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FORMOTHER,

FORCLAUDE

I.Theabsurddoesnotliberate;itbinds.

—ALBERTCAMUS

Chapter1.

BoywithaSkull

i.

WHILEIWASSTILLinAmsterdam,Idreamedaboutmymotherforthefirsttimeinyears.I’dbeenshutupinmyhotelformorethanaweek,afraidtotelephoneanybodyorgoout;andmyheartscrambledandflounderedateventhemostinnocentnoises:elevatorbell,rattleoftheminibarcart,evenchurchclockstollingthehour,deWestertoren,Krijtberg,adarkedgetotheclangor,aninwroughtfairy-talesenseofdoom.BydayIsatonthefootofthebedstrainingtopuzzleouttheDutch-languagenewsontelevision(whichwashopeless,sinceIknewnotawordofDutch)andwhenIgaveup,Isatbythewindowstaringoutatthecanalwithmycamel’s-haircoatthrownovermyclothes—forI’dleftNewYorkinahurryandthethingsI’dbroughtweren’twarmenough,evenindoors.

Outside,allwasactivityandcheer.ItwasChristmas,lightstwinklingonthecanalbridgesatnight;red-cheekeddamesenheren,scarvesflyingintheicywind,clattereddownthecobblestoneswithChristmastreeslashedtothebacksoftheirbicycles.Intheafternoons,anamateurbandplayedChristmascarolsthathungtinnyandfragileinthewinterair.

Chaoticroom-servicetrays;toomanycigarettes;lukewarmvodkafromdutyfree.Duringthoserestless,shut-updays,Igottoknoweveryinchoftheroomasaprisonercomestoknowhiscell.ItwasmyfirsttimeinAmsterdam;I’dseenalmostnothingofthecityandyettheroomitself,initsbleak,drafty,sunscrubbedbeauty,gaveakeensenseofNorthernEurope,amodeloftheNetherlandsinminiature:whitewashandProtestantprobity,co-mingledwithdeep-dyedluxurybroughtinmerchantshipsfromtheEast.Ispentanunreasonableamountoftimescrutinizingatinypairofgilt-framedoilshangingoverthebureau,oneofpeasantsskatingonanice-pondbyachurch,theotherasailboatflouncingonachoppywintersea:decorativecopies,nothingspecial,thoughIstudiedthemasiftheyheld,encrypted,somekeytothesecretheartoftheoldFlemishmasters.Outside,sleettappedatthewindowpanesanddrizzledoverthecanal;andthoughthebrocadeswererichandthecarpetwassoft,stillthewinterlightcarriedachillytoneof1943,privationandausterities,weakteawithoutsugarandhungrytobed.

Earlyeverymorningwhileitwasstillblackout,beforetheextraclerkscameondutyandthelobbystartedfillingup,Iwalkeddownstairsforthenewspapers.Thehotelstaffmovedwithhushedvoicesandquietfootsteps,eyesglidingacrossmecoollyasiftheydidn’tquiteseeme,theAmericanmanin27whonevercamedownduringtheday;andItriedtoreassure

myselfthatthenightmanager(darksuit,crewcut,horn-rimmedglasses)wouldprobablygotosomelengthstoaverttroubleoravoidafuss.

TheHeraldTribunehadnonewsofmypredicamentbutthestorywasallovertheDutchpapers,denseblocksofforeignprintwhichhung,tantalizingly,justbeyondthereachofmycomprehension.Onopgelostemoord.Onbekende.Iwentupstairsandgotbackintobed(fullyclad,becausetheroomwassocold)andspreadthepapersoutonthecoverlet:photographsofpolicecars,crimescenetape,eventhecaptionswereimpossibletodecipher,andalthoughtheydidn’tappeartohavemyname,therewasnowaytoknowiftheyhadadescriptionofmeoriftheywerewithholdinginformationfromthepublic.

Theroom.Theradiator.EenAmerikaanmeteenstrafblad.Olivegreenwaterofthecanal.

BecauseIwascoldandill,andmuchofthetimeatalosswhattodo(I’dneglectedtobringabook,aswellaswarmclothes),Istayedinbedmostoftheday.Nightseemedtofallinthemiddleoftheafternoon.Often—amidstthecrackleofstrewnnewspapers—Idriftedinandoutofsleep,andmydreamsforthemostpartweremuddiedwiththesameindeterminateanxietythatbledthroughintomywakinghours:courtcases,luggageburstopenonthetarmacwithmyclothesscatteredeverywhereandendlessairportcorridorswhereIranforplanesIknewI’dnevermake.

ThankstomyfeverIhadalotofweirdandextremelyvividdreams,sweatswhereIthrashedaroundhardlyknowingifitwasdayornight,butonthelastandworstofthesenightsIdreamedaboutmymother:aquick,mysteriousdreamthatfeltmorelikeavisitation.IwasinHobie’sshop—or,moreaccurately,somehaunteddreamspacestagedlikeasketchyversionoftheshop—whenshecameupsuddenlybehindmesoIsawherreflectioninamirror.AtthesightofherIwasparalyzedwithhappiness;itwasher,downtothemostminutedetail,theverypatternofherfreckles,shewassmilingatme,morebeautifulandyetnotolder,blackhairandfunnyupwardquirkofhermouth,notadreambutapresencethatfilledthewholeroom:aforceallherown,alivingotherness.AndasmuchasIwantedto,IknewIcouldn’tturnaround,thattolookatherdirectlywastoviolatethelawsofherworldandmine;shehadcometometheonlywayshecould,andoureyesmetintheglassforalongstillmoment;butjustassheseemedabouttospeak—withwhatseemedacombinationofamusement,affection,exasperation—avaporrolledbetweenusandIwokeup.

ii.

THINGSWOULDHAVETURNEDoutbetterifshehadlived.Asitwas,shediedwhenIwasakid;andthougheverythingthat’shappenedtomesincethenisthoroughlymyownfault,stillwhenIlostherIlostsightofanylandmarkthatmighthaveledmesomeplacehappier,tosomemorepopulatedorcongeniallife.

Herdeaththedividingmark:BeforeandAfter.Andthoughit’sableakthingtoadmitalltheseyearslater,stillI’venevermetanyonewhomademefeellovedthewayshedid.Everythingcamealiveinhercompany;shecastacharmedtheatricallightabouthersothattoseeanythingthroughhereyeswastoseeitinbrightercolorsthanordinary—Irememberafewweeksbeforeshedied,eatingalatesupperwithherinanItalianrestaurantdownintheVillage,andhowshegraspedmysleeveatthesudden,almostpainfullovelinessofabirthdaycakewithlitcandlesbeingcarriedinprocessionfromthekitchen,faintcircleoflightwaveringinacrossthedarkceilingandthenthecakesetdowntoblazeamidstthefamily,beatifyinganoldlady’sface,smilesallround,waiterssteppingawaywiththeirhandsbehindtheirbacks—justanordinarybirthdaydinneryoumightseeanywhereinaninexpensivedowntownrestaurant,andI’msureIwouldn’tevenrememberithadshenotdiedsosoonafter,butIthoughtaboutitagainandagainafterherdeathandindeedI’llprobablythinkaboutitallmylife:thatcandlelitcircle,atableauvivantofthedaily,commonplacehappinessthatwaslostwhenIlosther.

Shewasbeautiful,too.That’salmostsecondary;butstill,shewas.WhenshecametoNewYorkfreshfromKansas,sheworkedpart-timeasamodelthoughshewastoouneasyinfrontofthecameratobeverygoodatit;whatevershehad,itdidn’ttranslatetofilm.

Andyetshewaswhollyherself:ararity.Icannotrecalleverseeinganotherpersonwhoreallyresembledher.Shehadblackhair,fairskinthatfreckledinsummer,china-blueeyeswithalotoflightinthem;andintheslantofhercheekbonestherewassuchaneccentricmixtureofthetribalandtheCelticTwilightthatsometimespeopleguessedshewasIcelandic.Infact,shewashalfIrish,halfCherokee,fromatowninKansasneartheOklahomaborder;andshelikedtomakemelaughbycallingherselfanOkieeventhoughshewasasglossyandnervyandstylishasaracehorse.Thatexoticcharacterunfortunatelycomesoutalittletoostarkandunforgivinginphotographs—herfrecklescoveredwithmakeup,herhairpulledbackinaponytailatthenapeofhernecklikesomenoblemaninTheTaleofGenji—

andwhatdoesn’tcomeacrossatallisherwarmth,hermerry,unpredictablequality,whichiswhatIlovedabouthermost.It’sclear,fromthestillnesssheemanatesinpictures,howmuchshemistrustedthecamera;shegivesoffawatchful,tigerishairofsteelingherselfagainstattack.Butinlifeshewasn’tlikethat.Shemovedwithathrillingquickness,gesturessuddenandlight,alwaysperchedontheedgeofherchairlikesomelongelegantmarsh-birdabouttostartleandflyaway.Ilovedthesandalwoodperfumeshewore,roughandunexpected,andIlovedtherustleofherstarchedshirtwhensheswoopeddowntokissmeontheforehead.Andherlaughwasenoughtomakeyouwanttokickoverwhatyouweredoingandfollowherdownthestreet.Wherevershewent,menlookedatheroutofthecorneroftheireyes,andsometimestheyusedtolookatherinawaythatbotheredmealittle.

Herdeathwasmyfault.Otherpeoplehavealwaysbeenalittletooquicktoassuremethatitwasn’t;andyes,onlyakid,whocouldhaveknown,terribleaccident,rottenluck,couldhavehappenedtoanyone,it’sallperfectlytrueandIdon’tbelieveawordofit.

IthappenedinNewYork,April10th,fourteenyearsago.(Evenmyhandbalksatthedate;Ihadtopushtowriteitdown,justtokeepthepenmovingonthepaper.Itusedtobeaperfectlyordinarydaybutnowitsticksuponthecalendarlikearustynail.)

Ifthedayhadgoneasplanned,itwouldhavefadedintotheskyunmarked,swallowedwithoutatracealongwiththerestofmyeighth-gradeyear.WhatwouldIrememberofitnow?Littleornothing.Butofcoursethetextureofthatmorningisclearerthanthepresent,downtothedrenched,wetfeeloftheair.Ithadrainedinthenight,aterriblestorm,shopswerefloodedandacoupleofsubwaystationsclosed;andthetwoofuswerestandingonthesquelchingcarpetoutsideourapartmentbuildingwhileherfavoritedoorman,Goldie,whoadoredher,walkedbackwardsdownFifty-Seventhwithhisarmup,whistlingforataxi.Carswhooshedbyinsheetsofdirtyspray;rain-swollencloudstumbledhighabovetheskyscrapers,blowingandshiftingtopatchesofclearbluesky,anddownbelow,onthestreet,beneaththeexhaustfumes,thewindfeltdampandsoftlikespring.

“Ah,he’sfull,mylady,”Goldiecalledovertheroarofthestreet,steppingoutofthewayasataxisplashedroundthecornerandshutitslightoff.Hewasthesmallestofthedoormen:awan,thin,livelylittleguy,light-skinnedPuertoRican,aformerfeatherweightboxer.Thoughhewaspouchyinthefacefromdrinking(sometimesheturneduponthenightshiftsmellingofJ&B),stillhewaswiryandmuscularandquick—alwayskiddingaround,

alwayshavingacigarettebreakonthecorner,shiftingfromfoottofootandblowingonhiswhite-glovedhandswhenitwascold,tellingjokesinSpanishandcrackingtheotherdoormenup.

“Youinabighurrythismorning?”heaskedmymother.HisnametagsaidBURTD.buteveryonecalledhimGoldiebecauseofhisgoldtoothandbecausehislastname,deOro,meant“gold”inSpanish.

“No,plentyoftime,we’refine.”Butshelookedexhaustedandherhandswereshakyasshere-tiedherscarf,whichsnappedandflutteredinthewind.

Goldiemusthavenoticedthishimself,becauseheglancedoveratme(backedupevasivelyagainsttheconcreteplanterinfrontofthebuilding,lookinganywherebutather)withanairofslightdisapproval.

“You’renottakingthetrain?”hesaidtome.

“Oh,we’vegotsomeerrands,”saidmymother,withoutmuchconviction,whensherealizedIdidn’tknowwhattosay.NormallyIdidn’tpaymuchattentiontoherclothes,butwhatshehadonthatmorning(whitetrenchcoat,filmypinkscarf,blackandwhitetwo-toneloafers)issofirmlyburnedintomymemorythatnowit’sdifficultformetorememberheranyotherway.

Iwasthirteen.Ihatetorememberhowawkwardwewerewitheachotherthatlastmorning,stiffenoughforthedoormantonotice;anyothertimewewouldhavebeentalkingcompanionablyenough,butthatmorningwedidn’thavemuchtosaytoeachotherbecauseI’dbeensuspendedfromschool.They’dcalledheratherofficethedaybefore;she’dcomehomesilentandfurious;andtheawfulthingwasthatIdidn’tevenknowwhatI’dbeensuspendedfor,althoughIwasaboutseventy-fivepercentsurethatMr.Beeman(enroutefromhisofficetotheteachers’lounge)hadlookedoutthewindowofthesecond-floorlandingatexactlythewrongmomentandseenmesmokingonschoolproperty.(Or,rather,seenmestandingaroundwithTomCablewhilehesmoked,whichatmyschoolamountedtopracticallythesameoffense.)Mymotherhatedsmoking.Herparents—whomIlovedhearingstoriesabout,andwhohadunfairlydiedbeforeI’dhadthechancetoknowthem—hadbeenaffablehorsetrainerswhotravelledaroundthewestandraisedMorganhorsesforaliving:cocktail-drinking,canasta-playinglivelieswhowenttotheKentuckyDerbyeveryyearandkeptcigarettesinsilverboxesaroundthehouse.Thenmygrandmotherdoubledoverandstartedcoughingbloodonedaywhenshecameinfromthestables;andfortherestofmymother’steenageyears,therehadbeenoxygentanksonthefrontporchandbedroomshadesthatstayedpulleddown.

