I’D STARTED TO get the hang of the intermediate lindy, thanks to Elizabeth’s diligent attention. She had insisted on practicing a minimum of half an hour every night after dinner, even on the rare occasions when we ate in a restaurant. Like everything else she put her mind to, mastering the lindy was a matter of devotion. “Practice, practice, practice,” and it didn’t hurt that trying to get me to somehow be more coordinated provided a lot of laughs. A day or two before the fourth lesson, sitting in the bath together, Elizabeth said, “Sam, there are eight couples still taking the lessons, and I hereby officially rank us as third best. We’ve gotten better by leaps and bounds, but you have got to get your hands held right. Try to stop looking like you’re a bobby directing traffic in London or something, I don’t know. You improve on that and I’ll make bouillabaisse.”
“I’m pretty confident lately. It might not show, but I am.”
“How confident?”
“I put a down payment on the advanced lindy classes.”
“If you’re lying, I’m sleeping on the chaise longue tonight.”
“Ten dollars on deposit. A ten-dollar bill set directly into Mr. Moran’s hands.”
“Wash my back?”
Padgett may have been banished from the ballroom, but he remained employed by the hotel. He was still in the lobby, so we could not entirely avoid him. Elizabeth and I made a pact, vowing not to allow each other to mention his name. Still, he managed to creep us out. For instance, one time we had just come in from a matinee, our reward for her finishing three very difficult pages of her dissertation and for my completion of a rewrite of Mr. Keen, Tracer of Lost Persons (from “The Case of the Husband Who Didn’t Believe His Wife Was Dead.” Synopsis: “McBride is in New York. The couple meet. Kean not only reunites them, but sees that the stage act of McBride and Lindine will re-form, to the delight of audiences everywhere.”). It was a bitter cold day, snowing, we had on our overcoats over sweaters, and Elizabeth wore mittens. The heat from the radiators in the lobby was a relief, and we were going to go right up to our apartment and make dinner. As we waited for the lift, Padgett walked toward us. Under her breath Elizabeth said, “Mayday, Mayday, creep bellman approaching.” But Padgett stopped a good ten meters away and said, “The chaise longue looks on the mend. That Mr. Kaufner does good work.” That was all he said, but it meant he’d been in our apartment again.
Elizabeth and I immediately reported this whole thing to Derek Budnick. He listened intently, took a few notes, and said, “Twice now I’ve suggested that Padgett be sacked. But right now—and I don’t care who sees it—he’s going to see the back of my hand. Please excuse me.”
Anyway, the fourth lindy lesson went very well, according to Elizabeth; the next night she made bouillabaisse. Whenever Elizabeth cooked, she’d announce each stage of the recipe out loud: “Stir ingredients to keep the bottom of the pot from scorching.” “Drizzle in hot sauce at intervals.” “Sauté sausages only until light brown before placing them in the pot.”
Still life after the fourth lindy lesson:
Elizabeth asleep with head down on her desk, next to her copy of The Victorian Chaise-Longue, the shortwave radio on, the Amsterdam Philharmonic playing, occasional static intervening. Dark green Cyrano’s Last Night T-shirt on the ironing board, the iron unplugged, cord dangling. A pigeon on the windowsill, looking into the room, or maybe at its own reflection. A camera bought used at Freeman’s All-Purpose on Lower Water Street. A note: Dad’s birthday present will take a month by ship, so send air mail—don’t be cheap! Wooden bread board, half a loaf of bread. Bottle of red wine, one quarter full. Elizabeth murmuring in her sleep. Whimsical expression on her face, something in a dream amusing her. Bottle of aspirin. Carefully, so as not to wake my wife, I place a shawl over her shoulders. Turn the radio volume down. I sit at the table and start to take notes for a new assignment for Mr. Keen, Tracer of Lost Persons. Suddenly, without waking, Elizabeth says, “He must at least touch my hand,” then something like, “Mouse alarm.” My laughter at “mouse alarm” might have woken her, but didn’t. (Just a few days ago, here in my cottage, reading the novel, I discovered that “He must at least touch my hand” is from The Victorian Chaise-Longue.)