Confessions of a Librarian Read online

  On the flight back to New York, drowsy, I rummaged in my purse for five hundred dollars of unused travelers checks. Where were they? I had used Turkish lira for all my purchases. Had a genie popped out of a bottle to snatch them? Or maybe a professional in the crowded bazaar did the job? Sadly but more likely, Rezi’s mother—if that is who really watched TV in the next room—had filched the checks while we were otherwise occupied.

  After pulling apart everything I carried, the receipts that guaranteed a refund turned up at the bottom of a cosmetic case. This discovery failed to lessen the pain in my heart at being betrayed, the shame of responding so totally to Rezi’s treacherous kisses. Learn a lesson, I lectured myself. But a naughty, libidinous voice whispered: “Stop complaining, you loved it!”

  On my second journey, I decided to spend my last night in Turkey at a hotel on the Asian side of the Bosporus near where Rezi had caressed my body with such romantic fervor. Predictably, it was impossible to recognize his building among the row on row of high-rises and mini shopping centers. In the morning, as I boarded the ferry to Istanbul—headed home—those old missing travelers checks and other disturbing incidents had drifted from my memory like a message in a bottle at sea. The distance of time imbued this heady fling with a nostalgic glow.

  In those earlier days, in between building my resume of serious publications, I dashed off poetry on sensual themes. Light travel pieces about “the wilder shores of love” provided another diversion from the discipline of academia. I never imagined the literary demon would bite me with such ferocity! Meanwhile I earned promotion to the status of professor with several books to my credit. I have lectured before audiences at universities, museums, libraries, and churches the world over. But this has been all the more reason I needed to keep my erotic romps clandestine.

  That women are “telling all” these days has emboldened me. Once, a detailed memoir of my sexual adventures would have demanded a pseudonym. Now, graphic stories and all, women’s confessions are being taken seriously. But the habit of hiding my feelings and desires has been ingrained in me since my childhood in staid Philadelphia. How could I avoid it with parents who were politically to the right of Senator Joe McCarthy, their witch-hunting idol! Stingy with hugs and kisses, they tried to squelch my flights of fancy, while pestering me to trap “a good provider.” A maiden aunt supplied advice appropriate to a Victorian young lady: “Keep your legs crossed, double date and always take a jacket.” Thus, for my adult life two opposing personas have coexisted in my psyche: Days, I may be a proper librarian at the reference desk, but at night I am “the wife with a double life,” a prowler of downtown bars in search of adventure.

  On this second trip to Istanbul, as the ferry tooted its way back across the Bosporus, I struggled to imagine the city I had known before tourism arrived with a vengeance. At the same time, I contemplated my earlier behavior. Had I only pretended to be a liberated woman, taking risks for exotic kisses? I had justified my affairs as did the eighteenth century lover, Jacques Casanova. My goal was the same as his—the satisfaction of an ardent need, a transport of the senses. Casanova spent his later years as librarian to the Count Waldstein of Bohemia. We shared a need to record, to confess. So the inveterate wanderer settled down and wrote the greatest memoir of all time. Otherwise how could he, or I, be sure his erotic adventures were not dreams?

  As the Boeing jet brought me into JFK, I felt like a seafarer of old. Having weathered emotional storms of gale force, I yearned to launch my salty tales! Landed, I anchored myself at my desk and began to write my impressions, memories, and insights, to open old wounds and to finally heal. How I longed to share my intimate tales with my group of women friends.

  Fortunately, our club was scheduled to meet the next week, on September 10, 2001 in Manhattan, my adopted hometown.

  TWO: 9/10/2001, TRIBECA

  …Now God knows, anything goes! Cole Porter

  The six members of our writing group were sprawled around a large, central table in a Thai restaurant to celebrate our third anniversary. This was unusual, because we had met on Monday every two weeks in the late afternoon at Marilyn’s house off Gramercy Park. As ever, our camaraderie was free-flowing, and our egos seldom clashed.

  Circling around the hearty, toothsome buffet, weight conscious, we mostly selected non-fattening appetizers. For a change, no manuscripts to critique, my eyes roamed over my fellow diners. A nice-looking bunch, I decided—ripe summer peaches at the height of their flavor.

