It is Christian who cancels. They exchange emails back and forth. Christian will take days to reply. Even weeks. Then Christian stops replying altogether. It’s as if Abel’s being filtered out. Abel will be the one to take the initiative. To call. Leave messages. If he is busy this week, how about the following week? The week after?
Still no reply.
Then the slow and steady descent back into an obscurity. The vigorous walks around the neighborhood do little to quell the storm that has suddenly resurged inside of him. He replays the evening they had together in his mind. Was he incorrect in remembering that it was nothing short of brilliant?
It is finally the summer. The full and dreadful and exhausting burning of it. The city is in the midst of a heat wave. They say it’s the beginning of the end.
But on one hot midday the phone rings.
“I thought you had all but disappeared on me,” Abel says.
“Sorry, things came up,” the familiar voice says. Friends leaving town. Cousins visiting from the West Coast. An aunt in the hospital. “But what are you doing Friday?”
“I’ll have to check my planner.” He covers the receiver. Mentally he counts down from ten. He had seen it done in a film once. Then he says, “You’re in luck. A prior engagement has just canceled. Shall I give you my address?”
* * *
On the afternoon Christian is to arrive, it is dark. Abel glances out the window in anticipation. Massive clouds threaten the sky. But everything is prepared. In his refrigerator there is already cheese, caviar. On his desk, a gift box. He glances up at his clock. Any minute now.
The phone rings. Christian tells him that he is running late.
“But I’ll be there soon,” he says.
“Do you have an umbrella?”
“What?”
“It might storm.”
“I’ll run.”
He worries that Christian will only get lost along one of the cobblestoned side streets, get caught in the rain. What if he cancels? “You won’t make it,” he then says.
“Sure I will.”
“No, no. Why don’t I meet you at the restaurant?”
By the time Abel rounds the corner, he is heaving heavy breaths. Umbrella in hand, a shopping bag in the other. Just as he had suspected, it had poured. There was thunder, lightning. It all happened so fast. And yet it was nearly impossible to prevent the gift box from getting wet.
“Hello there,” Christian says with a wave. He extends a hand, and Abel knows instantly that something has come undone between them. “You made it.”
Christian is wet himself. His hair practically soaked. “Why didn’t you go inside?”
“I thought I’d wait for you out here.”
“You could have waited for me at the bar. You’re drenched.”
“It’s fine, I’ll dry up in no time.”
Inside the restaurant they’re greeted by the host, a middle-aged gentleman in a silvery suit, his dark hair slicked back. He warns Abel to watch his step. The tone of his voice affects reverence for the elderly. But people glance over at them, hold their gazes. He can’t help feeling as if he’s betrayed a sense of helplessness. He’s even taken by the arm, led to their table at the center of the room.
“I’m not that old,” Abel says. He means it in good humor.
The host laughs, pulling out a chair. “Please, enjoy.”
Then the waitress brings the wrong appetizer, forgets their drinks. He and Christian share a bland salad. A salty pizza, barely any shrimp. Christian doesn’t seem to be very hungry. He is distracted. He reaches for his phone.
“What’s the matter?” Abel says. “Do you have another engagement?”
“Sorry, it’s my phone. It keeps buzzing. I should check this message.”
“It’s amazing how much our attention spans have deteriorated.”
“What’s that?”
“I said we’ve become so attached to our phones now, and it’s sad.”
“Oh, sorry.”
Something about the young man’s aura has changed, diluted. Abel tries to resurrect some of the magic from the night he’s replayed over and over in his mind’s eye, and recently in a much improved and favorable light. He refuses to hesitate. Refuses to relent. A full life is but the realization of the best of things before they fade.
“I was so glad when you called,” Abel then says. He reaches into the bag, pulls out the gift box. The cardboard is still wet, but what can he do? “These are just a few things that I thought you might like to have.”
Wrapped in tissue paper, a scarf, a pink tie, blue shirt. A pair of bronze cufflinks.
“If the shirt doesn’t fit, do let me know and I’ll exchange it for another.”
“It’s the middle of the summer,” Christian says. He holds up the scarf. “This is ridiculous.” He glances down at the price tag. “And expensive.”
“It’s designer.” Then, “Tell you what, why don’t you wear it to the ballet?”
“I don’t even know how to tie this.”
“Allow me.” Abel takes the tie, ties the knot around his own neck, then passes it back to Christian, who slips it on.
“It’s too tight,” Christian then says. He tugs at the knot in order to loosen it.
“No, not too much. It looks fine. Leave it.” Then Abel leans in. “Let’s be honest. I think we have a connection. It’s special, I can feel it. And it’s true.”
“I’ve been meaning to ask you something.”
“Ask me anything. I’m an open book.”
The waitress arrives. They do want dessert. Two crème brûlées. More drinks.
“Well?” Abel then says. “Your question?”
“Yes.” He takes a breath. “I think you’re brilliant. I think you’re great.”
He holds his smile. “Go on.”
A reference, a letter of recommendation. “Sorry, I meant to preface all this by telling you that I’m applying to graduate school.”
