Cockpit (11 page)

“Shall I meet you at the airport?” I asked.

“Please don’t. Someone might see us. I’ll call you from the hotel.”

“I’ll wait for your call. Until tomorrow, then.”

“Until tomorrow,” she whispered and hung up.

I couldn’t sleep. Feeling a need to fill the time, I dressed and went at once to La Mole. It was an elegant old hotel, which could be entered either from the main lobby or through a bar on the side street, as well as through the garage.

I presented myself to the reception manager as a travel agent who had come to select a room for Madame Leuwen, a client of mine. The manager checked his reservations and asked if Madame would like a single room. I suggested a suite, instead, and after visiting three or four of them I settled on a large corner one whose door did not open off the main corridor and could not be seen by anyone looking out from the elevator. I ordered flowers to be delivered for Madame Leuwen’s arrival and asked the manager to give the lady’s reservation his personal attention.

I spent the rest of the day concluding as many of my business affairs as possible. By midafternoon I felt nauseated and my body ached. I realized I was feeling the strain of the trip and decided to see a doctor. Several physicians recommended by my associates could not see me soon enough. I checked the phone book and found a physician whose name suggested my own national origin. I called him, introduced myself and told him I needed immediate medical assistance. I asked him in Ruthenian whether he still spoke his parents’ language, and he answered fluently in it that,
even though his schedule was full, he would see me at once.

His office, which was also his home, was in an old section of Paris. He was in his sixties, gray-haired, with a beautifully chiseled face. His suit was cut in the fashion of the late twenties, and he wore a monocle. He led me through a dark apartment filled with massive old furniture.

His white examination room contained old-fashioned, enamel medical equipment and evoked the atmosphere of another century. He apologized for the disorder in his office by saying that his wife had died a few months earlier and the paid help he now had to rely on was very poor. He asked me to undress while he put on a white lab coat and washed his hands; then he checked my weight and gave me a cursory examination.

“Barring some invisible malady, you’re not ill but simply underweight, run down and overworked,” he pronounced. “Your heart seems to be slightly arrhythmic, but you are a sportsman, which might explain it. Your present exhaustion combined with increased metabolic rate and radically low blood pressure produces occasional dizziness. What you need now is rest, exercise and a sound diet.”

“Nevertheless, doctor, I came to you for help with a specific complaint,” I said as I dressed.

“What is the problem?”

“I have an important engagement tomorrow and I need a drug, injections if necessary, to get through it.”

“But you’re not ill, only over-tired,” he reiterated.

“A lady friend of mine is arriving tomorrow for a one-day visit. I may never see her again and I want to be strong enough to have a memorable time with her.”

The doctor got up from his desk and looked at me. “Is she your fiancee?” he asked.

“No, but I want to know her as intimately as if she were.”

He moved closer, winking at me with an eye surrealistically enlarged by the monocle. “Is she, by chance, married?”

“I can’t see what her marital status has to do with my request,” I said, barely hiding my annoyance.

“If you want my help, you must be honest with me.”

“She is married.”

“Is her husband alive?”

“Yes. But he is not coming with her.”

“Do they have children?”

“I believe so.”

“What are their ages?”

“I should think they would be in their teens,” I said.

He rubbed his chin. “Then this woman is older than you?”

“Possibly.”

The doctor paced the room and returned to where I sat. “How well do you know her?” he asked.

“I met her only once, a few days ago. I need to know her and I don’t intend to fail. Do you understand me, doctor?”

“Don’t excite yourself,” he said. “By the way, does she love you?”

“She hardly knows me, but perhaps one day she might love me, and I don’t want to postpone that day for a minute.”

The doctor sat down across from me. He removed his monocle and put on a pair of glasses. “I could be your father,” he said sternly. “If I were, would I condone what my son is about to do? Are you an only child?”

“I am.”

“I knew it. Would your father want his only son turned into an instrument to satisfy an aging, adulterous wife?”

“I am nobody’s instrument. Besides, my father never dealt in such matters. My mother was his only woman.”

