“I don’t care if you mistreat me–just pay attention to me!” Celeste proclaimed as we were having another one of our unproductive heart-to-heart talks.
“Aren’t we being a bit melodramatic?” I asked. She was only nineteen and was feeling a little insecure about our relationship. I assured my enfant terrible that my love for her was unconditional, even if I did have a wandering eye for other women. After all, I was only twenty-two myself, and it was quite natural for a man of my age to be on the lookout for other sexual encounters. Not that I would always act on them necessarily, but it couldn’t hurt to look and perhaps make a mental note to hook up with one of the more desirable ones at some future date.
The year was 1972, the era of Free Love and the Golden Age of Sex—after the pill, before AIDS–and she had as many opportunities as I did to have clandestine affairs. I had only been living in New York with Celeste for a few months. Prior to that I had been working as a newspaper reporter in my hometown of Philadelphia. One weekend, toward the end of the summer when I was vacationing in Cape May, New Jersey, I met Celeste at the beach and we had a whirlwind romance. Coincidentally, she was moving to New York City in a few weeks to start her fall classes at Juilliard as an opera student and she was looking for a roommate. I had recently quit the paper I was working on for reasons I won’t go into and was looking to move to New York myself. So we found ourselves a nice little studio apartment on the Upper West Side and moved in together. Fortunately, her father, who was fairly well off and supportive of his daughter’s dream of becoming a famous coloratura soprano, was footing the bill for the rent, but he was happy that I was living with his young daughter for safety reasons.
In the early 1970s, New York was a dangerous place, sleazy, too, with a high crime rate, dirty streets filled with hookers and drug dealers, and graffiti-ridden subways. There were even certain parts of the city where the police wouldn’t go. So the last thing her father wanted was for his talented and precocious young daughter to get mugged or raped. I guess he thought I could protect her from the evils of the city, especially since she was so open and flirtatious with men, particularly older men, who found her absolutely charming and desirable. When I asked an older male acquaintance of ours what made her so appealing, he said, “She’s just so French!” True enough. But she was also quite neurotic and a pathological liar of epic proportions, so much so that she admitted to me that she lied with such regularity, she often had trouble distinguishing truth from fiction.
In retrospect, this behavior should have been a gigantic red flag for me, but at the time I found it more eccentric than pathological. And you know how it is when a romantic relationship is new and passionate and exciting; you tend to overlook things. So I overlooked it—at least at the beginning. As time passed, however, I realized this wasn’t the only aberrant behavior I needed to overlook; she also had a yo-yoing weight problem, which I discovered not long after we moved in together.
When I first met her she was in her “thin phase” and resembled a young Marlene Dietrich, only with larger breasts, which was OK by me and an asset for her since she told me it benefits an opera singer to have a large chest cavity for a more powerful voice. But as she ballooned up and resembled more of a young Charles Laughton, her self-image plummeted and she became very depressed. And when she became depressed, she ate more. And the more she ate the bigger she got. And the bigger she got the more she lied. For example, one night, when we went to a party where everyone got stoned, we brought home a large piece of decadent chocolate cake, which I put in the refrigerator so we could split it the next day for breakfast. Unfortunately, the next morning when I got up and looked in the refrigerator, it was gone. When Celeste woke up I asked her about the missing cake.
“I don’t know what happened to it!” she said indignantly.
“Well, I didn’t eat it. And I don’t think anyone broke into our apartment in the middle of the night, ate the cake, and then left without taking anything else.”
“Maybe you did eat it and just don’t remember.”
“Or maybe you ate it during the night and are simply not telling me the truth.”
She made a dyspeptic face and didn’t say anything.
“Isn’t that the more likely explanation?” I pressed her.
“Oh, stop badgering me!”
“So you won’t admit the truth.”
“The truth is over-rated!”
I let it drop, but I had a feeling it was just a harbinger of things to come. And I was right because as time passed I caught her in so many lies I lost track. And the curious thing was most of them were little lies about unimportant things that didn’t amount to anything. Then one day, when she returned to our apartment after a medical exam, she told me she had developed a brain tumor. Given her history of lies and deception, I immediately distrusted her. But when I questioned her she seemed to have all the right answers and appeared to be telling the truth.
