Seymour

Seymour, it sometimes seemed to his friend Joshua, put the sort of single-minded energy into seduction that other men applied to digging canals that joined oceans or to sending rockets to the moon. If hitherto unsavored nooky, as he always put it, was the sweetest reward this world had to offer, no subterfuge or inconvenience was too great. Napoleon could not have put more care into the taking of Austerlitz than Seymour did into the ravishing of the receptionist at Pitney, McCabe, Thornason, Lapointe & Cohen. He would find out a girl's favorite color, what perfume she fancied and if roses pleased her more than orchids. If she read, and a few of them did, he would contrive to surface with a signed copy of a book by her most revered author. If it was called for, he came up with rinkside tickets to the hockey game when Boston was in town. He had, in order to seduce a lecturer at Concordia U, done a crash course on Kate Millett, and for the sake of the favors of a typist at Canadian Jewish Congress, he had got dressed in striped prison garb and tramped up and down in front of the Soviet consulate to protest the treatment of his brethren in Russia.

"Seymour," Joshua had said, aghast, "what are you doing in that ridiculous outfit?"

"You are looking at a man," he replied, "who is going to have congress with a girl from Jewish Congress."

He was exceedingly generous with gifts for his girls. Rings from Lucas, necklaces from Ogilvy's, watches from Birks. The saleslady in charge of the lingerie department at Holt-Renfrew suffered through his every entrapment, agonizing with him as he tried to settle on a choice, searching for what he called the real coozy creamer. The one that would make the honey run. Truly, W. H. Auden couldn't have put more thought into finding the precise adverb than Seymour did into the selection of a pair of lace panties.

Seymour was a compulsive philanderer. He was also totally unselective. His mouth full, squirting pickle juice, he ran his hand up the legs of mountainous waitresses in delicatessens, making them quake with laughter and feel good. Disembarking from the morning train to Ottawa, joining the breathless dash to the taxi stand, he had already picked out, en route, the good bet he would invite to share his ride to the Château Laurier. Seymour subscribed to a phone-call club in Chicago. For $50 a year, he was able to call a toll-free station and get the numbers of ladies eager to receive obscene phone calls. He bantered with long-distance operators and kept a poste restante in post office B.

Portly, moonfaced Seymour was in knitwear, his father's business. On his flights to buy in New York, he no sooner unfastened his seat belt than he was at the rear of the airplane, whispering indecencies into the stewardess' ear, making her flush with pleasure. On steamy nights, he parked at the Westmount lookout and necked with buyers' secretaries from Eaton's, The Bay, and even Miracle Mart. Desk clerks in motels in the Laurentians, the Adirondacks and Cape Cod, accustomed to having Seymour register with any number of "Mrs. Kaplans," shook their heads in admiration as he moseyed up to the desk with yet another moistening wife in tow. His mother's widowed friends suffered palpitations, they melted in his arms, when he deigned to visit. If his 15-year-old daughter brought home classmates after school to listen to acid-rock records in the furnished basement, Seymour scooted downstairs and taught them how to do the boogiewoogie. He had membership cards to all the most modish discos.

From the beginning, Seymour had been incredibly adroit at avoiding discovery. A Machiavelli among adulterers. He had been married to Molly for only two years when he came home from the office one night, grim, not saying a word all through dinner.

"What's wrong?" she asked.

"I don't want to talk about it."

"Is it something I've done?"

"Ha," he barked, thrusting the letter at her. Anonymous. Printed. Your wife has a lover.

"Oh, my," Molly exclaimed, a hand held to her cheek.

"How could you do such a thing to me?"

"Do what? You crazy fool. Who sent you this?"

"How in the hell would I know?"

"But you take their word over mine?"

"How long has this been going on?"

"Oh, boy, could you ever teach Senator McCarthy lessons!"

"If I'm inadequate, tell me," he raged, simulating tears.

"Oh, Seymour, my poor darling. There's not a word of truth in it."

"There have been phone calls, too. At the office. They say, 'Your wife is being banged black and blue on Tuesday afternoons,' and they hang up. Or, 'Molly sucks,' and they hang up."

"But I'd never do such a thing. Feh!"

"Not at home, you mean. Not for your husband."

"We're not going through that again. Please, Seymour. And on Tuesday afternoons, as it so happens, I go to my social-psychiatry class."

"And afterward," he said, "you blow the instructor in some cheap motel. For me, you wouldn't even wear that lingerie I bought you."

"It's filth, it's for a whore. I swear, Seymour, you are the only man who has ever touched me."

"Who is it? Somebody who laughs behind my back at parties?"

She began to cry. "I swear on our son's head I've never been unfaithful to you."

But, her tears notwithstanding, he slept on the living-room sofa that night, and the next, though she came to visit him, appearing in her flannel nightie. "I tried to get into those undies, but they're too small, the seam split. Look, baby!"