But—asIfeared,andnotwithoutreason—Tom’scigarettewasonlythetipoftheiceberg.I’dbeenintroubleatschoolforawhile.Ithadallstarted,orbeguntosnowballrather,whenmyfatherhadrunoffandleftmymotherandmesomemonthsbefore;we’dneverlikedhimmuch,andmymotherandIweregenerallymuchhappierwithouthim,butotherpeopleseemedshockedanddistressedattheabruptwayhe’dabandonedus(withoutmoney,childsupport,orforwardingaddress),andtheteachersatmyschoolontheUpperWestSidehadbeensosorryforme,soeagertoextendtheirunderstandingandsupport,thatthey’dgivenme—ascholarshipstudent—allsortsofspecialallowancesanddelayeddeadlinesandsecondandthirdchances:feedingouttherope,overamatterofmonths,untilI’dmanagedtolowermyselfintoaverydeephole.

Sothetwoofus—mymotherandI—hadbeencalledinforaconferenceatschool.Themeetingwasn’tuntileleven-thirtybutsincemymotherhadbeenforcedtotakethemorningoff,wewereheadingtotheWestSideearly—forbreakfast(and,Iexpected,aserioustalk)andsoshecouldbuyabirthdaypresentforsomeonesheworkedwith.She’dbeenupuntiltwo-thirtythenightbefore,herfacetenseintheglowofthecomputer,writingemailsandtryingtoclearthedecksforhermorningoutoftheoffice.

“Idon’tknowaboutyou,”Goldiewassayingtomymother,ratherfiercely,“butIsayenoughwithallthisspringanddampalready.Rain,rain—”Heshivered,pulledhiscollarcloserinpantomimeandglancedatthesky.

“Ithinkit’ssupposedtoclearupthisafternoon.”

“Yeah,Iknow,butI’mreadyforsummer.”Rubbinghishands.“Peopleleavetown,theyhateit,complainabouttheheat,butme—I’matropicalbird.Hotterthebetter.Bringiton!”Clapping,backingonhisheelsdownthestreet.“And—tellyouwhatIlovethebest,ishowitquietensouthere,comeJuly—?buildingallemptyandsleepy,everyoneaway,youknow?”Snappinghisfingers,cabspeedingby.“That’smyvacation.”

“Butdon’tyouburnupouthere?”Mystandoffishdadhadhatedthisabouther—hertendencytoengageinconversationwithwaitresses,doormen,thewheezyoldguysatthedrycleaner’s.“Imean,inwinter,atleastyoucanputonanextracoat—”

“Listen,you’reworkingthedoorinwinter?I’mtellingyouitgetscold.Idon’tcarehowmanycoatsandhatsyouputon.You’restandingouthere,inJanuary,February,andthewindisblowinginofftheriver?Brrr.”

Agitated,gnawingatmythumbnail,Istaredatthecabsflyingpast

Goldie’supraisedarm.Iknewthatitwasgoingtobeanexcruciatingwaituntiltheconferenceateleven-thirty;anditwasallIcoulddotostandstillandnotblurtoutincriminatingquestions.Ihadnoideawhattheymightspringonmymotherandmeoncetheyhadusintheoffice;theveryword“conference”suggestedaconvocationofauthorities,accusationsandface-downs,apossibleexpulsion.IfIlostmyscholarshipitwouldbecatastrophic;wewerebrokesincemydadhadleft;webarelyhadmoneyforrent.Aboveallelse:IwasworriedsickthatMr.Beemanhadfoundout,somehow,thatTomCableandIhadbeenbreakingintoemptyvacationhouseswhenIwenttostaywithhimoutintheHamptons.Isay“breaking”thoughwehadn’tforcedalockordoneanydamage(Tom’smotherwasarealestateagent;weletourselvesinwithsparekeysliftedfromtherackinheroffice).Mainlywe’dsnoopedthroughclosetsandpokedaroundindresserdrawers,butwe’dalsotakensomethings:beerfromthefridge,someXboxgamesandaDVD(JetLi,Unleashed)andmoney,aboutninety-twodollarstotal:crumpledfivesandtensfromakitchenjar,pilesofpocketchangeinthelaundryrooms.

WheneverIthoughtaboutthis,Ifeltnauseated.ItwasmonthssinceI’dbeenouttoTom’sbutthoughItriedtotellmyselfthatMr.Beemancouldn’tpossiblyknowaboutusgoingintothosehouses—howcouldheknow?—myimaginationwasflyinganddartingaroundinpanickedzig-zags.IwasdeterminednottotellonTom(eventhoughIwasn’tsosurehehadn’ttoldonme)butthatleftmeinatightspot.HowcouldIhavebeensostupid?Breakingandenteringwasacrime;peoplewenttojailforit.ForhoursthenightbeforeI’dlainawaketortured,floppingbackandforthandwatchingtherainslapinraggedgustsagainstmywindowpaneandwonderingwhattosayifconfronted.ButhowcouldIdefendmyself,whenIdidn’tevenknowwhattheyknew?

Goldieheavedabigsigh,puthishanddownandwalkedbackwardonhisheelstowheremymotherstood.

“Incredible,”hesaidtoher,withonejadedeyeonthestreet.“WegotthefloodingdowninSoHo,youheardaboutthat,right,andCarloswassayingtheygotsomestreetsblockedoffoverbytheUN.”

Gloomily,Iwatchedthecrowdofworkersstreamingoffthecrosstownbus,asjoylessasaswarmofhornets.Wemighthavehadbetterluckifwe’dwalkedwestablockortwo,butmymotherandIhadenoughexperienceofGoldietoknowthathewouldbeoffendedifwestruckoutonourown.Butjustthen—sosuddenlythatwealljumped—acabwithitslightonskiddedacrossthelanetous,throwingupafanofsewer-smellingwater.

“Watchit!”saidGoldie,leapingasideasthetaxiplowedtoastop—andthenobservingthatmymotherhadnoumbrella.“Wait,”hesaid,startingintothelobby,tothecollectionoflostandforgottenumbrellasthathesavedinabrasscanbythefireplaceandre-distributedonrainydays.

“No,”mymothercalled,fishinginherbagforhertinycandy-stripedcollapsible,“don’tbother,Goldie,I’mallset—”

Goldiesprangbacktothecurbandshutthetaxidoorafterher.Thenheleaneddownandknockedonthewindow.

“Youhaveablessedday,”hesaid.

iii.

ILIKETOTHINKofmyselfasaperceptiveperson(asIsupposewealldo)andinsettingallthisdown,it’stemptingtopencilashadowglidinginoverhead.ButIwasblindanddeaftothefuture;mysingle,crushing,worrywasthemeetingatschool.WhenI’dcalledTomtotellhimI’dbeensuspended(whisperingonthelandline;shehadtakenawaymycellphone)hehadn’tseemedparticularlysurprisedtohearit.“Look,”he’dsaid,cuttingmeoff,“don’tbestupid,Theo,nobodyknowsathing,justkeepyourfuckingmouthshut”;andbeforeIcouldgetoutanotherword,hesaid,“Sorry,I’vegottogo,”andhungup.

Inthecab,Itriedtocrackmywindowtogetsomeair:noluck.Itsmelledlikesomeonehadbeenchangingdirtydiapersbackthereormaybeeventakenanactualshit,andthentriedtocoveritupwithabunchofcoconutairfreshenerthatsmelledlikesuntanlotion.Theseatsweregreasy,andpatchedwithducttape,andtheshockswerenearlygone.Wheneverwestruckabump,myteethrattled,andsodidthereligiousclaptrapdanglingfromtherearviewmirror:medallions,acurvedswordinminiaturedancingonaplasticchain,andaturbaned,beardedguruwhogazedintothebackseatwithpiercingeyes,palmraisedinbenediction.

AlongParkAvenue,ranksofredtulipsstoodatattentionaswespedby.Bollywoodpop—turneddowntoalow,almostsubliminalwhine—spiraledandsparkledhypnotically,justatthethresholdofmyhearing.Theleaveswerejustcomingoutonthetrees.DeliveryboysfromD’Agostino’sandGristede’spushedcartsladenwithgroceries;harriedexecutivewomeninheelsplungeddownthesidewalk,draggingreluctantkindergartnersbehindthem;auniformedworkersweptdebrisfromthegutterintoadustpanonastick;lawyersandstockbrokersheldtheirpalmsoutandknittheirbrowsas

theylookedupatthesky.Aswejolteduptheavenue(mymotherlookingmiserable,clutchingatthearmresttobraceherself)Istaredoutthewindowatthedyspepticworkadayfaces(worried-lookingpeopleinraincoats,millingingrimthrongsatthecrosswalks,peopledrinkingcoffeefromcardboardcupsandtalkingoncellphonesandglancingfurtivelysidetoside)andtriedhardnottothinkofalltheunpleasantfatesthatmightbeabouttobefallme:someoftheminvolvingjuvenilecourt,orjail.

Thecabswungintoasharpsuddenturn,ontoEighty-SixthStreet.Mymotherslidintomeandgrabbedmyarm;andIsawshewasclammyandpaleasacod.

“Areyoucarsick?”Isaid,forgettingmyowntroublesforthemoment.Shehadawoeful,fixedexpressionthatIrecognizedalltoowell:herlipswerepressedtight,herforeheadwasglisteningandhereyeswereglassyandhuge.

Shestartedtosaysomething—andthenclappedherhandtohermouthasthecablurchedtoastopatthelight,throwingusforwardandthenbackhardagainsttheseat.

“Hangon,”Isaidtoher,andthenleanedupandknockedonthegreasyplexiglass,sothatthedriver(aturbanedSikh)startedinsurprise.

“Look,”Icalledthroughthegrille,“thisisfine,we’llgetouthere,okay?”

TheSikh—reflectedinthegarlandedmirror—gazedatmesteadily.“Youwanttostophere.”

“Yes,please.”

“Butthisisnottheaddressyougave.”

“Iknow.Butthisisgood,”Isaid,glancingbackatmymother—mascara-smeared,wilted-looking,scrabblingthoughherbagforherwallet.

“Issheallright?”saidthecabdriverdoubtfully.

“Yes,yes,she’sfine.Wejustneedtogetout,thanks.”

Withtremblinghands,mymotherproducedacrumpleofdamp-lookingdollarsandpushedthemthroughthegrille.AstheSikhslidhishandthroughandpalmedthem(resignedly,lookingaway)Iclimbedout,holdingthedooropenforher.

Mymotherstumbledalittlesteppingontothecurb,andIcaughtherarm.“Areyouokay?”Isaidtohertimidlyasthecabspedaway.WewereonupperFifthAvenue,bythemansionsfacingthepark.

Shetookadeepbreath,thenwipedherbrowandsqueezedmyarm.“Phew,”shesaid,fanningherfacewithherpalm.Herforeheadwasshinyandhereyeswerestillalittleunfocused;shehadtheslightlyruffledaspectofasea-birdblownoffcourse.“Sorry,stillgotthewobblies.ThankGodwe’reoutofthatcab.I’llbefine,Ijustneedsomeair.”

Peoplestreamedaroundusonthewindycorner:schoolgirlsinuniform,laughingandrunninganddodgingaroundus;nanniespushingelaboratepramswithbabiesseatedinpairsandthrees.Aharried,lawyerlyfatherbrushedpastus,towinghissmallsonbythewrist.“No,Braden,”Iheardhimsaytotheboy,whotrottedtokeepup,“youshouldn’tthinkthatway,it’smoreimportanttohaveajobyoulike—”

Westeppedasidetoavoidthesoapsudsthatajanitorwasdumpingfromapailonthesidewalkinfrontofhisbuilding.

“Tellme,”saidmymother—fingertipsathertemple—“wasitjustme,orwasthatcabunbelievably—”

“Nasty?HawaiianTropicandbabypoo?”

“Honestly—”fanningtheairinfrontofherface—“itwouldhavebeenokayifnotforallthestoppingandstarting.Iwasperfectlyfineandthenitjusthitme.”

“Whydon’tyoueverjustaskifyoucansitinthefrontseat?”

“Yousoundjustlikeyourfather.”

Ilookedaway,embarrassed—forI’dheardittoo,ahintofhisannoyingknow-it-alltone.“Let’swalkovertoMadisonandfindsomeplaceforyoutositdown,”Isaid.IwasstarvingtodeathandtherewasadineroverthereIliked.

But—withashudderalmost,avisiblewaveofnausea—sheshookherhead.“Air.”Dashingmascarasmudgesfromunderhereyes.“Theairfeelsgood.”

“Sure,”Isaid,abittooquickly,anxioustobeaccommodating.“Whatever.”

Iwastryinghardtobeagreeablebutmymother—fitfulandwoozy—hadpickeduponmytone;shelookedatmeclosely,tryingtofigureoutwhatIwasthinking.(Thiswasanotherbadhabitwe’dfalleninto,thankstoyearsoflifewithmyfather:tryingtoreadeachother’sminds.)

“What?”shesaid.“Istheresomeplaceyouwanttogo?”

“Um,no,notreally,”Isaid,takingastepbackwardsandlookingaroundinmyconsternation;eventhoughIwashungry,Ifeltinnopositiontoinsistonanything.

“I’llbefine.Justgivemeaminute.”

“Maybe—”blinkingandagitated,whatdidshewant,whatwouldpleaseher?—“howaboutwegositinthepark?”

