Loe raamatut: «Sam and Ilsa's Last Hurrah»

People need, demand fantasy. I try to help them do this for a little while, to help them forget work and problems and enjoy, vicariously, a folderol of fun, good music and fancy dress. I give them a little recess from the humdrum.

Liberace

Invitation

WHAT: Recess from the Humdrum! Dinner Party

WHO: Sam & Ilsa

WHEN: May 16, 8 p.m.

WHY: Last dinner party at Czarina’s Palais de Rent Control!

Sad face!

Also, Liberace’s birthday.* Sequin face!

WHERE: Sam & Ilsa’s grandma’s.** (map attached)

WEAR: Garish.***

* If you don’t know who Liberace is, we don’t know how you got invited to this party. But you can ask Mr Google if you need help.

** Don’t worry, Czarina is out of town and will leave us alone for the evening!

*** Ask yourself, WWLW: What Would Liberace Wear?

CONTENTS

Cover

Title Page

Copyright

Dedication

Epigraph

1: ILSA

2: SAM

3: ILSA

4: SAM

5: ILSA

6: SAM

7: ILSA

8: SAM

9: ILSA

10: SAM

11: ILSA

12: SAM

13: ILSA

14: SAM

15: ILSA

16: SAM

17: ILSA

18: SAM

19: ILSA

20: SAM

21: SAM & ILSA

ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

1

ILSA

My brother is way too obsessed with our grandma’s sex life.

“I think Czarina has taken a lover,” Sam says, holding out his hand to me. “Spatula. Stat.” My job is to maximize the chef ’s surgical efficiency by passing him the gadgets he requests. I hand him the spatula. “That’s an egg-turner spatula. The spoon spatula, Ilsa,” he says, like it’s so obvious. “Observe!”

I look at his bowl, filled with cheese and spinach. Seems like any old spatula could work in that bowl, but if it were up to me, we’d order takeout from Zabar’s and not bother with DIY cooking at all. Sam’s an amazing cook. But all that work! No, thank you. He gets me for a half hour as sous-chef, and the rest of the meal is on him. My job is planning fabulousness, not catering it. I should have been the gay man, not my twin brother.

I hand Sam the spoon spatula. “What makes you think Czarina has taken a lover?”

“She’s gone to Paris three times in the last six weeks.”

“She’s a fashion buyer. That’s her job.”

“There’s something different about these trips. I feel it. Did you notice how . . . nice she seems when she gets back? It’s upsetting.”

“What are you really upset about? That she’s been nice, or that she took Mom and Dad and not you to Paris with her for the weekend?” I love when Czarina goes away and lets us use her apartment. Then I get to be the queen of her castle, and not have to share Sam with her.

“That’s the thing! She never takes Mom and Dad anywhere. Says they’re bourgeois bores.”

“I love ’em, but they kind of are.”

“Don’t be bitchy.”

“Don’t ask me to be anything other than who I am.”

Sam laughs, then raises an eyebrow at me. “Aren’t you just a little concerned? Czarina even said we didn’t have to leave her bedroom door locked. Of all the dinner parties she’s let us host in her apartment, her one and only strict rule has been” – and here Sam mimics Czarina’s gangster-worthy growl – “‘no teenage miscreants shall miscreant in my bedroom.’”

“Yeah, that’s why she always shows up during dessert, despite saying she was taking a night out to go to the symphony, and even when she’s locked away all the liquor. The control freak can’t take our word for it that we won’t let anyone in her bedroom or break into her booze.” I reconsider what I just said, and then amend my statement. “I mean, take my word for it. She knows Sam the Saint won’t break her rules.”

“Not true. Remember the party when #Stantastic wanted to see Czarina’s vintage Dior gowns?”

“You texted Czarina and got her permission to go into her closet. That’s not rule-breaking.”

“#Stantastic had a beer!”

I let out a sigh. “Scandal.”

