This is a story about New York in 1956. Every word is true. And though we all are ancient or dead now, names have been changed to protect the people who don't want to remember.
YEEMIN, JASON, SUKARNO AND ME
She called herself Yeemin. We accepted it because she had an exotic
background. Forget that she had gone to Bennington, the weaving and pots
school. She had in fact lived in Jakarta.
Her name was
Nancy Perkins.
The most
striking thing about her was the thick straight as a stick naturally blond hair
that hung to her shoulders. And her blue eyes. She spoke Indonesian and French
and some Mandarin Chinese. She'd lived in Hong Kong off and on.
Her English
had a clipped quality, not really American, but certainly not British. She
sounded like someone who had been away a long time.
Men
routinely fell in love with Yeemin. There was the way she moved her mouth. I
know for a fact she copied it from Emma Blakely. All the girls at Bennington
had copied Emma Blakely--right down to Betsy Stokes who was the most level-headed
of the lot. Emma talked out of the corner of her mouth, just slightly. It was
very engaging and it was absolutely unique. And Yeemin and Betsy copied it. If
you hadn’t known the original, seeing Yeemin talk slightly out of the corner of
her mouth would have knocked your socks off. But I knew Emma. Still, Yeemin had
so much going for her that wasn’t off-the-rack that the way she moved her mouth
was just one more charm in her treasure box. She would suddenly appear, stick
around for a few months and then go back to Jakarta or Hong Kong or Paris.
I’d been
subletting a railroad-type apartment in a slum building at 70th Street and
Second Avenue when the telephone rang one torpid August afternoon. It was
Yeemin. It was 1956.
Her voice
was unmistakable. I knew who it was as soon as she said Hi.
“Where are
you?”
“Here...I
mean, New York.”
“For how
long?”
“I’m not
sure, but certainly until mid-September. Sukarno is coming over then.”
I wasn’t
particularly interested in international politics or what the tyrants in small
countries were up to. But I did know Sukarno had been making noises about
becoming more than just a figurehead. And I knew Yeemin was on a Howdy basis
with him.
“What’s he
coming for?”
“Just a
press relations tour. I have to find entertainment for his reception. Are you
still singing?”
I told her
to come over. I said we’d talk. The idea of an Indonesian dictator having to
listen to Benjamin Britten at an Upper East Side soiree was particularly
appealing.
When
she arrived she ran up the four flights of stairs as though she did it every
day. She wore a white cotton shirt and a full skirt. Both were hand-woven and
hand-embroidered. Her hair was the same tow color that I remembered when we had
met a few years before. She was a little younger than I. She was maybe
twenty-three.
“I just got
my hair cut,” she said, walking into the kitchen. “If that barber in Chinatown
dies I'm sunk. He’s so old. But he just cuts. No talk, no baloney and I pay
him. He doesn’t like me though. I know that.”
She twirled in a circle and her skirt fanned out as her hair fanned out.
“See what it does when I turn. Isn’t it perfect?”
She sat on a
bench at the kitchen picnic table and rummaged in the huge straw bag she always
carried. This one was shocking pink.
“Here, these
are for you.” She held out a little package of purple tissue paper. I unfolded
the paper. A pair of delicate silver earrings lay on the tissue. I thanked her
but she was wearing the ones I really wanted. They were heavy silver and had
little balls on the tips reaching nearly to her shoulder.
“My ears
aren’t pierced. These would look better on you anyway,” I said. I handed them back to her.
“Well, get
them pierced then.”
I shrugged.
Yeemin had grace and elegance and I felt rough, jagged and sweaty by
comparison. The purple tissue lay on the table between us.
“Do you have
a potato?” She looked around the kitchen and back to me. It wasn’t easy to
follow her conversation sometimes. She flitted from thought to thought, from here
to there.
“Sure. Why?”
“How about a
darning needle and dental floss?”
“Yeah….” I
thought for a minute. “Oh God Yeemin...you're not going to....”
“Why not? We’ll need a couple ice cubes, a
cotton ball and a little rubbing alcohol.”
I had no
time to think. I gathered together the things Yeemin said she needed. She
fetched up an eyebrow pencil from her bag and I sat down on the bench. She
stood over me and marked dots on my earlobes. I had wanted pierced ears all my
life.