Tomyrelief,shenodded.“Allrightthen,”shesaid,inwhatIthoughtofasherMaryPoppinsvoice,“butjusttillIcatchmybreath,”andwestarteddowntowardthecrosswalkatSeventy-NinthStreet:pasttopiariesinbaroqueplanters,ponderousdoorslacedwithironwork.Thelighthadfadedtoanindustrialgray,andthebreezewasasheavyasteakettlesteam.Acrossthestreetbythepark,artistsweresettinguptheirstalls,unrollingtheircanvases,pinninguptheirwatercolorreproductionsofSt.Patrick’sCathedralandtheBrooklynBridge.

Wewalkedalonginsilence.Mymindwaswhirringbusilyonmyowntroubles(hadTom’sparentsgotacall?Whyhadn’tIthoughttoaskhim?)aswellaswhatIwasgoingtoorderforbreakfastassoonasIcouldgethertothediner(Westernomeletwithhomefries,sideofbacon;shewouldhavewhatshealwayshad,ryetoastwithpoachedeggsandacupofblackcoffee)andIwashardlypayingattentionwhereweweregoingwhenIrealizedshehadjustsaidsomething.Shewasn’tlookingatmebutoutoverthepark;andherexpressionmademethinkofafamousFrenchmovieIdidn’tknowthenameof,wheredistractedpeoplewalkeddownwindblownstreetsandtalkedalotbutdidn’tactuallyseemtobetalkingtoeachother.

“Whatdidyousay?”Iasked,afterafewconfusedbeats,walkingfastertocatchupwithher.“Trymore—?”

Shelookedstartled,asifshe’dforgottenIwasthere.Thewhitecoat—flappinginthewind—addedtoherlong-leggedibisquality,asifshewereabouttounfurlherwingsandsailawayoverthepark.

“Trymorewhat?”

“Oh.”Herfacewentblankandthensheshookherheadandlaughedquicklyinthesharp,childlikewayshehad.“No.Isaidtimewarp.”

EventhoughitwasastrangethingtosayIknewwhatshemeant,orthoughtIdid—thatshiverofdisconnection,themissingsecondsonthesidewalklikeahiccupoflosttime,orafewframessnippedoutofafilm.

“No,no,puppy,justtheneighborhood.”Touslingmyhair,makingme

smileinalopsided,half-embarrassedway:puppywasmybabyname,Ididn’tlikeitanymorenorthehair-touslingeither,butsheepishthoughIfelt,Iwasgladtoseeherinabettermood.“Alwayshappensuphere.WheneverI’muphereit’slikeI’meighteenagainandrightoffthebus.”

“Here?”Isaiddoubtfully,permittinghertoholdmyhand,notnormallysomethingIwouldhavedone.“That’sweird.”Iknewallaboutmymother’searlydaysinManhattan,agoodlongwayfromFifthAvenue—onAvenueB,inastudioaboveabar,wherebumssleptinthedoorwayandbarfightsspilledoutonthestreetandacrazyoldladynamedMokepttenortwelveillegalcatsinablocked-offstairwellonthetopfloor.

Sheshrugged.“Yeah,butuphereit’sstillthesameasthefirstdayIeversawit.Timetunnel.OntheLowerEastSide—well,youknowwhatit’slikedownthere,alwayssomethingnew,butformeit’smorethisRipvanWinklefeeling,alwaysfurtherandfurtheraway.SomedaysI’dwakeupanditwasliketheycameinandrearrangedthestorefrontsinthenight.Oldrestaurantsoutofbusiness,sometrendynewbarwherethedrycleaner’susedtobe.…”

Imaintainedarespectfulsilence.Thepassageoftimehadbeenmuchonhermindlately,maybebecauseherbirthdaywascomingup.I’mtoooldforthisroutine,she’dsaidafewdaysbeforeaswe’dscrambledtogetherovertheapartment,rummagingunderthesofacushionsandsearchinginthepocketsofcoatsandjacketsforenoughchangetopaythedeliveryboyfromthedeli.

Shedugherhandsinhercoatpockets.“Uphere,it’smorestable,”shesaid.ThoughhervoicewaslightIcouldseethefoginhereyes;clearlyshehadn’tsleptwell,thankstome.“UpperParkisoneofthefewplaceswhereyoucanstillseewhatthecitylookedlikeinthel890s.GramercyParktoo,andtheVillage,someofit.WhenIfirstcametoNewYorkIthoughtthisneighborhoodwasEdithWhartonandFrannyandZooeyandBreakfastatTiffany’sallrolledintoone.”

“FrannyandZooeywastheWestSide.”

“Yeah,butIwastoodumbtoknowthat.AllIcansay,is,itwasprettydifferentfromtheLowerEast,homelessguysstartingfiresintrashcans.Uphereontheweekendsitwasmagical—wanderingthemuseum—lollopingaroundCentralParkonmyown—”

“Lolloping?”Somuchofhertalkwasexotictomyear,andlollopsoundedlikesomehorsetermfromherchildhood:alazygallopmaybe,someequinegaitbetweenacanterandatrot.

“Oh,youknow,justlopingandslopingalonglikeIdo.Nomoney,holes

inmysocks,livingoffoatmeal.BelieveitornotIusedtowalkuphere,someweekends.Savingmytrainfarefortheridehome.Thatwaswhentheystillhadtokensinsteadofcards.Andeventhoughyou’resupposedtopaytogetinthemuseum?The‘suggesteddonation’?Well,IguessImusthavehadalotmorenervebackthen,ormaybetheyjustfeltsorryformebecause—Ohno,”shesaid,inachangedtone,stoppingcold,sothatIwalkedafewstepsbyherwithoutnoticing.

“What?”Turningback.“Whatisit?”

“Feltsomething.”Sheheldoutherpalmandlookedatthesky.“Didyou?”

Andjustasshesaidit,thelightseemedtofail.Theskydarkenedrapidly,darkereverysecond;thewindrustledthetreesintheparkandthenewleavesonthetreesstoodouttenderandyellowagainstblackclouds.

“Jeez,wouldn’tyouknowit,”saidmymother.“It’sabouttopour.”Leaningoverthestreet,lookingnorth:nocabs.

Icaughtherhandagain.“Comeon,”Isaid,“we’llhavebetterluckontheotherside.”

ImpatientlywewaitedforthelastfewblinksontheDon’tWalksign.Bitsofpaperwerewhirlingintheairandtumblingdownthestreet.“Hey,there’sacab,”Isaid,lookingupFifth;andjustasIsaiditabusinessmanrantothecurbwithhishandup,andthelightpoppedoff.

Acrossthestreet,artistsrantocovertheirpaintingswithplastic.Thecoffeevendorwaspullingdowntheshuttersonhiscart.Wehurriedacrossandjustaswemadeittotheotherside,afatdropofrainsplashedonmycheek.Sporadicbrowncircles—widelyspaced,bigasdimes—begantopopuponthepavement.

“Oh,drat!”criedmymother.Shefumbledinherbagforherumbrella—whichwasscarcelybigenoughforoneperson,letalonetwo.

Andthenitcamedown,coldsweepsofrainblowinginsideways,broadguststumblinginthetreetopsandflappingintheawningsacrossthestreet.Mymotherwasstrugglingtogetthecrankylittleumbrellaup,withoutmuchsuccess.Peopleonthestreetandintheparkwereholdingnewspapersandbriefcasesovertheirheads,scurryingupthestairstotheporticoofthemuseum,whichwastheonlyplaceonthestreettogetoutoftherain.Andtherewassomethingfestiveandhappyaboutthetwoofus,hurryingupthestepsbeneaththeflimsycandy-stripedumbrella,quickquickquick,foralltheworldasifwewereescapingsomethingterribleinsteadofrunningrightinto

it.

iv.

THREEIMPORTANTTHINGSHADhappenedtomymotheraftershearrivedinNewYorkonthebusfromKansas,friendlessandpracticallypenniless.ThefirstwaswhenabookingagentnamedDavyJoPickeringhadspottedherwaitingtablesinacoffeeshopintheVillage:anunderfedteenagerinDocMartensandthrift-shopclothes,withabraiddownherbacksolongshecouldsitonit.Whenshe’dbroughthimhiscoffee,he’dofferedhersevenhundredandthenathousanddollarstofillinforagirlwhohadn’tshownupforworkatthecatalogueshootacrossthestreet.He’dpointedoutthelocationvan,theequipmentbeingsetupinSheridanSquarepark;he’dcountedoutthebills,laidthemonthecounter.“Givemetenminutes,”she’dsaid;she’dbroughtouttherestofherbreakfastorders,thenhungupherapronandwalkedout.

“Iwasonlyamail-ordermodel,”shealwaystookpainstoexplaintopeople—bywhichshemeantshe’dneverdonefashionmagazinesorcouture,onlycircularsforchainstores,inexpensivecasualsforjuniormissesinMissouriandMontana.Sometimesitwasfun,shesaid,butmostlyitwasn’t:swimsuitsinJanuary,shiveringfromflu;tweedsandwoolensinsummerheat,swelteringforhoursamidfakeautumnleaveswhileastudiofanblewhotairandaguyfrommakeupdartedinbetweentakestopowderthesweatoffherface.

Butduringthoseyearsofstandingaroundandpretendingtobeincollege—posinginmockcampussettingsinstiffpairsandthrees,booksclutchedtoherchest—she’dmanagedtosockawayenoughmoneytosendherselftocollegeforreal:arthistoryatNYU.She’dneverseenagreatpaintinginpersonuntilshewaseighteenandmovedtoNewYork,andshewaseagertomakeupforlosttime—“purebliss,perfectheaven,”she’dsaid,uptotheneckinartbooksandporingoverthesameoldslides(Manet,Vuillard)untilhervisionstartedtoblur.(“It’scrazy,”she’dsaid,“butI’dbeperfectlyhappyifIcouldsitlookingatthesamehalfdozenpaintingsfortherestofmylife.Ican’tthinkofabetterwaytogoinsane.”)

CollegewasthesecondimportantthingthathadhappenedtoherinNewYork—forher,probablythemostimportant.Andifnotforthethirdthing(meetingandmarryingmyfather—notsoluckyasthefirsttwo)shewouldalmostcertainlyhavefinishedhermaster’sandgoneonforherPhD.WhenevershehadafewhourstoherselfshealwaysheadedstraighttotheFrick,orMoMA,ortheMet—whichiswhy,aswestoodunderthedripping

porticoofthemuseum,gazingoutacrosshazyFifthAvenueandtheraindropsjumpingwhiteinthestreet,Iwasnotsurprisedwhensheshookherumbrellaoutandsaid:“Maybeweshouldgoinandpokearoundforabittillitstops.”

“Um—”WhatIwantedwasbreakfast.“Sure.”

Sheglancedatherwatch.“Mightaswell.We’renotgoingtogetacabinallthis.”

Shewasright.Still,Iwasstarving.Whenarewegoingtoeat?Ithoughtgrumpily,followingherupthestairs.ForallIknew,shewasgoingtobesomadafterthemeetingshewouldn’ttakemeouttolunchatall,Iwouldhavetogohomeandeatabowlofcerealorsomething.

Yetthemuseumalwaysfeltlikeaholiday;andoncewewereinsidewiththegladroaroftouristsallaroundus,Ifeltstrangelyinsulatedfromwhateverelsethedaymightholdinstore.TheGreatHallwasloud,andrankwiththesmellofwetovercoats.AdrenchedcrowdofAsianseniorcitizenssurgedpast,afteracrispstewardessyguide;bedraggledGirlScoutshuddledwhisperingnearthecoatcheck;besidetheinformationdeskstoodalineofmilitary-schoolcadetsingraydressuniforms,hatsoff,claspedhandsbehindtheirbacks.

Forme—acitykid,alwaysconfinedbyapartmentwalls—themuseumwasinterestingmainlybecauseofitsimmensesize,apalacewheretheroomswentonforeverandgrewmoreandmoredesertedthefartherinyouwent.Someoftheneglectedbedchambersandroped-offdrawingroomsinthedepthsofEuropeanDecoratingfeltbound-upindeepenchantment,asifnoonehadsetfootinthemforhundredsofyears.EversinceI’dstartedridingthetrainbymyselfI’dlovedtogotherealoneandroamarounduntilIgotlost,wanderingdeeperanddeeperinthemazeofgalleriesuntilsometimesIfoundmyselfinforgottenhallsofarmorandporcelainthatI’dneverseenbefore(and,occasionally,wasunabletofindagain).

AsIhungbehindmymotherintheadmissionsline,Iputmyheadbackandstaredfixedlyintothecavernousceilingdometwostoriesabove:ifIstaredhardenough,sometimesIcouldmakemyselffeellikeIwasfloatingarounduptherelikeafeather,atrickfromearlychildhoodthatwasfadingasIgotolder.

Meanwhilemymother—red-nosedandbreathlessfromourdashthroughtherain—wasgrapplingforherwallet.“Maybewhenwe’redoneI’llduckinthegiftshop,”shewassaying.“I’msurethelastthingMathildewantsisanartbookbutit’llbehardforhertocomplainmuchaboutitwithoutsounding

stupid.”

“Yikes,”Isaid.“Thepresent’sforMathilde?”Mathildewastheartdirectoroftheadvertisingfirmwheremymotherworked;shewasthedaughterofaFrenchfabric-importingmagnate,youngerthanmymotherandnotoriouslyfussy,apttothrowtantrumsifthecarserviceorthecateringwasn’tuptopar.

“Yep.”Wordlessly,sheofferedmeastickofgum,whichIaccepted,andthenthrewthepackbackinherpurse.“Imean,that’sMathilde’swholething,thewell-chosengiftshouldn’tcostalotofmoney,it’sallabouttheperfectinexpensivepaperweightfromthefleamarket.Whichwouldbefantastic,Iguess,ifanyofushadtimetogodowntownandscourthefleamarket.LastyearwhenitwasPru’sturn—?ShepanickedandranintoSaksonherlunchhourandendedupspendingfiftybucksofherownmoneyontopofwhattheygaveher,forsunglasses,TomFordIthink,andMathildestillhadtogethercrackinaboutAmericansandconsumerculture.Pruisn’tevenAmerican,she’sAustralian.”

