NO MATTER WHAT ELSE WE WANT TO BE, most boys have a Hannibal/conquistador fantasy.
In June of 1978, Jacqueline Onassis invited Katharine and me for dinner at her New York apartment. The other people present were going to be her daughter, Caroline, and John Russell and Rosamond Bernier. It was a very hot summer evening, but, since we were going to the ballet at Lincoln Center afterward—to see Swan Lake—I was wearing a suit.
When we arrived, Jackie immediately told me to take off my jacket. In her unusual whispering voice, unlike the speaking manner of anyone else I have ever encountered, a softly hoarse mix conveying shyness and intelligent confidence and true politeness, she explained, “We have no air conditioning in the apartment, and it is so hot tonight.”
I followed her instructions happily. In some sophomoric way, I relished the act of removing an article of clothing in front of her. Then I began to look at her pictures—for the most part, minor eighteenth-century watercolors of equestrian scenes—and make small talk about them.
After a couple of minutes, Jackie said, “I tried to open one of the living room windows, and so did my butler, but you know these old Fifth Avenue buildings. I think they are all painted shut.”
“Well, I’ll give it a try,” I offered.
“Oh, would you? But don’t feel bad if you can’t; no one else could, and Virgil [in fact, the name of Balthus’s butler, because I cannot remember the name of Jackie’s] is very strong.”
I walked over to the large sash window facing Central Park. Jackie stood right next to me as I grabbed the top of the bottom panel and tried to get it to budge. I could not even wiggle it.
“Don’t worry, Nick. They’re impossible. I will have to get the super or a repairman to come in tomorrow.”
Of course I could not stop. I tried with every bit of might I had to force the damn thing open. I huffed and puffed and groaned, not caring if I pulled my back out forever. I was keenly aware of who was standing on my left, while Katharine looked with amusement from behind us. My mind was racing. Come on, Weber, I thought. This is the woman who was married to your hero. This is the woman you picture sitting next to de Gaulle, to Kruschev, to Pablo Casals. The least you could do is open a fucking window.
Adrenaline is miraculous. After about a minute of flat-out exertion, I felt the sealed paint crack along the sides. At last, the bottom broke free, and, haltingly at first, it budged a couple of short notches. I inhaled, made one more big push, and in an easy glide, the window went up.
The beautiful woman next to me just said, “Oh, oh, oh, oh . . . You are so strong. Oh thank you so much. Amazing.”
It mattered more to me than any aspect of our conversation that evening.
Meanwhile, my personal obsession reappeared surprisingly in my thoughts. During dinner and the ballet, I periodically pictured Susie seeing me open the window. Here I was with the most sought-after woman in the world, accompanied by the wife whom I love profoundly and with whom I was relishing the evening with our particularly conjoined spirit. Yet my private goddess—the one who had made me first feel powerful, even electric, at the age when I was becoming a man—was my imagined witness. Hannibal’s admirer, the Freud who faltered on the name “Signorelli,” well knew that drive. We guys need to prove ourselves. Nothing else matches the physical.