The Metropolis Case_ A Novel - Matthew Gallaway [140]
“I’m serious,” Martin insisted. “I don’t know what happened, it’s just that—”
“Wait.” She now turned to face him. “You’re really gay? Like—” Maria frowned. “I’m not going to catch anything, am I?”
“You might.”
“You better be kidding.”
“I am.” Martin had in fact recently received a clean bill of health; at this point, he still labored under the impression that a single kiss with another man could leave him infected with any number of gruesome diseases—besides AIDS—which sent him to the doctor with hypochondriacal frequency.
This seemed to satisfy her. “So nobody knows? Not Jay, not Linda? What about your ex-wife?”
“She knew,” Martin admitted. “She took me to the cleaners when we got divorced. But nobody else.”
“Good for her,” Maria remarked, severely. “You could have said something before—before we fucked.”
“I’m sorry—it wasn’t premeditated,” Martin offered. “Or at least not consciously, and I didn’t want to wreck it by pretending it was something I would ever want again. Does that make any sense?”
“No—not really—but sort of.” Maria placed a hand on the wall as she reached down to adjust her heel. “It’s just that I had my own little drunken fantasy.”
“What was your fantasy?”
“Oh, just that we would get married and be like best friends with Jay and Linda.”
“Is that something you want?”
They were now at the doors to the ballroom, where she stopped and shook her head. “No, I’m never getting married. There—that’s my coming out.” Maria said this with the perfect amount of conviction and humor, without any self-pity or bitterness. “I decided that a long time ago. I just had a moment of weakness when we met.”
“I have that effect on a lot of people,” Martin tried to joke.
She smiled wanly. “You wish.”
“I could really use another scotch,” Martin responded as he held out his arm. “Join me?”
They found a table in view of the dance floor. New drinks in hand, they talked aimlessly about the past; about Pittsburgh, about Juilliard and Maria’s nascent singing career, while he mentioned his stint as a music writer and his latest incarnation representing bands in major-label record deals.
“So you were into punk rock, like Jay?” she asked. “Mohawks and safety-pin earrings?”
“Not as a fashion statement, but the music—yes—for a while. More or less. Punk, post-punk, hard-core, post-hard-core, new wave, no wave. There’s a lot I was into.”
“I saw the Beach Boys once,” Maria joked. “And some of my burnout friends in high school were into Pink Floyd.”
Martin put down his drink and took Maria’s hand. “Do you have plans for later on?”
“Uh, maybe?” she said.
He laughed and shook his head. “Seriously—do you want to go see a band?”
“Really? What kind?”
“A rock band,” Martin said and thought about it for a few seconds. “But a good one. My Bloody Valentine. They’re very melodic—kind of psychedelic—but also dissonant without being abrasive.”
“Melody and dissonance,” Maria mused, and Martin was happy to note that she seemed intrigued. Although it was in no way a quid pro quo, after what she had done for him, he wanted to offer a piece of himself, and taking her to a show by a band he loved seemed like a perfect opportunity. “Do you know Tristan und Isolde? Richard Wagner?” she asked.
“Uh—well—not really,” Martin stuttered and briefly explained that only recently—thanks to Jay—had he started listening to opera with any seriousness. “I wish I knew more.”
“That’s okay—”
“It’s really not,” Martin disagreed. “But if you come with me tonight—or even if you don’t—I promise to check out Tristan as soon as I can.”
“You don’t ‘check out’ Tristan, big guy,” she replied. “You become it.”
IT WAS NOT until after one in the morning that the band—two women and two men, equally androgynous in shaggy haircuts and T-shirts—shambled onto the stage. When a few seconds later they launched into their set, Martin reached out to steady himself on the railing; it was not just the volume but a density that seemed to envelop and move the audience as if they were all part of a giant coral reef. He felt the tremulant distortion