She was wearing the garters, pinching into her plump, quivering red flesh just above the knees, as high as she could force them to fit.

"Hotcha hotcha," he said.

Only then did he notice that she had brought a basin of hot water with her, as well as a bar of soap and a towel.

"What are you going to do?" he asked, alarmed.

"I'll do it for you if it's so important, but I'm going to give it a good scrubbing first and you've got to promise to pull it out before you're ready to shoot."

Seymour began to giggle.

"Look, mister, I'm not swallowing any of it. I'd only be sick."

Roaring, Seymour buried his head in his pillow.

"What's so funny?"

"Are you really having an affair?"

"No. I swear," she said. And, pale, resolute, she added, "Tell me when you're tumescent and I'll start."

"Listen," he said, feeling himself shrivel down there as he sat up, "I'm hungry. Why don't we have an omelet instead? With lox and onions."

And the next morning, when the registered letter came for her from Miss O'Hara, just as that bitch had threatened, he hid behind his Gazette as she read it, her cheeks burning red.

"Bad news?" he asked, finally.

"Maybe I'm not the only one playing around," she sang out.

"What are you talking about?" he charged, outraged.

"You ought to read this. I've never read such schmutz."

He grabbed it. "Holy shit! Do you know her?" he asked, struggling with the signature. "Sandy O'Hare?"

"O'Hara. And do you know her is more important."

"I've never heard of her in my life. You've got to believe me, Molly."

"I believe you."

He stared at her, stumped.

"And I didn't jump down your throat, did I?"

"No, dear."

"I didn't insult you with accusations based on no evidence but the word of a total stranger."

"Yes, dear."

"Give it here," she said, crumpling it into a ball and throwing it into the garbage. Where it belonged, she said.

"It's incredible," Seymour ventured. "Some sex nut has obviously got it in for both of us."

She seemed pensive.

"Some psychotic," he continued. "Who knows? Maybe one of those squinty-eyed types in your social-psychiatry class has the hots for you and he's trying to stir up trouble between us."

"Wasn't there a Sandy O'Hara on your switchboard?"

"Oh, you are sadly mistaken. Never," he said. "And, listen, darling, I've beenholding back. I've been getting more obscene phone calls about you. Right (continued on page 134) Seymour (continued from page 126) here. Where the kids could pick up the phone. So I've arranged to have our number changed. Temporarily, we're going to be unlisted."

"Isn't that a bit drastic?"

"The kids, Molly."

But now poor Seymour was in deep trouble. This time over his indiscretion with Engel's wife, while Engel lay in a hospital bed, trying to pass a kidney stone.

And this time he had been caught with his pants down. Literally. By Engel's father-in-law, who had a key to the front door and had come to surprise his daughter with a sack of oranges he had coddled all the way from Miami, only to find her naked and moaning on the living-room deep-pile wall-to-wall carpet, Seymour humping away, her legs straining heavenward. The grizzly old man had cried out and begun to pelt Seymour's bare ass with the oranges, the sack tearing, fruit flying everywhere. The tale had carried. And Molly was unforgiving.

Seymour, not so much contrite as seething, arranged for Joshua to meet him for lunch the following afternoon.

"Shit," he said, joining him late, "you know what happened to me?"

"Engel's wife," Joshua said. "I mean, how could you even be tempted by that--"

"You don't understand. You're not into sex like me. I climbed her because she was there. Like Everest."

Seymour was heavy, morose, awash in self-pity.

"Molly giving you a rough time?" Joshua asked.

"Aw, that's going to be OK," and, in his most earnest voice, he added, "I've promised to stop fucking around."

"And how are you going to manage that?"

"Don't you start in on me, old buddy."

"Seymour, you don't understand. I'm a fan."

"Well, that's over. Finito. You are looking at a man who has developed a foolproof system for fidelity."

"Oh, really?"

"You're not going to believe this," he said. "Come." And he led him right into the men's room. "Lock the door."

"What for?"

"Lock the fucking door."

As soon as Joshua locked it, a beaming Seymour dropped his trousers. He was wearing black-satin panties with a delicate lace trim.

"Wow," Joshua said, whistling.

"You can look, but you mustn't touch." Seymour wiggled his bum. "What do you think?"

"Think? Who can think? I'm trying to control myself."

"Seriously, now, you'd think I was a faggot," he pleaded, "wouldn't you?"

Joshua refused to commit himself.

"Sure you would," he insisted. "Anybody would. Don't you see, you prick?"

"See what?"

"No matter how horny I get, or who I pick up wherever, I'd never pull down my pants so long as I was wearing these. Why, they're ridiculous. I'd be a laughingstock. It's my chastity belt," he said. "Absolutely foolproof."