What constitutes legit rule-breaking? Perhaps that party two years ago when Parker and I jimmied our way into Czarina’s brandy collection and then ended the party making out on her bed, with the bedroom door locked so no one else could get in. Best aperitif ever. Miscreants, and proud! Czarina was in Milan, so I knew for a fact she wouldn’t be barging in. My parents say I’m too reckless, but even I know not to expose myself to Czarina’s in-your-face wrath. I know exactly how that brutal wrath works, because it’s the primary trait of hers I inherited. That, and we both look good wearing almost any shape of hat.

I aspire to be more like Czarina in ways other than being wrathful. I’d like to be a heartbreaker, rather than the one left heartbroken. The boss of any situation. Like Czarina, I want to travel the world and have wild affairs, but with the security of a grand Manhattan apartment as home base. (Insert the sounds of my parents’ cynical laughter here.) Unlike Czarina, I don’t aspire to wear bright-colored caftans and chunky jewelry as my signature look. Aside from dinner parties, I’ll be content with the more humdrum look of skinny jeans and extremely cute tight shirts.

Sam counters my sigh with his own. It might be our only twin thing: supportive sighing. “I can’t believe this is our last party here. I can’t believe she’s finally leaving this place.”

Where Sam and I live with our parents – a few blocks away, in a bland Manhattan apartment that’s, typically, too small, with an office alcove converted to a third bedroom that Sam uses – is the real humdrum. Czarina’s abode? Spectacular. Our grandmother lives in a gorgeous apartment in a historic building called the Stanwyck, on the Upper West Side of Manhattan. It’s a huge two-bedroom apartment with a dining room and a study big enough for Sam’s piano, and views of the city skyline and the Hudson River. (Anyone who feels bad about Sam getting the crap office alcove for a bedroom at our parents’ apartment should know that Czarina’s spare bedroom is basically a shrine to Sam – decorated with his music awards, photos of Sam at every recital since he learned to play piano, and the most comfortable bed in the world, picked out by Sam. The duvet on the bed – also chosen by Sam – might as well be embossed with needlepoint hand-stitched by Czarina, announcing: SAM! SAM IS MY FAVORITE!)

Czarina has experienced a good but not lucrative career, so no way has she had the income to support this type of Manhattan real estate. By New York City real estate standards, she’s a pauper, but she’s lived like a queen, all because when Czarina was a young, broke fashionista, she moved in with her grandparents, into their rent-controlled apartment. And she never left. Hers was the only apartment in the one-hundred-unit building that didn’t convert to condo. (Thank Czarina’s bulldog lawyer.) Her building is now basically 99 percent rich people, and Czarina. She’s the 1 percent at the Stanwyck.

Or, she was. After twenty years of buy-out offers, Czarina finally agreed to leave her palace. All it took was an extra zero at the end of the financial settlement – before the decimal point. She basically just won the lottery. She’s been married five times, and we thought she’d won big when she divorced the Brazilian taxidermist. That settlement was nothing in comparison; she used most of the windfall from that sicko, preserved-moose-head man’s money to splurge on a baby grand piano for her Virtuoso Sam, and on a fancy oven for her Chef Sam, so her precious grandson could wow her guests with his amazing meals and music ability. Tonight, I get those all to myself.

I should be mad that Czarina chose my brother over me as her favorite, but even I will acknowledge that Sam is a better person than me. He’s everything I’m not. Patient, kind, sweet, talented. I would choose him if I was Czarina too. To be honest, it’s a relief that Sam’s the star in the family. Being the fuck-up bitch is the role I know. I fit into it like anyone’s favorite pair of jeans.

I notice the furrow between Sam’s eyebrows and the tightening of his forehead. Pre-party jitters. “Where’s the spiralizer?”

“What’s that?”

“A utensil to spiralize veggies. I thought I might thread in some zucchini to the –”

“Don’t. Your menu is perfect as is.”

“You used the good silver to set the table, right?”

“Yes. The table looks beautiful. I even fancy-folded the napkins.”