  Candy, our youngest, thirty-something, fit in because of a joie de vivre that emanated from every pore of her compact body—familiar to patrons of a strip club in Bayonne, New Jersey, where she performed a couple of nights during the week. Of Italian descent, married briefly, she conveniently forgot her ex-husband’s name and the circumstances of their marriage.

  Candy, contradicting her name and Barbie doll appearance, originally brought up the idea of writing from the guts, even if it meant spilling blood. The polite material we had been reading to each other would not have offended Emily Dickinson. Rolls in the hay, our own or literary, were off limits. That sure changed!

  “Let’s get down to business,” cried Candy, waving a celery stalk to capture our attention. Resolute, she seemed the opposite of her over the top self.

  “Remember last meeting I said we’re stale, that our tame attempts to ape Margaret Atwood are going nowhere. I formally propose we convert to a Confessions Club. In ‘tell all’ sessions we can confess sexual escapades we’ve kept to ourselves for years. Maybe we’ll even get a website encouraging other women to do likewise.”Stuffing dumplings and peanut-flavored tasties in her mouth, Candy continued to heap up her plate. Her stomach, and other organs, must be made of elastic, I concluded.

  Since my desk drawer was filled with erotic writing that over the years had assumed heft, like a libertine with a well-earned paunch, I sided with Candy. Dare I let the bacchante burst forth from the librarian scholar to gambol over hill and dale? Would the group expel me for being a hussy, a procurer for the serpent, a worshipper of the golden calf? Exactly how far on the wild side would they venture?

  “Time to vote on Candy’s proposal,” announced Marilyn, the leader of our group. A tall, very New York, African-American social worker, she opened her home and heart to us in a city not known for its friendliness.

  “Let’s face it,” continued Marilyn. “We’re not getting any younger. Who are we censoring ourselves for? I’d like to share some erotic poetry, hot stuff I wrote before marrying that schlep who quit working the day after our ceremony.”

  Two of us were mothers with older children, the others were currently single. I was the only one presently married, if not in the traditional sense. I never informed the group about my open marriage, that both partners had an extracurricular sexual life. Having been around the block, if not the entire neighborhood, I needed to drop my respectable pose and wash my sexy lingerie with the detergent of self-exposure.

  Three hands shot straight up, voting for a Confessions Club. Two crept up, the sixth remained in its owner’s lap. I reached as high as I could. Five to one, yippee!

  “We still need a name, you know, like the Lion’s Club or the Girl Scouts,” said Chloe, between spooning a bowl of coconut soup.

  Normally Chloe, a banker with a foreign currency specialty, kept something of a reserve. The remote expression on her face reminded me of a classical statue of Aphrodite. A Greek native, today she wore her black hair in a severe bun, which accentuated her almond-shaped eyes and flawless complexion.

  “How’s about the Culture Vultures or Blue Haired Ladies?” suggested Sarah, her delicate chin pointed upwards. “Let’s pick a refined name so people don’t mistake us for Sex and the City wannabees.”

  Sarah sat stiffly straight in her chair as though at parochial school afraid a nun would rap her knuckles. An incest survivor, she struggled to forgive a charming, abusive father whose guile had fooled everyone.

  “More spice... The Take I
t Off Club, that’s it,” cried Candy. Busy interviewing old and present burlesque dancers in the tri-state area, she sometimes missed our meetings at which she awkwardly read drafts of her text. Co-conspirators, Candy and I hoped the group would take a more ribald turn.

  “Forget it! We sound like nymphos or crazies,” protested an irate Tiffany. After several facelifts, she appeared to be in her thirties. A lisp was merely one of her girlish mannerisms. With a halo of bright red waves like a 1930s starlet, long legs and pencil-thin eyebrows, she flounced into our meetings dressed for her close-up. Self-educated, the only one without a college degree, the “red monster” earned that title after several confrontations.

  I defended Tiffany because of her pungent, complex poetry, which, unlike its author, totally lacked affectation. Since I had brought her into the group, her behavior concerned me. Our friendship, wintry one moment, summery the next, would rupture and heal any number of times.

  “Wrong,” responded Marilyn, whose knowledge about literature was as prodigious as her understanding of human behavior. Experienced working with disturbed patients, Marilyn gave Tiffany no quarter.