“HaveyoudiscusseditwithSergio?”Isaid.Sergio—seldomintheoffice,thoughofteninthesocietypageswithpeoplelikeDonatellaVersace—wasthemultimillionaireownerofmymother’sfirm;“discussingthingswithSergio”wasakintoasking:“WhatwouldJesusdo?”

“Sergio’sideaofanartbookisHelmutNewtonormaybethatcoffee-tablebookthatMadonnadidawhileback.”

IstartedtoaskwhoHelmutNewtonwas,butthenhadabetteridea.“Whydon’tyougetheraMetroCard?”

Mymotherrolledhereyes.“Believeme,Ioughtto.”TherehadrecentlybeenaflapatworkwhenMathilde’scarwasheldupintraffic,leavingherstrandedinWilliamsburgatajeweler’sstudio.

“Like—anonymously.Leaveoneonherdesk,anoldonewithoutanymoneyonit.Justtoseewhatshe’ddo.”

“Icantellyouwhatshe’ddo,”saidmymother,slidinghermembershipcardthroughtheticketwindow.“FireherassistantandprobablyhalfthepeopleinProductionaswell.”

Mymother’sadvertisingfirmspecializedinwomen’saccessories.Alldaylong,undertheagitatedandslightlyviciouseyeofMathilde,shesupervisedphotoshootswherecrystalearringsglistenedondriftsoffakeholidaysnow,andcrocodilehandbags—unattended,inthebackseatsofdesertedlimousines

—glowedincoronasofcelestiallight.Shewasgoodatwhatshedid;shepreferredworkingbehindthecameraratherthaninfrontofit;andIknewshegotakickoutofseeingherworkonsubwaypostersandonbillboardsinTimesSquare.Butdespitetheglossandsparkleofthejob(champagnebreakfasts,giftbagsfromBergdorf’s)thehourswerelongandtherewasahollownessattheheartofitthat—Iknew—madehersad.Whatshereallywantedwastogobacktoschool,thoughofcoursewebothknewthattherewaslittlechanceofthatnowmydadhadleft.

“Okay,”shesaid,turningfromthewindowandhandingmemybadge,“helpmekeepaneyeonthetime,willyou?It’samassiveshow”—sheindicatedaposter,PORTRAITUREANDNATUREMORTE:NORTHERNMASTERWORKSOFTHEGOLDENAGE—“wecan’tseeitallonthisvisit,butthereareafewthings…”

HervoicedriftedawayasItrailedbehindheruptheGreatStaircase—tornbetweentheprudentneedtostickcloseandtheurgetoslinkafewpacesbackandtrytopretendIwasn’twithher.

“Ihatetoracethroughlikethis,”shewassayingasIcaughtupwithheratthetopofthestairs,“butthenagainit’sthekindofshowwhereyouneedtocometwoorthreetimes.There’sTheAnatomyLesson,andwedohavetoseethat,butwhatIreallywanttoseeisonetiny,rarepiecebyapainterwhowasVermeer’steacher.GreatestOldMasteryou’veneverheardof.TheFransHalspaintingsareabigdeal,too.YouknowHals,don’tyou?TheJollyToper?Andthealmshousegovernors?”

“Right,”Isaidtentatively.Ofthepaintingsshe’dmentioned,TheAnatomyLessonwastheonlyoneIknew.Adetailfromitwasfeaturedontheposterfortheexhibition:lividflesh,multipleshadesofblack,alcoholic-lookingsurgeonswithbloodshoteyesandrednoses.

“ArtOne-oh-onestuff,”saidmymother.“Here,takealeft.”

Upstairsitwasfreezingcold,withmyhairstillwetfromtherain.“No,no,thisway,”saidmymother,catchingmysleeve.Theshowwascomplicatedtofind,andaswewanderedthebusygalleries(weavinginandoutofcrowds,turningright,turningleft,backtrackingthroughlabyrinthsofconfusingsignageandlayout)largegloomyreproductionsofTheAnatomyLessonappearederraticallyandatunexpectedjunctures,balefulsignposts,thesameoldcorpsewiththeflayedarm,redarrowsbeneath:operatingtheater,thisway.

IwasnotveryexcitedattheprospectofalotofpicturesofDutchpeople

standingaroundindarkclothes,andwhenwepushedthroughtheglassdoors—fromechoinghallsintocarpetedhush—Ithoughtatfirstwe’dgoneintothewronghall.Thewallsglowedwithawarm,dullhazeofopulence,agenericmellownessofantiquity;butthenitallbrokeapartintoclarityandcolorandpureNorthernlight,portraits,interiors,stilllifes,sometiny,othersmajestic:ladieswithhusbands,ladieswithlapdogs,lonelybeautiesinembroideredgownsandsplendid,solitarymerchantsinjewelsandfurs.Ruinedbanquettableslitteredwithpeeledapplesandwalnutshells;drapedtapestriesandsilver;trompel’oeilswithcrawlinginsectsandstripedflowers.Andthedeeperwewandered,thestrangerandmorebeautifulthepicturesbecame.Peeledlemons,withtherindslightlyhardenedattheknife’sedge,thegreenishshadowofapatchofmold.Lightstrikingtherimofahalf-emptywineglass.

“Ilikethisonetoo,”whisperedmymother,comingupalongsidemeatasmallishandparticularlyhauntingstilllife:awhitebutterflyagainstadarkground,floatingoversomeredfruit.Thebackground—arichchocolateblack—hadacomplicatedwarmthsuggestingcrowdedstoreroomsandhistory,thepassageoftime.

“Theyreallyknewhowtoworkthisedge,theDutchpainters—ripenessslidingintorot.Thefruit’sperfectbutitwon’tlast,it’sabouttogo.Andseehereespecially,”shesaid,reachingovermyshouldertotraceintheairwithherfinger,“thispassage—thebutterfly.”Theunderwingwassopowderyanddelicateitlookedasifthecolorwouldsmearifshetouchedit.“Howbeautifullyheplaysit.Stillnesswithatrembleofmovement.”

“Howlongdidittakehimtopaintthat?”

Mymother,who’dbeenstandingabittooclose,steppedbacktoregardthepainting—oblivioustothegum-chewingsecurityguardwhoseattentionshe’dattracted,whowasstaringfixedlyatherback.

“Well,theDutchinventedthemicroscope,”shesaid.“Theywerejewelers,grindersoflenses.Theywantitallasdetailedaspossiblebecauseeventhetiniestthingsmeansomething.Wheneveryouseefliesorinsectsinastilllife—awiltedpetal,ablackspotontheapple—thepainterisgivingyouasecretmessage.He’stellingyouthatlivingthingsdon’tlast—it’salltemporary.Deathinlife.That’swhythey’recallednaturesmortes.Maybeyoudon’tseeitatfirstwithallthebeautyandbloom,thelittlespeckofrot.Butifyoulookcloser—thereitis.”

Ileaneddowntoreadthenote,printedindiscreetlettersonthewall,

whichinformedmethatthepainter—AdriaenCoorte,datesofbirthanddeathuncertain—hadbeenunknowninhisownlifetimeandhisworkunrecognizeduntilthe1950s.“Hey,”Isaid,“Mom,didyouseethis?”

Butshe’dalreadymovedon.Theroomswerechillyandhushed,withloweredceilings,andnoneofthepalatialroarandechooftheGreatHall.Thoughtheexhibitionwasmoderatelycrowded,stillithadthesedate,meanderingfeelofabackwater,acertainvacuum-sealedcalm:longsighsandextravagantexhalationslikearoomfullofstudentstakingatest.Itrailedbehindmymotherasshezigzaggedfromportraittoportrait,muchfasterthansheusuallywentthroughanexhibition,fromflowerstocardtablestofruit,ignoringagreatmanyofthepaintings(ourfourthsilvertankardordeadpheasant)andveeringtootherswithouthesitation(“Now,Hals.He’ssocornysometimeswithallthesetipplersandwenchesbutwhenhe’son,he’son.Noneofthisfussinessandprecision,he’sworkingwet-on-wet,slash,slash,it’sallsofast.Thefacesandhands—renderedreallyfinely,heknowsthat’swhattheeyeisdrawntobutlookattheclothes—soloose—almostsketched.Lookhowopenandmodernthebrushworkis!”).WespentsometimeinfrontofaHalsportraitofaboyholdingaskull(“Don’tbemad,Theo,butwhodoyouthinkhelookslike?Somebody”—tuggingthebackofmyhair—“whocoulduseahaircut?”)—and,also,twobigHalsportraitsofbanquetingofficers,whichshetoldmewerevery,veryfamousandagiganticinfluenceonRembrandt.(“VanGoghlovedHalstoo.Somewhere,he’swritingaboutHalsandhesays:FransHalshasnolessthantwenty-nineshadesofblack!Orwasittwenty-seven?”)Ifollowedafterherwithasortofdazedsenseoflosttime,delightedbyherpreoccupation,howoblivioussheseemedoftheminutesflying.Itseemedthatourhalfhourmustbealmostup;butstillIwantedtodawdleanddistracther,intheinfantilehopethattimewouldslipawayandwewouldmissthemeetingaltogether.

“Now,Rembrandt,”mymothersaid.“Everybodyalwayssaysthispaintingisaboutreasonandenlightenment,thedawnofscientificinquiry,allthat,buttomeit’screepyhowpoliteandformaltheyare,millingaroundtheslablikeabuffetatacocktailparty.Although—”shepointed—“seethosetwopuzzledguysinthebackthere?They’renotlookingatthebody—they’relookingatus.Youandme.Liketheyseeusstandinghereinfrontofthem—twopeoplefromthefuture.Startled.‘Whatareyoudoinghere?’Verynaturalistic.Butthen”—shetracedthecorpse,midair,withherfinger—“thebodyisn’tpaintedinanyverynaturalwayatall,ifyoulookatit.Weirdglowcomingoffit,doyousee?Alienautopsy,almost.Seehowitlightsupthefacesofthemenlookingdownatit?Likeit’sshiningwithitsownlightsource?He’spainting

itwiththatradioactivequalitybecausehewantstodrawoureyetoit—makeitjumpoutatus.Andhere”—shepointedtotheflayedhand—“seehowhecallsattentiontoitbypaintingitsobig,alloutofproportiontotherestofthebody?He’seventurneditaroundsothethumbisonthewrongside,doyousee?Well,hedidn’tdothatbymistake.Theskinisoffthehand—weseeitimmediately,somethingverywrong—butbyreversingthethumbhemakesitlookevenmorewrong,itregisterssubliminallyevenifwecan’tputourfingeronit,somethingreallyoutoforder,notright.Veryclevertrick.”WewerestandingbehindacrowdofAsiantourists,somanyheadsthatIcouldseethepicturescarcelyatall,butthenagainIdidn’tcarethatmuchbecauseI’dseenthisgirl.

She’dseenme,too.We’dbeeneyeingeachotherasweweregoingthroughthegalleries.Iwasn’tquiteevensurewhatwassointerestingabouther,sinceshewasyoungerthanmeandalittlestrange-looking—nothingatalllikethegirlsIusuallygotcrusheson,coolseriousbeautieswhocastdisdainfullooksaroundthehallwayandwentoutwithbigguys.Thisgirlhadbrightredhair;hermovementswereswift,herfacesharpandmischievousandstrange,andhereyeswereanoddcolor,agoldenhoneybeebrown.Andthoughshewastoothin,allelbows,andinawayalmostplain,yettherewassomethingabouthertoothatmademystomachgowatery.Shewasswingingandknockingabattered-lookingflutecasearoundwithher—acitykid?Onherwaytoamusiclesson?Maybenot,Ithought,circlingbehindherasIfollowedmymotherintothenextgallery;herclotheswerealittletooblandandsuburban;shewasprobablyatourist.ButshemovedwithmoreassurancethanmostofthegirlsIknew;andthesly,composedglancethatsheslidovermeasshebrushedpastdrovemecrazy.

Iwastrailingalongbehindmymother,onlyhalfpayingattentiontowhatshewassaying,whenshestoppedinfrontofapaintingsosuddenlythatIalmostranintoher.

“Oh,sorry—!”shesaid,withoutlookingatme,steppingbacktomakeroom.Herfacewaslikesomeonehadturnedalightintoit.

“ThisistheoneIwastalkingabout,”shesaid.“Isn’titamazing?”

Iinclinedmyheadinmymother’sdirection,inanattitudeofattentivelistening,whilemyeyeswanderedbacktothegirl.Shewasaccompaniedbyafunnyoldwhite-hairedcharacterwhoIguessedfromhissharpnessoffacewasrelatedtoher,hergrandfathermaybe:houndstoothcoat,longnarrowlace-upshoesasshinyasglass.Hiseyeswereclose-set,andhisnosebeakyandbirdlike;hewalkedwithalimp—infact,hiswholebodylistedtoone

side,oneshoulderhigherthantheother;andifhisslumphadbeenanymorepronounced,youmighthavesaidhewasahunchback.Butallthesametherewassomethingelegantabouthim.Andclearlyheadoredthegirlfromtheamusedandcompanionablewayhehobbledatherside,verycarefulwhereheputhisfeet,hisheadinclinedinherdirection.

“ThisisjustaboutthefirstpaintingIeverreallyloved,”mymotherwassaying.“You’llneverbelieveit,butitwasinabookIusedtotakeoutofthelibrarywhenIwasakid.Iusedtositonthefloorbymybedandstareatitforhours,completelyfascinated—thatlittleguy!And,Imean,actuallyit’sincrediblehowmuchyoucanlearnaboutapaintingbyspendingalotoftimewithareproduction,evennotaverygoodreproduction.Istartedofflovingthebird,thewayyou’dloveapetorsomething,andendeduplovingthewayhewaspainted.”Shelaughed.“TheAnatomyLessonwasinthesamebookactually,butitscaredthepantsoffme.IusedtoslamthebookshutwhenIopenedittothatpagebymistake.”

