is very lacking and you miss it, right?”
I feel guilty even nodding, so I say and do nothing in response.
“Tell me about you,” I propose.
“My wife is ill. I’d feel like a cad if I left her, but my life is pretty bleak. I was hoping to banish the bleakness. I don’t want to get involved with anyone who might know her or me, but I thought since I come to New York every so often. . . . So I saw the ad and thought I’d take the risk. I’m terrified actually.”
“Me too.” Was it possible we were perfect for each other?
“Can I buy you a drink?”
“Please.”
He calls the waiter and we order drinks—red wine for me, bourbon for him.
“You’re beautiful,” he says, “and I’m sure I’ve seen you before.”
“Unlikely.”
“Why is it unlikely?”
“I’ve spent my whole life being an Upper East Side housewife,” I lie. I have no intention of identifying myself.
“Why is that bad?”
“In New York it’s a crime never to have done anything with your life.”
“I’m sure you’ve done things with your life. You wouldn’t look so alive if you hadn’t.”
“Thank you. Do I really look alive? Some days I feel half dead.”
“Everyone should look so good dead.”
“What brings you to New York?”
“I’m raising money for my company, meeting with investment-fund managers, that sort of thing.”
“Men in suits?”
“Yes, and a few women in suits, but I don’t want to talk about that. I can do those pitches in my sleep.”
“What do you want to talk about?”
“What we came here for—fantasy.”
“Do you want to tell me yours?”
“I’d rather show you.”
“I’d rather get to know you first.”
“Often that ruins the fantasy.”
“I’ll take that risk.”
“Look, why don’t you come to my suite at the Palace—right down the block—and we’ll talk there. I have a car waiting.”
I think about it. It puts me in a sweat. He is a total stranger, and the idea of sex with a total stranger terrifies me.
“But you’re a total stranger.”
“Then get to know me.”
I battle with myself. At twenty, I would have been challenged, but now going to a hotel room with a strange man seems like the sheerest folly. Am I going to risk all the great things I have with Asher for a perfect stranger?
“My father is dying,” I say.
“All the more reason why you should live.”
“Look—you go to your suite and order lunch and maybe I’ll join you there if I find the courage.” Am I ready for risk-taking or not? I used to be good at putting all the risks out of my head, but now I think about how much I have to lose.
“Good. Suite 2733.”
He leaves. I run to the ladies’ room, pee, touch up my makeup, and run down the block to Madison Avenue before I can change my mind. Then I circle the block three times in a daze, debating with myself. Am I ready for adventure or not? The old dybbuk of impulsiveness comes back. I will go to his suite. What do I have to lose except everything?
When I get there, a waiter is laying out a spread of beluga caviar, smoked salmon, and Champagne. The suite is huge and sunny. David is grateful I have come. When the waiter leaves, he kisses me decorously on the cheek. His beard is scratchy.
“No strings,” he says, moving swiftly away.
We sit opposite each other at the table and toast in vintage Krug. He prepares me a toast point with caviar.
What am I doing here? I think in a panic. Nevertheless, we continue to make small talk as if we have just met at a cocktail party.
“All my life, I’ve dreamed of meeting a woman who shares my fantasies.”
“We all dream of that.”
“But some fantasies are more unusual than others.”
“I’m sure we’re all pretty much the same in the fantasy department.”
“Not necessarily,” he says. Then he stares at me and continues, “Dare I?”
“Dare you what?”
“Dare I share with you?”
“I don’t see why not.”
“Perhaps we should just have lunch and wait for my next visit.”
“Fine with me. I can’t stay very long today anyway.”
“Oh—what the hell,” he says.
He gets up and goes into the bedroom of the suite. A few seconds pass. When he returns he is holding aloft a black rubber suit with zippers over the crotch and the breasts. He looks at once sheepish and mischievous. He raises his eyebrows in question as if he is channeling Jack Nicholson. His beard makes him look Mephistophelian when he works his eyebrows that way. “What do you think?”
“Do you wear it? Or do I?”
“You. And there are certain accessories that go with it.”
“Accessories?” My mind is blank. I don’t think immediately of manacles and chains and whips, although the Marquis de Sade must have had such stuff at Lacoste—his ruined castle in the Luberon.
“You know,” he says. “Accessories.”
Then it dawns on me. He’s thinking of gothic paraphernalia. My mind flies back to a time I played Sade’s Justine, the twelve-year-old serving maid whose virtu is tested by nuns, monks, cavaliers, comtes—et cetera. Someone had adapted Sade’s Justine into a filthy French movie.
Sade was a revolutionary, of course, with a revolutionary’s detestation of the establishment. Did the monks preach virtue? Then he would preach sin. He was, we know, a member of the National Convention and hated hypocrisy as much as he hated its chief purveyor, the Catholic Church. For which he spent five years in the Bastille and thirteen years in Charenton, the insane asylum. Most of his books
