Fall 2016

I Just Used My Hair

by

by Marshall Marcovitz

I can just imagine her walking into Harry’s Bar in Venice. Her blonde hair is hanging over her right eye. It always covered her right eye, creating an attractive air of mystery audiences were drawn to. There was just a wisp of grey now. Her face was not youthful anymore, but she still had the figure of a 1940’s pin-up girl. Tonight her profile was illuminated by a shaft of light drifting through the room. She had tried everything to stay young in an industry that relied on faces—youthful faces—lotions, massage, mudpacks, even a rubber mask—but not surgery. She hated the way women her age looked with their skin pinned back behind their ears.

She sat down on one of the puffy red bar stools, her body caressed by the arching Art Deco high back. “I’ll have my usual.”

“We’ve got the fresh white peaches tonight,” said Marco the bartender. He knew the secret to making a great Bellini. The cocktail was named after Giovanni Bellini, the magnificent fifteenth century Venetian painter. It was the specialty of the house. Everything—the glasses, the Prosecco, and the white peach puree—would be absolutely as cold as possible, and ordinary yellow peaches were never used. The secret to the extraordinary concoction was in the fresh white peaches. Marco occasionally added a sugar cube into the bubbly mix.

He eyed her over the low, long counter. It was an unusually quiet night and he had time for conversation. Usually there were waves of customers trying to get his attention with their eyes or a slight wave of the hand. The bar counter was his protective wall holding back the besieging customers.

She was one of the regulars and kept returning after all these years. She was loyal, and he liked her for that. She had drunk Bellini’s with all the regulars—Ernest Hemingway, Orson Welles and with dear Peggy Guggenheim—but that was a long time ago.

“Remember,” she said, “when Papa Hemingway dropped in that cold winter night and practically never left.”

“He kept trying to get behind the bar and make cocktails with me,” said Marco, “but I wouldn’t let him pass. I’ve always believed the client’s place is on one side of the counter and the barman’s is on the other.”

“That’s the side I stay on,” she said as she gazed at the pink glow of her Bellini. Her tongue was pressed against the slenderness of the perfectly rounded lip of the cocktail glass. It was crystal clear and the pink liquid appeared to change shapes and shades inside the cylinder.

“I’m toasting you tonight, Marco,” she said in a breathy voice.

“Here’s to you,” he said. “A movie star with genuine class … .”

She let his words wash over her. Her movie career had been over for many years now. She was never going to have her Gloria Swanson moment. That was what the business was like for most women her age, and anyway, she had never had that much confidence in her acting ability.

“Marco,” she laughed. “I didn’t have enough talent to fill your left eye.”

“What was your favorite role?” he asked.

She didn’t answer and stared down at her drink. Now she only had regrets about the films she’d never made and the ones she had—those 1940’s and 50’s Hollywood B- movies.

She looked up, “I always loved the one I starred in when the villain said, ‘This man buries himself with his mouth.’ I played the part of the sexy hitchhiker wearing nothing but a tight belted trench coat and spiked high heel red shoes. I walked into a gloomy farm house, the wind slammed the door shut, and the audience heard my terrified high pitched screams—end of scene, end of movie—strictly shock value. I worked constantly—three or even four movies a year—a horror monster movie, a tear-jerker romance, or a crime mystery. They just kept churning them out. And I was the one thinking up catchy titles to draw in the popcorn-eating crowd: I Married a Witch, This Gun for Hire, and All Women Have Secrets.”

“What was your secret?” Marco asked.

“I never did cheesecake,” said Benita. “I just used my hair…that was my secret…”

Marshall Marcovitz spent most of his life in Chicago, the home of the ‘big-shoulders,’ and not many Veronica Lake look-a-likes who drank Bellinis. But a boy can dream. His love of storytelling and writing started when he read Treasure Island. (After all, Venice is an island and so is Manhattan.)

THE SCORPION’S TALE

by

by Harriet Sohmers Zwerling

My letter to the Sunday Times magazine, in response to a piece about Liam Neeson’s connection to Helen Mirren read, in part:

“As an older woman, involved with a much younger man, I was shocked to see that you adhere to the ageist, sexist double standard which appears clearly in your article…”

Now, some years later, I sit in my apartment looking out at the gray, rainy Manhattan skyline while Amanda’s tape plays softly in the background. Her lush soprano warbles the liquid melodies with such passion that the tired old chestnuts: “Speak Low”, “All the Things You Are”, “Baubles, Bangles and Beads” throb with the kind of emotion I, myself, can hardly remember. And when I recall my cruelty to her — that innocent, romantic soul out there in her Chicago suburb — I wonder how I could possibly have done what I did.