“Why would I lie about something as important as this?” she asked me, her eyes filling with tears.
“I’m sorry,” I said and gave her a hug, and then I told her I would do everything in my power to support her.
A month later, when she returned from one of her weekly trips to the doctor, she was in good spirits. She told me that after several brain scans her doctor determined that the tumor wasn’t as pernicious as he first thought and that an operation had a high likelihood of success.
“That’s great news!” I said. “Let’s tell everyone tonight.”
“We will, indeed!” She put her hands on her hips and spun around. “And look! I’ve lost over fifteen pounds!”
We had been invited to a party at my Uncle Renzo’s brownstone on the Upper West Side, which was in walking distance from our place on West 78th Street, a couple of blocks away from Zabar’s famous gourmet deli. Renzo was a World War II veteran and fine artist who had recently had an exhibit of his paintings at a prestigious East Side gallery; his paintings were these polychromatic cosmic abstractions that were designed to make the viewer ponder his or her place in the universe. To me they were much more interesting and pleasing to the eye than the slapdash pieces of Jackson Pollack, yet not as bold or revolutionary as Warhol or Rauschenberg.
His wife Luriana, who was twenty-five years younger than he, was his titular business agent. In reality, she had only had a few business courses in college and knew very little about being the agent of an artist. The truth is, when Renzo first met her she was a cute little waitress, and initially their relationship had more to do with “the old in- out” and less to do with art or business. Nevertheless, she was a quick learner and before long she adopted the air of an art aficionado and was able to bluff her way through most situations.
That night Celeste and I arrived at the party a little late and it was already in full swing. Most of the people there, which included a variety of artists, musicians, and hipsters, eschewed formal education and anything that resembled a bourgeois lifestyle. And although I had more formal academic training than anyone else at the party, I was the least knowledgeable and sophisticated when it came to art, classical music, and high-brow culture. In those days, just living in New York gave one a certain air of superiority and cultural status, and my uncle loved to needle me by referring to me as a “philistine from Philadelphia,” namely, a poor soul who worked at a “regular job” and lacked sophistication. Sometimes he would even say things like, “Oh, how gauche!” Of course, he said this tongue in cheek just to be a wise ass, but it was an expression I had never heard in Philadelphia where some of my less educated friends still used the term “youse guys.”
The only people I knew at the party other than my uncle and his wife were David Renard and Teddy St. Clair. David was my age and was building his career as a classical pianist. Both his parents had been successful writers, and he grew up in Manhattan surrounded by intellectuals, authors, and classical musicians. Teddy was a character actor/set designer and was also a World War II veteran. In fact, he had been in the same outfit as Renzo during the war, and he was the guy who explained to me why older men were so attracted to Celeste.
The apartment was heavy with smoke from cigarettes and pot and cigars. In those days, almost everyone smoked something and no one seemed to mind. When we walked in, Renzo greeted us immediately and introduced us to a few party-goers who we didn’t know, and then he led us to the kitchen table that was filled with all kinds of gourmet treats from Zabar’s, including imported cheeses and crackers, and those little wrinkled black olives from Greece that I liked so much. There were also several bottles of wine and liquor on the perimeter of the table along with a bucket of ice.
“Help yourselves,” Renzo said to Celeste and me. He was chomping on one of those little De Nobili cigars that Clint Eastwood made famous in his spaghetti westerns in the late Sixties. Of course Renzo was always quick to remind everyone that “I was smoking these little cheroots long before Clint Eastwood did.”
As I began to make myself a plate of food, Celeste told Renzo the good news about her brain tumor. Renzo listened attentively, told her how happy he was for her and that he would inform his wife, who at present was mingling with the other guests. A moment later, Teddy St. Clair appeared, said hello and shook my hand, then turned his attention to Celeste.
“Well, look at you!” he said. “So trim and svelte!”
Celeste pretended she wasn’t flattered but smiled broadly. Teddy grabbed her arm and said to me, “You don’t mind if I take her away for a few minutes. I brought a record with me I think she’ll enjoy. It features a young Jussi Bjorling in La Boheme.”
