"I'm not a model."

"No, so what are you?"

"I'm here to get my picture taken."

"You're here to get your picture taken but you're not a model. Is this a riddle?"

"Well, I'm Jeff Pierce. If that helps."

"Jeff Pierce the writer?"

He nodded.

"Oh my God, Jeff, I'm sorry." Her chagrined expression turned rapidly angry as she looked around the studio for someone to blame. "Why didn't somebody fucking tell me this was Jeff Pierce." And then, turning back: "I didn't recognize you with your shades on. Sorry, I thought you were some stupid model or something. You want a drink? Corona? Perrier? Will somebody get us a goddamn Coke over here, please? Sorry if I was a little... abrupt. But we were expecting you yesterday. "

"You were?"

"Weren't we supposed to shoot Jeff yesterday?" she hollered.

"Yeah, Tuesday, one p.m.," somebody answered.

"What's today," Jeff asked hopefully.

"Wednesday, actually. Wednesday three-fifteen p.m. Eastern Standard Time. All our instruments agree. Isn't that right, people?"

An enthusiastic chorus of lackey assent echoed through the loft.

"Traffic was pretty bad," he offered. Jeff wondered which day he'd lost along the way. Usually he was only a few hours off, though longish stretches of his recent life remained unaccounted for.

"Maybe we can do you today," Glenda said. "We've already had a pretty unbelievable day here. Nikki Christianson-you know Nikki, right? inventor of the silicon microchip?-she dropped this baby on its head in the middle of the shoot so now we're waiting to hear from the hospital to see if it's alive and then I've got this underwear shoot that the model is twenty minutes late for but if you don't mind sticking around ..."

"Do you give lollipops," Jeff asked.

"We give whatever you want."

"Save me," Jeff said, "from what I want." When the model for the underwear shoot arrived, Glenda demanded that he remove his pants and shirt. "I think we're going to shave your chest," she said to the dismayed model, who was led off whimpering to a dressing room and emerged twenty minutes later in a pair of jockey shorts, smooth of torso and puffy-eyed. It looked to Jeff as if he'd been crying.

"Nice pecs," said Glenda. "Are they real?"

Jeff went to the bathroom, nodded off on a couch in the corner of the loft till Glenda was ready for him.

"I think we're going to light you from the left side to start. You'll want some of these eyedrops, I think the eyedrops are definitely in order here, having a little trouble locating your pupils in there, big fella... Do you want anything to drink, Jeff?"

"Chocolate egg cream..."

"Call the deli, somebody..."

"With maybe a little shot of vodka."

"Absolutely."

"Make it a double and hold the egg cream."

One of the assistants seated Jeff in an old wooden school chair, while another wheeled up an antique Remington on a rickety typewriter stand. The retro writer look. From behind, somebody rubbed mousse into his hair. If there was one thing Jeff hated, it was mousse, except when it was for dessert and chocolate. But Jeff gradually disappeared. He had long since learned that his actual presence was not required at these sessions. At one time his face would clench with the self-consciousness of the unwilling photo subject, but gradually he had worked toward a state of Oriental indifference accelerated in this instance by the vodka. Each time his image was reproduced he looked less and less like himself, the flash bulbs progressively bleaching the map of his soul out of his face. With enough exposure he would look like someone else entirely- the perfect disguise for a writer.

Two brand-new models showed up at the studio looking for portfolio shots and Glenda decided to mix them into Jeff's shoot. He was too stunned to protest; they were the kind of mythic feminine creatures rarely encountered in three dimensions. The stylist dressed the blonde in a man's pin-striped suit and gave her a cane. The black girl they stripped and wrapped in plastic ivy. Jeff gathered it was supposed to be laurel. Not being a visual artist, he didn't quite catch the concept. The girls vogued and posed around him like inhabitants of a dream, making him dizzy with fear and yearning.

Somehow he had not envisioned this part of the job, back when he'd decided to be a writer.

A phone rang and presently one of Glenda's functionaries whispered in her ear. "The kid's all right," Glenda announced. "Maybe have a little trouble with algebra down the road, but he's kicking and screaming. So, are we all set here?"

But Jeff was asleep, his elbow propped on the typewriter, his head nestled in the cup of his palm, his breath whistling softly through the cavern of his open mouth.

5.

