November 11, 2006--Saturday Story: Ludavicio et al.--Part Two

In Part One, before Lloyd Zazlo takes us into darker territory, he brought us up-to-date about how his wedding to Lydia Lichter proceeded. We were told about Rabbi Phillips’ rapturous sermon in which he urged the young couple to experience love in all its manifestations, emphasizing the physical. This seemed very much to please Lydia as it did Lloyd’s Aunt Madeline, who here, in these fictional memoirs, makes her final appearance, while everyone seemed to enjoy the shrimp cocktail.

Thus, in Part Two, we in fact begin to encounter . . . .

And so it should not be a surprise to even a casual reader that when I returned a day early from my first coast-to-coast business trip, from UCLA where I had been invited to present a paper on the “Prophetic Works of William Blake,” the subject of my master’s thesis, I was so excited to see my bride and share my triumph (the departmental chair had said it was “revelatory”) that I burst through the door at 11:00 PM wanting so much to take her in my arms and carry her up to our nuptial bed where celebrations would commence.

But instead, there on our Spanish-style sofa, which in its opulence represented a splurge from Bloomingdales, as if were more his house than mine, was draped, like a male odalisque, wearing just low-cut black briefs, a bruiser of no more than nineteen, who I immediately realized was certainly not a delivery boy.

“Oh, Ludavicio,” I heard Lydia sing from the floor above, most likely from our bedroom. “Was that you at the door? I thought I heard something. Or was it just the wind? It is gusting so.” Ludavicio did not stir, thinking, I suspected, that if he remained motionless I might not notice him, perhaps mistaking him for a new chatchka.

Not fooled but bewildered and deflated, I also did not move, perhaps also seeking invisibility. I stood frozen in place in the little entrance hall of the neo-Victorian house we had recently purchased, with my parents supplying the down payment and Lydia’s grandparents the private mortgage, in the heart of Brooklyn’s Flatbush. All I knew was that there was a nearly naked post-adolescent spread out on my brocaded sofa, that from his name he was most likely Italian, and that Lydia was clearly entertaining him well into the night. And on a night that I was supposed to be still in Los Angeles!

“I’ll be right down,” she trilled in her most alluring coloratura. And in the same instant she swooped down the stairs; and then as she neared the bottom, in a single graceful move more Merce than Martha launched herself in a balletic leap that carried her clear across the hallway where I still stood transfixed. It was a leap so adroit, with so much lift and arc, that it carried her directly onto the living room’s shag rug, another extravagance, where with arms akimbo she landed as if to present herself to him. As if to announce, “Take me; I am yours!"

But as she sailed by me in the superheated air, she must have, out in the margins of her excellent peripheral vision, noticed that there was someone else there to interrupt whatever was planned; because even as she offered herself to him, she turned to look toward whomever it was who had disruptively thrust himself into their midst. And then, with considerable aplomb, without missing a beat, while who that stranger in actuality was developed like a photograph in her consciousness (it was her husband!), Lydia said, “Lloyd, darling,” she had never addressed me as such, “I’m so glad you’re here. This is Ludavicio,” her Italian of course was perfect, “I told you all about him, didn’t I?”

And since I neither moved nor responded, I was so stunned by the situation, her audacity, and especially by what she was wearing—a white, totally transparent leotard that did not even begin to obscure the fact that it was her only garment—she undauntedly chirped on, “But you of course do know that he is my partner in the piece I am choreographing to present to Merce. Merce Cunningham.” She had, that I did remember, moved on from frustration with Martha to hope with Merce. But about Ludavicio, in spite of her insistence, I did not know. Though from his still calm and languid pose, a mere spectator now in our tawdry family drama, from that sangfroid, I know for certain he was Italian--he had obviously witnessed, been in the middle of this kind of complexity before. From the glorious looks of him, most likely many times before. For me, though, it was still unfamiliar territory; terra incognita about which I would soon become an expert explorer.

“I was just about to make us some tea,” Lydia said still totally insouciant. “And darling,” darling again, “would you also like a cup? After such a long flight, wouldn’t some chamomile be perfect? It will calm you.” That in fact I could use. “I also have some Madeleines that I bought from Colette’s in the City.” Again pronounced without accent and in just two syllables--she was an accomplished linguist. “You love them, I know. You always say they are so ‘literary.’” She was at her seductive and radiant best.