“The –”

“Yes, the good ones that Czarina brought back from Dublin. I promise you don’t need to halt your cooking to do a last-minute inspection of the dining room. The table is set, the decorations are up and the cardboard Liberace table centerpiece looks better than a flower arrangement.”

“Candles!”

“Done.”

“Set out the dessert plates and silverware on the buffet.”

“Done.” I need to stop him from a deeper descent into anxiety about the state of the dining room. “Give me a hint about someone you’ve invited.” Sam’s bedroom – er, the guest room – is spread out with my sequined halter tops, feather boas, plaid-patterned polyester bell-bottom pants and flapper dresses. How can I know the best costume for our party if I don’t know who the guests are?

“No. You know the rules. You choose three people, I choose three people. The mix is a surprise – to us, and to them.”

“You’re going to dress like Ray Charles again, aren’t you?” I love my brother’s classic suit and tie, of course – but he always wears the same thing. I want to see my brother wearing a sequined cape or a star-spangled-banner leisure suit with beads hanging off the arms. I want him to shake things up for once.

“Yes,” says Sam. “But I’ll be enjoying the gift of sight. May he rest in peace, Brother Ray.” He pauses, and then says, “Please promise me you didn’t invite KK.”

“I promise,” I say.

I totally invited KK!

My guest list:

Kirby Kingsley: heiress, party girl, my non-sibling BFF. No one likes her besides me. But it’s not a party without Kirby. She lives in the Stanwyck’s penthouse apartment, with panoramic views of Central Park to the East River, and midtown and uptown to the Hudson River, and probably God too, if you point their telescope straight up through the glass dome in the ceiling of the atelier room.

Li Zhang: my chem-lab partner. Great at board games. Great conversationalist. Never shows up to a party without a gift of beautiful boxes of sweets from Taiwan for the hostess. Should be invited to every party.

Frederyk Podhalanski, aka Freddie: the wild card. He’s an exchange student from Poland, living with a family on the Upper East Side. I met him when I was with KK, watching hot guys play basketball in Central Park. Tall, blond, muscled, deep-blue eyes, uncomplicated. I’m pretty sure Freddie’s the guy I’ve been looking for – the one who will break my brother’s heart.

My brother still hasn’t recovered from not getting into Juilliard. He goes to Fiorello LaGuardia High School of Music & Art and Performing Arts, only a few blocks away from Czarina’s Palais de Rent Control. Sam should have been thrilled not to get into Juilliard. Too fucking close for comfort! He did get into Berklee College of Music, in Boston. A whole new city, new adventure and a prestigious music school too! But no. My brother opted to go to Hunter College next year, to stay close to home, to play it safe.

Even though I think he should have opted for Berklee, Sam really, truly wants Juilliard, so I want it for him too. Next year, he’ll reapply. Sam should have gotten in. The solution: Sam needs to drop out of his safety zone and go wild for the wrong guy. He needs a recess from the humdrum stream of predictable boys he dates. My brother’s heart needs the distraction of infatuation with someone out of his league. To be clear, Freddie’s not in a better league than Sam (no one’s in a better league than my brother). It’s just a different one. I’ll call it the League of Ridiculously Beautiful Guys Who Aren’t That Bright and Who Will Give My Brother Exactly the Fun Distraction He Needs Before Dumping My Brother When They Realize My Brother Is Too Smart and Good for Them. My brother needs a pointless, pleasurable fling with someone gorgeous and easy.

When Freddie inevitably dumps Sam, the pain will be sharp, but quick. Pain is what makes all the greats great. Known fact. So if pain is what it takes to bring Sam to that pantheon, then I have just the dinner party to give him that necessary shock to the system. It will be a welcome pain compared to the kind Sam inflicts on himself from over-thinking and overstressing. And Sam will have loads of fun along the way. You’re welcome, brother.

