Saving Anna Karenina
Part 49
Start with Part 1, and read a short synopsis of the original book.
Pete wasn’t accustomed to being poolside with a stunning woman in a bathing suit. He didn’t know what to say to Anna’s flirtatious greeting. So he held out his hand and said with a forced smile that it was nice to see her. He wondered if she had read the last article he had written about her. She must have. Is that what she meant by wicked? When he called to arrange this interview, she hadn’t mentioned it at all.
“Why don’t we sit and have a drink,” she said, leading him to a patio in front of the poolhouse where several colorful adirondack chairs sat by a glass table. As he passed her chaise lounge, he glanced down at the novel lying open on the ground below. It was by Danielle Stone; he could tell from the enormous gold letters on its cover.
“You’re reading Danielle Stone?”
“Oh!” said Anna, heading into the poolhouse. “When I first discovered her, I told myself that if only she wrote a book that lasted my whole life, I could become an old woman in this new world. I’ve gotten my wish — she’s written enough novels to occupy me for the rest of my days!” Anna laughed without looking at him from inside the cabana.
Pete could hear ice cubes clinking inside and R&B music playing. She came out a moment later with two glasses, handing Pete one and sitting down. The cubes were big, square blocks that looked like they came from a cocktail lounge with special ice cube trays.
“We drank champagne last time. Today we’ll have Pimm’s. Do you like Pimm’s?”
Anna’s toenails were red and her sandals were gold. Her feet looked like they belonged on the cover Conde Nast Traveler. He gulped his Pimm’s, a girly drink if he’d ever had one. He felt way over his head here. What was he doing writing about a princess in the Hamptons? What knowledge did he have of high society? How could he pull off this article? Maybe he should just get drunk, sleep with his interview subject, and go back to his nice little gig at the Post. He took another gulp, finishing the drink, and looked out at the large house before them. He knew something about Mort Greenblatt, its owner. The septuagenarian ran a tech fund, had spent his middle age as a corporate attorney on Wall Street. An old woman was looking out the window at them.
“Who’s that woman staring?”
Anna didn’t look up. “Don’t mind her. That’s Judith, Kathleen’s mother-in-law. She always sits there and looks out the window. She thinks she’s being very useful by taking note of what we do back here and telling Mr. Greenblatt. But we don’t do anything very exciting, I’m afraid. She’s only lonely, poor thing. I’ve invited her to join me but she doesn’t like people.”
“Where’s Greenblatt today?” The sun was causing Pete’s eyes to tear at the corners. He felt like a skinned chicken under a broiler. But Anna had her eyes closed and a sublime smile on her face, leaning her head against the back of the chair, soaking it in.
“Mr. Greeblatt?” After a long pause she spoke. “I believe he took a helicopter somewhere. And Kathleen’s at a meeting in Sag Harbor. Thank heavens I don’t have to go. I’ve been to enough meetings!” Anna opened her eyes and looked at Pete and his empty glass. “Would you like another?”
That would take the edge off, thought Pete. He nodded, thrusting out his glass. Anna looked so amazing. Her hair was still long, still curly, but it had that tousled quality of hair that’s been in chlorine or salt water. Her swimsuit was a full piece, black, very simple. Her figure was nearly perfect. Her breasts much fuller than he’d remembered. She put on weight since that grim day in Brooklyn, and that wasn’t a bad thing. He hadn’t noticed the broadness of her shoulders before; they communicated strength.
When she came back with his drink, he told her this. But her response was not what he had hoped. She didn’t seem touched. Instead, distracted, indifferent.
“So, your redemption story. What details can I provide?” she said, leaning back in her chair. Pete noticed that she hadn’t finished her first drink yet.
“Well,” said Pete, flustered. “Can you begin where we left off? What’s happened since I last saw you?”
Anna told Pete her story. She was used to this now. It really was a marvelous story, she thought. He took notes. They would be finished soon, and then she could be finished with Peter Schiffers. He drank a lot. Anna would have joined him but she wasn’t supposed to drink alcohol while she took her new antidepressant medicine. She was glad the doctor had taken her off that Zyprexa. Now she could be like all the other people of her station — on antidepressants, instead of antipsychotics.
