Rich Man, Poor Man

She was not one of those girls who lavished a full autobiography on her lover. He learned little about her. She came from the Midwest. She was on bad terms with her family. She had an older brother who was in the family firm, something to do with drugs. She had finished college at the age of twenty. She had majored in sociology. She had been interested in photography ever since she was a child. To get anywhere, you had to start in New York, so she had come to New York. She liked the work of Cartier-Bresson, Pe

She went out with other men. Not described. In the summer she sailed. Names of craft unmentioned. She had been to Europe. A Yugoslavian island to which she would like to return. She was surprised that he had never been out of the United States.

She dressed youthfully, with a fresh eye for colors that at first glance seemed to clash, but then, after a moment, subtly complemented each other. Her clothes, Rudolph could see, were not expensive and after the first three times he had gone out with her, he was fairly certain he was familiar with her entire wardrobe.

She did the Sunday New York Times crossword puzzle faster than he did. Her handwriting was without frills, like a man’s. She liked new painters whose work Rudolph couldn’t appreciate or understand. “Keep looking,” she said, “and then one day, a door will open, you will suddenly cross the barrier.”

She never went to church. She never cried at sad movies. She never introduced him to any of her friends. She was unimpressed by Joh

“I love you,” he said. They were lying close together in bed, his hand on her breast, the covers pulled up under their chins. It was seven o’clock in the evening and the room was dark. They had strolled through twenty galleries. He had crossed no barriers. They had had lunch in a small Italian restaurant, where the proprietors had no objection to girls with red-wool stockings. He had told her at lunch that he couldn’t take her to the game tomorrow and told her why. She wasn’t disturbed. He had given her the tickets. She said she would take a man she knew who had once played tackle for Columbia. She ate heartily.

They had been cold when they came in from their wanderings around the city, because the December afternoon had turned bitter early, and he had made them both hot tea spiked with rum.

“It would be nice if we had a fire,” she said, curled up on the sofa, her moccasins kicked off on the floor.

“The next apartment I rent,” he said.

When they kissed they both tasted of rum, perfumed with lemon.

They had made love unhurriedly, completely.

“This is what a Saturday afternoon in New York in the winter should be like,” she said, when they had finished and were lying together quietly. “Art, spaghetti, rum, and lust.”

He laughed, pressed her closer. He regretted his years of abstinence. Then he wasn’t so sure. Perhaps it was because of the abstinence that he was ready for her, free for her.

“I love you,” he said. “I want to marry you.”

She lay still for a moment, then moved away, threw the covers back, started to dress in silence.

I have ruined everything, he thought. “What’s the matter?”

“It’s a subject I never discuss naked,” she said gravely.

He laughed again, but was not happy. How many times had this beautiful, assured girl, with her own mysterious rules of behavior, discussed marriage, and with how many men? He had never been jealous before. Unprofitable emotion.

He watched the slender shadow move around the dark room, heard the rustle of cloth over skin. She went into the living room. Bad sign? Good sign? Would it be better just to lie here as he was, not go after her? He hadn’t pla

He got out of bed and dressed quickly. She was sitting in the living room, other people’s furniture, fiddling with the radio. A

“I want a drink,” she said, without turning around, still fiddling with the dials.

He poured them both some bourbon and water. She drank like a man. What previous lover had taught her that?

“Well?” he said. He stood before her, feeling at a disadvantage, pleading. He hadn’t put on his shoes or his jacket and tie. Barefooted and in his shirtsleeves he felt he wasn’t properly dressed for the occasion.

“Your hair is mussed,” she said. “You look much better with your hair mussed.”

“Maybe my language is mussed,” he said. “Maybe you didn’t understand what I said in the bedroom.”

“I understood.” She turned the radio off, sat down in an easy chair, holding the glass of bourbon in her two hands. “You want to marry me.”

“Exactly.”

“Let’s go to the movies,” she said. “There’s a picture I want to see just around the corner …”

“Don’t be flip.”

“It’s only on till tomorrow night and you won’t be here tomorrow night.”

“I asked you a question.”

“Am I supposed to be flattered?”

“No.”

“Well, I am flattered. Now let’s go to the movies …” But she didn’t make any move to get up from the chair. Sitting there, half in shadow, because the one lamp that was lit threw its light obliquely from the side, she was fragile, vulnerable. Looking at her he knew that he had been right to say what he had in bed, that he hadn’t spoken just from a flicker of tenderness on a cold afternoon, but from a deep and abiding need.

“I will be broken,” he said, “if you say no.”

“Do you believe that?” She was looking down into her glass, swirling the drink around now with a finger. He could see only the top of her head, her loose hair gleaming in the lamplight.

“Yes.”

“Tell the truth.”

“Partially,” he said. “I partially believe it. Partially broken.”

It was her turn to laugh. “At least you’ll make somebody an honest husband,” she said.

“Well?” he demanded. He stood above her and put his hand under her chin and made her look up at him. Her eyes seemed doubtful, frightened, the small face pale.

“The next time you come to town, give me a ring,” she said.

“That’s no answer.”

“In a way, it is,” she said. “The answer is I want time to think.”

“Why?”

“Because I’ve done something I’m not particularly proud of,” she said, “and I want to figure out how I can be proud of myself again.”

“What’ve you done?” He didn’t know whether he wanted to know or not.

“I’ve overlapped,” Jean said. “It’s a female disease. I was having an affair with a boy when I started with you and I haven’t broken it off. I’m doing something I thought I’d never do in my whole life. I’m sleeping with two men at once. And he wants to marry me, too.”

“Lucky girl,” Rudolph said bitterly. “Is he the girl roommate you share your apartment with?”

“No. The girl is an authentic girl. I’ll produce her for you if you want.”

“Is that why you never let me come to your place? He’s there?”

“No, he’s not there.”

“But he has been there.” With surprise, Rudolph realized that he had been wounded, deeply wounded, and worse yet, that he himself was intent on turning the knife in the wound.

“One of the most attractive things about you,” Jean said, “was that you were too sure of yourself to ask questions. If love is going to make you unattractive, forget love.”

“What a goddamn afternoon,” Rudolph said.

“I guess that wraps it up.” Jean stood up, put her glass down carefully. “No movies tonight.”

He watched her put on her coat. If she walks out now, like this, he thought, I’ll never see her again. He went over to her and put his arms around her and kissed her.