Thegirlandtheoldmanhadcomeupnexttous.Self-consciously,Ileanedforwardandlookedatthepainting.Itwasasmallpicture,thesmallestintheexhibition,andthesimplest:ayellowfinch,againstaplain,paleground,chainedtoaperchbyitstwigofanankle.

“HewasRembrandt’spupil,Vermeer’steacher,”mymothersaid.“Andthisonelittlepaintingisreallythemissinglinkbetweenthetwoofthem—thatclearpuredaylight,youcanseewhereVermeergothisqualityoflightfrom.Ofcourse,Ididn’tknoworcareaboutanyofthatwhenIwasakid,thehistoricalsignificance.Butit’sthere.”

Isteppedback,togetabetterlook.Itwasadirectandmatter-of-factlittlecreature,withnothingsentimentalaboutit;andsomethingabouttheneat,compactwayittuckeddowninsideitself—itsbrightness,itsalertwatchfulexpression—mademethinkofpicturesI’dseenofmymotherwhenshewassmall:adark-cappedfinchwithsteadyeyes.

“ItwasafamoustragedyinDutchhistory,”mymotherwassaying.“Ahugepartofthetownwasdestroyed.”

“What?”

“ThedisasteratDelft.ThatkilledFabritius.Didyouheartheteacherbacktheretellingthechildrenaboutit?”

Ihad.Therehadbeenatrioofghastlylandscapes,byapainternamedEgbertvanderPoel,differentviewsofthesamesmoulderingwasteland:burntruinedhouses,awindmillwithtatteredsails,crowswheelinginsmoky

skies.Anofficiallookingladyhadbeenexplainingloudlytoagroupofmiddle-schoolkidsthatagunpowderfactoryexplodedatDelftinthe1600s,thatthepainterhadbeensohauntedandobsessedbythedestructionofhiscitythathepainteditoverandover.

“Well,EgbertwasFabritius’sneighbor,hesortoflosthismindafterthepowderexplosion,atleastthat’showitlookstome,butFabritiuswaskilledandhisstudiowasdestroyed.Alongwithalmostallhispaintings,exceptthisone.”Sheseemedtobewaitingformetosaysomething,butwhenIdidn’t,shecontinued:“Hewasoneofthegreatestpaintersofhisday,inoneofthegreatestagesofpainting.Veryveryfamousinhistime.It’ssadthough,becausemaybeonlyfiveorsixpaintingssurvived,ofallhiswork.Alltherestofitislost—everythingheeverdid.”

Thegirlandhergrandfatherwereloiteringquietlytotheside,listeningtomymothertalk,whichwasabitembarrassing.Iglancedawayandthen—unabletoresist—glancedback.Theywerestandingveryclose,socloseIcouldhavereachedoutandtouchedthem.Shewasbattingandpluckingattheoldman’ssleeve,tugginghisarmtowhispersomethinginhisear.

“Anyway,ifyouaskme,”mymotherwassaying,“thisisthemostextraordinarypictureinthewholeshow.Fabritiusismakingclearsomethingthathediscoveredallonhisown,thatnopainterintheworldknewbeforehim—notevenRembrandt.”

Verysoftly—sosoftlyIcouldbarelyhearher—Iheardthegirlwhisper:“Ithadtoliveitswholelifelikethat?”

I’dbeenwonderingthesamething;theshackledfoot,thechainwasterrible;hergrandfathermurmuredsomereplybutmymother(whoseemedtotallyunawareofthem,eventhoughtheywererightnexttous)steppedbackandsaid:“Suchamysteriouspicture,sosimple.Reallytender—invitesyoutostandclose,youknow?Allthosedeadpheasantsbackthereandthenthislittlelivingcreature.”

Iallowedmyselfanotherstealthyglimpseinthegirl’sdirection.Shewasstandingononeleg,withherhipswungouttotheside.Then—quitesuddenly—sheturnedandlookedmeintheeye;andinaheart-skipofconfusion,Ilookedaway.

Whatwashername?Whywasn’tsheinschool?I’dbeentryingtomakeoutthescribblednameontheflutecasebutevenwhenIleanedinasfarasIdaredwithoutbeingobvious,stillIcouldn’treadtheboldspikymarkerstrokes,moredrawnthanwritten,likesomethingspray-paintedonasubway

car.Thelastnamewasshort,onlyfourorfiveletters;thefirstlookedlikeR,orwasitP?

“Peopledie,sure,”mymotherwassaying.“Butit’ssoheartbreakingandunnecessaryhowwelosethings.Frompurecarelessness.Fires,wars.TheParthenon,usedasamunitionsstorehouse.Iguessthatanythingwemanagetosavefromhistoryisamiracle.”

Thegrandfatherhaddriftedaway,afewpaintingsover;butshewasloiteringafewstepsbehind,thegirl,andkeptcastingglancesbackatmymotherandme.Beautifulskin:milkywhite,armslikecarvedmarble.Definitelyshelookedathletic,thoughtoopaletobeatennisplayer;maybeshewasaballerinaoragymnastorevenahighdiver,practicinglateinshadowyindoorpools,echoesandrefractions,darktile.Plungingwitharchedchestandpointedtoestothebottomofthepool,asilentpow,shinyblackswimsuit,bubblesfoamingandstreamingoffhersmall,tenseframe.

WhydidIobsessoverpeoplelikethis?Wasitnormaltofixateonstrangersinthisparticularvivid,feveredway?Ididn’tthinkso.Itwasimpossibletoimaginesomerandompasser-byonthestreetformingquitesuchaninterestinme.AndyetitwasthemainreasonI’dgoneinthosehouseswithTom:Iwasfascinatedbystrangers,wantedtoknowwhatfoodtheyateandwhatdishestheyateitfrom,whatmoviestheywatchedandwhatmusictheylistenedto,wantedtolookundertheirbedsandintheirsecretdrawersandnighttablesandinsidethepocketsoftheircoats.OftenIsawinteresting-lookingpeopleonthestreetandthoughtaboutthemrestlesslyfordays,imaginingtheirlives,makingupstoriesaboutthemonthesubwayorthecrosstownbus.Yearshadpassed,andIstillhadn’tstoppedthinkingaboutthedark-hairedchildreninCatholicschooluniforms—brotherandsister—I’dseeninGrandCentral,literallytryingtopulltheirfatheroutthedoorofaseedybarbythesleevesofhissuitjacket.NorhadIforgottenthefrail,gypsyishgirlinawheelchairoutinfrontoftheCarlyleHotel,talkingbreathlesslyinItaliantothefluffydoginherlap,whileasharpcharacterinsunglasses(father?bodyguard?)stoodbehindherchair,apparentlyconductingsomesortofbusinessdealonhisphone.Foryears,I’dturnedthosestrangersoverinmymind,wonderingwhotheywereandwhattheirliveswerelike,andIknewIwouldgohomeandwonderaboutthisgirlandhergrandfatherthesameway.Theoldmanhadmoney;youcouldtellfromhowhewasdressed.Whywasitjustthetwoofthem?Whereweretheyfrom?MaybetheywerepartofsomebigoldcomplicatedNewYorkfamily—musicpeople,academics,oneofthoselarge,artsyWestSidefamiliesthatyousawuparoundColumbiaoratLincolnCentermatinees.Or,maybe—homely,

civilizedoldcreaturethathewas—maybehewasn’thergrandfatheratall.Maybehewasamusicteacher,andshewasthefluteprodigyhehaddiscoveredinsomesmalltownandbroughttoplayatCarnegieHall—

“Theo?”mymothersaidsuddenly.“Didyouhearme?”

Hervoicebroughtmebacktomyself.Wewereinthelastroomoftheshow.Beyondlaytheexhibitionshop—postcards,cashregister,glossystacksofartbooks—andmymother,unfortunately,hadnotlosttrackofthetime.

“Weshouldseeifit’sstillraining,”shewassaying.“We’vestillgotalittlewhile”—(lookingatherwatch,glancingpastmeattheExitsign)—“butIthinkI’dbettergodownstairsifI’mgoingtotrytogetsomethingforMathilde.”

Inoticedthegirlobservingmymotherasshespoke—eyesglidingcuriouslyovermymother’ssleekblackponytail,herwhitesatintrenchcoatcinchedatthewaist—anditthrilledmetoseeherforamomentasthegirlsawher,asastranger.Didsheseehowmymother’snosehadthetiniestbumpatthetop,whereshe’dbrokenitfallingoutofatreeasachild?orhowtheblackringsaroundthelightblueirisesofmymother’seyesgaveheraslightlywildquality,asofsomesteady-eyedhuntingcreaturealoneonaplain?

“Youknow—”mymotherlookedoverhershoulder—“ifyoudon’tmind,IjustmightrunbackandtakeanotherquicklookatTheAnatomyLessonbeforeweleave.Ididn’tgettoseeitupcloseandI’mafraidImightnotmakeitbackbeforeitcomesdown.”Shestartedaway,shoesclackingbusily—andthenglancedatmeasiftosay:areyoucoming?

ThiswassounexpectedthatforasplitsecondIdidn’tknowwhattosay.“Um,”Isaid,recovering,“I’llmeetyouintheshop.”

“Okay,”shesaid.“Buymeacoupleofcards,willyou?I’llbebackinasec.”

Andoffshehurried,beforeIhadachancetosayaword.Heartpounding,unabletobelievemyluck,Iwatchedherwalkingrapidlyawayfrommeinthewhitesatintrenchcoat.Thiswasit,mychancetotalktothegirl;butwhatcanIsaytoher,Ithoughtfuriously,whatcanIsay?Idugmyhandsinmypockets,tookabreathortwotocomposemyself,and—excitementfizzingbrightinmystomach—turnedtofaceher.

But,tomyconsternation,shewasgone.Thatistosay,shewasn’tgone;therewasherredhead,movingreluctantly(orsoitseemed)acrosstheroom.

Hergrandpahadslippedhisarmthroughhersand—whisperingtoher,withgreatenthusiasm—wastowingherawaytolookatsomepictureontheoppositewall.

Icouldhavekilledhim.Nervously,Iglancedattheemptydoorway.ThenIdugmyhandsdeeperinmypocketsand—faceburning—walkedconspicuouslyacrossthelengthofthegallery.Theclockwasticking;mymotherwouldbebackanysecond;andthoughIknewIdidn’thavethenervetobargeupandactuallysaysomething,Icouldattheveryleastgetalastgoodlookather.Notlongbefore,IhadstayeduplatewithmymotherandwatchedCitizenKane,andIwasverytakenwiththeideathatapersonmightnoticeinpassingsomebewitchingstrangerandrememberherfortherestofhislife.SomedayItoomightbeliketheoldmaninthemovie,leaningbackinmychairwithafar-offlookinmyeyes,andsaying:“Youknow,thatwassixtyyearsago,andIneversawthatgirlwiththeredhairagain,butyouknowwhat?NotamonthhasgonebyinallthattimewhenIhaven’tthoughtofher.”

Iwasmorethanhalfwayacrossthegallerywhensomethingstrangehappened.Amuseumguardranacrosstheopendoorwayoftheexhibitionshopbeyond.Hewascarryingsomethinginhisarms.

Thegirlsawit,too.Hergolden-browneyesmetmine:astartled,quizzicallook.

Suddenlyanotherguardflewoutofthemuseumshop.Hisarmswereupandhewasscreaming.

Headswentup.Someonebehindmesaid,inanoddflatvoice:oh!Thenextinstant,atremendous,earsplittingblastshooktheroom.

Theoldman—withablanklookonhisface—stumbledsideways.Hisoutstretchedarm—knottyfingersspread—isthelastthingIrememberseeing.Atalmostexactlythesamemomenttherewasablackflash,withdebrissweepingandtwistingaroundme,andaroarofhotwindslammedintomeandthrewmeacrosstheroom.AndthatwasthelastthingIknewforawhile.

v.

IDON’TKNOWHOWlongIwasout.WhenIcameto,itseemedasifIwasflatonmystomachinasandbox,onsomedarkplayground—someplaceIdidn’tknow,adesertedneighborhood.Agangoftough,runtyboyswasbunchedaroundme,kickingmeintheribsandthebackofthehead.Myneckwas

twistedtothesideandthewindwasknockedoutofme,butthatwasn’ttheworstofit;Ihadsandinmymouth,Iwasbreathingsand.

Theboysmuttered,audibly.Getup,asshole.

Lookathim,lookathim.

Hedon’tknowdick.

Irolledoverandthrewmyarmsovermyheadandthen—withanairy,surrealjolt—sawthatnobodywasthere.

ForamomentIlaytoostunnedtomove.Alarmbellsclangedinamuffleddistance.Asstrangeasitseemed,IwasundertheimpressionthatIwaslyinginthewalled-incourtyardofsomegodforsakenhousingproject.

Somebodyhadbeatenmeupprettygood:Iachedallover,myribsweresoreandmyheadfeltlikesomeonehadhitmewithaleadpipe.IwasworkingmyjawbackandforthandreachingformypocketstoseeifIhadtrainfarehomewhenitcameovermeabruptlythatIhadnocluewhereIwas.StifflyIlaythere,inthegrowingconsciousnessthatsomethingwasbadlyoutofjoint.Thelightwasallwrong,andsowastheair:acridandsharp,achemicalfogthatburnedmythroat.Theguminmymouthwasgritty,andwhen—headpounding—Irolledovertospititout,IfoundmyselfblinkingthroughlayersofsmokeatsomethingsoforeignIstaredforsomemoments.