It didn’t
take long. She swabbed my ears with alcohol and told me to hold the ice cubes
on my earlobes for a minute to get them numb. She cut the potato in half, held
it behind my ears and dipped the floss-threaded needle in alcohol. She poked
the needle through my earlobe into the potato and pulled it out the other side.
I had little loops of dental floss hanging from my ears before I could change
my mind.
“Take
these,” she said, pulling off the earrings I liked so much. “They’re more you
anyway.” In a week, she said, I could put in gold posts. She took two little
gold eardots from her bag and handed them to me. I reached up and touched my
ears.
“They won’t
bleed, keep them clean and move the floss around a lot.” She folded up the
purple tissue and put it in her bag. She smiled and sat cross-legged on the
wooden bench.
“So...what’s
new?”
Yeemin and I
hadn't had a long shmooze in over a year. We caught up on the meat and potatoes
of our lives. Vic and I had separated. He was in Mexico trying out abstract
expressionism in the crystalline air and bright sunlight. I had quit working at
Bloomingdale’s and was modeling in art schools while I auditioned in every
theater in town but no one was interested. The owner of a piano bar in the
Village said I sounded too legit.
“Life goes
on,” I said. That seemed to sum it up.
She had been
happy in Indonesia, Yeemin said, but rebellion was always a threat with so many
factions. “It’s only a matter of time until there is big trouble. I’m really at
loose ends.” She didn’t want to live in the United States and couldn’t stand
France and Hong Kong anymore. “Things have changed so in Indonesia. Sukarno
openly opposes U.S. policies. I’m not sure what I should do.”
“I hear he’s
randy as King Farouk.”
“Well...say
what you will about him, the United States government seems to be interested in
Indonesia. So it might do you some good to sing for a bunch of diplomats while
he’s here. Just say you’ll do an audition.”
“Sure. What
the hell.”
She sat with
her hands folded in her lap and I suddenly realized I hadn’t offered her
anything to drink. She was Indonesian enough not to ask.
“How about a
beer?”
“I brought
some marvelous tea,” she said. Once again she reached into the bag and brought
out a little parcel. It was wrapped in green tissue. She moved to the stove,
picked up the teakettle and filled it with water. I showed her where the teapot
was above the sink and set out two cups on the table.
I sat down
and let her wait on me. She did everything so easily. She poured hot water in
the teapot, swished it around and poured it out before putting in the
tealeaves. “I ran into Morley on the way over here. Wait till you see his car!
Did you know he was in the CIA?”
I had heard
the rumor. It lent a romantic aura to Morley-the-mystery-man. No one knew much
about Morley. Where did he get his money? What went on behind those
steel-rimmed eyeglasses?
“What’s his
story anyway?”
“He’s a
voyeur.”
”What’s that
supposed to mean?”
“He can’t
seem to live his life. He just watches everyone else’s. This is a bathtub,
isn’t it?” She pointed to the large
porcelained metal top covering the tub next to the sink. I never tried to
follow Yeemin’s train of thought. It chugged along making unscheduled stops.
“Stoking
up the fireplace in the winter and taking a long bath is wonderful,” I said. I
knew I didn’t have to defend the facilities. Yeemin was as fascinated with how
I lived as I was with her intercontinental hopscotch. We all seemed to watch
each other. I had never heard Yeemin's complete curriculum vitae, not from her anyway. But I'd gotten bits and
pieces on the grapevine. Her American father had either owned or managed a
rubber plantation in Java. Her Brit mother had gotten sick of the whole Malay
culture years before and had bugged out to live in Hong Kong. Yeemin had been
raised by tutors and nannies and pretty much had done whatever she liked her
whole life. I only wished I could live the way she did for a couple months.
The
teakettle whistled. She made us wait while the tea steeped exactly five
minutes. It was strong and acrid and had a kick like espresso coffee.
We quietly
sat drinking our tea. It was nice not having to make conversation with Yeemin.
Words came when they came.
“Did you
ever have the feeling you could completely change your life if you wanted to?”
I asked. It had been something on my mind since Vic took off for Mexico.