•

Soon after, skimming through the "Personal" column in The New York Review of Books, Joshua had stopped short, exploding with laughter, when he read:

Attractive, Cosmopolitan, Virile Montreal Man, early 40s, successful, literate, adventurous, seeks slender, loving ladyfriend in her 30s for sensual flights. "The grave is a fine and private place / But none I know do there embrace." Am often in N.Y.C. and Boston areas. N.Y.R. Box 142116.

Seymour, he had thought, Seymour, you shameless pig! With a bottle of Chivas Regal, Joshua sat down to formulate a reply to the ad, coy yet enticing, hinting at, if never quite spelling out, unimaginable delights, but politely requesting a letter, more concrete information, before a meeting could be arranged. This, just in case the ad had not been placed by Seymour. He needn't have worried. Seymour's horny reply came bouncing back in the return mail. This time, Joshua took a fetching television actress of his acquaintance and Barbara, a friend of Molly's, into his confidence. He framed a reply, appropriately salacious but delicate in manner, that suggested an exploratory rendezvous, neither party under any obligation, for late-afternoon drinks in the Maritime Bar of the Ritz.

Seymour arrived, shined, scrubbed and scented, at the appointed hour. A bottle of Mumm's, nesting in a silver bucket, was already at his side when he noticed Joshua ensconced at the bar. He waved, his smile sickly.

"Hi, Seymour. Mind if I join you?"

"As a matter of fact, yes."

"Aw, you're kidding me," Joshua said, sitting down at the table.

"Go away. Shoo," Seymour said, his manner abrupt. "I'm waiting for somebody to join me."

"Who?"

"Who who?" Seymour shot him a perplexed look. "I don't know who." Then, in a sudden burst of good humor, he laughed at himself and explained that he was meeting a blind date. "Yes, at my age. So?"

"I didn't say that. But if that's the case--

"Wait," he said, as Joshua rose to leave. "Don't be so touchy. Sit down."

"Make up your mind."

"She will probably turn out to be awful. One of the world's crazies. Why don't you sit here with me until I.... She doesn't know who I am, either. It's too complicated a story to go into. OK, I'll tell you. She's one of those types who advertise in the "Personal" column of a newspaper, never mind which. I took a flier. I answered. OK, OK, I'm a terrible man."

"What have you got there?" Joshua asked, indicating a soft leather satchel beside him on the floor.

"What have I got there? A satchel. Prick."

"What's in it?"

"Fuck off, will you? I'll settle your bill."

Joshua started to get up again.

"Sit down, for Christ's sake."

"What's in the bag?"

"My equipment. Happy now?"

"Your what?"

"This is a complicated world we live in now. Things aren't what they used to be. So I've got to be prepared. How do I know what she fancies, a woman who advertises for it? A little S/M. Maybe not champagne, but a joint. Or a sniff of coke. Or a special kind of tickler. Who knows? Damn it, will you leave me alone?"

"I'm going."

"Just sit down here with me," Seymour said, starting each time the doors swung open. "But if I ask you to leave--suddenly--you will be a gentleman. You will understand. Oh, shit, no. This is absolutely ridiculous."

Barbara charged through the doors, big buxom Molly padding after.

"Molly, look who's here!"

"Oooh," Molly squealed.

Both ladies were laden with parcels (concluded on page 213) Seymour (continued from page 134) from Holt's and Ogilvy's. Molly had a run in her stocking. A smear of cream from a chocolate éclair clung to the mustache on her upper lip. Her leather coat was missing a button. Her voice booming, she explained that they had been out shopping when Barbara had suggested they might stop for a drink together at the Ritz before going home. Why not, she had thought, this once?

Fuck fuck fuck. Seymour, fuming, began to rub his hands against his trousers, his eyes fixed on the door.

"Oh, look," Molly exclaimed, a plump hand held to her powdery cheek, "champagne!" Her smile lapsed and her flinty eyes hardened. "Why the champagne, Seymour?"

"Ask him. He ordered it."

Molly turned to Joshua.

"I just got a big check," Joshua said, "totally unexpected. Why don't we ask the waiters to bring some glasses? We might as well open it now."

"What a sport he is," Seymour said, summoning the waiter.

"Champagne," Molly said, giggly.

Even as they began to chat uneasily, Seymour, his expression dead, saw the actress drift into the oak-paneled room. Joshua did not believe in levitation, but he could have sworn Seymour was lifted briefly out of his chair before he slumped back, an older man, seething.

"You know," Molly said, "I'm going to tell you something about champagne. Quite seriously. Only yesterday, I read that it's very good for your bowels."

Seymour's muttered reply was lost.

"He has such trouble, my Seymour. No matter what I say, he won't take enough roughage. So he has to force it."

"Shame on you, Seymour."