Iwasinaraggedwhitecave.Swagsandtattersdangledfromtheceiling.Thegroundwastumbledandbucked-upwithheapsofagraysubstancelikemoonrock,andblownaboutwithbrokenglassandgravelandahurricaneofrandomtrash,bricksandslagandpaperystufffrostedwithathinashlikefirstfrost.Highoverhead,apairoflampsbeamedthroughthedustlikeoff-kiltercarlightsinfog,cock-eyed,oneangledupwardandtheotherrolledtothesideandcastingskewedshadows.

Myearsrang,andsodidmybody,anintenselydisturbingsensation:bones,brain,heartallthrumminglikeastruckbell.Faintly,fromsomewherefaraway,themechanicalshriekofalarmsrangsteadyandimpersonal.Icouldhardlytellifthenoisewascomingfrominsidemeoroutsideme.Therewasastrongsenseofbeingalone,inwintrydeadness.Nothingmadesenseinanydirection.

Inacascadeofgrit,myhandonsomenot-quite-verticalsurface,Istood,wincingatthepaininmyhead.ThetiltofthespacewhereIwashadadeep,innatewrongness.Ononeside,smokeanddusthunginastill,blanketedlayer.Ontheother,amassofshreddedmaterialsslanteddowninatangle

wheretheroof,ortheceiling,shouldhavebeen.

Myjawhurt;myfaceandkneeswerecut;mymouthwaslikesandpaper.BlinkingaroundatthechaosIsawatennisshoe;driftsofcrumblymatter,staineddark;atwistedaluminumwalkingstick.Iwasswayingthere,chokedanddizzy,notknowingwheretoturnorwhattodo,whenallofasuddenIthoughtIheardaphonegoingoff.

ForamomentIwasn’tsure;Ilistened,hard;andthenitspieledoffagain:faintanddraggy,alittleweird.ClumsilyIgrappledaroundinthewreckage—upendingdustykiddiepursesanddaypacks,snatchingmyhandsbackathotthingsandshardsofbrokenglass,moreandmoretroubledbythewaytherubblegaveundermyfeetinspots,andbythesoft,inertlumpsattheedgeofmyvision.

EvenafterIbecameconvincedI’dneverheardaphone,thattheringinginmyearshadplayedatrickonme,stillIkeptlooking,lockedintothemechanicalgesturesofsearchingwithanunthinking,robotintensity.Amongpens,handbags,wallets,brokeneyeglasses,hotelkeycards,compactsandperfumesprayandprescriptionmedications(Roitman,Andrea,alprazolam.25mg)Iunearthedakeychainflashlightandanonworkingphone(halfcharged,nobars),whichIthrewinacollapsiblenylonshoppingbagI’dfoundinsomelady’spurse.

Iwasgasping,half-chokedwithplasterdust,andmyheadhurtsobadlyIcouldhardlysee.Iwantedtositdown,excepttherewasnoplacetosit.

ThenIsawabottleofwater.Myeyesreverted,fast,andstrayedoverthehavocuntilIsawitagain,aboutfifteenfeetaway,halfburiedinapileoftrash:justahintofalabel,familiarshadeofcold-caseblue.

Withabenumbedheavinesslikemovingthroughsnow,Ibegantoslogandweavethroughthedebris,rubbishbreakingundermyfeetinsharp,glacial-soundingcracks.ButIhadnotmadeitveryfarwhen,outofthecornerofmyeye,Isawmovementontheground,conspicuousinthestillness,astirringofwhite-on-white.

Istopped.ThenIwadedafewstepscloser.Itwasaman,flatonhisbackandwhitenedheadtotoewithdust.Hewassowellcamouflagedintheash-powderedwreckagethatitwasamomentbeforehisformcameclear:chalkonchalk,strugglingtosituplikeastatueknockedoffhispedestal.AsIdrewcloser,Isawthathewasoldandveryfrail,withamisshapenhunchbackquality;hishair—whathehad—wasblownstraightupfromhishead;thesideofhisfacewasstippledwithanuglysprayofburns,andhishead,aboveone

ear,wasastickyblackhorror.

Ihadmadeitovertowherehewaswhen—unexpectedlyfast—heshotouthisdust-whitenedarmandgrabbedmyhand.InpanicIstartedback,butheonlyclutchedatmetighter,coughingandcoughingwithasickwetness.

Where—?heseemedtobesaying.Where—?Hewastryingtolookupatme,buthisheaddangledheavilyonhisneckandhischinlolledonhischestsothathewasforcedtopeerfromunderhisbrowatmelikeavulture.Buthiseyes,intheruinedface,wereintelligentanddespairing.

—Oh,God,Isaid,bendingtohelphim,wait,wait—andthenIstopped,notknowingwhattodo.Hislowerhalflaytwistedonthegroundlikeapileofdirtyclothes.

Hebracedhimselfwithhisarms,gamelyitseemed,lipsmovingandstillstrugglingtoraisehimself.Hereekedofburnedhair,burnedwool.Butthelowerhalfofhisbodyseemeddisconnectedfromtheupperhalf,andhecoughedandfellbackinaheap.

Ilookedaround,tryingtogetmybearings,derangedfromthecrackonthehead,withnosenseoftimeorevenifitwasdayornight.Thegrandeuranddesolationofthespacebaffledme—thehigh,rare,loftofit,layeredwithgradationsofsmoke,andbillowingwithatangled,tent-likeeffectwheretheceiling(orthesky)oughttobe.ButthoughIhadnoideawhereIwas,orwhy,stilltherewasahalf-rememberedqualityaboutthewreckage,acinematicchargeintheglareoftheemergencylamps.OntheInternetI’dseenfootageofahotelblownupinthedesert,wherethehoneycombedroomsatthemomentofcollapsewerefrozeninjustsuchablastoflight.

ThenIrememberedthewater.Isteppedbackwards,lookingallaround,untilwithaleapofmyheartIspottedthedustyflashofblue.

—Look,Isaid,edgingaway.I’mjust—

Theoldmanwaswatchingmewithagazeatoncehopefulandhopeless,likeastarveddogtooweaktowalk.

—No—wait.I’mcomingback.

Likeadrunk,Istaggeredthroughtherubbish—weavingandplowing,steppinghigh-kneedoverobjects,muddlingthroughbricksandconcreteandshoesandhandbagsandawholelotofcharredbitsIdidn’twanttoseetooclosely.

Thebottlewasthreequartersfullandhottothetouch.Butatthefirst

swallowmythroattookchargeandI’dgulpedmorethanhalfofit—plastic-tasting,dishwaterwarm—beforeIrealizedwhatIwasdoingandforcedmyselftocapitandputitinthebagtotakebacktohim.

Kneelingbesidehim.Rocksdiggingintomyknees.Hewasshivering,breathsraspinganduneven;hisgazedidn’tmeetminebutstrayedaboveit,fixedfretfullyonsomethingIdidn’tsee.

Iwasfumblingforthewaterwhenhereachedhishandtomyface.Carefully,withhisbonyoldflat-padfingers,hebrushedthehairfrommyeyesandpluckedathornofglassfrommyeyebrowandthenpattedmeonthehead.

“There,there.”Hisvoicewasveryfaint,veryscratchy,verycordial,withaghastlypulmonarywhistle.Welookedateachother,foralongstrangemomentthatI’veneverforgotten,actually,liketwoanimalsmeetingattwilight,duringwhichsomeclear,personablesparkseemedtoflyupthroughhiseyesandIsawthecreaturehereallywas—andhe,Ibelieve,sawme.Foraninstantwewerewiredtogetherandhumming,liketwoenginesonthesamecircuit.

Thenhelolledbackagain,solimplyIthoughthewasdead.—“Here,”Isaid,awkwardly,slippingmyhandunderhisshoulder.“That’sgood.”IhelduphisheadasbestIcould,andhelpedhimdrinkfromthebottle.Hecouldonlytakealittleandmostofitrandownhischin.

Againfallingback.Efforttoomuch.

“Pippa,”hesaidthickly.

Ilookeddownathisburnt,reddenedface,stirredbysomethingfamiliarinhiseyes,whichwererustyandclear.Ihadseenhimbefore.AndIhadseenthegirltoo,thebriefestsnapshot,anautumn-leaflucidity:rustyeyebrows,honey-browneyes.Herfacewasreflectedinhis.Wherewasshe?

Hewastryingtosaysomething.Crackedlipsworking.HewantedtoknowwherePippawas.

Wheezingandgaspingforbreath.“Here,”Isaid,agitated,“trytoliestill.”

“Sheshouldtakethetrain,it’ssomuchfaster.Unlesstheybringherinacar.”

“Don’tworry,”Isaid,leaningcloser.Iwasn’tworried.Someonewouldbeintogetusshortly,Iwassureofit.“I’llwaittilltheycome.”

“You’resokind.”Hishand(cold,dryaspowder)tighteningonmine.“I

haven’tseenyousinceyouwerealittleboyagain.Youwereallgrownupthelasttimewespoke.”

“ButI’mTheo,”Isaid,afteraslightlyconfusedpause.

“Ofcourseyouare.”Hisgaze,likehishandclasp,wassteadyandkind.“Andyou’vemadetheverybestchoice,I’msureofit.TheMozartissomuchnicerthantheGluck,don’tyouthink?”

Ididn’tknowwhattosay.

“It’llbeeasierthetwoofyou.They’resohardonyouchildrenintheauditions—”Coughing.Lipsslickwithblood,thickandred.“Nosecondchances.”

“Listen—”Itfeltwrong,lettinghimthinkIwassomeoneelse.

“Oh,butyouplayitsobeautifully,mydear,thepairofyou.TheGmajor.Itkeepsrunningthroughmymind.Lightly,lightly,touchandgo—”

Hummingafewshapelessnotes.Asong.Itwasasong.

“…andImusthavetoldyou,howIwentforpianolessons,attheoldArmenianlady’s?Therewasagreenlizardthatlivedinthepalmtree,greenlikeacandydrop,Ilovedtowatchforhim…flashingonthewindowsill…fairylightsinthegarden…dupayssaint…twentyminutestowalkitbutitseemedlikemiles…”

Hefadedforaminute;Icouldfeelhisintelligencedriftingawayfromme,spinningoutofsightlikealeafonabrook.Thenitwashedbackandtherehewasagain.

“Andyou!Howoldareyounow?”

“Thirteen.”

“AttheLycéeFrançais?”

“No,myschool’sontheWestSide.”

“Andjustaswell,Ishouldthink.AlltheseFrenchclasses!Toomanyvocabularywordsforachild.Nometpronom,speciesandphylum.It’sonlyaformofinsectcollecting.”

“Sorry?”

“TheyalwaysspokeFrenchatGroppi’s.RememberGroppi’s?Withthestripedumbrellaandthepistachioices?”

Stripedumbrella.Itwashardtothinkthroughmyheadache.Myglance

wanderedtothelonggashinhisscalp,clottedanddark,likeanaxewound.Moreandmore,Iwasbecomingawareofdreadfulbodylikeshapesslumpedinthedebris,darkhulksnotclearlyseen,pressinginsilentlyallaroundus,darkeverywhereandtheragdollbodiesandyetitwasadarknessyoucoulddriftawayupon,somethingsleepyaboutit,frothywakechurnedandvanishedonacoldblackocean

Suddenlysomethingwasverywrong.Hewasawake,shakingme.Handsflapping.Hewantedsomething.Hetriedtopresshimselfuponawhistlingin-breath.

“Whatisit?”Isaid,shakingmyselfalert.Hewasgasping,agitated,tuggingatmyarm.FearfullyIsatupandlookedaround,expectingtoseesomefreshdangerrollingin:loosewires,afire,theceilingabouttocollapse.

Grabbingmyhand.Squeezingittight.“Notthere,”hemanagedtosay.

“What?”

“Don’tleaveit.No.”Hewaslookingpastme,tryingtopointatsomething.“Takeitawayfromthere.”

Please,liedown—

“No!Theymustn’tseeit.”Hewasfrantic,grippingmyarmnow,tryingtopullhimselfup.“They’vestolentherugs,they’lltakeittothecustomsshed—”

Hewas,Isaw,pointingoveratadustyrectangleofboard,virtuallyinvisibleinthebrokenbeamsandrubbish,smallerthanmylaptopcomputerathome.

“That?”Isaid,lookingcloser.Itwasblobbedwithdripsofwax,andpastedwithanirregularpatchworkofcrumblinglabels.“That’swhatyouwant?”

“Ibegofyou.”Eyessqueezedtight.Hewasupset,coughingsohardhecouldbarelyspeak.

Ireachedoutandpickedtheboardupbytheedges.Itfeltsurprisinglyheavy,forsomethingsosmall.Alongsplinterofbrokenframeclungtoonecorner.

Drawingmysleeveacrossthedustysurface.Tinyyellowbird,faintbeneathaveilofwhitedust.TheAnatomyLessonwasinthesamebookactuallybutitscaredthepantsoffme.

Right,Ianswereddrowsily.Iturned,paintinginhand,toshowittoher,

andthenrealizedshewasn’tthere.

Or—shewasthereandshewasn’t.Partofherwasthere,butitwasinvisible.Theinvisiblepartwastheimportantpart.ThiswassomethingIhadneverunderstoodbefore.ButwhenItriedtosaythisoutloudthewordscameoutinamuddleandIrealizedwithacoldslapthatIwaswrong.Bothpartshadtobetogether.Youcouldn’thaveonepartwithouttheother.

Irubbedmyarmacrossmyforeheadandtriedtoblinkthegritfrommyeyesand,withamassiveeffort,likeliftingaweightmuchtooheavyforme,triedtoshiftmymindwhereIknewitneededtobe.Wherewasmymother?Foramomenttherehadbeenthreeofusandoneofthese—Iwasprettysure—hadbeenher.Butnowtherewereonlytwo.

Behindme,theoldmanhadbeguntocoughandshudderagainwithanuncontrollableurgency,tryingtospeak.Reachingback,Itriedtohandthepictureovertohim.“Here,”Isaid,andthen,tomymother—inthespotwhereshehadseemedtobe—“I’llbebackinaminute.”