While Russell was in the bathroom Corrine pulled on the new bustier she'd bought at The Pleasure Chest, which lifted her breasts higher than they'd been since she was about seventeen, and nearly spilled them right back over the top of the scalloped translucent black lace cups. She climbed into the unfamiliar garter belt, then stepped into the garters, slid the black fishnet stockings up her calves to her thighs, where she succeeded with some difficulty in attaching them to the garters. The faucet in the bathroom was still singing like a teakettle. Next she pulled her hair back, bobby-pinned it down as quickly as she could, and ran to the closet for the wig box. Adjusting the stiff copper tresses of the Tina Turner wig, she looked around frantically for the lipstick, yanking the tops from several of her old tubes and scattering them, finally finding the new one, a lurid, supernatural shade of red which she hoped never to encounter in real life. A slathering of mascara and she was finished, just as the bathroom door opened.

She ran to the bed, threw herself down across it, and struck an indecent odalisque pose. Emerging naked from the bathroom, Russell was startled to find a strange woman in his bed. But she could see, quite explicitly, that it didn't take him long at all to get the idea.

Once inspired, he didn't require instructions. After all, it was Valentine's Day, or had been until midnight. Russell had risen early and brought her breakfast in bed with bagels and cream cheese and Scottish salmon, and spilled orange juice-very sweet, though she hated to eat in the mornings-along with a card and bottle of Chanel No. 5 on the tray. Inside the card he had written: Black velvet hairbands and French scented candles John Stuart Mill and supermarket-tabloid scandals The song Van Morrison sings These foolish things Remind me of you.

As she was dressing after breakfast, she'd noticed the wig box in the closet and remembered the night when they had come home from the Halloween party the year before-how he'd leaped on her while she still had the wig on and how afterward he had confessed that it was like fucking another woman, and she hadn't minded because it was her, after all, and she had been excited by the idea of being the other woman.

Not that she had time for this, she thought, as Russell, sated and exhausted from his tumble with Tina, began to snore. But that was the whole point: When it was new you didn't have time for anything else, and after ten years you never had the time. There was always something else, work, sleep, the final chapter of a book. Though it was Sunday, she had to wake up early for a christening, and now she couldn't sleep, thinking about lost ardor and about that terrible story she'd heard ' from Jeff.

They'd given their annual Valentine's party; at dinner Russell had served a wine called Les Amoureuses, which she had thought was very cute of him until she noted the outrageous price on the tag still attached to one of the bottles. After dinner Jeff had arrived with an entourage of downtowners and demi-celebs, club people, lowlife and highlife types who never went to an office in the morning-a gossip columnist named Juan Baptiste who wanted to talk to Russell about a book; Leticia Corbin, heiress of the publishing family; Glenda Banes, the photographer. After Glenda left, Jeff told a horrible story about a model who'd dropped and killed a baby during a photo shoot. Once the bereaved parents had consulted a lawyer, Jeff said, the modeling agency hired a private investigator, who came up with solid evidence of past marijuana use and probable cocaine use, which the agency threatened to reveal to the father's employer unless the parents settled for a reasonable amount of cash. Fifty thousand, as it turned out, which was tax-deductible for the agency.

Corrine wanted to do something, call up The New York Times, organize a boycott. Hours later, she was still so upset that she had to find out if it was really true. She slipped out of bed, padded out to the living room, toxic with smoke and boozy residues, and punched Jeff's number. She wanted to talk, and she was never afraid of waking him up. The machine picked up; she whispered into the receiver for a minute, because he always screened his calls, but he wasn't picking up. "This is your married Valentine calling to check up on you," she said. His night was probably still young. They had all been on that schedule once. Dawn patrol.

But where did Jeff meet these people, she wondered, as she slipped back into bed, and how had his life become so weird, so different from theirs? Apparently once you were sort of famous they sent you a membership card. And the girls, the modules and actress slash waitresses. The piquantly slutty young things who were not without interest for Russell, and whose presence invigorated all of the intoxicated thirtyish men in the smoky apartment.

Socializing was aphrodisiac for Russell. He got excited being charming for strangers. Those few nights when they stayed at home, nights into which Corrine sometimes tried to inject romance, Russell read manuscripts or watched TV, as if unwilling to crank up his engine for her alone. She had decided to take advantage of his exuberance tonight, dust off the lingerie and tease up the wig. She just wondered how long it would be before he got tired of Tina Turner.

6.

Sunday is the day of restlessness, dedicated to stale news, guilt and culture. The city lies stunned from its excesses and the inhabitants, when they finally venture out, walk the streets without, for once, appearing to have any immediate destination or purchase in mind.

