What better place than Greenwich Village to start a romance, to end a story, to escape?
The urban hamlet radiating from Washington Square is the city’s sanctuary, its asylum, the safe haven where generations of weary travelers have found solace after harrowing journeys. Bankers fleeing the cholera epidemics of the eighteenth century, Irish immigrants driven abroad by the potato blight, vagabond artists seeking an oasis from convention—all have been welcomed with open arms. The sidewalk cafes along MacDougal Street uphold no ideological standard. Clothing, loosely defined, is the only dress code in the taverns off Sheridan Square. If you are a trust-fund socialist or a Log Cabin Republican; if you’re into understated elegance or bohemian chic; if you know that garlic cures cancer or biology determines luck, if you crusade for the perfect sentence; if you refuse to labor in shoes; if you’re a bankrupt poet, a jilted lover, an adventurous tourist; if you’re Walt Whitman or Henry James or Jack Kerouac; if you’re waving or drowning; if you’re squirming under the sword of Damocles; if your future hangs on the narrowest thread of hope; even if you’re ugly: the Village will tolerate your idiosyncrasies, sponge your wounds, and nourish your dreams. It may also indulge your fantasies.
Larry races down University Place and past the Memorial Arch at top speed. A day that began on the sleepy streets of Harlem will end in a dash to the finish. The soles of Larry’s feet throb after hours of walking; his throat burns from wasted words; his clothes bear the scars of smoked eel and pickled herring. In less than twelve hours, he has saved the life of a pompous buffoon, failed to rescue a beautiful maiden, and abandoned a corpse to the mercies of the news media. An overbearing journalist has kidnapped his bouquet. A one-armed soldier of fortune has threatened to rearrange his kneecaps. He has seriously contemplated suicide. He has frivolously considered murder. It has been the most traumatic day Larry has ever experienced, a whirlwind of dreams extinguished and hopes renewed, but what makes this snippet of June so inconceivable is that the two greatest challenges are still to come. He may yet be an author. He may yet be a lover. All depends on whether Starshine, glorious Starshine, will wait for him.
Larry stops to regain his breath. Dusk has settled over the park and the paths are crowded with strolling couples and evening joggers. The elderly women and chess players who command the benches during the afternoon have yielded their dominion to amateur folk singers and small-time drug pushers. A troupe of acrobats and an African drummer compete for the attention of the passersby. A tender twilight has tamed the city, and all around Larry, like fireflies on a summer evening, young lovers emerge from their dormitories and high-rises and cold-water flats to share the wistful romance of the nightfall. They kiss. They embrace. They dream of other summer evenings, much like this one, when they savored the same verdant air and sensed the same hushed tranquility and caressed the gentle lips of long-lost sweethearts. This is the lovers’ truce that envelops the city for a fleeting interval between day and night, after offices have emptied but before bars have filled, when for a few short moments the entire island pairs off in a duet of sentiment and nostalgia. These are the precious minutes when young vows are proffered and old vows are consecrated. This is the interlude that makes the day worth living.
The last of the sun has already dipped behind the rooftops when Larry reaches the corner of Sullivan and Houston. He has selected a cozy, traditional Southern Italian bistro called Il Mandolo, the Almond Tree, in the hope that the soft music and elaborate frescoes will work their magic on Starshine’s heartstrings. The restaurant boasts crystal candelabras and decorative jeroboams, but also a smoking section for the high-strung patron. Larry has dined in Il Mandorlo on several previous occasions, all uneventful blind dates, but the lack of passion was as much his own fault as that of his companions. These were not women for whom ships are launched, for whom kingdoms are imperiled, for whom epic literature is composed. They were pleasant strangers who had no more interest in Larry than he did in them. But if the company disappointed, the ambience did not. Larry cannot imagine a more perfect venue for opening his envelope or tendering his devotion. Starshine will have waited. Of that, he is certain. She will be sitting at the reserved table by the window, her face glowing in the candlelight, her flawless beauty openly displayed.
And there she is!
Starshine rises to greet him and plants a light kiss on his cheek. Larry feels the warmth of her body as she gently presses his hand. Her hair exudes a mild fragrance of scented shampoo.
“I’m sorry I’m late,” says Larry. “The West Side Highway was a parking lot.”
“But you’re here,” answers Starshine. “That’s what matters.”
Larry settles into his seat and spreads his napkin over his lap. He polishes off the contents of his water glass, lights a cigarette, watches the curls of white smoke rising through the draft; one of the added perks of Il Mandorlo is the staff’s indifference to the city’s indoor smoking ban. Larry’s hand plays shell games with the silverware. This is the moment he’s been planning for two years, the long anticipated audience with the princess, but he finds himself unable to speak. Or even to look her in the face. Paralysis has set in. His vocal cords refuse to vibrate while his mind whirs aimlessly like the gears of a disconnected engine. The truth of the matter is that he has spent so many hours anticipating this showdown, dreading its failure, savoring its success, planning for every possible contingency and consequence, that he’s never actually devoted any time to the specifics of what he intends to say. Larry has imagined Starshine’s answer countless times, suffered every possible permutation. But he has never, not even once, rehearsed the question. How do you tell a woman that you’ve written an epic novel recounting her life on the day when she falls in love with you? Will she be frightened? Might she even be insulted? What once seemed like the cleverest of ideas, when hatched in solitude from the vantage point of Larry’s smoke-filled apartment, suddenly appears much less promising. The book is a harebrained, presumptuous scheme that can only be a recipe for disaster.