Like Sam, I also experienced the pain of not getting into my first-choice school, or any of my top-tier choices! I applied to the Sorbonne, the University of Tokyo, and that fancy one in Scotland where Prince William met Princess Kate. But I had no real shot at them. No matter; I don’t speak French or Japanese, and let’s be real, who even understands Scottish people when they speak? I also didn’t get into my second-tier schools – NYU, Skidmore, Fordham. And that’s awesome. Because now I can hoard all that money I saved babysitting the many little critters who live in the Stanwyck, and not waste it at Quinnipiac University, which is somewhere in Connecticut, I’m told. (I visited but have since tried to forget the experience, because I was basically forced by my parents to go.) It’s the only school I got into, and my parents were so relieved, they enrolled me for the fall. I can’t even pronounce the school’s name. Please.

“Are you sure Czarina hasn’t taken a lover?” Sam says. I’ve got to set him free from attachment to her apron strings too. When she finds out I broke the leaf on her dining-room table when I was setting it, she’ll lose it at him. At me too of course. But I’m used to it. Sam the Saint is not. It will be healthy. For both of them. Maybe in my future travels I will check out old Freud or Jung’s universities in Austria or wherever, because I obviously have huge potential as a psychoanalytic genius.

“Of course I’m not sure!” I say. “She could be bonking every Frenchman with a croissant for all I know!”

“Because every Frenchman has a croissant, right?”

“Oui! Don’t you know that’s what the French Revolution was all about? Life, liberty, le perfect flaky croissant.”

“Tongs,” says Sam.

“Frenchman torture method?”

“No. Hand me the tongs so I can pull out the strips of lasagna from the boiling water.”

I hand him the tongs. “That’s a whisk, Ilsa.” He reaches over me to grab the contraption known as tongs. “And I’m telling you, Czarina has taken a lover in Paris.”

“You just want to say ‘taken a lover’.”

“Guilty. You know me too well.”

Maybe Czarina has taken a lover in Paris, but that’s not the reason for her trip. She thinks we don’t know, but I know. Czarina likes to be secretive, but she has no idea what a browser history is, and that she should clear it regularly. Our grandmother is in Paris because she bought a small apartment and plans to retire there, in a little studio with no bedrooms for me or Sam. (Unfortunately, this knowledge came at the cost of also learning that Czarina really likes browsing photos of Sean Connery as James Bond wearing barely there swimmer briefs. And she loves porny fan fiction devoted to that most hirsute of the Bond men.) (I’m going to throw up just thinking about what I’ve seen in her browser history.)

Sam will survive the Paris news. What better place to visit a grandmother? What’s really going to finally push Sam out of his comfort zone is when he finds out I am moving into his bedroom at Czarina’s, with the new owners, who have invited me to be their family’s nanny after Czarina moves out. Sam has too much talent and potential to be stuck in the same old place; I’m fine there.

Tonight is our chance to celebrate our last twin dinner party here. Lasagna, booze, chocolates, with our friends and some strangers. Tonight we can swing from the chandeliers like we’re Liberace.

Tomorrow we can deal with the heartbreak and the humdrum.

2

SAM

Dinner parties always seem like a good idea until you have an hour until the guests arrive and you realize you have about four hours’ worth of things left to do. Life becomes a whirl of counter-space choreography, stovetop stress and table-setting trauma. I want everything to be perfect, and I also know this is an impossible and even cruel thing to want. Still, there’s something deep inside me that won’t let go. If things are imperfect, it won’t – can’t – be my fault.

Ilsa, bless her, is trying to aid me. Unfortunately, her aid is coming in the form of sartorial suggestion.

“Why aren’t you wearing your black velvet? They’ll be here any moment. You’re still in jeans.”

I am not wearing my black velvet because the lemon tart requires a dusting of confectioner’s sugar in about two minutes. It will take about two minutes to explain this to Ilsa, so I try to shoo her from the kitchen instead, telling her that she should make sure the dinner-party playlist is to her liking. My mood is all Glass, and if she wants to add swing to the thing, it’s better for her to do it now than to make a scratch mid-song.

