MARTIN

Martin was glad he’d bought the silver Volvo. Haze had wanted something more extravagant, a Jaguar or a Rolls, but Martin insisted on a car that wouldn’t break down.

Sitting in the front seat with Javier, Martin felt he had finally found his match. They would take the car out often, ride into the countryside to forage for mushrooms or go antiquing. He imagined them at country auctions buying stark American pieces, which would live well with Javier’s collection of contemporary art. They would buy a country house in the Hamptons, or Connecticut, and they would travel.

Yes, they would. There were so many possibilities.

For the first time in a long time Martin felt younger, lighter. Getting old was a precarious business. It was hard to admit. He was almost seventy. God willing he would stay well.

Javier had a much more European sensibility. It matched his own, none of the hurtling self-indulgence of Haze. Javier was a careful man. He wanted a life: two people, under one roof, supporting each other emotionally and creatively. He knew all this because Javier had told him. He had spent two days telling Martin exactly how their life was going to be and Martin had no reason not to believe him.

Javier peeled the yellow wrapper off a Slim Jim and offered Martin the first bite. He declined. His Latin palate amused Martin. The hotter the better.

“I’ve known Charlotte so many years and still I don’t understand her,” Javier said. He chewed the spicy stick of beef jerky. Martin could smell it.

“Look. Over there,” Martin said. He took one hand off the wheel and pointed to egrets landing in the marsh along the coastal highway.

“I understand about her work,” Javier said. “But not about Zdenĕk. How do you hold someone so far away from you? At arm’s distance, as you would say. Do you know they have been together since the Russians ran over Prague in the nineteen-sixties?”

“Invaded,” Martin said.

Martin knew the story, but didn’t realize it had been that long. When was the overthrow? 1968? 1968 to 1989. He did the math in his head.

Javier turned to watch the marsh fly by.

“Either he’s very patient or very stupid. Most likely a little of both,” Martin said.

Javier turned back to him.

“I think neither,” Javier said. “I used to think maybe it was some misplaced obligation; at the beginning, she helped him before either of them had anything. Now I’m not sure. Do you know the Aronsons tried to tell him he was wasting his time?”

“I’ll bet that did a whole lot good.”

“He laughed them off. Told them they didn’t understand. That time was one thing for some people, another for others. Not to worry about him.”

“You know he’s given her an ultimatum?” Martin said. “He wants a family, children, lots of little puppeteers.”

Javier clapped his hands.

“You see. I told you. Why didn’t you tell me before?”

“I didn’t know you then.”

Javier gave him a long lissome look.

“Not the way you know me now,” Javier said, and stroked Martin’s hand.

Martin gripped the steering wheel tighter. Javier’s hand was so much darker than his. His palm was soft and smooth against Martin’s pale skin, which was veiny and speckled with age.

“Don’t start buying baby clothes just yet,” Martin said. “I’m not sure Charlotte is capable. I don’t think she was ever a child herself. I think she’s scared to death of children, and in some ways of Zdenĕk. I think that’s it. She’s afraid his joie de vivre might rub off, some sort of suffering artist rationale that happiness will ruin her work. But who knows? You should have seen her before she and Luca left. She was a changed person. Maybe the change will stick.”

“Maybe. If she’s smart enough not to get stuck with something else.”

Martin groaned in mock horror.

“I am serious,” Javier said. “There could be real trouble. You know, I’ll bet he knows how to do things with that thing that—”

“Stop it. Maybe that’s just what she needs.”

Martin smiled a crooked smile.

“Someone new to open her up. It’s working for me.”

The traffic was backed up outside of New York. As they crept along, Martin remembered what it had been like to be caught in traffic with Haze. Once he’d become so angry at a cab stalled at a light on Lexington Avenue he jumped out of the car and pounded the taxi’s hood. When he got back in, his hand was bleeding. He was always so dramatic; every little thing was a problem, or a conspiracy. Nothing was ever uncomplicated, especially towards the end. It was as though he was trying to make his dwindling life larger than it really was, and why not? He was so ill, in constant pain. It struck Martin then that Haze must have been terrified feeling his life slipping away and Martin had a sudden guilt-fueled flash of understanding of the chaos Haze created in his last years and in those last terrible days.

Javier, by comparison, was calm, gentlemanly. He worked hard and expected everything to go smoothly. Maybe, Martin thought, if he made a life with him, it would.