“Well, if it features Jussi Bjorling…”
Renzo laughed. “You have no idea who Jussi Boerling is, do you?”
“No, but I assume he’s an opera singer since La Boheme is Celeste’s favorite opera.”
“Not just any opera singer,” Renzo informed me. “He was a famous Swedish tenor, one of the best.” He loved to one up me whenever he had the chance. But he always did it in a good-natured avuncular way—well, most of the time.
I finished making my plate of food and poured myself a bourbon on ice. Renzo excused himself and mingled with the other party goers. There was classical music coming from the record player in the studio section of the apartment and I could see Celeste and Teddy waiting for the record to end before they replaced it. After I finished eating, I lit a cigarette and poured myself another bourbon, and then I found David Renard and struck up a conversation with him.
“I’m glad you’re here,” David said, “because I need a small favor.
“What is it?”
“Do you know how to read sheet music?”
“You mean like actual sheet music for a piano?”
“Yes, that’s right.”
“No, I can’t read sheet music at all. Why do you ask?”
“Because I’m doing a recital later in the week and my assistant isn’t available, so I need someone to turn pages for me.”
I took a drag on my cigarette and said, “I wouldn’t know when to turn.”
“Hmmm… wait, maybe I could just say ‘Turn’ in a hushed voice when I got down to the end of each page.”
“I don’t know. If you’re willing to risk it I could do it, I guess.”
“Let me think about it,” he said and smiled. “By the way, where is Celeste?
“She’s with Teddy.”
“Oh, that lech.”
“Lech? Really? You think he’ll come on to her?”
“I wouldn’t put it past him.”
“But he’s a good friend of Renzo.”
David rolled his eyes. “Do you think that matters?”
On the way home from the party, I asked Celeste about Teddy and she just laughed and said, “Oh, he’s harmless.”
When we entered our apartment we were both still feeling the effects of the pot and the booze and we immediately started to undress each other.
“Hold on a sec,” Celeste said. “I’ve been wanting to do this.” She walked over to the bookcase, removed Ravel’s Bolero from the record section, and put it on the record player. She explained to me that the classical piece lasted for fifteen minutes and the idea was for two sex partners to have foreplay and time their orgasms to the final crescendo.
“Sounds good to me,” I said. And believe it or not, we were able to do it. Afterward, we lay on the bed feeling satiated and relaxed, and before long we fell fast asleep.
The next morning when we awoke, Celeste said to me, “There’s something I have to tell you.”
“Wait till I start the coffee,” I said and rolled out of bed. I walked into the kitchen and put on a pot of coffee. Then I returned and sat on the edge of the bed.
“Remember yesterday I told you the good news about my brain tumor,” she said in a halting voice.
“Yeah …”
“Well, it was a lie.”
“You mean it wasn’t good news?” I was taken aback.
She chuckled nervously. “No, I mean the whole thing was a lie. I never had a brain tumor.”
“What!?!”
She looked at me and smiled sheepishly.
“Are you crazy? You mean to tell me you made the whole thing up? And led me on all this time? Why did you do that?”
“I don’t know.”
“Oh, you know goddamn well you know,” I said and gave her a stern look. I couldn’t believe this was happening.
“All right… I was feeling fat and unloved and in need of attention. Is that what you want to hear?”
I just shook my head. “You need help, Celeste, you really do. And I mean professional help.”
Hearing that, she jumped off the bed in tears and ran into the bathroom.
The next day we kept our distance from each other. It was becoming painfully obvious to me that I had to get out of this relationship. How could one live with a habitual liar? Or someone so neurotic and needy? Sure she was very bright and talented and passionate. Not to mention the fact that I was getting a free ride on the rent, which helped subsidize my lifestyle in New York since I had enough money saved from my last job, plus unemployment, so I didn’t have to work at a “regular job”; this afforded me the time I needed to work on a novel I had just started. But, like all the relationships that I had had so far in my life, I knew this one would also be short-lived. And it was only a question of time before it ended.