Dans le musee: Amidst the rocks and trees of Cezanne's Provence, this French girl was shaped like something dreamed by Brancusi, Russell thought, a piece that would be called Sex Moving Through Space, this notion provoking a nagging inner voice acquired via the Times op-ed and the higher media, progressive girlfriends and old New England schools: You shouldn't entertain such thoughts, being ostensibly enlightened, liberal, and married besides. Treating women like objects; making low similes out of High Art. Two violations. Still, it happened. Even here in the Museum of Modern Art, where a not-so-very-;eune fille in blue jeans was standing in front of Cezanne's The Bather whispering to her friend in the artist's native tongue-even when we should be admiring he Chateau Noir, usually one of our favorite paintings.

"At least Cezanne doesn't let his ego into the painting," Corrine said.

"Say what?" Russell often had occasion to note his wife's gift for abruptly going public with her interior monologues, plunging him into the middle of a debate the subject of which was still a mystery.

"I was thinking about Hemingway saying he learned how to write from Cezanne," she said. "His descriptions of nature have that same solidity and depth, but it's like all the trees in Hemingway's forest have his initials carved in them, and his brooks burble 'Me! Me! Me!' ' Russell didn't think "Me! Me! Me!" was burbling, and was annoyed at this shopworn revisionism. "Jesus, Corrine, that's so stale."

"It isn't stale to me, Russell, I just noticed it for myself, and if you've heard it before I'm sorry. I'm not a literary critic, okay?"

"And what do you mean, 'at least Cezanne doesn't blah blah blah'?"

The Frenchwoman looked over, Russell noticed, then slipped into the other room. This made him even madder.

"I just meant," Corrine said, "technically it's great, but Cezanne is so, you know, cold."

"The whole twentieth century couldn't have happened without him," Russell insisted.

"Well, maybe that would've been a good thing."

"Jesus Christ, Corrine."

"Russell, will you please not shout. I don't know what your problem is, but you've been snapping my head off over every little thing."

"When was the last time you read 'Big Two-Hearted River'?" Russell boomed, his voice filling the small gallery. Feeling absurd even as he spoke-defender of truth, the mot juste and American literature. "Read it and weep. Then tell me about ego."

"How old are you?" Corrine demanded. She turned and fled. Russell watched her go, as did everyone else in the room. Then they looked at him-this philistine in their midst, tormenter of that lovely girl.

Why do we even come here? Russell wondered. Though they'd never had a problem with the Post-Impressionists before. Usually they made it to Synthetic Cubism before they started to argue.

Russell observed the Frenchwoman for a while, conferring with her friend about Rousseau's Sleeping Gypsy, but now that Corrine was gone she didn't look quite so hot.

He drifted through the hushed chambers thinking about his wife. He could picture her achingly clearly in her absence, whereas sometimes when she was right there he just couldn't see her-the virtues so visible to him now becoming blurred with her actual presence. Smart, funny -the best-looking girl in the room, he thought, though she'd never imagine it, always saying, I've got to lose a few pounds I felt so dumpy at the party standing next to Gloria she's so thin, when in fact Corrine is whippet-thin and the lady in question is built along the lines of the pyramid of Cheops.

He remembered the first time he caught sight of her: she was standing at the top of a fraternity house staircase, leaning forward over the banister with a cigarette held exquisitely between her fingers, like a blonde in a thirties movie, gazing down on a party that until that moment had seemed to Russell the climax of his recent escape from home, parents and the Midwest. He'd been drinking everything in sight, huddling with his new roommates, flashing his wit, or so he imagined, at the expense of girls he was still working up the courage to talk to.

Then he saw Corrine at the top of the stairs. He felt he recognized her, took in at a glance everything essential about her character. He stifled his first impulse to point her out to his roommates, not wishing to share the vision, not sure they would see what he saw. Russell believed in his own secret aristocracy, a refinement of soul and taste that he knew he must keep to himself, which much later he would almost forget to believe in. Later, too, he would realize that most of us believe, as he did at that moment, in our ability to read character from physiognomy. While she failed to notice him and his nobility of soul from her aerie atop the staircase, he read intelligence in her gaze, breeding in her slightly upturned nose, sensuality in her lips, and self-confidence in her languid pose. Only in this last would he find he was wrong. As he watched, a boy he recognized as a campus figure appeared on the landing behind her, along with another, radiant couple. She turned, and though Russell could not see her expression, though they did not touch, the air of familiarity and possession between her and the boy was unmistakable; and then the two couples disappeared from view, retreating to the real party, the actual heart of the world, an action that suddenly revealed the event on the lower floor to be a beer brawl-a congress of the second-rate, the meek and halt and lame.

