Any Woman's Blues_ A Novel of Obsession - Erica Jong [116]
“He’s utterly faithful, in his Mediterranean fashion. And a brilliant architect. And you can be sure they know all about you, or will, the minute you go any deeper. He’ll never leave them, honey. Sex is sex, but money an’ position last forever. Mamma got him all his first major commissions, and he’s loyal to that, though an American man wouldn’t be, would have to leave as a result. We Americani are very romantic and believe in moving on. The Europeans are far more practical than we are. Never forget it, honey. And La Mamma is La Mamma. And his wife is glamorous—if a bit cold. She has him followed. She knows everything.”
“How did you know?”
“Don’t insult me, Zandberg. This is my town. Venezia is a village. I saw him swim up to you, an’ don’t think nobody’s seen you gettin’ in an’ out of Mamma’s Riva, an’ gorgeous as you are, may I suggest you are not the first lovely foreigner he has seduced?”
“Have you . . . ?”
“Oh, ages and ages ago. I remember a lovely swivel to his hips and a cock you could write home to Mother about—if, that is, you had a mother like Auntie Mame. But he’s too reptilian to be my type. I remember Southern men just like Renzo. I prefer them less pretty, more serious. You always did have a thing for bounders, fortune hunters, gigolos, and knaves. So what if this one’s Jewish. (And as Spanish as Don Giovanni.) You still can’t bring him home to Mother!”
“I haven’t always had knaves. . . .”
“Well, not always. But since you got really famous. Honey, I understand it better than anyone. The Cher syndrome, the Sunny von Bülow complex . . . I could write a book. And he is a great lay. Tout le monde knows that. I seem dimly to remember superhuman endurance. But don’t get hooked. And what about your nice Julian?”
“We’re pals—nothing more.”
“Impotent?”
“I don’t know what that means anymore. Julian vibrates to the music of the spheres.”
“Won’t or can’t?”
“Who knows? Does it matter? We’re brother and sister. Don’t knock it. It has its own strange allure. And it lasts longer than sex.”
“Lord, it’s the new successful men’s disease: Impaired Desire. Either they can’t or won’t get it up—or they get it up and then refuse to come. Refuse to succumb to the indignity of orgasm. On strike against women’s liberation. It’s just awful, that’s what it is.”
I glance over at Renzo, and my heart skips several beats. Maybe he’ll leave her for you, the devil whispers in my ear.
“He won’t,” says Cordelia, reading my thoughts.
“Am I that transparent?” I ask.
“Everyone is when they’re moonstruck. And let’s be fair, Venice is Venice, an’ Italian men make American men seem like Louie, Huey, and Dewey. They move like jellied consommé, speak like Pinot Grigio, and fuck with all those verbal pyrotechnics. Whispered lines of verse—pilfered, no doubt, from the libretti of Lorenzo Da Ponte, another Venetian Renzo. I do like the name. Renzo Pisan. It has a certain ring to it.”
“He never told me about her. Or mamma.”
“He will, just as soon as you make the mistake of asking him to spend a night, or take you to lunch, or a little weekend in Asolo, or Porto Ercole. He always comes home by six. Turns into a pumpkin, you just take my word for it. And the more you get under his skin, the more he’ll eventually run. Take my word for that too. He’s as scared of commitment as any of these American swains, but he’s got the family as a buffer. That’s Italian.”
“So what’s the difference between your situation with Guido and this one?”
“All the difference in the world, honey. Guido and I are practically married, Renzo plays the field. And we’re talking about field! Beautiful Americans, French, Italians, here on holiday, all just dyin’ to be swept away by the fatal charm of Italy. Read Luigi Barzini. Renzo and his type ought to be on pension from the Italian ministry of tourism! A moonlit roll in the bateau for every lovely straniera.