair of black cowboy boots waited by the door, though I have never known him to wear anything other than canvas-top sneakers. An allergy keeps him from owning any dogs or cats, and the required upkeep has meant a forgoing of tropical fish. The apartment’s only other cohabitant is a philodendron placed thoughtlessly to the left of the bathroom, so in closing the door a fair amount of foliage is gobbled up with it.
Stacked on the counter surrounding his kitchen sink were never any less than a week’s worth of coffee mugs. Stacks of papers – presumably manuscripts, deemed complete by someone else’s standards – laid scattered about the living room and dining table, leaving little room for neither living nor dining. In spite of a clear indifference to the condition of his flat, he was always a good host, punctual and quick to offer coffee and hand-rolled cigarettes.
For him I was a ready listener, patient while he kicked around ideas for a new project he was set to embark on, which in the case of its failure would be quite costly. Sitting opposite of him, I watched his hands explain and convince, surrendering the tilt of my head to the flip and pitch of each gesture. His smooth face and hairless wrists suggest an age much younger than his curriculum vitae would present him as. He chuckles, exposing a buoyant Adam’s apple, and I laugh with him. He rarely gives a full smile. As he talks he separates his lips but widens his mouth only slightly, often teasing it to the side to suggest a semi-permanent smirk. This quirk seems playful, as if he is letting me in on the joke. His bottom teeth show only when he is irritated or when the sun catches him in the eye. I became distracted by the way his nose ducks when he talks of his work, as if nodding in agreement to his schemes and propositions.
He had just begun to tell me a story about a recent encounter with the new concierge, who was Guatemalan and unaccustomed to the strange, nocturnal habits of the neighborhood and its creative types. He spoke Spanish almost fluently, as far as I could tell, picking it up after numerous trips to the Caribbean despite claiming to have a crippling fear of the ocean. He could flirt with this woman while asking after her children, with all the social ease of someone who has been introducing himself to industry heavyweights and debutantes since he was able to say his name.
The telephone rang. On the way to answer it, he stopped for two seconds in front of an antique buffet, where a small selection of unopened envelopes was stacked on the glass top.
“Hey-ya,” he answered. “How did the rehearsal go? Did Simon behave himself this time?” One of his sneakers was coming untied, and he pinned the loose lace with the other foot.
“You what? Again?” His voice began to pick up speed. “No, I will not come pick you up. I am busy. Take the train – or a taxi, if you have to.”
Taking the phone with him, he turned his back to me and stepped into the hall, the cord loyally trailing behind. He headed toward his bedroom, though I could still hear him, the agitation in his voice bouncing off the bare walls down the hallway.
“I simply cannot believe this has happened again. Jesus – I mean, we just had a second set made so this would not happen again. You can be such a fucking flake.” His accent began to show.
“I knew you were utterly clueless, but this is unheard of. No, I can’t. I can’t talk now.”
He stepped out of the hallway and back into view a minute later wearing sunglasses. What could be seen of his fair cheeks was flushed red. He walked over to the stack of envelopes and opened one. Without reading it, he set it back on the tabletop. He stood staring down, arching his shoulders forward and leaning with all his weight on his back foot. He stood like that for some time, his thumb in his mouth, its nail clicking against the back of his teeth. After some moments passed, he released his shoulders and returned to his armchair.
He looked at me, or so I presume, and opened his mouth just enough to display the small chip on the left of his front tooth. The phone rang again. He took a sip from his mug and followed it with a swig from a small water glass, then stood up and went to the phone.
“Has Simon already left? And Gabriela? Could you ask her for a ride? Good, okay.” I could hear him speak with a restored calm.
“Yes, of course I am sorry. Don’t be so silly. No, I did not mean that. You know how – no, not like that. Yes, exactly. Good. You are okay? Good. Yes, I will be here. Do not forget to ask Lucia for the mail. Can you remember that? I am expecting a package from my sister. Oh, and maybe you could pick up some jajangmyeon from Bonjoo? I feel like noodles. Yes, the one by Jackie and David’s. Extra chunjang, okay? That sounds wonderful. Perfect, even. I can’t wait. See you later, yes. Ciao.”
When he returned he emptied his mug and raised it toward me, asking if I needed a refill. He lifted his chin slightly and then turned to face the window, offering me his profile and a view of his lower bicuspids. The evening’s remaining sunlight bleached out his hair so that it matched the beech picture frame hanging on the wall, holding what appeared to be some movie still from a film I did not recognize. He raised his elbow and ran his hand over his head. For a moment he appeared to me as Endymion, impervious to the sun’s beam.
“Ever since that project in Seoul, I have been hunting all over the Village for the best Korean.” He turned away from the window and the city and looked straight at me. “I simply cannot get the taste out of my mouth. The street vendors, everything I tried. It was unbelievable. You have to go, if for nothing else but the food.” He sighed although I had not argued against him and removed his sunglasses. Before the trip, he had been vegetarian for almost seven years. Now he eats fish.
On the way to showing me out of his apartment, he picked up another envelope. This one was manila and much larger, thick enough to hold a technical manual or some papers of comparable size. He volleyed the envelope between his hands undecidedly. He set the package back on the table, underneath a ceramic dish that slipped a little on the lopsided surface.
He stepped past, opened the front door and came toward me. He took my shoulder in one of his soft, hairless hands and then embraced me, although a bit stiffly.
“Thank you for finding the time to stop by. I think it is a shame we have not been able to see each other more often.” I felt his embrace slacken.
“Have you heard from her at all?”
He took a step back and in a moment of fraternal comfort and support, we watched one another. He nodded, shook my hand and opened the door for me to leave.