“Anyone
can.” Yeemin said, tracing her finger over a wet circle on the tabletop. “We
all can do that anytime.” A breeze gently blew through the windows while the
sun streamed in and we drank the hot tea.
“I’d never
realized it before,” I said. I looked at the tealeaves in the bottom of the
cup. “I mean I know that all I’d have to do is make the decision right now and
everything will be different. I know I have that power but I would feel so
guilty. Like it’s unfair.”
“Then you’re
a fool”, Yeemin said, suddenly looking serious. “Men don’t think it’s unfair to
change their lives.”
I stirred
the tealeaves with my finger. “It’s frightening though, you know? I wonder if I
can get along without Vic.” Yeemin reached over and squeezed my hand. The
buzzer rang from the vestibule downstairs.
“I’ll bet that’s Morley. He said he wanted
you to see his car.” We ran down the hall to the living room and stuck our
heads out the windows facing 70th Street. Two men walked down the front stoop
of my building and crossed the street to stand by the most amazing car I’d ever
seen.
“Jesus!
Yeemin! What is that!”
“A 1937
Phaeton touring car. Did you ever?” Morley Huxtable and another man waved to
us. They lounged against the car, smoking.
“He can’t
get the top to go up...but what the hell,” Yeemin said, waving back. They
yelled for us to come down. Every kid on the street was running around the car
screaming, “Mira! Mira!”
My heart was
pounding. I went to a chair and sat down.
"Do you
know who that is? The man with Morley?”
“Well of
course. It’s Jason Berman. He played at Betsy’s wedding. You were there.”
“This is
awful. God! I can’t go down there....”
“Oh no! Oh how funny! You’ve got a crush on
Jason!" Yeemin yelled out the window that we’d be right down. "Oh
God! This is too great!”
She grabbed
the huge canvas bag I used for a handbag and tossed it to me. I looked down at my khaki shorts and work
shirt.
"You
look terrific, you have no idea!" Yeemin said. “Got your keys? Come on!
We’ll make them take us for a ride.”
Betsy and
Jack’s wedding in June had been the biggest event in the East Village in years.
It was as though everyone had put on clothes from their parents’ attic. Betsy
wore an antique lace dress. Jack had found white tails and a top hat in a
thrift shop. Vic wore a white suit and Panama hat. And I made a dress out of
mattress ticking. It had slits up the side nearly to the waist and an orange
silk slip.
Every young
artist and musician in New York turned out for the wedding to play dress-up and
to party.
Jack had
begun to make a name for himself with his animated cartoons. He used cutouts,
clay figures and wild colors. His films were years before Monty Python. A
screening at a Madison Avenue art gallery had caught the attention of the major
art and film critics. And it didn’t hurt Jack’s reputation that the fast action
and visual effects made one patron sick to his stomach at the opening and he
vomited on at least ten of Jack’s fans. Jack was the avant-garde filmmaker of
the season.
The wedding
reception went on for a day-and-a-half.
They had rented a jazz club. Jason was the other jazz-French horn player
in the world. He rounded up his friends for a jam session marathon. The hash,
grass and Champagne supply seemed endless.
The minute I
walked into the reception that Saturday afternoon and saw Jason in his white
tux everything seemed brighter, more intense and a few rpm's faster. He and the
wedding party and a couple early arrivals were sitting on a low platform just
inside the club's front door. Vic and I beelined to Betsy and Jack to say our
Best Wishes and Congrats and Jason smiled and said, "Hey! Look who's here,
now the party can begin." Jason and I had met once before at a gallery
opening. My heart had raced then. It raced now. Vic went to a table loaded with
bottles of Champagne. He filled two glasses and brought them back for us. Jason
and I couldn't take our eyes off each other. Suddenly a group of twenty people
burst in the door and broke the spell.
By the time
the party was at full frenzy Jason had taken off his tux jacket, shirt, shoes
and socks and stood sweating, hairy, barefoot and magnificent playing the
French horn like no one had heard it before. I sat down alone at a tiny table
close to the bandstand watching. You could see all the muscles in his chest and
stomach when he took a breath. He seemed to be in another world--only the music
mattered. He kept his eyes shut as he played. Or they seemed to be shut. Then
he stepped out of the group, walked to the center of the stage, turned to me
and played a hauntingly sweet solo chorus of “Tenderly”. He jumped down from
the platform, let the other musicians finish the set and came over to my table.