All of her attention appeared now to be focused on me, and for a moment I almost forgot who else was splayed out just across from us. Thus I felt myself beginning to want to tell her about how well my paper was received, my triumph. I could not stop myself from saying, “You know how I had been wondering if anyone knew Blake’s Four Zoas. No one reads it these days. It’s so dark and coded. It was such a risk to spend so much time on it, but . . . .”

Ludavicio began to stir, clearly not interested in Blake much less so obscure a work. It was also clear that Lydia, who had danced into the kitchen and was filling the tea pot with water, was not wanting to interrupt her plans for the evening by listening to my rattling on about Blake’s epic about Albion, his prelapsarian “primal man,” especially since she had one waiting there for her in the other room.

“Darling, come get three tea cups and those lovely Delft dishes my father brought back from Amsterdam. Put them on a tray. That one over there. And take them up to the studio on the third floor. I’ll bring the tea pot in a moment. Ludavicio can help me with the Madeleines. I so much want to show you what we have been working on.” She added with what felt like emphasis, “That’s of course why he is here.”

Either from jet lag or the utter amazement and disorientation I felt from the hallucination into which I had fallen right there in my own house in the geographic center of bourgeoisie Brooklyn; either from Lydia’s breezy matter-of-factness or Ludavicio’s insouciance, as if in a spell, I robotically retrieved the cups and saucers and plates, stacked them on Lydia’s favorite gilded tray, the one with the reproduction of Manet’s Olympia embossed on it, and began to mount the two flights of oak stairs that led to the dance studio in the attic.

Once there, slightly out of breath, on a small cot that Lydia had dragged up the steps, presumably in lieu of a sofa and which, since there was no other furniture there except a battered folding chair, also served as the only place to set the tray and arrange the cups on their dainty saucers. Since we would all have to find room to squat together on the bed, with care I arranged the bone china in a way that I felt would best accommodate our awkward threesome that we represented—two on one side close together, for Lydia and me of course, and on the other side, as far away as the tiny bed would allow, a place setting for, was it, “Lorenzo”?

* * *

It seemed to take at least fifteen minutes for them to arrive and to burst, crunched side-by-side, through the narrow doorway into the studio. This seemed longer than I would have thought necessary since the water had already begun to steam when I had left the kitchen, and how difficult was it to arrange the six admittedly luscious Madeleines on the oval serving dish?

“Let the tea steep for a few more minutes,” Lydia chirped, “I want so much for you to see what we have been preparing for Merce.” Thankfully, Lorenzo had pulled on a pair of jeans, but still he was not wearing a shirt or shoes. This, at least to me, made him look more convincingly like a dancer. “The piece,” Lydia bubbled, “is set to Lou Harrison’s Suite for Symphonic Strings. I played it for you last year. Remember how you said you liked its Eastern influences?” She seemed genuinely interested in my reactions. “Merce is interested in that too, East and West, and of course so is John Cage.’ She paused and looked at Lorenzo who remained framed in the doorway, “I think they’re a couple. Don’t you Ludavicio?” Ah, it was “Ludavicio.” “They are lovers, no?” He smiled back at her inscrutably, more East and West, not saying a word or even nodding.

“But who cares,” Lydia sang as she placed the LP on the turntable, “Life is too short, don’t you think, to wonder about who is sleeping with whom.” I’m not sure to whom that rhetorical question was directed. She added with a sign, philosophically, “Isn’t that all just a silly game?”

And with that the first churning, sensuous chords of the Suite filled the space; and Lydia, in an instant, had Ludavicio take her in his arms. It is true he did move gracefully but, I detected, without the telltale energy of a well-trained modern dancer. It would not have been unreasonable for one to have suspected that he had just learned his role, perhaps even just ten or fifteen minutes before, because as an apparent novice he was being used by Lydia, in effect, as a prop as she wrapped her torso around his waist and then sinuously unwound herself, snake like, winding up in a coil at his feet as the first section of the music thundered precisely to a conclusion.

While curled there, Lydia announced, “I think that’s enough, don’t you?” That was clearly directed to me. “The tea will be getting cold and you do have to tell us all about Los Angeles.” Holding on to Ludavicio’s hips she raised herself slower than required from the studio floor. The Harrison piece continued, now more subdued in the background. It was clear that they hadn’t rehearsed anything beyond this. The performance was thus over.