My stress gets more level when I am alone in the kitchen. I like being alone in the kitchen. My thoughts fit well into the sound of bubbling, boiling and refrigeration. I can be the conductor of this minor orchestra.

It’s only when other people get involved that the conducting becomes unwieldy, and arrangements get messy.

I don’t know who Ilsa’s invited, although I suspect that, despite her denial, KK will soon besmirk our doorway with her usual gusts of privilege. Ilsa can’t resist KK – she’s the fashion plate my sister eats off of, her droll model. I personally can’t fathom how a girl so rich can also be so rich with complaint. But she’s never wanted me or anyone else to like her. I guess there’s some power that comes from that. Only I’m not really sure what you can use that power for.

My guest list is, I hope, a little more amenable to amiability.

First, there’s my best friend, Parker, since even though Ilsa placed him on the Banished Guest List, I am not having this last dinner party without him. Ilsa claims he broke her heart, but she needs to get over it. Mostly because the breakup was totally her fault, and nearly ended my friendship with him, which wasn’t fair.

Next up is Jason. I figured if I was inviting one of Ilsa’s exes, I should balance it out with one of mine. Although it’s not really the same, since Jason and I managed to stay friends. He had this whole I’m-going-to-Tufts-and-you’re-going-to-Berklee! plan, and when I decided to stay in Manhattan, it was like I’d slapped his future, which in turn said oh-no-you-didn’t and stormed out the door. This left the present standing in the middle of the room, slight and awkward. Jason withdrew his application for soul mate, and we went from there. Still looking for true love, but not with each other.

Which maybe leads me to my wild card: Subway Boy. I’ve been seeing him on the 1 train for the past few months. And around the city, especially around Lincoln Center. Sometimes he’s carrying a violin case. I have mapped more fantasies out onto Subway Boy than I care to admit. And after a while, I saw that he was recognizing me as much as I was recognizing him.

Still, I didn’t want to ruin it by talking to him. Until, last week, he was right there when I got on board the train, and it was like the party invitation in my pocket began to vibrate. Before I could tell myself to halt, halt, halt, I was handing it to him and telling him he should come.

“There’s no RSVP,” he said when he finished reading it.

He didn’t look at me like I was bad crazy. He looked at me like I was good crazy. Bold crazy. Romantic crazy.

“Regrets only,” I told him.

“Well,” he said with a smile, “I can’t say I have any regrets.”

As we hit his stop, I ventured a “See you later?”

“Absolutely,” he replied.

And that, it seemed, was that. I haven’t seen him since. I’m not even sure he’ll show up. I’m afraid that, if he does, Ilsa will ask me his name.

I have no idea what his name is.

Nor, for that matter, do I know if he’s vegan. Or only eats meat. Or is lactose intolerant. Gluten agnostic. Kale monogamous. So I’m making a little of everything, which adds up to way too much.

“You do realize we’re only having six guests?” Ilsa, back in the kitchen, asks as I bedevil an egg. The flapper dress she has on would make even Clara Bow fall silent in respect. “And none of them, at least on my list, eats this much.”

I can never keep my sister out of the kitchen for that long, not when we’re the only two people home. It’s not that she likes watching me cook. And it’s certainly not that she likes assisting. She just hates being in a room by herself.

“I’ve invited Rudolph Tate,” I say. “He requires at least six servings.”

This is mean. Rudolph Tate eats like a bird and looks like a bird and flew the coop after two chirpy dates with me. Ilsa had set us up, and since it was only the latest in a mess of maladroit matches, I asked her to never, ever set me up again. It was getting to be that when a male at Ilsa’s school came out of the closet, the first thing he found was my sister standing by the closet door, saying she had someone he should really, really meet.

“If you’d invited Rudy, I would have heard about it,” Ilsa says, her faith in gossip unwavering. “He’s the apple of #Stantastic’s rebounding eye now. And #Stantastic tweets anything that makes him jealous.”

