“Do you remember anything about growing up at the CDL?” he asks without taking his eyes off the man.
She shakes her head. “No. Do you?”
“Sometimes I see a face and get a feeling that I’ve met the person before. Sometimes I develop a strong like or dislike of someone I don’t have a history with. I don’t know if I met them in a past cycle or at the CDL,” he says. “I know that’s not much of an answer.”
“It’s more than what I’ve heard from other people, which is nothing.”
Her childhood at the CDL is a mystery. She does not even know where it is. No one does, except for those who currently live in it. Even though everyone went through it, nobody speaks of their time there. How can you talk of events you do not have a memory of?
No one knows, and no one will ever know. The Center is self-contained and private. Outsiders do not visit it. The Matres do not leave it. The children, like the ones Aris guided through the museum, are occasionally sent on a special train into the cities for field trips. But most of their time is spent in the cocoon of the CDL. It is an incubator of sorts. Before the children become adults. Before Tabula Rasa touches them.
“You, I immediately liked,” Benja says, taking her hands.
“Really? I feel the same.”
“I don’t know why, but I feel so comfortable with you.” He squeezes her hands.
She squeezes back. “Me too.”
His grip becomes tighter. “Shhh! He got up.”
Aris looks across the street. The man exits the door of the coffee shop and turns right.
“Where are you going?” Benja murmurs.
“Probably home,” she says.
“Let’s follow him.”
“I don’t want to be a stalker.”
“You’re not. I am. You’re just my . . . moral support,” he says.
“Then I’m obliged to tell you, just in case you don’t already know, that this is by no means a moral situation,” she says.
“Come on.” He pulls her hand and leads her out the door.
They race across the busy street, dodging surprised pedestrians as they pass. Aris feels air stirring her hair. Exhilaration courses through her. She is a party to something forbidden.
A combination of feelings rise. Apprehension, yes. But behind it is something else she did not expect. Hope. Could there be a part of her that wants to believe in Benja’s quest?
What would she do if Benja is right? What if dreams really are a portal to memories from the past cycles? Would she be converted? Would she be the next in line to accept a drink from the Sandman?
She almost runs into a woman carrying a large bouquet of rainbow chard. The woman clutches the vegetables to her chest. Her eyes widen in surprise.
“Sorry!” Aris yells over her shoulder. It must be farmers’ market day in Europa.
Benja looks at her. “Admit it, this is fun.”
She scoffs.
The man walks fast, as if rushing to a meeting.
“Where are you going?” Benja whispers.
“Do you think he knows he’s being followed?” asks Aris.
“I don’t know.”
Without warning, Benja pushes her against the wall of a townhouse and plants a drawn-out kiss on her.
“Here, that should throw him off,” he says.
Aris wipes her lips. “This is the weirdest situation I’ve ever been in in this cycle. And I dated a poet who insisted on writing on my naked body.”
“Sexy,” says Benja.
She gives him a dirty look. “Not where he told me he wanted to write.”
“Did you let him?” Benja asks.
“Yeah, of course. But I regretted it. The a-hole used permanent ink. It took me a week to get rid of it.”
Benja shakes his head. “Haven’t I taught you anything? Sweetie, the word is ‘asshole.’ And never, ever let anyone use anything permanent on you.”
They continue to follow. The man turns the corner, and they find themselves in an older section of the city where Italianate brownstones stand in perfect rows on tree-lined streets.
Benja yanks her behind a tree. She loses balance and almost falls backward. He holds her close—close enough that she can feel his heart beating. The quick and erratic thumping worries her he might pass out from the rush of blood through his veins.
“He just stopped,” he whispers.
They slowly peek out from either side of the tree, like children playing hide-and-seek. Except they are not children. And it is not a game. If Benja is right, they are committing an act that undermines Tabula Rasa. If he is not, they are stalking a stranger. Neither is what they should be doing.
Benja’s hand grabs hers. She holds it tightly, feeling its dampness.
The man walks up the stairs of the building. The door opens. Another man, younger than him, jumps into his arms, and they kiss.
Benja’s hand goes limp, as if all the bones have dissolved. Aris feels each finger slip out of her hold, hollowing out her hand and heart. She is afraid to look at him.
There is a part of her, the part that wants to believe in fairytales, that hoped Benja would reunite with his lover. She wants to see him happy and not as a delusional man. She wants to believe that love can last a lifetime. A stupid, illogical hope. Disappointment pierces her like cold sheets of rain. Her heart breaks for him.
She stares at the couple. They appear to be the kind who would live their entire cycle, what’s left of it, with each other. She gathers her courage and turns to her friend. The look on his face makes her want to grab him and run to another corner of the Four Cities. An imagined loss does not feel any less agonizing if the person believes it is real.
