An Umbrella in High Water
by G David Schwartz

About the author

David Schwartz is the former president of Seedhouse, an online interfaith committee. Schwartz is the author of A Jewish Appraisal of Dialogue. He coauthored Parables In  Black and White with Jacqueline Winston. Currently he is a volunteer at Drake Hospital in Cincinnati. Midrash and Working Out Of The Book are now in stores.

The first Thursday night of every month, the Senator gives his driver leave for the evening and manages to make his way through the lanes to the district where Donna Baccacio has resided for the last seven years.                    

The senator parks his limousine a respectful distance from Donna Baccacio’s apartment. The Senator walks close to the walls of building planted on the street. He feels at ease, safe in the dimly lit streets yet, if anyone approaches, he will raise his umbrella in a nonchalant manner as if to scratch his ear, or rub the side of his nose, and certainly to hide his face.            

Those who may have passed never recognized him, and nobody in this part of town said hello. Finally, having made his way to Donna Baccacio's apartment, he would climb the seven steps, pause to catch his breath, and then push the bell with the handle of his umbrella. Then he would lean on the umbrella while he waited, straightening when he heard the woman begin to unlock the door. Donna Baccacio would open the door with a flourish, throwing the door wide as she raised her left hand above and behind in a most welcoming gesture.        

"Senator," she would say.

The Senator would take her right hand, raise it to his lips, and kiss her after saying, "Madame Baccacio."

"Please do come in," she would say, stepping aside as the Senator lowered his head to watch for the final step. The apartment was always kept at a comfortable temperature. Whether it was summer or winter outside, it was always the first day of spring inside.

There was always a mysterious scent, subtle but unmistakable, which the Senator had for the last twenty-six years identified as a combination of cherry blossoms, honey-suckle, clove, cinnamon and peaches. Yet the Senator never, in twenty-six years, asked what the fragrance was called. He simply enjoyed the scent, breathing deeply when he first entered her apartment, painting his nostrils with the unmistakable presence of Donna Baccacio.

"How are you this evening, my Senator?"

The question never failed to humor the Senator. Surely she was not a constituent in his district. He was not even sure she was a citizen. They rarely spoke about politics, and never about their personal relationship. Once, long ago, they had engaged in an animate discussion, which ended with her saying she did not appreciate his politics, would never vote for him "come hell or high water," and would contribute to the opposition party.

He could do nothing but laugh aloud with her when the tirade was finished. They both knew their time spent together had nothing to do with friendship. She was a person he could be with while not under the critical scrutiny of the public eye. He was a person she could be with while not being an aged whore who was appreciated for nothing more than the few minutes she was with a client.

The Senator, ever more gentlemanly the older he became, occasionally sent her flowers, or presented her with unexpected gifts, or at least wired her messages, when not in Washington, to say he was thinking of her.  She knew he was not thinking of her, per se, but what she represented: someone who would never question his political judgment, never ask his opinion on contemporary issues, never be concerned that he was a Senator in the United States government.

She was never concerned one of his messages would say that he could not make their monthly meeting. He never failed to be in town on the first Thursday of every month. He arranged his entire schedule around their permanent appointment and, when influenza once kept him from her, he nevertheless had an envelope delivered at the appointed hour. There was a note, scrawled in his feverish hand, which apologized profusely.

The next Thursday, he arrived with an especially extravagant gift; a fox stole, and said he hoped she would forgive his absence the week before. She had told him that it happened that people did not show up, and this was nothing to be too concerned about, but he had said, "It is not like that between us."

Other than this exchange, they never discussed what it was like between them. At precisely seven each first Thursday of the month, the Senator was invited into a permanent spring, fed a dinner which became less and less flamboyant as the years went on - not that he expressed the slightest concern about the meals - the decorous candles, champagne with purple wicks set in silver sticks, becoming longer and longer. The Senator was entertained with conversation about famous people Donna Baccacio had known, intrigues and escapades she had experiences and, after twenty-six years, had not once ran out of stories, never told the same story twice, and never allowed the Senator to languish or grow sleepy while she spoke.

Years ago, the Senator had told her she should write the story of her life. "Nothing would make more fascinating reading," he had said.

"No one cares about an old slut from Milan."   

"Nonsense," he had told her, and recounted a few of her adventures in  abbreviated form, noting how unique and interesting he thought them.

"You're just being kind, my dear Senator."                                                  

"Not at all," he said. For months afterwards, pads of paper and pens could be seen on the nightstand in her bedroom, but little more was said of it. Occasionally, the Senator would ask how her manuscript as going.                  

She would wave his remarks away and begin what she thought was a more interesting topic. From conversation, they went to the bedroom. There were no surprises. Donna Baccacio would remove elegant gowns with practiced shyness and

slip demurely beneath sheets, which were softer than margarine.                

The Senator, with dramatic flair, would remove his jacket, unbutton his  shirt, drop his pants, turn to expose himself without shame, and slowly get in bed next to her. When they were finished, they dressed while discussing news or  other events, said goodbye at the door, and the Senator would stroll the few  blocks to his limousine. Donna Baccacio would watch after him from behind the curtains.                  

Lately, she had been feeling cunning emotions, which make her suppose that, perhaps, she should have become a citizen, should have worked on the Senators' campaigns. One Thursday, the Senator left and Donna Baccacio stood by the door and cried. Her tears began as a tight knot in her throat, a warm trickle that she swept from an eye, which then erupted in a surge of emotion for reasons she could not understand. "The Senator has been having difficulty

buttoning his shirts," she thought. Then, "Stop this foolishness, you old whore."   