"I don't know how interested you are, Josh, but the way we defecate is unnatural. We should squat, that's natural."

"Why don't you hike up your skirts." Seymour said, "and give us a demonstration right here?"

"Quack quack quack," she said. "Josh isn't bored."

The actress was in her early 30s, with long, shining black hair, flashing legs. She wore a green-suede coat, unbelted, a fawn-silk blouse and a matching suede skirt. Enormous shell-frame glasses rode the crown of her black head. Lowering them to her lovely green eyes, she scanned the room, shrugged and then strode past their table to the bar, her scent lingering. Settled onto the bar stool, she crossed her long legs, delicate things rustling. Inside Seymour, Joshua sensed a volcano threatening to erupt, devouring all of them. Seymour's heart was thudding. His lips were parched. Fiddling with the stem of his champagne glass, ignoring Molly's breathless prattling, he appealed to Joshua with his melancholy eyes. The joke, conceived in drunken high spirits, began to pall. It could end badly, Joshua thought.

Seymour, ashen-faced, rose from the table.

"Are you all right, darling?"

"Don't get excited. I have to go to the toilet, that's all."

Conversation continued fitfully--the children, vacation plans, Margaret Trudeau's shenanigans--as the phone on the wall immediately to the right of the bar rang. The bartender took it, nodded and then whispered something to the television actress, who favored Joshua with a small, meaningful smile before she set her Gauloise down in an ashtray and got up to take the call.

"We're boring you," Barbara said, appealing to Joshua.

"Oh, not at all," and he pitched into the flagging conversation with simulated vigor, as he watched the girl on the phone smile, nod, burst into spontaneous giggles, frown, protest, nod again and finally hang up. Her manner distressed, pensive, she paid for her glass of kir, left it unfinished on the bar and drifted out of the room, failing to acknowledge Joshua as she passed. Relieved, he became more attentive to the ladies as Seymour bounded back to the table.

Barbara glanced at her watch and announced that she had to go.

"Did you bring the car?" Seymour asked Molly abruptly.

"Yes," she said, immediately scooping up her handbag. The clasp was broken. The bulging velvet bag was bound together with an elastic. A Roberta. Set him back $450. God Almighty.

"I have a couple of things to discuss with my friend here. Why don't you drive Barbara home? I won't be long."

Seymour, glowering, waited until the ladies had gathered their parcels together and left, and then he said, "I never would have suspected you of being so childish."

"Oh, come on. It was a joke."

"Some joke," Seymour said evenly. "Ha ha ha. You involved my innocent wife in this mindless prank and that's unforgivable."

"She didn't suspect a thing."

"I admit to having certain weaknesses, human weaknesses, but I never involve my wife and children in my escapades. My utterly joyless escapades. My wife and children come first with me." Leaning closer, he added, "You are a childish, inconsiderate, condescending, snobbish son of a bitch."

With that, Seymour shoved his chair back from the table and stomped out of the bar. Stunned, Joshua ordered a double Scotch, and it was only after he called for the waiter that he realized he had been left with the bill for the bottle of Mumm's.

There were two bars in the Ritz-Carl-ton. The Maritime, in the basement, which Joshua favored because of its comparative privacy, and the much more modish Café de Paris on the ground floor. Embarrassed, contrite, Joshua ascended the steps to the ground floor and paused at the newsstand to pick up some magazines. As he passed the glass doors to the Café de Paris, he just caught a glimpse of Seymour, an ingratiating, sweet-talking Seymour, huddled with the television actress at a table in the corner.

Seymour, Seymour.

He would be telling her that he had once seen her perform at the Centaur Theater and that he had never dreamed that he would be so fortunate as to meet her. He would say that he had also seen her play Masha on CBS-TV and, though he had seen The Three Sisters done in the West End and on Broadway, he had never known an actress to invest the role with such purity of soul. Such incandescence. Accidentally brushing against her leg under the table, he would allow that he had friends who put tax-shelter money into films and that she must meet them, and they would go to the Troika for dinner and then continue on to her apartment in the Cartier, where he would pronounce her not only gifted and intelligent but also beautiful, astonishingly beautiful. Unzipping here, unhooking there, licking, sucking, he would say that had she not been born Canadian, had she come from New York, she would now certainly be a star of international repute. Then he would open his satchel and invite her to step into his first gift. The come-on. A pair of low-cal, peppermint-flavored candy panties. Eating them off her, he would suddenly excuse himself and rush into the toilet to spray his erection with Long John. For endurance. Then he would return, beaming, and, one hand on his satchel, ask her what she liked best. Don't be shy.

" 'You don't understand. You're not into sex like me. I climbed her because she was there. Like Everest.' "

"Settled onto the bar stool, she crossed her long legs, delicate things rustling."