“And say what?”
“Say something!”
“Chances are she won’t pick up.”
“Why?”
“Because that’s what I’d do if she called.”
“Just call.” Impatience sealed her words.
She was tousling her collies.
Perhaps Clara had said nothing about me to anyone. Or perhaps she’d spent a good portion of the afternoon as I had, speaking to her friends about someone who was opaque, difficult, fractious, and transparent. Perhaps she’d taken a walk along the marina by the boat basin, where I pictured her with Pablo and Pavel today, discussing me with the same dismayed shrug I had shown Rachel after she’d asked me if I liked Clara and I said immensely, hoping Rachel might think I was probably exaggerating, which would allow me to think I was. Perhaps Clara too was being told that this thing between us was most likely leading nowhere, but that we were headed there with such locked steps that there was no telling where any of it was going. I saw myself taking a few steps on the hardened, cold earth and walking away from Rachel toward the very tree she had pointed out. Here, against my better judgment, I’d force myself to make the phone call as soon as I knew I was no longer within earshot of anyone. I just wanted to call, I’d say. A lapse of a few seconds. Agonizing silence. You just wanted to call? she’d repeat. Well, now you’ve called.
There’d be many voices in the background. Probably she’d be at a late lunch on the marina. Did I think she’d stay home knitting?
Where are you? How are you?
How am I? Is that what you’re asking? How do you think I am?
We’d have a hard time hearing each other. Or we’d pretend not to hear each other. Either way, the breakups on the line would help defuse the tension between us and give a flustered sprightliness to our words. She’d be in the boathouse. Where was I? In the park. It’d be just like us, I’d say, one in Riverside Park, the other in Central Park. It might thaw the chill. I’m so bored. Are you bored too, Clara? I’d ask. Terribly. Was either of us honest, or were we simply exaggerating to show we wished to be together instead? Would I want to come? Did she want me to come? Only if I wanted. Give me an address. She did not know the exact address, but it was on the marina off Seventy-ninth Street. I’d have to call her once I got there, and someone would come out and open the gate to the houseboats.
•
“Did you at least leave a message?” Rachel asked when I told her I wasn’t able to reach Clara.
“Yes,” I said.
“So, if she doesn’t call back, we’ll know.”
“I suppose so.” I must have sounded too vague.
“Did you really leave a message?”
I looked at her.
“No, I didn’t.”
“You’re really something. Let’s go home. I’ve found this extra-scented tea from Sri Lanka. And we’ve got so many cakes.”
By then it had grown dark.
When Rachel unlocked the door, we were struck by the smell of beef stewed in wine sauce. Her ex-no-longer-her-ex was sitting in total darkness watching the History Channel, drinking bourbon. He thought we had arrived too soon. Bag the tea, we’ll have drinks instead, someone said. There was a rush to one of the closets by the bookcase, glasses were produced, bottles, mini-snacks, including my favorite, pistachios roasted in hot spices. Someone put on a CD, even the Forshams were pleasant to be with. I began to look forward to this evening. From a limping afternoon-evening that was headed into a deep abyss filled with the darkest scree below, this was turning into a night that could last into the wee hours and remain as pleasant and warm as if Clara had promised to show up and might any moment ring the doorbell. It would have been so good if Clara came. I suddenly thought of 7:10. Seven-ten was less than two hours away now. There was still time to decide. What if I did call?
No, I wasn’t going to call — never ask the question again.
But after downing a glass of Scotch, I couldn’t remember why I’d been putting off calling her or why I’d even hesitated. I went into the empty pantry and took out my cell phone. I had the best intentions, I thought. I was simply going to ask her to join us for dinner. Light and simple.
She picked up exactly as I’d imagined: “Speak!”
I told her I was with friends and that I’d love her to join us for drinks. I didn’t say anything about dinner, figuring it might scare her off.
“I can’t.”
It still caught me by surprise. I threw in my one and only trump card. “I’m so bored. I’m bored out of my mind. I’m dying to see you. Say yes.”
“I’m sorry you’re bored. But I can’t. I’m busy.”
No apologies, no explanation, not even feigned regret in her voice. Hard, glacial, petrous.
“Bummer,” I said — my way of coaxing a smile to her voice. But she didn’t respond. Her voice seemed drained of its warmth and humor. Everything came off deadpan, the silence of a cobra that had just bitten and is watching to make sure its victim has collapsed.
She didn’t bring up 7:10. I didn’t either.
The conversation couldn’t have lasted for more than half a minute. It left me stunned — which was exactly why I’d been avoiding calling her. Stunned was worse than hurt, worse than snubbed, told off, insulted, or just simply ignored. Stunned was like being totally paralyzed, good for nothing else afterward, scrapped, zombified, eviscerated. I turned off the telephone completely. I didn’t want to hope, didn’t want to think there’d be anything good to expect from this phone. There were never going to be other calls. Serves me right, serves me right.
When I returned to the living room by way of the dining room, I saw that the large country table had already been set, with its usual selection of ill-assorted dishes and glasses. And then I remembered. I’d wanted to tell them to add a place setting for an extra guest. Then I’d gone to make my phone call. Is this the guest? Rachel would have asked. Yes, the guest. I had told no one her name. So where shall we seat the guest, across from you perhaps? I loved Rachel’s irony. This table, though, would never see Clara. Clara would never see Rachel.
•
That night after dinner and our second dog walk later in the park, I did walk up Broadway. On 106th I dawdled about awhile, then strolled around her block once and, for good measure, a second time. Her lights were out, both the first and second time. Obviously she wasn’t home, might not come back, or had gone to bed already. Then I walked to Straus Park and stood there, remembering the candles I’d imagined on the statue a week ago, remembering Officer Rahoon and Manattàn noir and Leopardi’s short poem about life being all bitterness and boredom. Busy, she’d said. What an ugly word. Lethal, flat-footed, snooty, dismissive busy.
The rats have all gone under, I thought. There was something good and soothing about standing here and feeling one with the specter of things, something wholesome in watching life from the bank of the dead, siding with the dead against the living, like standing by the river and hearing, not the Bach, but the hard, glacial, petrous cracking underneath the prelude — hard, glacial, petrous, like her, like me. Outside of time we were so good together, as the dead are good together. Outside of time. In the real world, the meter was always running.
For a while I thought of the man who had pledged to sit outside his beloved’s window for one thousand and one nights, but on the one thousand and first deliberately did not show up. It was his way of spiting her, of spiting himself, as if spite, in the end, and love, its bedfellow, were coiled together like two vipers that bite the hand that feeds them, one with venom, the other with its antidote — the order makes no difference, but the biting must happen twice and hurts both times. I thought of how everything I’d done with Clara, from the very first night to the last, was governed by spite and pride, and, in between, lots of fear and admonition, while the one word that should have mattered most was the one condemned to remain silent, till it too became hard, glacial, and petrous. I had never said the word, had I? To the snow, to the night, to the statue in the park, to my pillow, I had. And I’ll say it now, not because I’ve lost you, Clara, but I’ve lost you because I loved you, because I saw eternity with you, because love and loss are surefire partners too.