My date with #Stantastic had been even worse than my date with Rudolph. As we were talking over dinner, he kept typing it all down on his phone. I tried not to give him any material, and as a result ended up being called #sleepyandhollow when he gave everyone his side of the story. Amazingly, he didn’t understand why I passed on a second date. I know this because he told his (fifty-six) followers he was #Stantagonized by the fact that I hadn’t been #Stantalized.

I study Ilsa’s face, to see if she’s invited Rudolph or #Stantastic. It’s looking like a no. I’m relieved . . . and still a little worried about who else that leaves.

I check the oven, and at least everything there seems to be going according to plan. Satisfied by the tick of the timer, I sugar the tart and give the Waldorf salad an extra toss, making sure the lemon-juiced apples haven’t defied me and started to brown. I know it’s time for me to take off my apron and get into host mode . . . but I want to linger in the kitchen a little bit longer. It’s so much safer there.

“This is it,” I tell Ilsa. “Our last dinner party of high school.”

This is the beginning of all the goodbyes. I’ve been preparing for them, in my own way. I’m ready for graduation. But I’m not ready for life to change so much, so soon.

I can’t say any of this to Ilsa because it’s too depressing. And my sister does not like to be depressed. I may be the gay one, but she’s the one who lives by gaiety. Carefree and careless, the life of the party trying to make a party out of her life – that’s my unidentical twin, with her unidentity.

“It all looks so grand,” she says, trying on the last word like a little girl tries on her mother’s shoes.

Or her grandmother’s shoes. I guess we’re both wearing our grandmother’s shoes. Look at me, with all of my culinary creations – I want to dazzle. Look at Ilsa, in her shimmering flapper dress – she wants to be dazzling.

“The humdrum won’t know what hit it,” I promise her.

“It won’t dare set foot in this apartment, not while we’re around.”

“It shall be a night to remember.”

She nods. “For the ages.”

I make one last check that everything is boiling, brewing and baking as it should. With ten minutes left, I retreat to my room to change. My clothes hang ready on the closet door. Black suit. White shirt. Dark blue tie. I always wear this outfit because I don’t think I look as good in anything else. And I want to look good tonight.

Despite myself, I have hopes.

I’m far from certain that he’s going to show up. This boy whose name I don’t even know.

I told Parker about it, of course. I’m sure one of the reasons I did was because I knew it would make him think I had the potential to be at least momentarily brave. After months of him telling me to talk to Subway Boy, of him threatening to go up to Subway Boy and say, “Hey, my friend here likes you,” I finally made the move.

And now, the waiting.

You’re good, Parker tells me. I need to borrow his voice sometimes, when I don’t trust my own.

Eight minutes. I button my buttons.

Six minutes. I tie my tie.

Five minutes. I –

I –

I can’t go out there. I can’t do this. I can’t. I really can’t. I’m going to tell Ilsa I’m feeling sick. I can’t let any of this happen. Whatever’s going to happen, I don’t want it to happen. This was such a mistake. I am such a fraud. I want to stay in the kitchen. I don’t want anyone else to come in. I don’t want to have to talk to anybody. My body knows this. My body is shutting down, saying, That’s enough for you, Sam. I tried to believe I could. I tried to trick myself. But the only thing I’m smart at is knowing when I’m going to fail. There’s no way to disguise that. I am going to fail.

Four minutes.

I can’t fool anybody.

Three minutes.

Ilsa is calling my name. I am trying to do all the things the doctors told me to do. Slow down. Deep breaths. Affirm. I can do this. Whether or not he comes. Whether or not this is the end of our dinner parties. Whether or not Ilsa appreciates it.

Two minutes. I consult my mirror.

I do look better than I usually do.

I remember that at some point in the night, I’ll be taking the jacket off. So I’m careful. Very careful.

I make sure my sleeves are rolled down and buttoned, covering any lingering trace of my damage.

One minute. The buzzer buzzes.

The first guest has arrived.