“I love that
tune,” I finally managed to say.
“It seemed
right.” He sat down and grabbed a napkin
lying on the table. He was wet all over. His whole body shined. He mopped his
face, his hair, his neck. “I just wanted to say I’d like to get to know you.”
He smiled. I could smell the metal of the horn mixed with the smell of his
sweat. It was so hot. There was so much pungent smoke in the air. I felt dizzy.
He picked up
a bottle of champagne from the table and filled my glass, then tipped the
bottle in my direction. “L’chayim,” he said and put it to his mouth nearly
draining it. I wondered where Vic was.
“Is it true
you’re married?” he asked, cocksure and smiling. His confidence amazed me.
“Yes, it’s
true.“ I drained my glass.
“Seriously
married?”
“Yes, of
course.”
“Okay...I’ll
drink to that....”
Jason
finished off the champagne. Reaching across the table he took the two pins out
of my hair that kept it from tumbling down. It fell all the way down my back.
He kissed me on the forehead and went back to the little stage.
Everything
that was familiar seemed to be shifting and sliding. Even the floor had become
shaky. I stood up to leave but the room started spinning. I sat back down.
Yeemin and I
ran down the stairs to the waiting Phaeton. I wound my hair into a bun on top
of my head and jammed in hairpins as we flew down the four flights.
An open fire
hydrant half a block away made a river in the gutter. We jumped across. Morley
tossed his cigarette away.
“What do you
think?” he said, motioning to the car that had taken up a space-and-a-half
along the curb.
The street
kids couldn’t believe the headlights staring out bug-eyed from each side of the
radiator. They walked reverently around the car, touching the hood and sides
gingerly. “It suits you Morley,” I said.
Jason opened the door to the back seat for me. The jump seats rested against
the leather of the front seats. You could stretch out full-length from the back
seat and still not touch the jump seats.
”I haven’t
seen you since the wedding,” Jason said. He took my canvas bag and put it on
the floor.
“It’s a
wonder you remember....”
“I wasn’t
stoned. I can’t play high.”
“I was.”
“Yeah. But
you do remember....”
“Yes. I
remember.”
Yeemin sat
in front with Morley.
"Sorry.
My manners are slipping,” Morley said, turning around and looking first at me
and then at Jason. “But I guess you’ve met. Where shall we go?” There wasn’t
any doubt where to go on a sweltering August afternoon in New York.
“Coney
Island,” we all said.
Morley
started the engine and we smoothly pulled away from the curb. All the store
proprietors came out to watch the open car glide down the street. The women,
whose chief entertainment was leaning out their apartment windows and sitting
on the stoops, waved and the kids shouted, “Mira! Look at the movie stars!”
“I have to
get some entertainment together for Sukarno’s reception,” Yeemin said to
Morley. "I think Liz should sing."
“I think Jason should play,” I said. The more
I thought of it the more I knew I was not Sukarno’s dish of tea.
”And I think
Sukarno wants a gamelan and hootchy-kootchy,” Morley said.
Morley and
Yeemin yammered away about politics and world affairs. He couldn’t ask her
enough questions about Indonesia. Jason and I said almost nothing in the
backseat.
The sun was
setting as Morley parked near the beach.
“I hate to
leave this rig for long, you know?" Morley said.
“At least it
won’t get stripped,” Jason laughed. “Who could use the parts?” Morley was not
amused.
The beach
crowd had thinned out. Most of the bathers had already packed up their
paraphernalia and headed home, leaving chicken bones, french fries and orange
peels to the seagulls. They screamed and swooped down. The tide was going out.
The sky was blue and orange and aquamarine striped.
Yeemin took
off her shirt and skirt and ran into the water in her underwear. Jason took off
his jeans and teeshirt and ran after her. Morley and I sat down on the sand.
“Where’s
Vic?”
“Mexico.”
“You split
up?”
“Sort of. I
don’t know. We’ll see.” Morley took off his shoes and dug his toes in the sand.
“In France they’re smarter about going to the beach.”
“Yeah?"