A white-haired, red-faced waiter arrives to announce the dinner specials and to take their beverage order. He is an undersized, skeletal creature decked out in an apron and bow tie. His entire bearing announces his flimsiness. Larry’s heart goes out to him as he requests a glass of white wine. The poor man is one of the unchosen, one of the spurned, a kissing cousin to Peter Smythe and the panhandlers of Morningside and the portly women at the Lenox Avenue post office. And to Larry Bloom. They all possess lifetime memberships in the fraternity of ugliness, the voiceless auxiliary to the Brotherhood of Man. This does not mean happiness and romance are forever beyond their reach. It does mean that they must struggle for it, laboring day after day, in a manner that the chosen few, those blessed with outward beauty, will never experience and never understand. Larry Bloom—as tour guide, as author—might not muster the courage to reveal himself to the beautiful woman across the table. But Larry Bloom, self-styled spokesperson for the millions of unattractive and underappreciated men and women across the city, across the nation, suddenly feels capable of facing any challenge. To hell with Colby Parker and Jack Bacomb and all the good-looking, privileged men whom Starshine complains about. They’ve had their share of happiness. It’s time for the Larry Blooms of the world to have their opportunity. This is Larry’s deepest wish, his purpose, his calling—and still he hesitates.
He reaches into his pocket and retrieves the letter. Although marred by both fire and water, singed at the edges and stained with coffee, the distinctive quill pen of the agency’s letterhead still stands out above the sea of smudged ink. He runs his fingers over the seams of the envelope, as though soaking up luck from an enchanted amulet, worshipping the great gods Stroop & Stone in his hour of need. Then he gazes into Starshine’s eyes, so inviting, so forbidding, marshaling his will for a first and final offensive. Now Larry knows his plan of attack. He will have Starshine open the envelope and deliver the verdict. All of his eggs will rest in one basket. The evening will end in a crescendo—of either anguish or bliss. Her answer will be epic and all consuming,
“Starshine,” he says. “I have something I need to tell you. Something important. “
She flashes him an elusive smile, more accepting than encouraging. He has seen this expression before, but he has never deciphered its meaning. Is it a mask, a protective barrier, veiling fears and insecurities as profound and as troubling as his own? Or is it merely a courtesy, a mode of interaction, an open admission that there truly are no monsters lurking behind those placid features? He has wondered; he has doubted. Now he will learn for certain.
“I have a lot to say,” says Larry. “I’ll respect your answer, whatever it is, but all I ask is that you hear me out from start to finish without interrupting. I only have the courage to go through with this once. Is that okay?”
Starshine nods. He feels that she is not looking at him, but through him. That her thoughts lie elsewhere and she has her own burden to unload. Never has she seemed so careworn, so drained. Larry fears he has chosen the wrong evening for their meeting.
“I’ll put all my cards on the table,” he says. “I’m in love with you.”
Starshine does not recoil. She does not reciprocate. She simply nods her head again and smiles pleasantly, honoring his request and withholding her judgment. Her eyes are glassy and opaque. If he didn’t know any better, he might conclude that she wasn’t even listening.
“I’ve been in love with you since the first moment I met you,” Larry continues. “Do you remember it? We spent all afternoon combing through the maps in Peter Smythe’s cellar. You probably don’t remember, but I do. Ever since that day, you’ve been the woman of my dreams, the one person with whom I’d want to spend the rest of my life. I know that sounds insane, Starshine, and maybe it is. But it’s also true.
“I’ll admit that I don’t have much to offer you. I’m certainly not the best-looking guy in the world or the most successful or even the most charismatic. I’m not going to inherit a beach chair fortune. I’ll never have the courage to overthrow the government. I’m not even very good in bed. But the bottom line is that I really do love you, and being with you makes me happy—and if you feel the same way about me, then none of those things should matter. Even a poor tour guide is entitled to some happiness.”
Larry is suddenly conscious that he is rambling, even pleading. An army of tears has encamped behind his eyes. He wipes his face with a napkin and attempts to regain his composure.
“I’ve written this book,” he says. “It’s a novel about you. About your life on the day I tell you how I feel. About today. I think it’s a pretty good book, maybe not up to par with Whitman and Melville, but a minor masterpiece in its own right. I’ve been working on it every night for the past two years and I promised myself that when the manuscript was complete, when I finally had something to offer you, I’d tell you how I felt. Well, I have a letter from a literary agency. A response to my manuscript. I’ve been waiting to open it all day until I heard your answer, but I thought maybe you’d be willing to open it for me. That’s really all I wanted to say. I wanted to tell you that I love you and that I’ve written a book for you and now I’ll shut up, before I make any more of a fool of myself, and I’ll let you determine my fate.”
Larry stops speaking and fumbles with his napkin ring. He fears he hasn’t done justice to the depth of his devotion, fears that he has left so much out, but nothing else he says will make any difference. Yet even as he slides the decisive letter onto the tabletop, his hands trembling, he longs to make one more pitch for her affections. His entire being hangs in the hope of the moment.
Starshine accepts the letter without speaking. Her delicate hands break the seal of the envelope and she reads to herself for an eternity. Then she looks up. Her expression is inscrutable, almost blank. For several seconds, it is impossible to tell whether she is aghast or aglow. Or merely astonished. She stares at Larry, speechless, like a woman who has been offered Captain Kidd’s treasures, like a woman who has been given a puppy she does not want, like a woman who is grappling with a life and death decision at the end of a very long day. Her lips part slowly; she delivers her answer in the softest, sweetest voice Larry has ever heard. It is the answer Larry has expected since his first night at the word processor, since his first crossing of the Brooklyn Bridge, since the first surge of affection and hope in Peter Smythe’s subterranean archive that has led to this decisive moment. It is the answer for which ships are launched, kingdoms imperiled, and epic novels written. It is an answer older than Larry, older than Starshine, older than the city, a magical phrase that loses nothing for time or repetition, inspiring each and every one of us to push forward, buoyed by the remotest hopes, through the tumult, through the trauma, through the cloud.
It is the only answer possible:
“Yes and no …”