She could see that Peter had dressed to impress her. Kathleen told her that Vanity Fair was a widely read publication. Anna felt somehow obliged to the interview, as though Peter were her chronicler and she was the czarina.
Pete, meanwhile, felt his trusty center dropping out of him. Something essential was missing here. Anna’s journey had all the trappings of a good story, but here, now, listening to her, it seemed like a great design that wouldn’t stand up. Anna wasn’t a caricature anymore. She was confusing, with her confidence. Goddamnit, he felt ridiculous, with his gelled hair and shirt tucked in.
Anna’s phone rang. She excused herself and went inside.
It was Matyas, calling from his bicycle. He was so enterprising! Kathleen had mentioned last week that she hated the floor in the bathroom, and Matyas had agreed. He said there was a new cement paste one could apply over tile that would, if planed, painted and finished, look like an old palazzo floor. Kathleen had contracted him to do this, and with nothing more than a bicycle rigged with a milk crate, he had found the materials and now was bringing them home. They discussed dinner, which they cooked together, neither very well. He would pick up scallops. They still had vegetables left from the farmer’s market, and plenty of risotto.
“My boyfriend is replacing the floor in the bathroom, and he’s managed to pick up all the materials with nothing more than a bicycle!” said Anna, coming off the phone call to join Pete. She laughed at this, her cheeks rosy.
Pete was careful not to show himself catching his breath.
“Do you live with him?” he said. It was making sense now, her indifference towards him.
“Oh yes, I didn’t tell you? Seryozha loves him. He gets along with children well. I suppose he’s still a bit of a child himself,” she let out a puff of a laugh. “Just twenty-four.”
“Where did you two meet? I’m sure it’s an interesting story.”
“It certainly is. Forbidden love!” she laughed. “We met in the sanatorium.”
Christ, thought Pete.
Anna continued her story and he turned on his phone’s voice recorder. He was too annoyed to pay attention. It would be easier to transcribe later. And this was only the beginning, a tiny step in an exhaustive reporting process for such a long feature article.
“I have to pick up Seryozha now,” she said at last. “I’ll call Felix and we can drop you at the train station.” Anna went into the poolhouse and came out a few minutes later in a brown linen dress. Her hair was tied back and she wore lip-gloss.
Not surprisingly, Felix was the same guy who had dropped Pete off. Anna twittered in French to him, annoying Pete. But he had to ask about the book. He didn’t know if he even wanted to write the damn thing, but this was his shot to find out if it would be an authorized or unauthorized biography.
“Anna, you know, several publishing companies have approached me asking for a book about you,” he said, interrupting her French conversation with the driver. Anna turned to look at him with her eyebrows arched in question.
“I’m sorry, I didn’t hear you dear. What did you say?” The driver was still chattering in French. Anna heard something he said and laughed, giving a retort. Pete felt invisible. It struck him that even if he asked her, and she listened, it might mean nothing. She might say yes and not understand what she was committing to, or she might say yes to be polite, and not mean it. Why write the damn book?
The car was slowing down when Anna started to say goodbye.
“I may need to follow up with you to fact check some things from the interview,” Pete said out of habit.
“Oh, okay. Well, telephone us,” said Anna. “Oh, Peter, I’ve changed my surname — you should know. Kathleen persuaded me to use my family’s name, Oblonsky.”
Pete nodded, getting out of the car. He almost didn’t make a gesture to say goodbye. Then he held out his hand abruptly.
“Thank you for your time.”
Anna held out her hand daintily and cocked her head to the side with a gracious smile.
“I’m so flattered by your interest. Thank you, Peter.”
Pete searched her eyes for some sincerity, but he found only magnanimity: love for all, but not his one. He nodded and walked away.
Anna waved and pulled her head back into the car. Peter was a man who liked to win things. She was no longer interested in sportsmen. They bored of their prizes. Better to have a shadow. Matyas’s ironic claims to schizophrenia had ended since they left the sanatorium, and he seemed to be a perfectly healthy young man — calm, loving, active, and very skilled with his hands.
This is part 49 of a serialized novella being published each Thursday. It is a speculative sequel to Leo Tolstoy’s novel, Anna Karenina.
