I missed him while he was away. I was truly enamored, and I decided that the next time I saw him I would make a move on him.
I cherished the cloud that whole week. It was almost like a pet. It even peed in the pocket of my windbreaker once. Or rather, “rained” in my pocket.
I saw Nathaniel a few times. He was charming, and interesting, and interested in me, romantically, even, I believe. But my thoughts were too full of Damon for me to be able to return his interest. That did not prevent us from spending time together, however. He played his cello again, and when I remarked that I had never known anyone as multitalented, he scoffed and said, “You don’t even know the half of it.”
“What’s the other half?” I asked.
“You might never know.”
I did not persist, but instead thought to myself, dreamily and snobbishly: Well, whatever it is, I’m sure it doesn’t compare to making clouds.
Suddenly, his buzzer rang. He ignored it.
“Aren’t you going to answer it?”
“No.”
His tone was a little gruff, so I didn’t probe further.
The buzzer rang again and kept ringing for about a minute, and then stopped. A moment later, something struck his window. And then again. Pebbles. I looked down at the street, which was not far below, his apartment being on the second floor. I saw a man, a Hasidic Jew, with a black hat and ringlets, looking up at me and throwing pebbles at the window. It was a very beautiful man, who looked strangely familiar.
“There’s a Hasidic Jew throwing things at your window.”
He sighed. “It’s not a man, it’s a woman in disguise.”
“Why is she in disguise?”
“So that people won’t recognize her. She’s famous.”
I looked down again at the person, who did indeed look like a woman, now that I was aware of it. A very beautiful woman. But I still couldn’t place her.
“She looks familiar,” I said. “Who is she?”
“Chriskate Turschicraw.”
“The model?”
“Yes.”
I looked again and it did look like her exactly. But how was it possible?
I had read articles about Chriskate Turschicraw. She was the most famous, the most highly paid model in the world. During the past few months, a series of strange events had occurred surrounding her. There was a cult, growing larger, who had decided that she was God. They worshipped her, collected her magazine interviews and modeling photos, killed the paparazzi who annoyed her, and then went to jail for life for the murders (this happened on two occasions). They sacrificed themselves for her, and killed their own members if one of them didn’t treat her well or displeased her. One member killed himself because he was following her down the street, asking her if she needed help carrying her shopping bag, and she said, “You’re bugging me.” He then said, “I’m sorry,” and shot himself right in front of her. I remember being astonished, when I heard that story on the news, at how sensitive and offended the man must have been, and thinking that he should have had thicker skin.
“Why is Chriskate Turschicraw trying to get your attention? And why are you ignoring her?” I asked Nathaniel.
“I’ve known her for a long time, since before she became a model. She’s been in love with me for years. Or infatuated. Or obsessed — whatever you want to call it. Sometimes we’re friends, but sometimes her infatuation makes it hard for us to be friends, and we go through periods of tension, like now, when I need space, need to be alone, and she doesn’t let me, and she gets upset. I have to warn you she’s very jealous.”
“And you have no interest in her beyond friendship?”
“I’m not in love with her. I’ve tried, I can’t be; she’s not to my taste.”
“In what way is she not to your taste?”
“She’s not beautiful enough.”
“What!”
“It’s as simple as that. I’m being frank.”
“But she’s considered the most beautiful woman in the world. I mean, she’s gorgeous.”
“But not enough.”
“Are there women you find more beautiful?”
“No.”
“Men?”
“No.”
“Then I’m confused. Is beauty the only thing that can make you interested in someone romantically?”
“I thought so all my life. But I’m not sure anymore. I may have encountered an exception,” he said, looking at me meaningfully.
I chose not to ask him what that exception was.
When I left his apartment, after talking about Chriskate another half hour, the model had apparently given up and left, but I was wrong, for she accosted me as soon as I walked into the street. Up close she was breathtakingly beautiful.
“You’re the woman who was just now with Nathaniel, right?” she asked.
“Yes,” I answered, intimidated.
“He seems very interested in you. You must be interesting. Would you mind if we had coffee?”
“Oh, I don’t know. Why do you want to?” I asked, as casually as possible.
“I think he’s in love with you. You must be an extraordinary person. I very much want to know you. Please, there’s a coffee shop right there. Just for ten minutes. I’d like to talk to you.”
So we went. Soon after we sat down, she asked, “Are you in love with him?”
“Not at the moment.”
“That’s a relief. I’m in love with him, and he’s not in love with me, and I don’t know why. But he is in love with you. Isn’t he?”
“I don’t know,” I said, even though I thought he seemed to be.
“Do you know what it is about you that he … appreciates so much?”
“No.”
“That’s too bad. I would like to know. I would like to be friends with you for a while. Can you help me? I would like to study you,” she said, as I studied her face.
There was something vulnerable, innocent, and pure about her. Magazines had often remarked on the fact that she was beautiful in a way that made you like her. When you saw her face, you felt warmly toward her, you wished her the best, even though you’d never met her.
She had wispy blond hair, and her features were of the most extraordinary delicacy and exquisiteness. She was twenty-three years old. The media had nicknamed her “the Shell,” partly because of her reclusiveness and lack of cooperation with them and partly because her complexion and coloring resembled the subtle pink and white tones inside a conch. It was a well-known fact that people got the urge to stare at photos of her for longer than at other models. It was even considered therapeutic: it filled the viewer with pleasure, and it relieved pain. There was a new form of therapy in which patients were made to focus on different parts of her face in a photograph. They had to stare at her left eye, then her right, then a nostril, then parts of her mouth. Staring at her eyebrows had been found to be particularly soothing.
“I can take you to great parties if you’re interested,” she said to me. “Really fun parties. I think you’ll enjoy yourself, and you’ll meet a lot of interesting people. This way I can be around you and get to know you, and hopefully understand.”
I felt sorry for her. “I’m not sure that it would do much good. There’s nothing unusual about me that you’ll pick up and that will be of any help to you.”
“There must be. I may not figure out what it is, but I’m sure it’s there. Nathaniel would not be with you so much if there wasn’t something about you that made a very strong impression on him. He’s never been with anybody very much, except a bit for me, at one point, because he found me pretty. But he seems more into you than he ever was into me. Have you two slept together?”
“You know, I don’t know if this is such a good idea. I’m very sorry that the situation is not how you would like it to be, but I’m not sure we should get our lives mixed up together.”