“I’m sorry,” she says. It’s all she can muster. She does not know how to deal with loss. She never had to. Tabula Rasa takes care of that.
“Minor nuisance,” he says, his eyes are fixed on the door of the brownstone. His words make her blood run cold.
“Benja . . . this is enough,” she says.
He does not hear her.
“They’re probably just having sex. He’s experimenting,” he mutters.
“They look in love,” she says.
“In love? How can he be in love with him if he’s in love with me?” he says, looking at Aris squarely. His eyes are bloodshot.
“You are in love with him,” she says. The man probably has no memory of Benja or their past cycle. If he even was his lover.
“Because I finally remember . . .”
“Or think you remember. It’s the drug that messed with your brain.”
“I told you it’s rea—” He pauses. The silence makes her nervous.
“You know what?” he says. “That’s what he needs! Absinthe. Then he’ll remember.”
“You’re going to convince a man who sees you as a stranger to take a mysterious drink from another stranger? No one in their right mind . . .”
“I’ll figure it out.”
“Benja . . .”
Aris realizes that his obsession has consumed him. She has let it carry her into a ridiculous flight of fancy long enough. He is not going to stop. If she stays, she would only be drawn in deeper.
“I’ll take you home,” he says.
He takes her hand. She pulls away. She cannot enable his madness any longer. Her heart cannot take it.
“I’ll take myself home,” she says.
“Aris . . .”
“You should go home and get some sleep. I’ll call you later.”
She kisses him on the cheek and heads toward the train station.
Chapter Eleven
The farther Aris is from Benja, the angrier she becomes. Away from him, her logical side kicks in. She is reminded that his dreams—the ones that turned him into a drug addict and a stalker—are mere fabrications of his bra
in. She decides to keep walking. Being stuck in a speeding train with no escape route is not ideal for her current state of mind.
The ragged blade of anger scrapes at her insides. But what or who is she angry at? Is it her friend and his antics? The Dreamers for fueling his obsession with a mind-altering drug? Or herself for going along with it?
Nobody is being forced into doing anything. Benja, the Dreamers, and she all operate under their own free will. Only one of those wills is under her control. That, she can fix. As to how easily, she is not certain.
She loves Benja. Not in the romantic, all-consuming way he loves the man from his dream. But in a way that his happiness and sadness affect hers. Her love is unhealthy because he is. She can already feel her mind fraying around the edges, exhausted from the disorderliness within.
Her friend is a victim of his own personality. His passion for life, tenacity, and confidence have transformed into irrationality, obsession, and blindness. He is consumed by his desire. It’s hard to watch him go through the pain of wanting someone he cannot have. If this is what unrequited love does to a person, she does not want to be in its destructive path.
She shakes off the troublesome thought. Making the best of the situation, she decides to find the farmers’ market with the rainbow chard. That will take care of dinner.
Farmers’ markets happen unannounced and in random places within the Four Cities. After the fresh crop of the week is harvested and enough is put aside for equal distribution, the leftover gets flown to a spot by drones. It’s free for the taking by those lucky enough to stumble upon it.
She turns a corner onto Fay Street and instead finds herself in the middle of a gift market. Tables line both sides of two city blocks. People peruse the tables, picking up and putting down items each holds.
Aris stops at a table where a woman with flowing auburn hair holds a wooden box to her chest. Her eyes are closed. The warm shade of the box matches her hair. The woman opens her eyes, sees Aris, and gives her a shy smile.
“I’m trying to feel whether it sparks any memory,” the woman says.
“From past cycles?” Aris asks.
The woman nods. “I feel so sad for these things. They were once loved. But now their owners don’t remember owning them.”
Aris picks up a blue-and-green pot with an acorn design in front of her. These beautiful objects were once loved—the woman is right. Nothing here is broken or defective. They are just items left behind in homes after each cycle. The new inhabitants either found them not suited to their tastes or not useful. So, they take them to the gift market, hoping they will find a new home. Until the next cycle.
“Things are only meaningful if you remember why you have them,” the woman says. “So I try to see if I can remember owning any of these things.”
“Do you touch everything?” Aris asks.
“I try to. But sometimes there are too many things for the time I have.”
Aris brings the pot to her chest.
“It helps if you close your eyes,” the woman says.
Aris hesitantly closes her eyes. She looks in the darkness behind her lids and tries to see whether the pot once had a place in her past lives. On a mantle perhaps? Or on a bookcase under the stairs? What would she have used it for? The squat round pot is not big enough for flowers. Would it only be an object of admiration? Something beautiful always has admirers. That is how things often survive. Being beautiful.
She opens her eyes. The redhead smiles at her.
“Did you feel anything?” she asks.