It is like the colliding of galaxies. Abel keeps his face calm, and unmoved. He thanks the waitress for bringing their desserts.
“You see, I hope to follow in your footsteps.”
His tone is even when he says, “You flatter me.”
“That’s why I’m applying to Harvard.” Then, “To be frank, I don’t exactly have the grades. But it’s always been a kind of dream of mine to go there. Therefore, I know it would mean a lot if a letter of endorsement came from you. You have a name, a reputation. You’re a member of the Samuel Johnson Society, for God’s sake.”
It is like a betrayal, a kind of annihilation. Abel can see it all clearly now. The disease of the latest generation: the presumption of a favor, prematurely expecting it to be fulfilled, as if it’s only a matter of course. How it’s become a kind of routine currency.
“I’d like to teach in the future,” Christian continues. “My mother thinks I can be a professor.”
Abel digs his fork into the crème brûlée. It’s practically mush. “I wouldn’t recommend anyone going into academia.”
“But you seemed to do well for yourself.”
“It was a different time when I started. One could get a PhD in history and go on to teach poetry.” He wipes his mouth with his napkin. He’s done with dessert. “I’m sorry, but Harvard is out of the question. You belong here.” He longs to add, “with me,” but is afraid that the moment he does, what’s left will surely vanish.
“What’s the matter?” he says instead.
“You think that Harvard’s out of my league, don’t you?”
“Quite the contrary, actually. I refuse to let Harvard claim you.”
“Somehow I doubt that.” Then, “I want you to know that I intend on pursuing this, whatever happens.”
“And I know a man in search of ruin when I see one.”
“What’s that supposed to mean?”
The wasted years. Days of drifting about, feeling entirely out of one’s element. The torture of being friendless, invisible. The absurd s
elf-loathing. All the self-destruction. How would he ever be able to explain what that was like?
“Look, I know a person of your position will see a place like Harvard and mistake it for mobility, even progress. Trust me, I’ve been there. I understand. But it’s an illusion. A place like that will only undo you. And if I may enlighten you on any one aspect of your future, it is precisely this: you will fail.”
Silence ensues. Christian removes the tie, places it back in the box, and buries it below the tissue paper. Then he glances down at his phone, as if purposefully. “I don’t mean to be rude, but I have to go.”
“Then go. Wait. Don’t go. Here. Keep this.” He places the box in the shopping bag and hands it to Christian. “There’s no point in me holding on to this.”
A sense of relief washes over him when Christian eventually takes it. “A consolation gift.”
“Don’t be like that.”
“Won’t you reconsider? Don’t make me beg.”
“I’m going to have to put my foot down on this one.”
“So where does this leave us?”
Abel shakes his head. “The same. Disappointed, I’m afraid. Deeply disappointed.”
* * *
Days later. He is meandering through the streets, no real destination in sight. Bleecker Street; then West Fourth. Then he is venturing farther than he is usually accustomed in this ocean of a city. Union Square in the distance. Chelsea. Before he knows it, he is approaching Times Square. He is amid the lights, the chaos of the tourists, the rush of cars, buses, taxis, bicycles. He wipes the sweat from his forehead, stops at a bench to catch his breath before continuing on. Columbus Circle in the distance. Then Lincoln Center. It is like battling against a tide. He can feel the soreness in his legs, his fatigue. He regards it as a personal victory that he’s even made it this far, and that he can still go on. He has made a success of something, he has resisted closure.
Her apartment is on the Upper West Side. The view of Central Park is like a forest at this time of night. Photographs of children, their families, along the hallway walls, along the bookshelves.
“God, are you all right?” Daphne says. She sits beside him on the couch. “You’re worrying me.”
She reaches over, pulls the dangling string of a nearby lamp. The light comes on and he is astounded. He’s never seen her so small, so fragile. She has soft white hair. She is wearing a string of pearls. He regards her blue eyes, clear as ever. He considers their friendship. It has stood the test of time. More so. In the end, there is another kind of love there, and it is no less true.
“Let me fix you a drink,” she says.
He reaches for her hand. He can’t help his own from shaking involuntarily, but manages to bring her palm to his lips.
“Who are you?” she says. “And what have you done with my Abel?”
They see a Czech film at Lincoln Plaza Cinemas. Then dinner at Café Fiorello, her favorite restaurant.
Daphne sips her merlot. “Lovely,” she says. “I miss our evenings out.”
“People like us, we paved the way,” he tells her. “It’s as if it’s all being thrown back in our faces now. I can’t stand to see it happen. Is this what happens when one has it too good?”
Daphne listens with the expression of someone who is holding back a more nuanced opinion, too tired to disagree.
He goes on. “How does someone live these days with all the lack of commitments? Everything at the expense of another. Where is the collaboration?”
“You’re incomprehensible, Abel.” And then, “You don’t need it.”
“It’s not a question of need.”
The young waiter mistakes them for husband and wife. Neither bothers to correct him.
“Well, I could do worse,” Daphne says as soon as the waiter is out of earshot. “In fact, I have.”