The social accomplishments of his first semester, unknown to Corrine, were committed in her name. He did not have to sleuth hard for news of her; Corrine was a legend in her own right and formed part of the group everyone talked about, which made her seem more desirable and less accessible, as did her liaison with Kurt Sinclair, a basketball star and druggie-a combination that at that time in history made him a formidable competitor. Tall, lanky and slightly bowlegged, he was alleged to be good-looking, although Russell disputed this judgment. Russell bided his time. He had four years, and Sinclair would be gone in three.

Second semester, Corrine Makepeace was in his Romantic poetry class, and without ever actually meeting they became acquainted. He and Jeff, who hated each other at first glance, took turns trying to dominate the class and each other; Corrine couldn't have helped noticing him: he showed off to an extent that he still winced in recalling. In her few forays into class participation, uncovering Coleridge's Teutonic philosophical debts, for instance, she revealed herself to be very bright. A mathematical genius, according to rumor, she was, he felt certain, someone for whom intelligence constituted a desirable secondary sexual characteristic. At registration the next fall he met her coming down the stairs of the administration building and she greeted him as if they were friends. Pleasantly astonished, he affected an air of weariness, as if over the summer break he had rather outgrown this stodgy New England campus, though in fact he'd been home in Michigan. It was a hot September day. Russell admired the contours of her tanned legs, picturing her summer of sailboats and tennis, imagining he could almost feel radiant heat from the waves of her long golden hair. He kept waiting for her to say good-bye. She kept talking.

They jabbered through lunch at Spat's, filling the ashtray and emptying wineglasses. They talked about everything-he had been only half right about her summer, Nantucket and sailing, along with six weeks as a Red Cross volunteer helping build an airstrip for a remote village in southern Oaxaca. The airstrip might have been on one of the moons of the planet Saturn-he couldn't stop looking at her mouth, watching her lips on her cigarette, the dense clouds of smoke that she exhaled seeming to him the visible trace of inner fires. Still smoking and talking, they found themselves by late afternoon in Russell's dorm room, where they suddenly fell on each other-a crisis of lips and tongues and limbs that somehow stopped short of the desired conclusion. She was still going with Kurt, and he was involved with a girl named Maggie Sloan.

Their romance fell dormant for almost two years, till Corrine called up one night and asked in her slightly hoarse voice if she could come over. When she arrived she said she had broken up with Kurt, although she had failed, evidently, to make this clear to him; soon after Corrine holed up he began calling, then coming over to shout drunken threats across Keeney quad. Russell savored the atmosphere of siege, which lent an extra dimension of urgency to their union, an element of danger and illegitimacy which was profoundly stimulating. He ditched Maggie over the phone. Maggie cried and appealed to the weight of tradition-two years of going out. With Corrine at his side-all over him, in fact- Russell was sympathetic but firm, righteous in the heedless cruelty of new love.

Outside the dorm it was a prematurely cold New England fall; red and yellow leaves slipped from the trees and twisted in the wind. For five days they left the room only to get food, staying in bed most of the time, drinking St. Pauli Girls, smoking Marlboros, talking, learning how to make love all over again. In the mornings, Corrine told Russell her dreams in minute detail. Her imagination was curiously literal. She remembered everything-what people were wearing, inconsistencies and illogic which surprised and annoyed her a little, as if she expected dreams to conform to quotidian standards. Her view of the waking world, though, was somewhat fantastic. Certain dates and names were fraught with unlikely significance for her, and more than Russell, the poet, she believed in the shamanistic power of words. She had the kind of faith in hearing herself declared loved, in the physical fact of the words being spoken, the syllables being pronounced out loud, that her heroine Franny Glass had in the repetition of the Jesus Prayer. When, much later, Russell proposed to her long-distance, Oxford, England, to New York, New York, she made him promise never to say the word "divorce."

He mouthed the word now: divorce. Nothing happened. He couldn't imagine her not being around; even now, still angry, he could feel himself starting to worry about her. They were both hung over-that was one problem. And he was tense about the situation at work. The Nicaragua book was about to be stillborn and Harold wouldn't even speak to him. Having until a month before been heir apparent, Russell was going to have to think seriously about getting a new job, or something.

After listlessly cruising the circuit of Painting and Sculpture, Russell came upon Giacometti-first Spoon Woman, in which a visual analogy is made between the female torso and the bowl of a spoon, suggestive of fertility, maternity, the triumph of the feminine principle. He glanced at it briefly, then stopped short in front of its opposite, a bronze he'd been mesmerized by several times, a sprawl of limblike appendages en- titled Woman with Her Throat Cut. Whenever he'd come upon this piece in Corrine's company he had always hurried past it, feeling guilty, embarrassed, a participant in all the crimes against her sex throughout history, his guilt stemming from a fascination and attraction he felt for the object, the bronze woman with a wedged declivity in her larynx, arching her back and thrusting her splayed legs upward into space. Although he would not exactly admit it to himself, this piece made him feel he might be capable of evil.