Butthepaintingwasn’twhathewanted.Fretfullyhepusheditbackatme,babblingsomething.TherightsideofhisheadwassuchastickydrenchofbloodIcouldhardlyseehisear.

“What?”Isaid,mindstillonmymother—wherewasshe?“Sorry?”

“Takeit.”

“Look,I’llbeback.Ihaveto—”Icouldn’tgetitout,notquite,butmymotherwantedmetogohome,immediately,Iwassupposedtomeetherthere,thatwastheonethingshehadmadeveryclear

“Takeitwithyou!”Pressingitonme.“Go!”Hewastryingtositup.Hiseyeswerebrightandwild;hisagitationfrightenedme.“Theytookallthelightbulbs,they’vesmasheduphalfthehousesinthestreet—”

Adripofbloodrandownhischin.

“Please,”Isaid,handsflustering,afraidtotouchhim.“Pleaseliedown—”

Heshookhishead,andtriedtosaysomething,buttheeffortbrokehimdownhackingwithawet,miserablesound.Whenhewipedhismouth,Isawabrightstripeofbloodonthebackofhishand.

“Somebody’scoming.”NotsureIbelievedit,notknowingwhatelsetosay.

Helookedstraightintomyface,searchingforsomeflickerofunderstanding,andwhenhedidn’tfinditheclawedtositupagain.

“Fire,”hesaid,inagarglingvoice.“ThevillainMa’adi.Onatoutperdu.”

Hebrokeoffcoughingagain.Red-tingedfrothbubblingathisnostrils.Inthemidstofallthatunreality,cairnsandbrokenmonoliths,Ihadadreamlikesenseofhavingfailedhim,asifI’dbotchedsomevitalfairy-taletaskthroughclumsinessandignorance.Thoughtherewasn’tanyvisiblefireanywhereinthattumbleofstone,Icrawledoverandputthepaintinginthenylonshoppingbag,justtogetitoutofhissight,itwasupsettinghimso.

“Don’tworry,”Isaid.“I’ll—”

Hehadcalmeddown.Heputahandonmywrist,eyessteadyandbright,andachillwindofunreasonblewoverme.IhaddonewhatIwassupposedtodo.Everythingwasgoingtobeallright.

AsIwasbaskinginthecomfortofthisnotion,hesqueezedmyhandreassuringly,asifI’dspokenthethoughtaloud.We’llgetawayfromhere,hesaid.

“Iknow.”

“Wrapitinnewspapersandpackitattheverybottomofthetrunk,mydear.Withtheothercuriosities.”

Relievedthathe’dcalmeddown,exhaustedwithmyheadache,allmemoryofmymotherfadedtoamothlikeflicker,Isettleddownbesidehimandclosedmyeyes,feelingoddlycomfortableandsafe.Absent,dreamy.Hewasramblingabit,underhisbreath:foreignnames,sumsandnumbers,afewFrenchwordsbutmostlyEnglish.Amanwascomingtolookatthefurniture.Abdouwasintroubleforthrowingstones.AndyetitallmadesensesomehowandIsawthepalmygardenandthepianoandthegreenlizardonthetreetrunkasiftheywerepagesinaphotographalbum.

Willyoubeallrightgettinghomebyyourself,mydear?Irememberhimaskingatonepoint.

“Ofcourse.”Iwaslyingonthefloorbesidehim,myheadlevelwithhisricketyoldbreastbone,sothatIcouldheareverycatchandwheezeinhisbreath.“Itakethetrainbymyselfeveryday.”

“Andwheredidyousayyouwerelivingnow?”Hishandonmyhead,verygently,thewayyou’drestyourhandontheheadofadogyouliked.

“EastFifty-SeventhStreet.”

“Oh,yes!NearLeVeaud’Or?”

“Well,afewblocks.”LeVeaud’Orwasarestaurantwheremymotherhad

likedtogo,backwhenwehadmoney.Ihadeatenmyfirstescargotthere,andtastedmyfirstsipofMarcdeBourgognefromherglass.

“TowardsPark,yousay?”

“No,closertotheriver.”

“Closeenough,mydear.Meringuesandcaviare.HowIlovedthiscitythefirsttimeIsawit!Still,it’snotthesame,isit?Imissitallterribly,don’tyou?Thebalcony,andthe…”

“Garden.”Iturnedtolookathim.Perfumesandmelodies.Inmyswampofconfusion,ithadcometoseemthathewasaclosefriendorfamilymemberI’dforgottenabout,somelong-lostrelativeofmymother’s.…

“Oh,yourmother!Thedarling!I’llneverforgetthefirsttimeshecametoplay.ShewastheprettiestlittlegirlIeversaw.”

HowhadheknownIwasthinkingabouther?Istartedtoaskhimbuthewasasleep.Hiseyeswereclosedbuthisbreathwasfastandhoarselikehewasrunningfromsomething.

Iwasfadingoutmyself—earsringing,inanebuzzandametallictasteinmymouthlikeatthedentist’s—andImighthavedriftedbackintounconsciousnessandstayedtherehadhenotatsomepointshakenme,hard,soIawokewithabuckofpanic.Hewasmumblingandtuggingathisindexfinger.He’dtakenhisringoff,aheavygoldringwithacarvedstone;hewastryingtogiveittome.

“Here,Idon’twantthat,”Isaid,shyingaway.“Whatareyoudoingthatfor?”

Buthepresseditintomypalm.Hisbreathwasbubbledandugly.“HobartandBlackwell,”hesaid,inavoicelikehewasdrowningfromtheinsideout.“Ringthegreenbell.”

“Greenbell,”Irepeated,uncertainly.

Helolledhisheadbackandforth,punch-drunk,lipsquivering.Hiseyeswereunfocused.Whentheyslidovermewithoutseeingmetheygavemeashiver.

“TellHobietogetoutofthestore,”hesaidthickly.

Indisbelief,Iwatchedthebloodtricklingbrightfromthecornerofhismouth.He’dloosenedhistiebyyankingatit;“here,”Isaid,reachingovertohelp,buthebattedmyhandsaway.

“He’sgottoclosetheregisterandgetout!”herasped.“Hisfather’ssendingsomeguystobeathimup—”

Hiseyesrolledup;hiseyelidsfluttered.Thenhesankdownintohimself,flatandcollapsed-lookinglikealltheairwasoutofhim,thirtyseconds,forty,likeaheapofoldclothesbutthen—soharshlyIflinched—hischestswelledonabellows-likerasp,andhecoughedapercussivegoutofbloodthatspewedalloverme.Asbesthecould,hehitchedhimselfuponhiselbows—andforthirtysecondsorsohepantedlikeadog,chestpumpingfrantically,upanddown,upanddown,hiseyesfixedonsomethingIcouldn’tseeandallthetimegrippingmyhandlikemaybeifheheldontightenoughhe’dbeokay.

“Areyouallright?”Isaid—frantic,closetotears.“Canyouhearme?”

Ashegrappledandthrashed—afishoutofwater—Iheldhisheadup,ortriedto,notknowinghow,afraidofhurtinghim,asallthetimeheclutchedmyhandlikehewasdanglingoffabuildingandabouttofall.Eachbreathwasanisolated,garglingheave,aheavystoneliftedwithterribleeffortanddroppedagainandagaintotheground.Atonepointhelookedatmedirectly,bloodwellinginhismouth,andseemedtosaysomething,butthewordswereonlyaburbledownhischin.

Then—tomyintenserelief—hegrewcalmer,quieter,hisgrasponmyhandloosening,melting,asenseofsinkingandspinningalmostlikehewasfloatingonhisbackawayfromme,onwater.—Better?Iasked,andthen—

Carefully,Idrippedabitofwateronhismouth—hislipsworked,Isawthemmoving;andthen,onmyknees,likeaservantboyinastory,Iwipedsomeofthebloodoffhisfacewiththepaisleysquarefromhispocket.Ashedrifted—cruelly,bydegreesandlatitudes—intostillness,Irockedbackonmyheelsandlookedhardintohiswreckedface.

Hello?Isaid.

Onepaperyeyelid,halfshut,twitched,ablue-veinedtic.

“Ifyoucanhearme,squeezemyhand.”

Buthishandinminewaslimp.Isatthereandlookedathim,notknowingwhattodo.Itwastimetogo,wellpasttime—mymotherhadmadethatperfectlyclear—andyetIcouldseenopathoutofthespacewhereIwasandinfactinsomewaysitwashardtoimaginebeinganywhereelseintheworld—thattherewasanotherworld,outsidethatone.ItwaslikeI’dneverhadanotherlifeatall.

“Canyouhearme?”Iaskedhim,onelasttime,bendingcloseandputtingmyeartohisbloodiedmouth.Buttherewasnothing.

vi.

NOTWANTINGTODISTURBhim,incasehewasonlyresting,IwasasquietasIcouldbe,standingup.Ihurtallover.ForsomemomentsIstoodlookingdownathim,wipingmyhandsonmyschooljacket—hisbloodwasalloverme,myhandswereslickwithit—andthenIlookedatthemoonscapeofrubbletryingtoorientmyselfandfigurethebestwaytogo.

When—withdifficulty—Imademywayintothecenterofthespace,orwhatseemedlikethecenterofthespace,Isawthatonedoorwasobscuredbyragsofhangingdebris,andIturnedandbegantoworkintheotherdirection.There,thelintelhadfallen,dumpingapileofbrickalmostastallasIwasandleavingasmokyspaceatthetopbigenoughtodriveacarthrough.LaboriouslyIbegantoclimbandscrambleforit—overandaroundthechunksofconcrete—butIhadnotgotveryfarwhenIrealizedthatIwasgoingtohavetogotheotherway.Fainttracesoffirelickeddownthefarwallsofwhathadbeentheexhibitionshop,spittingandsparklinginthedim,someofitwellbelowthelevelwherethefloorshouldhavebeen.

Ididn’tlikethelooksoftheotherdoor(foamtilesstainedred;thetoeofaman’sshoeprotrudingfromapileofgravel)butatleastmostofthematerialblockingthedoorwasn’tverysolid.Blunderingbackthrough,duckingsomewiresthatsparkedfromtheceiling,Ihoistedthebagovermyshoulderandtookadeepbreathandplungedintothewreckageheadlong.

ImmediatelyIwaschokedbydustandasharpchemicalsmell.Coughing,prayingtherewerenomorelivewireshangingloose,Ipattedandgropedinthedarkasallsortsofloosedebrisbegantopatterandshowerdowninmyeyes:gravel,crumbsofplaster,shredsandchunksofgod-knows-what.

Someofthebuildingmaterialwaslight,andsomeofitwasnot.ThefurtherIworkedin,thedarkeritgot,andthehotter.Everysooftenmywaydwindledorclosedupunexpectedlyandinmyearsaroaringcrowdnoise,Iwasn’tsurewhereitcamefrom.Ihadtosqueezearoundthings;sometimesIwalked,sometimesIcrawled,bodiesinthewreckagemoresensedthanseen,adisturbingsoftpressurethatgaveundermyweightbutworsethanthis,thesmell:burntcloth,burnthairandfleshandthetangoffreshblood,copperandtinandsalt.

Myhandswerecutandsoweremyknees.Iduckedunderthingsandwent

aroundthings,feelingmywayasIwent,edgingwithmyhipalongthesideofsomesortoflonglathe,orbeam,untilIfoundmyselfblockedinbyasolidmassthatfeltlikeawall.Withdifficulty—thespotwasnarrow—IworkedaroundsoIcouldreachintothebagforalight.

Iwantedthekeychainlight—atthebottom,underthepicture—butmyfingersclosedonthephone.Iswitchediton—andalmostimmediatelydroppedit,becauseintheglowI’dcaughtsightofaman’shandprotrudingbetweentwochunksofconcrete.Eveninmyterror,Irememberfeelinggratefulthatitwasonlyahand,althoughthefingershadameaty,dark,swollenlookI’veneverbeenabletoforget;everynowandthenIstillstartbackinfearwhensomebeggaronthestreetthrustsouttomesuchahand,bloatedandgrimedwithblackaroundthenails.

Therewasstilltheflashlight—butIwantedthephone.ItcastaweakglimmerupintothecavitywhereIwas,butjustasIrecoveredmyselfenoughtostoopforit,thescreenwentdark.Anacid-greenafterburnfloatedbeforemeintheblackness.Igotdownonmykneesandcrawledaroundinthedark,grabblingwithbothhandsinrocksandglass,determinedtofindit.

IthoughtIknewwhereitwas,oraboutwhereitwas,andIkeptlookingforitprobablylongerthanIshouldhave;anditwaswhenI’dgivenuphopeandtriedtogetupagainthatIrealizedI’dcrawledintoalowspotwhereitwasimpossibletostand,withsomesolidsurfaceaboutthreeinchesabovemyhead.Turningarounddidn’twork;goingbackwardsdidn’twork;soIdecidedtocrawlforward,hopingthatthingswouldopenup,andsoonfoundmyselfinchingalongpainfullywithasmashed,desperatefeelingandmyheadturnedsharplytooneside.

WhenIwasaboutfour,I’dgottenpartiallystuckinsideaMurphybedinouroldapartmentonSeventhAvenue,whichsoundslikeahumorouspredicamentbutwasn’treally;IthinkIwouldhavesuffocatedifAlameda,ourhousekeeperbackthen,hadn’theardmymuffledcriesandpulledmeout.Tryingtomaneuverinthatairlessspacewassomewhatthesame,onlyworse:withglass,hotmetal,thestinkofburnedclothes,andanoccasionalsoftsomethingpressinginonmethatIdidn’twanttothinkabout.Debriswaspatteringdownonmeheavilyfromabove;mythroatwasfillingwithdustandIwascoughinghardandstartingtopanicwhenIrealizedIcouldsee,justbarely,theroughtextureofthebrokenbricksthatsurroundedme.Light—thefaintestgleamimaginable—creptinsubtlyfromtheleft,aboutsixinchesfromfloorlevel.