He tapped his pen against the wood of the desk. “You are living an existence contaminated by vice,” he said. “Why don’t you settle down with a woman who loves you? You could irrigate the dry land, help bring peace to the region.”

“I haven’t come to ask if I should join a kibbutz,” I interrupted.

“What have you come for?”

“A remedy. You know what for.”

“If I possessed such a remedy, I would be listed in the
Kamasutra,
not in the Paris telephone directory.”

“There must be a drug that would …” I pleaded, but he interrupted me.

“There isn’t. There are certain combinations of drugs and injections and long-term therapy.”

“I’m not impotent, doctor. Merely cautious.”

“When is she arriving?”

“Noon tomorrow.”

He frowned as he scribbled a prescription, which he then handed to me. “You can have this filled in any good pharmacy. Take the pills every two hours, the tablets every three and one capsule every six.” I paid him in cash and he cautioned me, “Don’t expect miracles.”

“I never do,” I said.

I stopped at the first pharmacy I came to, had the prescription filled and swallowed the medication before I left the store. I had a busy day ahead of me. Pleading illness, I had postponed several less crucial appointments, but there were two important meetings and a large press conference that I had to attend. Between meetings and mail and telephone calls, I had no time to rest or eat, but I took the medications without fail. I returned to my room after midnight, tired and short of breath, with my heart palpitating, feeling no pick-up from the medicines. I thought about the woman who in twelve hours would arrive to see me. I recreated her image as I had last seen her at the dinner party, reviewing her features, her gestures, her expressions. I tossed restlessly until at last the sleeping pill I had taken diluted her image. At dawn, I fell asleep.

I woke up a few hours later, walked to the window and looked out. The city sparkled in the sunlight and the sky
was cloudless. Having completed my remaining business commitments before noon, I returned to my hotel, shaved once more and waited restlessly for her call. In order to have my medicines on hand throughout her visit, I loaded my pockets with a good supply of all three drugs.

I was apprehensive. I lay down but could not sleep. Just as I decided her call would not come, the phone rang. I let it ring three times before I picked up the receiver with an unsteady hand.

She sounded relaxed and composed as she told me she had just arrived at the Hotel de La Mole. She thanked me for the flowers and for choosing such a beautiful suite. When I invited her to lunch, she asked me to come to the hotel to pick her up.

The convertible I had rented was waiting in the hotel driveway. I put its top down and drove slowly through the sunlit city, familiarizing myself with the car and with the Paris traffic. Each time I glanced at the empty seat next to me, I could almost see her sitting there, her legs stretched toward me, her arm resting on the seat behind my back, her fingers inches from my neck.

At La Mole I told the garage attendant to keep my car ready, then took an elevator to the floor above hers, inspected the staircases and the corridors and went down the stairs. Listening outside her door, I could faintly hear her footsteps.

I paused for a moment to calm myself and knocked; she opened the door immediately. She was wearing a tweed suit with a skirt that ended below her knees and accented her slender calves. Her hair fell abundantly onto her shoulders, and I noted that in daylight it looked lighter than it had the night I met her.

She ushered me into the room. “It’s hard for me to believe you’re here,” I said. “At your party, I was sure I would never see you again.”

“But when I tried to find you after dinner, you had gone.”

“I was restless and you were so inaccessible. Now, the more I look at you, the more awe-struck I am.”

She laughed and told me, “Proust says, ‘Leave pretty women to men without imagination.’ Do you disagree with him?”

“Not at all, but I also know your beauty can be fully appreciated and defined only by a man with imagination. In any case,” I continued, “I am taking you out to lunch. My car is waiting downstairs.”

At the restaurant, she explained that her husband had left that morning on a campaign trip. She had told him she was going to visit her sister and brother-in-law at their farm fifty miles from the capital and would be staying overnight. She had confided in the couple about her Paris escapade, and they had agreed to cover for her.

She left the table to go to the ladies’ room; I removed two pills from my pocket and swallowed them before she returned.