A few weeks after my letter appeared, I received the following, forwarded to me by the Times. The handwriting, on lined notebook paper, was parochial-school perfect.

“Dear Ms. S.,

I took heart upon reading your letter in the paper, in which you stated that you were an older woman, involved with a much younger man. As I am caught up in a similar situation, and meeting with scorn, medical advice and recriminations from all sides, I was curious as to the age difference between you and your friend.

I must say I was surprised at myself when all this happened, but I could see no reason why a sixty-eight year old woman (I have splendid health and vitality and would never be taken for sixty-eight) could not respond to a thirty-four year old man, and he to her. It does seem to happen with sixty-eight year old men taking thirty-four year old (and younger) wives or sweethearts.

I just felt the need to hear from someone like yourself who has the experience of this not usual, but certainly not degenerate, match-up. I have no wish to intrude upon your privacy. A postcard (enclosed) with the two ages written on it will do.

I thank you sincerely.

Amanda M.”

I was astonished and moved by this cri de Coeur from the heartland. I couldn’t just return her postcard. I wrote to her as follows:

“Dear Amanda,

I am most gratified by your response to my Times letter. First of all, since it seems important to you, I must tell you that my friend, Michael, is twenty years younger than I. No one I know seems to have a problem with this. My son dislikes him but it’s not because of the age difference. Perhaps I have not suffered the negative reaction you speak of because I live in New York City where pretty much anything goes. I just want to say that you must follow your heart and hang in there with your love.

Sincerely,

Helen S.”

Two weeks later I received this reply:

“Dear Ms. S.,

I could not have hoped for a more encouraging and kind reply to my letter forwarded to you by the Times. Perhaps I could have hoped that your friend was a little younger. My beloved is considerably younger than yours. One of the great surprises of this affair has been that it made me want to sing again, after more than thirty years of setting it aside and concentrating on family life. Singing was a girlhood dream. Considering my age and that I hadn’t vocalized during all those years, I was startled to hear myself again and so put together, a year ago, mostly for my family, a cassette tape. I am sending you a copy of it under separate cover to illustrate the power of love in rejuvenating a voice, AND because they are mostly love songs which you might share with your dear one.

Most sincere thanks,

Amanda M.

The tape was amazing. Did anyone still sing like that? And the songs: “These Foolish Things”, “All the Things You Are” – the way she rolled her r’s, her dovelike cooing, the throbbing fruity timbre! I played it for friends over martinis. They loved it. Michael was amused but somewhat embarrassed. “You must write her,” he said. “Tell her how moved we were by it!”

So I wrote her once again.

“Dear Amanda,

I very much enjoyed your tape. You have a beautiful voice. I think you could sing in clubs here and be a great success. My friend Michael has accepted a job in Europe and I will miss him. Luckily, I have a backup, a big Puerto Rican stud, fifteen years younger than I. Again, thanks for the wonderful tape.

Sincerely,

Helen”

I imagine Amanda receiving my letter. She sits in her sunny living room with the picture window, the baby grand piano, brocade sofa and deep comfy armchairs. Her white-blond hair is fluffed around a pale blue velvet headband. Her cheeks are carefully rouged to enliven the chalky skin with its web of tiny wrinkles. Her lips are a youthful coral. “Smoke Gets in Your Eyes” is playing on the stereo. She wraps the pink satin robe around her soft, full body and opens my letter in luxurious anticipation.

But as she reads, a sob rises in her throat. “Back-up?” she gasps, “Stud?” Her blue eyes fill with tears. They roll down her cheeks and spot the pink lapels of her robe. She buries her face in her hands. I will never hear from her again.

Now, with Amanda’s tremulous voice pulsing through the room, I ask myself, “How could I have been so cruel? How could I have shattered her romantic dream?”

And I answer myself in the words of the scorpion in the old tale who stings the frog carrying him across the pond, thus drowning them both. “I couldn’t help it. It’s just in my nature.”

 

Harriet Sohmers Zwerling: Ex-expatriate, ex-nude model, ex-school teacher. Forever hedonist, grandmother and of course, writer.