Iduckedlower,andfoundmyselflookingoverintothedimterrazzofloor

ofthegallerybeyond.Adisorderlypileofwhatlookedlikerescueequipment(ropes,axes,crowbars,anoxygentankthatsaidFDNY)layharum-scarumonthefloor.

“Hello?”Icalled—notwaitingforananswer,droppingtowrigglethroughtheholeasfastasIcould.

Thespacewasnarrow;ifI’dbeenafewyearsolderorafewpoundsheavierImightnothavegotthrough.Partway,mybagcaughtonsomething,andforamomentIthoughtImighthavetoslipfreeofit,paintingornopainting,likealizardsheddingitstail,butwhenIgaveitonelastpullitfinallybrokefreewithashowerofcrumbledplaster.Abovemewasabeamofsomesort,whichlookedlikeitwasholdingupalotofheavybuildingmaterial,andasItwistedandsquirmedbeneathit,IwaslightheadedwithfearthatitwouldslipandcutmeintwountilIsawthatsomebodyhadstabilizeditwithajack.

Onceclear,Iclimbedtomyfeet,wateryandstunnedwithrelief.“Hello?”Icalledagain,wonderingwhytherewassomuchequipmentaroundandnotafiremaninsight.Thegallerywasdimbutmostlyundamaged,withgauzylayersofsmokethatthickenedthehighertheyrose,butyoucouldtellthatatremendousforceofsomesorthadblownthroughtheroomjustfromthelightsandthesecuritycameras,whichwereknockedaskewandfacingtheceiling.IwassohappytobeoutinopenspaceagainthatitwasamomentorsobeforeIrealizedthestrangenessofbeingtheonlypersonstandingupinaroomfullofpeople.Everybodyelsewaslyingdownexceptme.

Therewereatleastadozenpeopleonthefloor—notallofthemintact.Theyhadtheappearanceofhavingbeendroppedfromagreatheight.Threeorfourofthebodieswerepartiallycoveredwithfiremen’scoats,feetstickingout.Otherssprawledglaringlyintheopen,amidstexplosivestains.Thesplashesandburstscarriedaviolence,likebigbloodsneezes,anhystericalsenseofmovementinthestillness.IrememberparticularlyamiddleagedladyinabloodspatteredblousethathadapatternofFabergéeggsonit,likeablouseshemighthaveboughtinthemuseumgiftshop,actually.Hereyes—linedwithblackmakeup—staredblanklyattheceiling;andhertanwasobviouslysprayedonsinceherskinhadahealthyapricotgloweventhoughthetopofherheadwasmissing.

Dimoils,dulledgilt.Takingtinysteps,Iwalkedoutintothemiddleoftheroom,swaying,slightlyoffbalance.Icouldhearmyownbreathraspinginandoutandtherewasastrangeshallownessinthesound,anightmarelightness.Ididn’twanttolookandyetIhadto.AsmallAsianman,pathetic

inhistanwindbreaker,curledinabellyingpoolofblood.Aguard(hisuniformthemostrecognizablethingabouthim,hisfacewasburnedsobadly)withanarmtwistedbehindhisbackandaviciousspraywherehislegshouldhavebeen.

Butthemainthing,theimportantthing:noneofthelying-downpeoplewasher.Imademyselflookatthemall,eachseparately,onebyone—evenwhenIcouldn’tforcemyselftolookattheirfaces,Iknewmymother’sfeet,herclothes,hertwo-toneblackandwhiteshoes—andlongafterIwassureofitImademyselfstandintheirmidst,foldeddeepinsidemyselflikeasickpigeonwithitseyesclosed.

Inthegallerybeyond:moredead.Threedead.FatArgyll-vestman;cankeredoldlady;amilkyducklingofalittlegirl,redabrasionathertemplebutotherwisehardlyamarkonher.Butthen,therewerenomore.Iwalkedthroughseveralgallerieslitteredwithequipmentbutdespitethebloodstainsonthefloor,therewerenodeadatall.AndwhenIwalkedintothefar-seeminggallerywhereshe’dbeen,whereshe’dgone,thegallerywithTheAnatomyLesson—eyesclosedtight,wishinghard—therewereonlythesamestretchersandequipmentandthere,asIwalkedthrough,intheoddlyscreamingsilence,theonlytwoobserverswerethesametwopuzzledDutchmenwhohadstaredatmymotherandmefromthewall:whatareyoudoinghere?

Thensomethingsnapped.Idon’tevenrememberhowithappened;Iwasjustinadifferentplaceandrunning,runningthroughroomsthatwereemptyexceptforahazeofsmokethatmadethegrandeurseeminsubstantialandunreal.Earlier,thegallerieshadseemedfairlystraightforward,ameanderingbutlogicalsequencewherealltributariesflowedintothegiftshop.Butcomingbackthroughthemfast,andintheoppositedirection,Irealizedthatthepathwasn’tstraightatall;andoverandoverIturnedintoblankwallsandveeredintodead-endrooms.Doorsandentrancesweren’twhereIexpectedthemtobe;freestandingplinthsloomedoutofnowhere.SwingingaroundacorneralittletoosharplyIalmostranheadlongintoagangofFransHalsguardsmen:big,rough,ruddy-cheekedguys,blearyfromtoomuchbeer,likeNewYorkCitycopsatacostumeparty.Coldlytheystaredmedown,withhard,humorouseyes,asIrecovered,backedoff,andbegantorunagain.

Evenonagoodday,Isometimesgotturnedaroundinthemuseum(wanderingaimlesslyingalleriesofOceanicArt,totemsanddugoutcanoes)andsometimesIhadtogoupandaskaguardtopointthewayout.Thepaintinggallerieswereespeciallyconfusingsincetheywererearrangedso

often;andasIranaroundintheemptyhalls,intheghostlyhalf-light,Iwasgrowingmoreandmorefrightened.IthoughtIknewmywaytothemainstaircase,butsoonafterIwasoutoftheSpecialExhibitionsgalleriesthingsstartedlookingunfamiliarandafteraminuteortworunninglight-headedthroughturnsIwasnolongerquitesureof,IrealizedIwasthoroughlylost.SomehowI’dgonerightthroughtheItalianmasterworks(crucifiedChristsandastonishedsaints,serpentsandembattledangels)endingupinEngland,eighteenthcentury,apartofthemuseumIhadseldombeeninbeforeanddidnotknowatall.Longelegantlinesofsightstretchedoutbeforeme,mazelikehallswhichhadthefeelofahauntedmansion:periwiggedlords,coolGainsboroughbeauties,gazingsuperciliouslydownatmydistress.Thebaronialperspectiveswereinfuriating,sincetheydidn’tseemtoleadtothestaircaseoranyofthemaincorridorsbutonlytootherstatelybaronialgalleriesexactlylikethem;andIwasclosetotearswhensuddenlyIsawaninconspicuousdoorinthesideofthegallerywall.

Youhadtolooktwicetoseeit,thisdoor;itwaspaintedthesamecolorasthegallerywalls,thekindofdoorwhich,innormalcircumstances,lookedlikeitwouldbekeptlocked.Ithadonlycaughtmyattentionbecauseitwasn’tcompletelyclosed—theleftsidewasn’tflushwiththewall,whetherbecauseithadn’tcaughtproperlyorbecausethelockwasn’tworkingwiththeelectricityout,Ididn’tknow.Still,itwasnoteasytogetopen—itwasheavy,steel,andIhadtopullwithallmystrength.Suddenly—withapneumaticgasp—itgavesocapriciouslyIstumbled.

Squeezingthrough,Ifoundmyselfinadarkofficehallwayunderamuchlowerceiling.Theemergencylightsweremuchweakerthaninthemaingallery,andittookmyeyesamomenttoadjust.

Thehallwayseemedtostretchformiles.FearfullyIcreptalong,peeringintotheofficeswherethedoorshappenedtostandajar.CameronGeisler,Registrar.MiyakoFujita,AssistantRegistrar.Drawerswereopenandchairswerepushedawayfromdesks.Inthedoorwayofoneofficeawoman’shigh-heeledshoelayonitsside.

Theairofabandonmentwasunspeakablyeerie.ItseemedthatfarinthedistanceIcouldhearpolicesirens,maybeevenwalkie-talkiesanddogs,butmyearswereringingsohardfromtheexplosionthatIthoughtImightwellbehearingthings.ItwasstartingtounnervememoreandmorethatIhadseennofiremen,nocops,nosecurityguards—infactnotasinglelivingsoul.

Itwasn’tdarkenoughforthekeychainflashlightintheStaffOnlyarea,butneitherwastherenearlyenoughlightformetoseewell.Iwasinsome

sortofrecordsorstoragearea.Theofficeswerelinedwithfilingcabinetsfloortoceiling,metalshelveswithplasticmailroomcratesandcardboardboxes.Thenarrowcorridormademefeeledgy,closedin,andmyfootstepsechoedsocrazilythatonceortwiceIstoppedandturnedaroundtoseeifsomebodywascomingdownthehallafterme.

“Hello?”Isaid,tentatively,glancingintosomeoftheroomsasIpassed.Someoftheofficesweremodernandspare;otherswerecrowdedanddirty-looking,withuntidystacksofpaperandbooks.

FlorensKlauner,DepartmentofMusicalInstruments.MauriceOrabi-Roussel,IslamicArt.VittoriaGabetti,Textiles.Ipassedacavernousdarkroomwithalongworkshoptablewheremismatchedscrapsofclothwerelaidoutlikepiecesofajigsawpuzzle.Inthebackoftheroomwasajumbleofrollinggarmentrackswithlotsofplasticgarmentbagshangingoffthem,likeracksbytheserviceelevatorsatBendel’sorBergdorf’s.

AttheT-junctionIlookedthiswayandthat,notknowingwheretoturn.Ismelledfloorwax,turpentineandchemicals,atangofsmoke.Officesandworkshopsstretchedouttoinfinityinalldirections:acontainedgeometricalnetwork,fixedandfeatureless.

Tomyleft,lightflickeredfromaceilingfixture.Ithummedandcaught,inastatickyfit,andinthetremblingglow,Isawadrinkingfountaindownthehall.

Iranforit—sofastmyfeetalmostslidoutfromunderneathme—andgulpedwithmymouthpressedagainstthespigot,somuchcoldwater,sofast,thataspikeofpainslidintomytemple.Hiccupping,Irinsedthebloodfrommyhandsandsplashedwaterinmysoreeyes.Tinysplintersofglass—almostinvisible—tinkledtothesteeltrayofthefountainlikeneedlesofice.

Ileanedagainstthewall.Theoverheadfluorescents—vibrating,spittingonandoff—mademefeelqueasy.Witheffort,Ipulledmyselfupagain;onIwalked,wobblingabitintheunstableflicker.Thingswerelookingdecidedlymoreindustrialinthisdirection:woodenpallets,aflatbedpushcart,asenseofcratedobjectsbeingmovedandstored.Ipassedanotherjunction,whereaslickshadowypassagewayrecededintodarkness,andIwasjustabouttowalkpastitandkeepgoingwhenIsawaredglowattheendthatsaidEXIT.

Itripped;Ifellovermyfeet;Igotupagain,stillhiccupping,andrandowntheendlesshall.Downattheendofthecorridorwasadoorwithametalbar,likethesecuritydoorsatmyschool.

Itpushedopenwithabark.DownadarkstairwellIran,twelvesteps,a

turnatthelanding,thentwelvestepstothebottom,myfingertipsskimmingonthemetalrail,shoesclatteringandechoingsocrazilythatitsoundedlikehalfadozenpeoplewererunningwithme.Atthefootofthestepswasagrayinstitutionalcorridorwithanotherbarreddoor.Ithrewmyselfagainstit,pusheditopenwithbothhands—andwasslappedhardinthefacebyrainandthedeafeningwailofsirens.

IthinkImighthavescreamedoutloud,Iwassohappytobeoutside,thoughnobodycouldhaveheardmeinallthatnoise:ImightaswellhavebeentryingtoscreamoverjetenginesonthetarmacatLaGuardiaduringathunderstorm.Itsoundedlikeeveryfiretruck,everycopcar,everyambulanceandemergencyvehicleinfiveboroughsplusJerseywashowlingandcaterwaulingoutonFifthAvenue,adeliriouslyhappynoise:likeNewYear’sandChristmasandFourthofJulyfireworksrolledintoone.

TheexithadspatmeoutinCentralPark,throughadesertedsidedoorbetweentheloadingdocksandtheparkinggarage.Footpathsstoodemptyinthegray-greendistance;treetopsplungedwhite,tossingandfoaminginthewind.Beyond,ontherainsweptstreet,FifthAvenuewasblockedoff.Throughthedownpour,fromwhereIstood,Icouldjustseethegreatbrightbombardmentofactivity:cranesandheavyequipment,copspushingthecrowdsback,redlights,yellowandbluelights,flaresthatbeatandwhirledandflashedinquicksilverconfusion.

Iputmyelbowuptokeeptherainoutofmyfaceandtookoffrunningthroughtheemptypark.Raindroveinmyeyesanddrippeddownmyforehead,meltingthelightsontheavenuetoablurthatpulsedinthedistance.

NYPD,FDNY,parkedcityvanswiththewindshieldwipersgoing:K-9,RescueOperationsBattalion,NYCHazmat.Blackrainslickersflappedandbillowedinthewind.Abandofyellowcrimescenetapewasstretchedacrosstheexitofthepark,attheMiners’Gate.Withouthesitation,Ilifteditupandduckedunderneathitandranoutintothemidstofthecrowd.

Inallthewelter,nobodynoticedme.Foramomentortwo,Iranuselesslybackandforthinthestreet,rainpepperinginmyface.EverywhereIlooked,i