They both can’t help but laugh.
Later that evening Daphne insists that they go for a carriage ride in the park. She’s never done it before. Neither of them has. The clop of the horse hooves echoes against the streets and buildings. Doormen stand at the entrances. Taxis speed past them in the streets.
“I’m ashamed. I feel like a tourist,” Abel says. “This is kind of ridiculous.”
“The days are getting colder. We don’t have many nights like this left.”
“I suppose you’re right.”
“You have me. We have each other. I think it is enough.”
“Yes, what a blessing.”
* * *
But when he visits the university, he still wonders if he will run into Christian. The possibility is ripe for it. He remains later at the office in hopes that the young man might surprise him, walk through the door, like that first time when he had told him everything. Nothing. Abel’s leisurely strolls through the park, all his careful vigilance, amount to nothing either. The holidays pass. There are cards, dinner at a friend’s apartment in Brooklyn. Each year, on New Year’s Eve, Abel is invited to attend a gathering where a soprano performs a marathon of lieder by Schubert. This year, the melancholy arpeggios of one strikes him more, each sequence of notes slices a cut infinitesimally deeper. The soprano’s haunting vocalizations only seem to reiterate his anxieties, his frustrations.
Then there is the elegant invitation in the mail. The platinum envelope, stamped with the official seal. The Samuel Johnson Society. The gala is once again being held at the Harvard Club. Admission is expensive, but that isn’t unexpected. He could attend. He could treat himself to an evening in the company of his peers, the finest minds. He’s always enjoyed the affair. This year, on the program will be highlights from A Journey to the Western Islands of Scotland. Of course, readings from James Boswell’s Life of Johnson.
The hall. High ceilings, chandeliers. The elegant place settings, silverware, fine china. He wonders how he could have kept himself away for this long. He runs into faces he knows. Dr. M. West, fresh from teaching at Oxford. Dr. Sophia Liu, Yale. Dr. Charles Winslow, Princeton. They, the select few, the crème de la crème. In recent years, in an effort to bolster membership, the society had started to extend invites to more women. It was about time.
Like everyone else, Abel is in formal attire. A tuxedo. He considers perhaps afterward he might return to the Townhouse. He’s certainly dressed for it. He could do with some music. Sing along. It would be a splendid cadence to the evening.
In the library he shakes hands with Dr. Anil Gupta, a man who has lost a significant amount of weight through the years.
“What hole did you crawl out of, Abel?” he says. “I didn’t think I’d see you this year.”
In the spirit of the occasion, Abel echoes the man of the hour: “It is seldom that we find either men or places such as we expect them.”
“Johnson’s Idler, of course.”
“Touché.”
He finds his place card. As expected, he’s seated with other professors. Dr. Thomas Salisbury tells him that he’s currently at work on a book on the epochal boundaries and paradigm shifts in Antiquaries and politicians in eighteenth-century Naples. “Sounds delicious,” Abel says. As the man goes on about the research, Abel thinks of how wonderful, if by a series of happy accidents that he should see Christian at the event. How easy it would be for him to contact the society, mention Abel’s name, and secure an invitation. Such audacity would only be alluring. Christian could certainly find their website online. Abel peers into the crowd, examines each table, one at a time. He imagines Christian wearing the watch, the tie, the shirt. Even the scarf. Even though it would be out of place among the black-and-white attire of the gala. But it would be a kind of Christian at his best. He can’t help but feel himself go a bit weak. Poor Christian. He’d be completely oblivious too. It wouldn’t matter. “ ‘How the world unfolds with such disproportion for the young, the beautiful. It is a gross inequality, but we are all complicit,’ ” he says.
“That’s misattributed,” Thomas says.
“What’s that?”
�
��What you said, it’s often misquoted as Johnson.” And then, “It isn’t him.”
A reader takes the podium on the stage. Abel recognizes it to be Dr. Vincent Olsen. His face has narrowed, his fingers seem more swollen than ever. The difficulty with which the man turns the page of the book before him is agony. There is a gloom about him too, a darkening—the throes of decay. Abel can see it in the flesh, or rather the absences in that flesh. But it’s also true that with anyone, the more that you look, the worse they appear. This is especially true of one’s own reflection.
A quaking voice reads a passage from Johnson’s History of Rasselas, Prince of Abissinia: “ ‘Is there such depravity in man as that he should injure another without benefit to himself?’ ”
There is applause, the presentation of several awards. Posing for photos.
* * *
And then he is finally home. It is a late night. He had decided against the Townhouse. At the computer, he finds himself restless, in want of reaching out, just one more time. He decides to send an email, extending an invitation to the ballet. The season is practically upon them. Balanchine’s Serenade.
After a few days he sends another email, asking Christian if he’d like to accompany him to see the new exhibit on eighteenth-century French drawings at the Morgan Library. The exhibition is sure to tantalize: works of Watteau, Jacques-Louis David. Jean-Honoré Fragonard, a personal favorite. They could have dinner at the Ritz. A walk in midtown. In the spirit of friendship.
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