The Thieves of Manhattan - By Adam Langer Page 0,35

returning to the manuscript, where I struggled to find my place. The story was less polished than I remembered, its insights less profound, and I took solace only in the fact that neither Miri Lippman nor anyone with apparent influence in the literary world was here. As I read, I found myself feeling both hatred and affection for Anya, wondering if her recommendation to Miri was a peace offering, an invitation to start over, a farewell gift, or just a reminder that I would never be her equal. I wondered too about Faye, whether she would be flattered, amused, or revolted by the fact that I had written a story that was, in a way, about us. I wondered also whether she could guess that Anya’s entrance caused me to omit my dedication.

The final sentence of “After Van Meegeren” was meant to be a laugh line—outside a man’s apartment, a woman says she doesn’t have sex on first dates, but when the man reminds her that this hasn’t even been a date, she smiles and says, “Oh, right, then it’s no problem.” But I rushed the line, so much so that no one in the audience realized the story was over, and not until I mumbled “Thank you” did Anya begin to applaud, and then the rest of the half-dozen or so spectators followed suit. Faye clapped too, though she didn’t put down her whiskey to do it.

And then the bartender stepped out from behind his bar, unplugged the mike, and began shoving the podium into a corner, and someone turned up the music on the sound system. The candles in the menorah had already burned down to their wicks—the evening was over before I had even decided whether I would speak first to Anya or to Faye, hoping against hope some editor or agent would step between us.

I began walking toward Faye, but Anya intercepted me—oh, how byootiful my story had been, Ee-yen, she said, how luffly, how gledd she was to see I was writing again. And as she hugged me and I felt her body against mine, as I saw the sparkle in her eyes, I thought of how much I missed her effusive compliments, how much I missed our relationship’s drama, how much I wanted to grab her hand, run for the john, and lock the door behind us, just like old times. Faye was always so honest and direct, never offered a compliment I didn’t deserve, and something was still so narcotic about Anya’s presence. Even if her enthusiasm was phony, I needed it now.

“Heard you sold your book,” I said, but Anya said she didn’t want to talk about that. She was nothing more than a “fekk,” a “one-heet wonder.” The true joy was to be found in writing, she said; everything else was deestrection.

I asked if she’d sold her story collection to Merrill Books, and she responded quickly, as she always did when she was relating ostensibly unimportant information. No, those chip besterds hadn’t offered enough mah-nee; she’d sold it to Dotton. And, though I didn’t ask how much Dotton had paid, she allowed that the mah-nee was complittly rideekyouluss and, don’t tell ennybody, but she would have taken heff of what they ultimately wound up payink. But all that sort of talk was so borink, what she really wanted to talk about was me, how goot I looked, how healthy, had I poot on some wett? Was I seeink ennybody?

I looked over to Faye, wondered whether she could hear us, assumed she couldn’t. I looked at the few people still in the KGB, the man in the capote at the end of the bar, a few of Hazel Chu’s students, still drinking beers, probably under twenty-one and amazed they hadn’t gotten carded. Anya had come alone, seemed to be in no rush. I needed affection, reassurance, and she was flirting with me the way she used to on our first dates. Was I seeink ennybody?

“Not seriously,” I mumbled to Anya, adding that I still thought about her a lot. What about her?

“But of course I’m seeink someone,” Anya said with a sigh, she couldn’t stend to be alone. She joked that she was mono-phobeek, but her new relationship wouldn’t lest long eezer; her new luffer was too eentense.

At the bar, Faye hopped off her seat and slung her red vinyl bag over a shoulder as if she’d heard exactly what I had said to Anya about my relationship with her not being