An Umbrella in High Water
by David Schwartz
The first Thursday night of every month, the Senator gave his driver
leave for the evening and managed to make his way through the lanes
to the district where Donna Baccacio has resided for the last seven
years. The Senator parks his limousine a respectful distance from Donna
Baccacio's apartment.
The Senator walks close to the walls of buildings planted on the street.
He feels at ease, safe in the dimly lit streets, yet, if anyone approaches,
he will raise his umbrella in a nonchalant manner as if to scratch his
ear, or rub the side of his nose, and certainly to hide his face. Those
who may have passed never recognized him, and nobody in this part of
town said hello.
Finally, having made his way to Donna Baccacio's apartment, he would
climb the seven steps, pause to catch his breath, and then push the
bell with the handle of his umbrella. Then he would lean on the umbrella
while he waited, straightening when he heard the woman begin to unlock
the door.
Donna Baccacio would open the door with a flourish, throwing it wide
as she raised her left hand above and behind in a most welcoming gesture.
"Senator," she would say.
"Madame Baccacio." The Senator would take her right hand,
raise it to his lips, and kiss lightly.
"Please do come in," she would say, stepping aside as the
Senator lowered his head to watch for the final step.
The apartment was always kept at a comfortable temperature. Whether
it was summer or winter outside, it was always the first day of spring
inside. There was a mysterious scent, subtle but unmistakable, which
the Senator had for the last twenty-six years identified as a combination
of cherry blossoms, honey-suckle, clove, cinnamon and peaches. Yet the
Senator never, in twenty-six years, asked what the fragrance was called.
He simply enjoyed the scent, breathing deeply when he first entered
her apartment, painting his nostrils with the unmistakable presence
of Donna Baccacio.
"How are you this evening, my Senator?"
The question never failed to humor the Senator. Surely she was not
a constituent in his district. He was not even sure she was a citizen.
They rarely spoke about politics, and never about their personal relationship.
Once, long ago, they had engaged in an animate discussion, which ended
with her saying she did not appreciate his politics, would never vote
for him "come hell or high water," and would contribute to
the opposition party. He could do nothing but laugh aloud with her when
the tirade was finished. They both knew their time spent together had
nothing to do with friendship. She was a person he could be with while
not under the critical scrutiny of the public eye.
The Senator, ever more gentlemanly the older he became, occasionally
sent her flowers, or presented her with unexpected gifts, or at least
wired her messages, when not in Washington, to say he was thinking of
her. She knew he was not thinking of her, per se, but what she represented:
someone who would never question his political judgment, never ask his
opinion on contemporary issues, never be concerned that he was a Senator
in the United States government.
She was never concerned one of his messages would say that he could
not make their monthly meeting. He never failed to be in town on the
first Thursday of every month. He arranged his entire schedule around
their permanent appointment and, when influenza once kept him from her,
he nevertheless had an envelope delivered at the appointed hour. There
was a note, scrawled in his feverish hand, which apologized profusely.
The next Thursday, he arrived with an especially extravagant gift; a
fox stole, and said he hoped she would forgive his absence the week
before. She had told him that it happened that people did not show up,
and this was nothing to be too concerned about, but he had said, "It
is not like that between us." Other than this exchange, they never
discussed what it was like between them.
At precisely seven each first Thursday of the month, the Senator was
invited into a permanent spring, fed a dinner which became less and
less flamboyant as the years went on - not that he expressed the slightest
concern about the meals - the decorous candles, champaign with purple
wicks set in silver sticks, becoming longer and longer. The Senator
was entertained with conversation about famous people Donna Baccacio
had known, intrigues and escapades she had experiences and, after twenty-six
years, she had not once run out of stories, never told the same story
twice, and never allowed the Senator to languish or grow sleepy while
she spoke. Years ago, the Senator had told her she should write the
story of her life.
"Nothing would make more fascinating reading," he had said.
"No one cares about an old slut from Milan."
"Nonsense," he had told her, and recounted a few of her
adventures in abbreviated form, noting how unique and interesting he
thought them.
"You're just being kind, my dear Senator."
"Not at all," he said. For months afterwards, pads of paper
and pens could be seen on the nightstand in her bedroom, but little
more was said of it. Occasionally, the Senator would ask how her manuscript
was going. She would wave his remarks away and begin what she thought
was a more interesting topic.
From conversation, they went to the bedroom. There were no surprises.
Donna Baccacio would remove elegant gowns with practiced shyness and
slip demurely beneath sheets, which were softer than margarine. The
Senator, with dramatic flair, would remove his jacket, unbutton his
shirt, drop his pants, turn to expose himself without shame, and slowly
get in bed next to her.
When they were finished, they dressed while discussing news or other
events, said goodbye at the door, and the Senator would stroll the few
blocks to his limousine. Donna Baccacio would watch after him from behind
the curtains. Lately, she had been feeling cunning emotions, which made
her suppose what she could do if she became a citizen. Could she have
worked on the Senators' campaigns?
One Thursday the Senator left and Donna Baccacio stood by the door
and cried. Her tears began as a tight knot in her throat, a warm trickle
that she swept from an eye, which then erupted in a surge of emotion
for reasons she could not understand. "The Senator has been having
difficulty buttoning his shirts," she thought. Then, "Stop
this foolishness, you old whore."