The next Thursday she welcomed the Senator inside as usual. The meal was scrumptious, although the portions were noticeably smaller. The Senator excused the few pieces of shrimp he was served with the thought that, after all, he was eating less than he had years ago. In the good old days, he could consume duck ala rouge and all the trimmings, and still perform acrobatically. Now he would be satisfied to finish a cup of coffee, cryptically tell Madame Baccacio that the circus had left town, watch her laugh without necessarily understanding his remark, and lay naked next to her for an hour before dressing and leaving.                                               

The Senator never had difficulty obtaining and sustaining an erection, but he has lately been worried about the effort expended after dinner and, though he never mentioned this to Donna Baccacio, was concerned about the idea of a heart attack.

Death did not concern him. He had been anticipating death, and thinking he may even find it a relief after his exhausting routines in service to the nation. He even thinks dying in bed would be a wonderful way to go. But think of the scandal, which would result if his lifeless body were to be lifted from the bed of Donna Baccacio. The Senator dressed slower than usual.

"I always feel so safe with you, my dear Senator." A silent smile was his response. "Have I ever told you that your technique reminds me of Luis Domingo?"

"My technique?" he said as he fumbled with a button on his shirt, "I was unaware I had a technique."

"He, too, was such a gentleman. So kind. Go gentle and gallant."     

The Senator laughed gently and said, "No man likes being compared to another man. Think how you slight poor Senior Domingo."

"I'm serious," she said with mock anger. "Luis Domingo had once robbed a bank and came to me for refuge."

"You have given shelter to the most bewildering sorts, my dear.             

"They are a cadre among whom I am proud to be a member. Luis was a great patriot of Peru." 

"A patriot who robbed banks. Well, I'm not really surprised."

"Did I say bank robber? He robbed stage coaches in San Francisco." 

The Senator looked around the corner of his eye toward her.

"This was in the days before they built the railroad system. Do you understand how long ago that was, my dear Senator?"

"Oh, my dear Donna Baccacio," he laughed heartily, snapping up the last three buttons, "You tease me unmercifully."

"It's true," she said, "When we run out of memories, we must resort to our own inventions." 

Dressed now, they walked arm in arm to the door. The Senator turned to embrace her, aimed his lips toward her cheek, kissed the side of her nose.

"You be well, now, you hear?"

"I shall, my dear," he answered, "And you take care of yourself."

"I will, my dear." He put his hand on the door for support as he leaned toward the corner to retrieve his umbrella.

"Senator," she said.

"Madame?"

"I have never asked you, because I thought I understood. But for the last few years I have wanted to know."

"Yes, my dear," he said, his face having already settled into wrinkles and a frown which usually followed their separation.

"You park so far up the street..."

"Yes," he interrupted, "And you wonder why it is that an old man like me should have to walk so far on a chilly evening."

"No, my dear Senator. Not at all. It is a question between you and I."

"Oh, he said, "I understand."

"Do you, my Senator. Do you understand? You know, you are the only man I have been with since I moved into this brownstone. My neighbors think I am a spinster woman who has led a dull, typical life."

"If only they knew!"

"Yes. But I am concerned about us, Senator. About us."

"About us, my dear?"                      

"Yes, my Senator. Surely you do not park so far away because you are afraid of soiling my reputation. Surely a gentleman visitor once a month to a woman so old and tired as myself would not shock anyone. Why don't you, next week, park in front of my apartment?"

The Senator's eyes brightened. His wrinkles vanished in a smile. He dropped his umbrella so he could hold his sides with both hands as he laughed a deep, guttural laugh. Donna Baccacio frowned as she looked upon him without understanding.

"Oh, my dear," he sputtered, "My dear Madame Baccacio."

"My Senator?"                                                                

"My dear, you know my position with the government."

Donna Baccacio did not yet understand. She tilted her head and thought to cry, but told herself that if you have to think about crying you might as well not. Besides, she, like the Senator, was too old for such vanities. Still, she wondered. Was the Senator afraid to soil his reputation? Surely he had proved himself too much the gentleman to be concerned about what people thought about him at his age.    

His accomplishments were noteworthy, but he was not destined for the history books. He never had that special far-away look in his eyes, denoting showmanship, which compelled him to work for the kind remarks of future historians. Certainly he has proven to her in the course of their relationship that he was unconcerned about his so-called station in life.

There would be no next election, which would be sullied by his having been seen with an old friend. He had already announced his retirement from politics. Besides, she had once heard him say that the indiscretions of politicians and clergy "only proved they were human after all, and still had some life in them," which he said had political value.           

She allowed the Senator's laughter to run its course and, when he had composed himself, he explained. "An old fart like me does not give a damn about what people think about him. Hell, people invent the most outrageous things anyway. My entire staff know you are a once and former ... curia of special favors. Do you think it has any effect on the political advice they try to force on me? None. But you!

Being seen with a politician! ... Ahhh, that's quite another matter!"

Donna Baccacio smiled at the Senator. Tenderly, he kissed her cheek and patted her hand. She straightened his collar, and he disappeared from the apartment. She watched after from behind the curtains, thinking, he's always so gallant. Always the gentleman, my Senator.