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LIEBERMAN IN LOVE
As soon as he entered the airport terminal, a beautiful Hawaiian girl appeared and slipped a lei of waxen orchids over the head of Lieberman, age 52, a land developer from Denver, Colorado, a widower for almost two years, lonely unto death. As he accepted the lei, Lieberman bent his long form to allow the girl to kiss him on the cheek, all the time thinking that Honolulu had to be one of the loneliest cities in the world.
Across the whole island of Oahu brightly dressed tourists fluttered like flags in a breeze. But, thought Lieberman, flags are lonely objects, bright though they may be, always separated from their contemporaries, each snapping briskly in the wind, each alone. Alliances formed in Hawaii were of necessity short, often both harried and hurried. Women who lived in the islands permanently did not want to be bothered with tourists; other tourists were, like Lieberman, desperate for contact of any kind. But there were always planes to catch; one-week tours were ending. You could only stand to visit the Polynesian Cultural Center or take a moonlight cruise so many times, he thought.
Lieberman was a good-looking man with a full head of iron-gray hair. He golfed, swam and jogged regularly; he traveled sufficiently to keep a dark summer tan all year round. His trimmed beard and deepset eyes were black and contrasted sharply with his almost white hair. Lieberman fancied that he looked like a magician.
His life since his wife’s death had been miserable. She had always worked beside him, was as responsible for their financial success as he was. He had lost not only his lover of 25 years, but his best friend and business partner. His sons, both of whom worked in the business— actually they had made all the major decisions since his wife died— appeared to have written him off, acted as if he had suddenly become untrustworthy, seemed to expect him to join their mother in death momentarily.
After observing an appropriate period of mourning, Lieberman had not lacked for female company. But what he longed for was to be in love. His friends’ wives introduced him to their friends; he found himself being asked out to dinner three and four times a week. But his dates were usually wilted women with squeezed, bitter faces and thin hands—women who drank too much and spent most of the evening maligning, rightly or wrongly, the husbands who had abandoned them to the world. Or else they were widows who spent the entire night extolling the virtues of their dead spouse. 'Ihese types usually had a large studio portrait of the deceased beside their bed. More than once while making love, Lieberman looked up to catch the eye of the corpse. “Oy, Harry never did that," one of them might say. Or, “I wish you had known Harry, you could have taught him a few tricks.”
He occasionally dated one of the younger women who worked for his company or one that he met at one of the several private clubs he belonged to, but younger women, at least these upwardly mobile ones, wanted to go dancing, or skiing, or wanted to eat in restaurants that didn’t serve real food, but supposedly healthful concoctions at 20 dollars a plate that looked like algae and tasted like bicycle tires. Lieberman wanted an intelligent, attractive younger woman who liked steak and candlelight, quiet music and sex.
He got so tired of the chase, of boring evenings rehashing his life story for the twentieth time in a month, that he settled for satisfying his sexual needs with prostitutes, both in Denver and when he was traveling. In Honolulu, after a number of failures, he discontinued contact with any of the numerous escort services, which took up a whole small section in the Yellow Pages. He liked to walk the Kalakaua strip, breathing the soft, late-evening air, and make his choice from the many young women who discreetly and not so discreetly offered their services. Lieberman often talked to several women before selecting one, negotiating a price, then hailing a taxi to take them to his hotel.