Lydia bounced onto the cot with such force that all of the dishes I had so carefully arranged jumped in the air and wound up scrambled together in the middle of the mattress. And she had plopped herself down where I thought Ludavicio would settle, which meant that he and I would need to find our own places. Uncharacteristically, for up until then he had been so slow to move, he this time took the initiative to squat next to Lydia, which thus left me with the only remaining place at the other end, facing them. And from that vantage point, I had to acknowledge that they did look handsome together as they found themselves pitched toward each other because their aggregated weight had compressed the mattress into a concavity. Arranged this way, on the bed together, to me they appeared much more natural then they had in their recent, very brief pas de deux.

The tea was by then lukewarm, but still its gentle jolt of caffeine must have had the effect of emboldening me. So I ignored Lydia’s questions about my Four Zoas paper and looked directly at Ludavicio. “Tell me Ludavicio, did you study, as Lydia did, with Martha?” My question caught him off guard and for the first time he lost some of his natural self-possession.

I saw him give Lydia a flickering, was it a nervous glance. Her smile appeared frozen in place but she still managed to answer for him. I wondered if he spoke English. Thus far he had not uttered one word in any language. She quickly said, still sounding nonplussed, “He actually is self-taught. Which is remarkable, don’t you think?”

I ignored her and managed to keep my eyes fixed on him. He stared back at me, betraying nothing. “So what else do you do? Are you in school? You look young enough to be.”

“He isn’t,” Lydia jumped in to respond, “He’s actually just living in the city, trying to find a place for himself in the theater or dance world. I think he’s very talented, don’t you?” I didn’t answer, so she undeterred asked, “Would you like some more tea? It’s very good, I think.” She leaned across Ludavicio to retrieve the pot.

I continued to press him. But he had already regained whatever mote of composure he had lost by my addressing him so directly. “So you’re taking acting classes? With Lee Strassburg or Stella Adler, I assume?” I was getting tired and my aggression was increasing.

“No, darling, he’s just beginning. He’s not quite ready for them yet, don’t you think?”

“So how are you supporting yourself?” I shot in his direction, not believing how audacious I had become.

“I’m sure it will not surprise you that he comes from a very successful Milanese family and they are helping him.” For the first time I felt a little defensiveness from Lydia.

“So he’s doing nothing and living off his parents.” This was not a question but a statement and, like a salvo, I launched it this time directly toward Lydia. “Don’t you think?” I added with a smirk. Two could play at that “don’t-you-think” game!

“Well he does earn some money.” Lydia, I was pleased to notice, was at last becoming snippy. I knew from that I must have been getting to her.

So I pressed on, “Doing what? Servicing housewives while their husbands are out of town?” This was admittedly well below the belt because, though Lydia did not have a job and I paid all expenses, including hers, she felt, actually, she asserted with considerable passion and forcefully articulated righteousness that I was subsidizing, patronizing her art. In the great tradition of art patrons. Nothing made her more furious than being called, as this time in a consciously sexist way, a “housewife.”

“I beg you pardon, Mr. Professor,” she sputtered, having at last lost control, mocking my modest earning capacity, “he does make money on his own. If you must know, he does very well modeling for artists. He has a magnificent, perfectly articulated body.” And she added as an aside, “Not that you would notice.” I had in fact noticed when I first saw him posing on our sofa. And out of the corner of my eye I caught sight of Ludavicio now proudly flexing his pectoral muscles, alternating his left and right ones.

“And besides that, he’s gay!" Lydia spat at me, “So you can just relax.” And with that she bounded up from the cot and stormed out of the room, slamming the door as she exited and stomped down the steps, leaving Ludavicio and me alone together on the mattress. The Harrison piece had ended some time ago and all that could be heard was the steam clanking in the original cast iron radiators.

In truth, feeling uncomfortable from being left in such a situation with a half-naked Ludavicio, who continued involuntarily to flex and preen, I turned back toward him with considerable tentativeness. I felt much hotter than either my anger with Lydia or the heat would have in themselves engendered.

He looked back at me slyly and said the only two words I ever heard him utter, neither with any apparent accent.

Shaking his head from side to side, smiling coyly he said, “I’m not.”

* * *

And so, from that evening with Ludavicio, you will not be surprised to learn that I quickly moved to “get even”—as Lydia had taken Aunt Madeline’s advice to get herself a man, or a man-child in Lorenzo’s or Ludavicio’s case, I too began my search for a women who would find my capacities, whatever Lydia thought of their inadequacies, quite sufficient, thank you very much.

To be continued next Saturday . . . .