In the next few weeks we lived separate lives. It’s odd how two people can live in the same space yet be so far apart. Celeste was busy going to school and practicing her vocal lessons, but I had a sneaking suspicion that she was also seeing Teddy St. Claire on the side. I couldn’t prove it and I knew it was fruitless to ask her about it since she would only deny it. But I was getting to the point where I no longer cared. I was busy writing my novel, seeing the sights of New York, and visiting with Renzo. I also got in touch with one of those women I had made note of early in our relationship and was having my own little side affair.
In retrospect, it was a fairly contemptible way to live, for both of us. But at the time it seemed like a good idea, even kind of hip or postmodern. Celeste and I still talked to one another and occasionally shared lunch or dinner; we even had sex once in a while. But it was a different kind of sex—all lust, no romance. Certainly no more Bolero. It was during this time period that Celeste told me she had a new serious problem. She claimed an older man was following her around campus at Juilliard and she got bad vibes from him; she even thought he might be some kind of sicko.
“Oh, you mean like Teddy?” I said disdainfully.
“No, not Teddy! We’re just friends.”
“Of course you are.”
“You think I’m having an affair with Teddy?”
“Well, aren’t you?”
“Of course not—he’s gay!”
“That’s not what David told me.”
“That’s because Teddy hides it!” She threw up her hands, looking exasperated. “I don’t even think Renzo knows the truth.”
I wanted to believe her, but I knew she was clever enough to concoct a cover story in the event I caught her in a lie.
“Besides,” she continued, “you don’t think I know you’ve been seeing someone else? Where do you go when you disappear for hours in the afternoon?”
I lifted my eyebrows like Groucho Marx but didn’t say anything. Then I lit a cigarette and said, “By the way, I meant to tell you. I’m going away for a few days. A friend of mine from Philly is getting married and I’m going to his wedding. I’ll be staying with my sister.”
“I suppose I’m not invited,” she said with mock indignation, but I could tell she was disappointed; Celeste loved ceremonies and parties.
“Look on the bright side, my little wunderkind. With me gone you’ll have more quality time to spend with Teddy.”
“At least Teddy appreciates me,” she said sharply.
The next day I took the subway to Penn Station and hopped a train to Philly. Getting to see my old pals and going to the wedding and reception was just what I needed. A few days of drunken/stoned debauchery. It felt good to be free and unencumbered again. And it was then and there I made the decision to leave Celeste for good. There was really no other choice. Once you can no longer trust someone, the game is over.
On the train ride back to Manhattan I unfolded a copy of the New York Times I had bought at a news stand at the station. I browsed the headlines on the front page and was dumbfounded when I came across a story with this headline: “Juilliard Student Murdered on Campus; Perpetrator Still at Large.” No, it can’t be! I thought. But as I continued to read the story, my worst fears were realized. It was Celeste! She was the victim! My mind went into overdrive as a multitude of thoughts spun around in my consciousness as if I were having a feverish dream. But the thought that finally stood out like the winning number on a roulette wheel was the one about Celeste being followed on campus by an older man. Maybe she was telling the truth after all! Jesus Christ! If I had only taken her seriously! If I had only brought her with me to the wedding! She would still be alive! I was supposed to be her protector, for chrissake. She was so young, so talented. What am I going to tell her father? How am I supposed to live with this guilt?
But live with it I did. And of course I rationalized it. It wasn’t really my fault. It was New York’s fault! It was the police’s fault! It was her father’s fault! Why would he send a young girl to live in a city he knew was so dangerous with a guy like me, someone she barely knew! What if I had turned out to be a nut? But no matter how I rationalized it, I still could not get back my peace of mind. So I drank a lot of booze and took a lot of drugs for the remainder of the year. I even saw a shrink. Finally, I was able to put it to rest and move on.
During that time the authorities had still not found her murderer, but they claimed they had some promising leads. About a year after that, the police finally tracked down the guy who killed her. He was a forty-three-year-old man who claimed he was her lover in another lifetime and that she still talks to him from her grave. They also said he was a devotee of opera and classical music and that his favorite opera was La Boheme.