After lunch, we drove out to Combray. I parked the car and we walked through the woods. I had brought my camera with me, and I asked if I could photograph her. I examined her through the lens as she posed. I approached her for a close-up and pushed her hair back gently. She did not move. I put the camera aside.

We stood facing each other without speaking. Suddenly, she reached for my shoulders and drew me against her while her hands explored the contours of my hips. Kissing her lips and thrusting my body against her, my flesh remained flaccid in spite of my excitement. I realized that if I continued to press against her, she would know I was not aroused. I disengaged myself and stepped away.

“Let’s go back to La Mole,” I said, as if suddenly overcome by desire.

She stepped in front of me, her fingers stroking my face, and asked in a husky voice, “Which way do we go? By Méséglise? It’s shorter, isn’t it?”

“Let’s take Verrières. It’s prettier,” I said. By the time
we reached Paris, it was dark. I let her out on the street around the corner from the hotel, so that if she were being watched, she would be seen entering La Mole alone. I left the car in the garage, then rang her room. She said to come up.

She had changed into a soft white caftan that seemed to float around her as she moved. Her hair was pulled back loosely with a white ribbon. I wrapped my arms around her waist. We kissed, her pelvis grinding against mine, but I realized that, again, my excitement was not apparent. I moved away. “Let’s order champagne,” I said, pressing the service button. I sensed she was growing irritated and confused, but she said nothing to indicate her mood.

Before the waiter arrived, a maid appeared. She introduced herself and asked whether the suite was in order. She noticed my companion’s robe and, while we waited for the champagne, she prepared the bed. Finally, the bed was ready, the champagne was open and we were alone in the room. I sipped the wine slowly, afraid that my drugs might not mix with the alcohol.

We moved onto the bed and kissed again. Her hands were aggressive and I could feel myself growing excited, but my body still failed to respond. I continued to kiss and stroke her and when, at the height of arousal she whispered that she wanted me, I felt as if my sight, touch, and hearing had abandoned me. I stood up; without a word, I dashed into the bathroom.

I looked at myself in the mirror. There was no perceptible change in my expression. I looked at my body; there was no perceptible change in it, either. I downed a double dose of medication even though I had last taken a prescribed amount only an hour before.

She looked at me anxiously but said nothing when I returned. I suggested that because it was late we should order dinner before the kitchen closed.

The waiter who previously had brought us champagne
now arrived with our dinner. He assumed we were married, and as he wished us good luck and many children I caught her look of embarrassment.

Toward the end of the meal, I suggested we go to a show. She did not seem to mind and changed into an evening gown that she said she’d bought just for me, and put on a diamond necklace, a gift from her father-in-law. We went to a nightclub famous for its blatant sex shows. I tipped the head waiter in advance, and he seated us close to the stage, on which naked performers acted out seduction scenes. I could see she was enjoying the show as well as the attention she attracted from the performers and the rest of the audience.

Against the background of the stage light, her hair fanned out around her face like a copper flame. I became acutely aware of how beautiful she was and reached for her, cupping her breast in my palm. She moved closer to me and I felt her hand on my thigh. With many women from my past, this would have been enough to excite me; now that I was with one who really mattered, I remained sexually dormant.

We returned to the hotel. While she was undressing in the bathroom, I swallowed the remaining pills. She was giddy from the drinks at the nightclub and already aroused. A single need dominated my thoughts. I wanted to appropriate her, to imprint myself upon her. We went to bed. I caressed and kissed her and she murmured that she wanted to be taken. She placed her hand on my groin and tried to make me swell. She begged me to enter and saturate her, but soon realized that, even with her help, I could not do it.

She pushed me off her, climbed out of bed and went to the bathroom to take a shower. When I heard the water running, I immediately called the doctor. His phone rang several times before he answered.

I gave him my name, but he sounded too groggy to recognize
me. I repeated the name and said, accentuating every word, “Yesterday you advised me to irrigate the dry land.”