He walked around, opened the backseat door, and motioned her to sit in the backseat.
“Let’s sit closer,” he said.
Leah bit down on her lower lip, not knowing how to make this stop. It felt like a terrifying dream with interludes of comfort mingled with shame.
Charles kissed her and stroked her back as if he were calming a child.
“Professor Hong. . . please, no.” Her shoulders grew rigid.
He kissed her again, and she submitted to the pressure of his tongue.
He put his arm around her waist and pulled her toward him at first, then gently lowered her on her back. He began to massage her breasts.
“I want to see you,” he said, unzipping her dress and unhooking her brassiere.
She shook her head. “Please, no,” she murmured. “I have to go home,” she cried quietly. “Please.”
Charles slipped his hands under her panty hose and pulled off her undergarments. He positioned himself squarely above her and lowered himself. “Leah, oh, Leah. My beautiful Leah . .”
Leah shut her eyes tight, unable to say a word. She wept, and her jaw trembled. This was her fault. She should not have gone to the restaurant with him alone. He must have known that she found him attractive. That she was in love with him and thought of him at work. He was a man who had been all over the world and known many women. He must have sensed all this, and she couldn’t stop him.
When it was over, her face was wet. Charles dried her tears with his hands.
“There’s no need to cry. You can come home with me. I will take care of you,” he said. “Everything will be all right. I don’t care what people think. And you mustn’t, either. You are an artist. I can get money. You could leave your husband. We could move away. Anything is possible. I must have been waiting all my life for you.” As he said these things, Charles began to believe they were true. It was possible to imagine a future with Leah. He could imagine a happy life with a person like this. She would make an excellent wife for a composer. They could go to his house right now, and he could keep her there. He would make love to her properly on a bed. He didn’t want to wake up alone anymore.
Leah looked at him in horror. What was he saying? She licked her lips because they felt so dry. She wiped her eyes with the backs of her hands. “I have to go home,” she whispered. She pulled up her panties and hose and hooked her brassiere. She reached behind her to zip up her dress, and Charles helped her. He kissed her forehead again. He felt so happy.
“You mustn’t be upset,” he said. “We made love tonight. Yobo, when can I see you again?”
“I—I don’t know,” she said, unable to think.
“Come early on Sunday,” he said. “As early as you can. You can call me any time you like.” She was the purest thing he had ever touched. He loved her. It made sense that she was frightened, but he believed that she loved him, too.
Leah returned to the driver’s seat. Charles stood by the car and stuck his head in the car window to kiss her. At the mouth of the subway station, he waved good-bye.
When Leah got home, Joseph was asleep in bed, and she showered. She soaped her breasts and pubes thoroughly. She wanted to forget what had happened. It would have been a relief if someone shot her dead. When she got into the bed, she lay there and said her prayers. In the backseat while the professor was pushing into her, words had blurred in her head like crazy muffled pleas to God to save her. But in that time, whether it was five minutes or less, she couldn’t say for sure, no one had passed by or come for her.
6 MODEL
HER EYES SHUT, Ella could picture the notes seeping into her body. She wanted to rest her head but feared falling asleep—not because she was bored, but because she felt secure and peaceful sitting here. Ensconced in her dark red seat at Carnegie Hall, she put out of her mind the custody hearings, the letters of character reference required by the court-appointed social worker, and the image of her sharp lawyer, who made her feel naive at best and at worst plain stupid. Ella was also tired. At night, she worried about losing Irene, who’d already started to string words together last month. Her baby’s favorite breakfast this week was steamed rice, chicken fingers, and apples—Irene called food “bop-bop” and milk “oo-yew.” When she was in bed alone, Ella stared at Ted’s old pillow. How could she have missed all the obvious things about Ted? How much did a man change after he married? Was she dumb, or had he concealed his true self? What had she done wrong?
But right now she was on a date, sort of, with David Greene. Since he had broken up with his fiancée less than a month ago, they had gone to dinner twice, seen each other at school, and spoken on the phone almost nightly, but they hadn’t done much besides. He held her hand during dinners, and they always hugged good-bye. He asked her to go to the movies and parties, but after work, Ella preferred to fix Irene’s dinner and give her baths. She didn’t like being out during the week. She’d never brought David to her home. He said he understood. Ella was lousy at saying no, but when it came to Irene, she found it easier to do so. But it was Radu Lupu playing Beethoven, he’d insisted earlier that afternoon. You can’t miss this, he’d said, his blue eyes darkening. “Call the sitter, please, Ella. You must hear him play. And these are such good tickets.”