Looking up suddenly, he found himself facing the Frenchwoman, who smiled at him.

Dioramas of late-twentieth-century Manhattan chieftains and their women, the windows at Bergdorfs displayed extravagantly costumed mannequins in the postures of revel and feasting. Having swindled the original inhabitants out of the land and then exterminated them, this tribe flourished until shortly before the millennium... Pausing in her commentary, Corrine, as anthropologist of the future, tried to decide what form of doom had befallen-would befall-her own. For lately it seemed to her that the horsemen of the apocalypse were saddling up, that something was coming to rip huge holes in the gaudy stage sets of Ronald McDonald Reaganland. Meanwhile she was selling stocks, a glorified Fuller Brush girl. Hi, I'm Corrine, can I interest you in a sexy growth stock or maybe a cute little annuity?

Must be hung over. Of course. Why else run crying from the museum, not that Russell hadn't been horrible. Pompous ass. She was almost mad enough to go into Bergdorfs and charge up one of these nice Donna Karan ensembles with all the accessories. If it were open.

She kept walking, past the fountain in front of the Plaza-called the Fountain of Abundance, dry now. She always thought of this as the navel of the slender island on which she and Russell had camped for five years, having come together as newlyweds with duffel bags and dreams, after their Wanderjahre and grad schools and their halfhearted, experimental attempts to live without each other. Coming here to be grown-ups, she starting Columbia Law, so as to fight injustice in its many guises; he still thinking of himself as a writer then, the publishing job as a temporary expedient, a way of paying the rent till he became a famous poet. And though those two dreams quietly expired, she usually believed she and Russell were happy, that the city had been good to them, that they had been good to each other.

Approaching the apartment building she saw an ancient man attacked by two kids. One kid held him up while the other slapped and punched his face. As they fled, Corrine rushed forward. Having struggled up to a sitting position, the man was holding his hand to his bloodied face. Corrine held out her own hand. "Are you all right?"

"I don't want help," he said, not looking up at her.

"Take my hand. Do you want an ambulance?"

"Go away."

"You're bleeding."

"Can't you see I don't want your help? Leave me alone!" Tears of rage were streaming from his eyes. When Corrine reached down once more he swung his cane around and whacked her hip, flailing at her until she retreated out of range.

"Leave me alone," he screamed.

When Corrine looked back from the next corner he was on his knees, struggling furiously to attain his feet before anyone else offered help.

Her name was Simone. Russell didn't ask what had happened to her friend, and she didn't allude to his wedding band, though she certainly noticed it, just as he noticed the heavy gold tank watch beneath the sleeve of her sweatshirt. On the weekends there were two ways to determine someone's tax bracket: watch and shoes.

Sitting across from her in the museum cafe, Russell talked about his job-she had heard of Jeff and another of his authors, and had a Gallic as opposed to an American view of the profession of letters, which is to say she wasn't disappointed to find that he was not an investment banker or a soap opera star. She didn't seem to be the kind of person who ever had to settle on any one thing in terms of employment, but most recently she'd worked as a wildlife photographer on an expedition in Tanzania. "I am thinking of joining an expedition up the Amazon," she said, her English flawless though accented, a little more precise than a native speaker's, and it turned out she was one of those people who'd been reared in the middle of the Atlantic-as much a New Yorker as a Parisian. "But I don't know. I think I'd like to do something completely different this time, you know?"

Russell had been imagining the viscous tropical air of the jungle, the screech of gaudy birds overhead, Simone straddling the bow of a tub reminiscent of the African Queen, a profane figurehead with tan thighs scanning the underbrush with a zoom lens... tan thighs misted with blond hairs glistening like gold in the bottom of a prospector's pan, tailings from the golden city of El Dorado.

He saw now why his opinion of her charms had varied over the course of an hour; she was not indisputably beautiful in stasis, but the slightest speech or motion exposed a sexual essence.

"Do you like Giacometti," she asked.

He nodded.

"My father has one." She paused and then said, "Maybe you'd like to come over and see it," looking directly into his eyes with just enough intensity to indicate that modern art was only one of her passionate interests.

"That might be nice," he said, trying to clear his throat of a sudden dry constriction. "And what does he do?" he added, to cover his confusion, knowing this was an underbred question but curious about the class of people who owned Giacomettis.

"Oh, he invests the money for my family."

"Good work if you can get it."