desperately poor but still too snobby to associate with the other Polish émigrés. But apparently there’s some suggestion he used to hang around the docks, consorting with lowlifes and hustling for his bread.”
“Aw, see, that is just like you,” Rivka said. I scowled. She still had like 97 percent of her cookie left. I had consumed my three in three stuffed mouthfuls. “Anyway,” she said, “I’m honored that my little story played a supporting role.”
“Your story is the hero of my story,” I told her. “That’s what did it. And let’s face it, this is the only way I’ll ever get in
The New Yorker.
Though I did have to deflect that business about the teeth. And she didn’t even want to read my book.”
“Which book?”
“The new one.
Psoriasis.
It’s depressing. I’m still a nobody, even to the girl I’m sleeping with.”
“Yes, but a beautiful nobody. She just wants you as she foundyou. You don’t even have to impress her or be anybody. You’re just her dream. I think that’s wonderful.”
“I guess.”
Anyway, what did it matter? Leticia was a dream girl, and if her fetish was having sex with a fictional nobody, I wasn’t about to object. In fact, she was already looking into setting up some speaking engagements for me in BA, and said it was quite possible she could arrange a fellowship so that I could spend six months there. I could fly down in the fall, when it was turning cold up here. It would be their spring, and in that upside-down world I’d be a well-known and respectable phantom with a beautiful lover. Here I had been a nobody forever, and it didn’t seem to do me any good at all.
When I got home from the pastry shop, I could see that she’d been crying. Her battered suitcase was packed.
“What’s going on?” I asked. “What’s wrong? Bad news from home?” I reached out to comfort her, and she recoiled.
“Don’t touch me,” she hissed. “Don’t you ever touch me again.”
“What? What is it? What’s wrong?”
She gave me a vile look, then turned her gaze to the window. “When Galchen said in her story that you were a writer of the magazine
Hustler,
I think this is a magazine of literary cowboys who sing poems, like we have in my country. But then I was carrying forward with my research into you and I found this.” She pointed at my computer.
Now it so happens that, back in my leaner and hungrier days, I wrote a good deal of porn, all of it long forgotten. Apparently, however, thanks to the wonders of the Internet, Leticia had locatedsome of the particularly nasty “true” stories I’d produced, mostly under the pen name MFA (Master of Fine Ass).
“But that’s just fiction,” I told her. I even laughed at the absurdity of it. “I made it up for money. It’s not real. Not like us.”
“Real? We are not real.” She had tears in her eyes. “This is the real you. A monster.”
“But this is crazy,” I said, pleading now. “What about us? What about our trip?”
She pointed a long claw at me. “If you ever come to Buenos Aires, one of my brother will cut your throat.”
She left. I hung by the open door, floating more or less in the same spot as when I’d first seen her letter. The only sign that the whole affair had ever really happened was the sad pair of damp brown socks I found later, dangling limply from my shower curtain rod. I called poor Rivka again, and she made soothing remarks but didn’t really seem all that surprised. I suppose it was never that realistic to begin with. Or perhaps she suspected it was all a delusion.
It was not until late that night that curiosity (and curiosity about ourselves is the worst kind) overcame depression and I found myself using the “history” function on my computer’s browser to re-search Leticia’s research into me. I came across some old stories, and I had to admit, Leticia had a point. They made disturbing reading. I almost said they were disturbing to reread, but in truth, I didn’t
“Aw, see, that is just like you,” Rivka said. I scowled. She still had like 97 percent of her cookie left. I had consumed my three in three stuffed mouthfuls. “Anyway,” she said, “I’m honored that my little story played a supporting role.”
“Your story is the hero of my story,” I told her. “That’s what did it. And let’s face it, this is the only way I’ll ever get in
The New Yorker.
Though I did have to deflect that business about the teeth. And she didn’t even want to read my book.”
“Which book?”
“The new one.
Psoriasis.
It’s depressing. I’m still a nobody, even to the girl I’m sleeping with.”
“Yes, but a beautiful nobody. She just wants you as she foundyou. You don’t even have to impress her or be anybody. You’re just her dream. I think that’s wonderful.”
“I guess.”
Anyway, what did it matter? Leticia was a dream girl, and if her fetish was having sex with a fictional nobody, I wasn’t about to object. In fact, she was already looking into setting up some speaking engagements for me in BA, and said it was quite possible she could arrange a fellowship so that I could spend six months there. I could fly down in the fall, when it was turning cold up here. It would be their spring, and in that upside-down world I’d be a well-known and respectable phantom with a beautiful lover. Here I had been a nobody forever, and it didn’t seem to do me any good at all.
When I got home from the pastry shop, I could see that she’d been crying. Her battered suitcase was packed.
“What’s going on?” I asked. “What’s wrong? Bad news from home?” I reached out to comfort her, and she recoiled.
“Don’t touch me,” she hissed. “Don’t you ever touch me again.”
“What? What is it? What’s wrong?”
She gave me a vile look, then turned her gaze to the window. “When Galchen said in her story that you were a writer of the magazine
Hustler,
I think this is a magazine of literary cowboys who sing poems, like we have in my country. But then I was carrying forward with my research into you and I found this.” She pointed at my computer.
Now it so happens that, back in my leaner and hungrier days, I wrote a good deal of porn, all of it long forgotten. Apparently, however, thanks to the wonders of the Internet, Leticia had locatedsome of the particularly nasty “true” stories I’d produced, mostly under the pen name MFA (Master of Fine Ass).
“But that’s just fiction,” I told her. I even laughed at the absurdity of it. “I made it up for money. It’s not real. Not like us.”
“Real? We are not real.” She had tears in her eyes. “This is the real you. A monster.”
“But this is crazy,” I said, pleading now. “What about us? What about our trip?”
She pointed a long claw at me. “If you ever come to Buenos Aires, one of my brother will cut your throat.”
She left. I hung by the open door, floating more or less in the same spot as when I’d first seen her letter. The only sign that the whole affair had ever really happened was the sad pair of damp brown socks I found later, dangling limply from my shower curtain rod. I called poor Rivka again, and she made soothing remarks but didn’t really seem all that surprised. I suppose it was never that realistic to begin with. Or perhaps she suspected it was all a delusion.
It was not until late that night that curiosity (and curiosity about ourselves is the worst kind) overcame depression and I found myself using the “history” function on my computer’s browser to re-search Leticia’s research into me. I came across some old stories, and I had to admit, Leticia had a point. They made disturbing reading. I almost said they were disturbing to reread, but in truth, I didn’t
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