The next Thursday she welcomed the Senator inside as usual. The meal
was scrumptious, although the portions were noticeably smaller. The
Senator excused the few pieces of shrimp he was served with the thought
that, after all, he was eating less than he had years ago. In the good
old days, he could consume duck a l'orange and all the trimmings, and
still perform acrobatically. Now he would be satisfied to finish a cup
of coffee, cryptically tell Madame Baccacio that the circus had left
town, watch her laugh without necessarily understanding his remark,
and lay naked next to her for an hour before dressing and leaving.
The Senator never had difficulty obtaining and sustaining an erection,
but he had lately been worried about the effort expended after dinner
and, though he never mentioned this to Donna Baccacio, he was now concerned
about the idea of a heart attack. Death did not concern him. He had
been anticipating death, and thinking he may even find it a relief after
his exhausting routines in service to the nation. He even thinks dying
in bed would be a wonderful way to go. But think of the scandal, if
his lifeless body had to be lifted from the bed of Donna Baccacio.
The Senator dressed slower than usual.
"I always feel so safe with you, my dear Senator."
A silent smile was his response.
"Have I ever told you that your technique reminds me of Luis
Domingo?"
"My technique?" he said as he fumbled with a button on his
shirt, "I was unaware I had a technique."
"He, too, was such a gentleman. So kind. Go gentle and gallant."
The Senator laughed gently and said, "No man likes being compared
to another man. Think how you slight poor Señor Domingo."
"I'm serious," she said with mock anger. "Luis Domingo
had once robbed a bank and came to me for refuge."
"You have given shelter to the most bewildering sorts, my dear.
They are a cadre among whom I am proud to be a member."
"Luis was a great patriot of Peru."
"A patriot who robbed banks. Well, I'm not really surprised."
"Did I say bank robber? He robbed stage coaches in San Francisco."
The Senator looked around the corner of his eye toward her.
"This was in the days before they built the railroad system.
Do you understand how long ago that was, my dear Senator?"
"Oh, my dear Donna Baccacio," he laughed heartily, snapping
up the last three buttons, "You tease me unmercifully."
"It's true," she said, "When we run out of memories,
we must resort to our own inventions."
Dressed now, they walked arm in arm to the door. The Senator turned
to embrace her, aimed his lips toward her cheek, kissed the side of
her nose.
"You be well, now."
"I shall, my dear," he answered, "And you take care
of yourself."
"I will, my dear."
He put his hand on the door for support as he leaned toward the corner
to retrieve his umbrella.
"Senator," she said.
"Madame?"
"I have never asked you, because I thought I understood. But
for the last few years I have wanted to know."
"Yes, my dear," he said, his face having already settled
into wrinkles and a frown which usually followed their separation.
"You park so far up the street..."
"Yes," he interrupted, "And you wonder why it is that
an old man like me should have to walk so far on a chilly evening."
"No, my dear Senator. Not at all. It is a question between you
and I."
"Oh," he said, "I understand."
"Do you, my Senator. Do you understand? You are the only man
I have been with since I moved into this brownstone. My neighbors think
I am a spinster woman who has led a dull, typical life."
"If only they knew!"
"Yes. But I am concerned about us, Senator. About us."
"About us, my dear?"
"Yes, my Senator. Surely you do not park so far away because
you are afraid of soiling my reputation. Surely a gentleman visitor
once a month to a woman so old and tired as myself would not shock anyone.
Why don't you, next week, part in front of my apartment?"
The Senator's eyes brightened. His wrinkles vanished in a smile. He
dropped his umbrella so he could hold his sides with both hands as he
laughed a deep, guttural laugh.
Donna Baccacio frowned as she looked upon him without understanding.
"Oh, my dear," he sputtered, "My dear Madame Baccacio."
"My Senator?"
"My dear, you know my position with the government."
Donna Baccacio did not yet understand. She tilted her head and thought
to cry, but told herself that if you have to think about crying you
might as well not. Besides, she, like the Senator, was too old for such
vanities. Still, she wondered. Was the Senator afraid to soil his reputation?
Surely he had proved himself too much the gentleman to be concerned
about what people thought about him at his age. His accomplishments
were noteworthy, but he was not destined for the history books. Certainly
he had proven to her in the course of their relationship that he was
unconcerned about his so-called station in life. There would be no next
election, which would be sullied by his having been seen with an old
friend. He had already announced his retirement from politics. Besides,
she had once heard him say that the indiscretions of politicians and
clergy "only proved they were human after all, and still had some
life in them," which he said had political value.
She allowed the Senator's laughter to run its course and, when he
had composed himself, he explained.
"An old fool like me does not give a damn about what people think
about him. My entire staff knows you are a once and former ... curia
of special favors. Do you think it has any effect on the political advice
they try to force on me? None. But you! Being seen with a politician!
... Ahhh, that's quite another matter!"
Donna Baccacio smiled at the Senator. Tenderly, he kissed her cheek
and patted her hand. She straightened his collar, and he disappeared
from the apartment. She watched after from behind the curtains, thinking,
he's always so gallant. Always the gentleman, my Senator.
-----
David Schwartz volunteers at a hospital and is the author of
A
Jewish Appraisal of Dialogue. He was a nominee for the Pushcart
Award for literature.
Copyright © 2002 David Schwartz.
All rights reserved.