THE PRIVATE PARTY

21

You are in the Matador. You have a glass of wine but you are not touching it. You are watching the door. You are waiting for Istvan, the artist. He has not been here all evening or yesterday evening or the day before that. But if you wait long enough, being careful not to drink too much wine, he will come. Istvan does not live by schedules. But he knows things, places, ways to get into them. He may know a word, the one word you have been carrying with you since you left the Club. It is the one word that James gave up before they let him go. The word is Safety. That is all you have to go on. Safety.

            The Professor is also there. You have not been friendly to him lately. He does not seem pained. He is ruder than before, that is all. But you know that you have made the Professor sad. The ruder he is, the sadder he is.

            And it is not his fault that he was not able to help you, not his fault that everybody in Transfertown is scared. There are a lot of hurt people in Transfertown. How could he help them all? How could anyone help them all?

            You look over at the Professor, there leaning over his laptop as if trying to see deep inside it, and he looks up as if caught at something. You raise your glass to him and he looks away.

            The music in the Matador is a love song with  a giant pounding beat. It is always a love song in the Matador. You are the only woman in there besides Annabella the waitress. The men are watching the cage-fighting on the television. A guy is bleeding on the canvas. No one seems to notice; instead they are arguing about hockey.

            There is Istvan, scanning the room with his one open eye. There are drops of rain glistening on the silver tape of his jacket. He never walks straight into any room: he must see everyone who is in there first. Entering a cafe must be, for him, like entering a dark forest, looking for glowing eyes in the thickets.

            You smile at him, wave him over.

            “Istvan,” you say, “I would love to buy you a beer.”

            He does not sit down. “What do you need?”

            You laugh. “I didn’t ask you for anything. I just need someone to drink with.”     

            “No you don’t.”

            “Just sit with me. How about something nicer than a beer? How about a whiskey?”

            “I can’t stay. How are you so rich all of a sudden?” 

            “I take my clothes off for money. What do you think?”

            “Where do you do that?”

            “None of your business. Let’s ask Luis what kinds of whiskey he has. You want a double?”

            Istvan eyes the bar. “I’m kind of hungry.

            “They have a bacon cheeseburger. With fries.”

            Istvan stands, his eyes flickering about.

            “Sit with me. Anabella, can you get Istvan a burger?”

            He sits.

            “And a double Scotch, please.”

            Istvan sits back. He never takes his duct-tape coat off.

            His scotch arrives. He sips it carefully, as if it might be poison.

            “Tell me about today’s art piece,” you say.

            He shrugs. “What is it,” he says. “What you need.”

            You look him in the eyes and say, “Safety.”

            He blinks. Looks away. Looks back at you. He shrugs.

            “That word mean anything to you?”

            “Nope.”

            You look at him and sigh. “Annabella,” you call, “forget about that Scotch. Istvan has to go.”

            “I haven’t eaten today,” he says.

            “Safety,” you say. “Tell me about it.”

            He seems to clench his jaw for a second. Then he sits.

            “He is staying after all, Annabella. And he needs another Scotch”

            Istvan says, “What do you want with Safety?”

            “Isn’t safety something we all want?”

            Istvan is looking in his many pockets as if for a cigarette. “I wish I could smoke.”

            You wait. He finds a cigarette, smells it, puts it down on the table as if he doesn’t know what could be done with it. “The thing about Safety,” he says, “is that it’s not very safe.”