  “Let’s discuss this kooky idea at another meeting,” insisted the “red monster.” Our friendship went back to a summer camp in the Poconos light years ago. Today Tiffany wore a hat with a brilliant yellow peacock feather, which would have made anyone else look absurd.

  “Yes indeedy! We’re bacchantes, proud and feisty—seasoned but still fuckable,” proclaimed Marilyn. Habitually running her hands through a mop of blondish-brown curls, she did yoga, sang torch songs, and created original culinary improvisations.

  “Hey, didn’t bacchantes worship the god Dionysus? Let’s order another bottle of wine! Charge it to Marilyn,” chimed in Candy.

  Toasting each other, great sex and greater books, we clinked glasses. Our laughter soared on high. The monster, nails as red as rubies, took off her hat, while the expression on her face softened, her rigid shoulders relaxed. Another bottle, this one on Chloe, caused us to babble like schoolgirls.

  “Sure, Dionysus, the god of wine, attracted a band of female worshippers,” chirped Chloe, thrilled we brought up Greek mythology. Her banker-tailored suit did not disguise a slender, curvy body.

  “Yeah, they ran wild on mountain tops, intoxicated by the pipes of Pan, wore vine leaves and fawn skins, celebrated fertility and female power,” added Marilyn, beckoning to the waiter. “Bring two more bottles of wine. Make them full-bodied reds for bacchantes!”

  Marilyn poured wine on her napkin, dabbed it on her forehead before doing a shimmy around the table. In a sing-song voice, chanting a zany imitation of the Greek language, she raised her palms as though worshipping the wine god.

  “Sit down, you fool. We’ll be kicked out,” hissed the monster through plumped-up lips. Seeking support, she waved at the owner who stood behind the register. Instead, he laughed uproariously, brought over six mango ice creams on the house. By now the restaurant had filled with a mix of prosperous-looking New Yorkers. Few bothered to glance our way. Other would-be customers milled around the front door, which was decorated with dragon heads perched on red pillars.

  Only Sarah, a member of Alcoholics Anonymous, refused to drink. Ignoring the gaiety, she stared into the distance. Unsuccessfully she bounced from traditional psychological therapies to New Age panaceas, becoming disillusioned with each. Plain clothes did not detract from her angelic face, set off by prematurely grey hair tapered close to her head.

  “Yessiree, we’re a hoot,” chortled Candy. In her case being short didn’t matter. Every inch was shapely, especially her muscular legs, which nightly pranced around a stage in black stockings and a sequined garter.

  A year ago the monster had made a futile stab at having Candy, “that vulgar thing,” banished from the group for “shaking her boobs before hooting, drunken imbeciles in a strip club.” Tiffany also resented Candy for looking splendid in thrift shop finds while she spent a fortune on the trendiest designers.

  “Let’s toast all the great work we’re gonna do, girls,” slurred Candy.

  Tapping her wine glass with a fork to get our attention, she tipped it over but immediately poured another. How, camped out in her parents’ New Jersey garage with only goldfish for company, Candy managed to carry out any project mystified me.

  “To the Club, whatever we call it,” echoed Chloe. Her cheeks were a bright pink, her eyes glassy. “Here’s a poem by my favorite, Edna Millay:

  After all, my erstwhile dear

  No longer cherished

  Need we say it wasn’t love

  Just because it perished?

  Chloe continued, “That brings back a one night affair during a vacation on Mykonos.”

  I wondered, was Chloe, the banker, going to show us her red hot self?

  “This Zorbesque character accosted me in a taverna while the band played the music of Theodrakis. Outside, for one week, a dust storm blew day and night. The Greeks call it meltemia, and they dread it. Walking from place to place the wind nearly knocked me over, blew dust in my mouth and eyes. I showered ten times a day.”

  Chloe snapped her fingers as the Greeks do to accompany their music and waved her head dreamily. I could visualize her dancing in a taverna till dawn.”Then, what happened?” asked a wide-eyed Sarah. “I’d never travel solo in that part of the world, let alone hook up with a stranger. You were a sitting duck.”

  “Remember, I lived in Greece for years,” countered Chloe. “From that night, I can still taste the tangy retsina wine, the feta cheese, olives, especially the juicy grape leaves we passed from mouth to mouth. Swimming in the Aegean Sea next day, I imagined his moustache entangled in my pubic hairs. Floating along, an orgasm flooded my body.”