“People wear
their bathing suits to the beach, take them off at water’s edge, go for a swim
and come out and put on their suits. Makes sense.”
We watched
Yeemin and Jason ducking each other and playing in the surf. They ran back to
us dripping and panting. They looked like the healthiest happiest two people in
the world.
“Those wet things
are going to feel great going back,” I said, squinting into the setting sun at
Jason.
“No sweat,”
he said.
“No sweat,”
Yeemin said. They both took off their underwear and put their clothes back on.
The few people on the beach either didn’t notice or didn’t care. Jason grabbed
my hand and pulled me up. “Let’s go for a walk.”
“Don’t be
too long,” Morley said. He and Yeemin headed for the car.
“Vic finally
make a run for the border?” Jason asked. We walked and kicked at the water
lapping the beach.
“Why? You
talk to him about Mexico?"
"He
talked to everybody about Mexico. I ran into him at the Cedar Bar. "
"He
never mentioned you."
"He
wouldn't."
"He
wanted to try painting down there. I don’t know what's going to be. I guess
we’ve got to decide.”
“You don’t know what you want."
“I know what
I don’t want. I’m scared. I’m not going to make it as a singer, I know that.”
“Why not?”
“Because I
don’t care that much. You’ve got to care. It’s tough enough even if you care.
What about you? Going to play jazz the rest of your life?”
“Jazz
isn’t my life. It’s part of my life. I’m
a composer. I happen to be good.”
“Ever
have a performance of your stuff?”
"You
been living in a cave or what?"
Jason
picked up a small flat rock and skimmed it over the calm water before the next
wave came in.
"I had
a world premiere with the Philharmonic last year. I thought you were a musician.”
“Oh…sorry.”
We stopped
walking and Jason pulled me close. He smelled like salt-water and the sun. He
kissed my check. His mouth was cool against my hot face.
“We’d better
get back,” I said.
“Morley
won’t mind. He’s always had a letch for Yeemin. Even if he doesn't know what to
do with her."
I
stepped back. “And you would do what?” His hair had dried. The curls had red
glints in the sun.
“That
doesn’t matter. I’m not Morley.” Jason took my hand. “But if you want to know.
I’d just drive her home and take her to bed.”
“What a
Romeo."
“Well you
asked and if it was me and if I felt what Morley feels, then so would she. You
don't have to talk it to death.”
We turned
our backs to the ocean and walked in the sand toward the street and the car. We
could see Morley and Yeemin from two blocks away. The car was in the shade.
They leaned against it eating ice cream cones.
“Hungry?"
Jason asked. “We could go back to my place.”
“Oh Jason! No, I’m not hungry. No, I’m not going back
to your place. “ I stopped in my tracks. Jason turned with his arms
outstretched, “What?”
"I'm
not any good at this."
"Jesus!
At what?"
"You
know…all this casual bullshit. I really like you Jason…a lot. "
"And…?"
"And I
can't…."
"Can't?"
"I'm
not going to…."
“Uh-huh…?"
I started to
cry.
"Don't
do that."
"It's
so complicated."
I wiped my
nose on my sleeve. He reached into his back pocket, took out a handkerchief and
handed it to me. He put his arm around my shoulder and pushed a wisp of hair
out of my eyes. "It's okay…it's okay."
The ride
back was silent in the back seat. Yeemin and Morley talked and laughed and
argued.
Jason
climbed up in front with Morley when they let us out. “Take it easy,” he called
as we walked across the street.
Yeemin and I
fixed a salad from whatever was in the refrigerator. I poured out a shot of gin
and drank it down.
“Want me to
read your palm?” she asked after we’d eaten. She was having a cup of tea. I was
having more gin.
“What’s the
point? I can tell you my fortune. Jason and I will get involved for a couple of
months. Vic and I will keep breaking up and getting back together, I will
remember this summer for the rest of my life and Jason will forget it by
Thanksgiving.”
“Well
smarty, if you know so much you can avoid the misery, right?”
The phone
rang. I knew it was Jason.
“Wrong. I
can’t avoid one minute of it.” I reached for the phone. “That’s just how it
is.”
As it turned
out, my crystal ball was very accurate.
And so was
Morley’s.
Sukarno
wanted gongs, dancers and hotcha!