  “Did he try to see you again?” gasped Sarah, her body thrust forward.

  “Of course not, silly. A waiter at a big tourist hotel, he had a wife back in Athens. The night was perfect, complete in itself, a poem.”

  Chloe winked at me mischievously. Was she egging me on to reveal my own erotic secrets? More sober than Chloe, I was more inebriated than I had been in years. I felt impelled to share a scary, fuzzy experience, since it also happened on Mykonos. Gulping more wine, I went on in a quavering voice telling how I woke up alone one morning, fully dressed on a bed in a Mykonos pension after dancing all night with a raven-haired Greek, Mr. X. We had met in a pastry shop near the sea, then did local line dances, with him gaily waving a handkerchief.

  Fuzzy on whether we had sex that night, oddly, I recalled mainly his white handkerchief with a large gold stripe. And the taste of yummy saliva-flavored grape leaves we passed from mouth to mouth, how his teeth chewed the grains of rice to a paste without biting me. Multiple glasses of ouzo—strong enough to strip paint—that I belted down must have given me a knockout punch. I slept deep enough to erase a key part of our encounter.

  How would the group react to my throwing light on my shadow life? Sarah looked at me suspiciously, while Tiffany opened her purse to thumb through the poetry of Chairman Mao, her idol, whose book she always carried.

  “Whoa!” exclaimed Chloe, jumping up from the table. “My guy did that grape leaves trick! Was it the same guy... what was his name, what did he look like?”

  How silly! I couldn’t remember my Zorba’s name, and for looks, I kept seeing Anthony Quinn! Chloe couldn’t do any better. We stood up, staggered over to each other and hugged. Chloe’s confession had cut into in her Olympian pose. Now that she inhabited the same world as I did, I hoped we would grow closer.

  By eleven our group was the only diners left in the restaurant. After several bottles of wine, on Marilyn and Chloe, we were intoxicated enough to qualify as full-fledged bacchantes. The waiter had already left and the hospitable owner of this family-run restaurant was counting up the money in his register. Wistful looks in our direction went unheeded by our merry band. By now, ready to charge up the nearest mountaintop, we felt part of the same tribe.

  “It’s a
lmost midnight,” frowned Sarah.

  “We’ve really got to go before they call the cops,” Marilyn announced.

  “Okay, but first I’ve an announcement.” Candy’s mouth curled up in an impish smile, which showed pink lipstick on her front teeth. Everyone drew in closer, expecting to hear something fabulous. A solemn look on her face, Candy fluffed her uneven bangs, then burped as loud as a trumpet blast. We laughed like drunken satyrs.

  “The wine god spoke, we’re anointed,” said Marilyn.

  Our Confessions Club agreed upon, holding hands, we weaved out of the restaurant, hailed taxis and careened into the clear Monday night. The twin towers of the World Trade Center appeared as lit as we were, a symbolic proclamation of New York’s majesty. The towers appeared to be within arms’ reach. Auspiciously, a full silver moon blessed our pilgrimage into ourselves.

  THREE: 9/11 GREENWICH VILLAGE

  Viva la Vida! Frida Kahlo

  Next morning, while I brushed my teeth to get the Thai taste out of my mouth, feeling fuzzy and confused, the phone rang. A furious female voice, more like a screech, blasted my eardrums. Holding the receiver away from my ear, I heard Tiffany, the Maoist monster jabber something about the World Trade Center towers.

  “I’m not deaf. What happened?” While we spoke, I switched on my computer.

  “Bastards, some crazy creeps flew planes into the Trade Center! Admit it, we brought it on ourselves. Greedy imperialists oppressing countries all over the world!” Tiffany’s indictments were punctuated by her heavy, rhythmic breathing. “Ninny, it’s all over TV. Mine’s blasting away with the climbing death toll.”

  “You must be mistaken.”

  “Head out of the sand, ostrich. Don’t you know the Twin Towers are blazing? Turn on the news.”

  I switched on the TV to hear stupefied news anchors report on the surprise attack. Flabbergasted, I watched the second flaming tower disintegrate. Running back to the phone, I stumbled on a footstool.