“I’m not sure.” Aris looks at the pot in her hand. It is now warm from her body heat. She runs her finger on it, liking its smoothness. The way the blues flow into the greens reminds her of a river weaving through water plants. She finds herself developing an attachment to it.
“I like it though,” Aris says.
“A good match then,” the woman says and walks off.
Aris watches as the redhead continues to examine the objects on each table, hoping to be reunited with her beloved things. She wonders how much time the woman has wasted in this cycle on trying to remember.
“That’s beautiful,” a deep and familiar voice says.
She looks up and meets Metis’s brown eyes. The genius pianist she ran into in the rain. The one whose performance she ruined. She feels her cheeks warming.
“It’s nice to see you again,” he says with a smile. “We’ve never properly met. I’m Metis.”
In the bright light of the day, she can see him better. His black hair is a little bit longer and slightly tousled, not slicked back like it was at his concert or drenched by the rain. It suits him and makes him look younger. Less severe. And very handsome.
Aris feels her heart beating faster.
“Hi. Um. I’m Aris.”
Blood pulses in her face. She catches a glimpse of herself in the reflection of a store window and feels like digging a hole to hide in. This has never happened before. Is she starstruck? She is acting like a complete immature idiot.
“That’s a nice find,” he says. His eyes on the object she holds to her chest.
“Do you want it?” she asks and immediately shoves it into his hands. “Here, take it.”
“Don’t you want it?” His face is puzzled.
“No, it doesn’t go with my house.”
“Ah. If that’s the case, I know just the spot for this.”
“Do you live around here?” she asks.
“I live in Lysithea.”
“In one of the Painted Ladies?”
He nods. It is as she has suspected.
“Why are you here?” Aris asks. “I mean—Sorry, you don’t have to answer that.”
He smiles. “There’s a bookstore I like around the corner.”
“Oh. Don’t let me keep you.”
“I just came from there. I’m actually on my way to Callisto. Carnegie Hall.”
The memory of his concert surfaces.
“Are you okay?” he asks.
Shame must have shown on her face. She decides to confess.
“It was me,” she says. “At your concert. I should have muted my watch. I’m sorry.”
He gives her a gentle smile. “Don’t be sorry.”
“You were upset.”
“I wasn’t. I was . . . surprised. I don’t handle surprises very well,” he says and adds, “Thank you for being there.”
Aris lets out a long sigh.
“I didn’t realize you felt so bad about it,” Metis says.
“Still do.”
“You shouldn’t.”
“Did you come back to finish?” she asks.
“I did. It was immature of me to have left the stage in the first place.”
“I’m sorry I didn’t stay to see it.”
He looks thoughtful, as if trying to make an important decision.
“I have a proposal,” he says in a slow and deliberate way. “Since you didn’t get to hear me play the entire concert, would you like to come with me to Carnegie Hall? I’ll make up for it.”
Aris’s heart does a quick jump.
“Will I get to see the backstage?”
He nods his head. “Anything.”
She smiles.
“This way,” he says and points toward the train station.
She feels his warm fingers touching the small of her back. Then just as quickly, the warmth disappears.
Carnegie Hall is on the opposite end of the Park from the Natural History Museum, where she works. Aris does not normally venture to this section of the city except for concerts, so she lets Metis lead her.
They walk past the park, where the trees are bare and vulnerable. A biting breeze nips at the tip of her nose, and she hugs her jacket a little tighter.
People in their black and gray winter coats hurry
past them. The wind picks up and rushes between the buildings, sending Aris’s hair flying. She feels like she is walking in a wind tunnel. She gathers her hair in one hand and moves it over her shoulder. She looks at Metis from the corner of her eye. Strands of his hair flutter in the wind, but he does not seem bothered by the cold.
He says very little during their walk, but there is texture in his silence. She could almost feel the weight of the thoughts rippling off him. For a moment, she wonders how many women he has offered to play a private concert for. He seems too serious to be the type that uses his talent to lure in dates. And he is too good looking to need to. But she can never be sure.
“Let’s cross here,” he says.
He grabs her hand and leads her across the street. Aris feels her face heating up. She is becoming annoyed by how easily he is affecting her. Once they reach the other side, he lets go. She finds she misses the warmth of his hand.
Aris looks around. The street signs and buildings are unfamiliar. She has never walked this path before. She wonders when they are going to reach their destination.
They walk block after block, weaving through alleys and turning several corners. She wonders if he is making the direction confusing on purpose so she will not remember how to get back.
“We’re here,” Metis says, finally.
A brick building with a mellow ochre hue stands in front of them. They are in the back of a nondescript alley.
“This is Carnegie Hall?”
Metis nods and smiles.
Without the grand arched windows of the front facade, the building looks different.
“I’ve never seen it from this side before,” she says.
“Wait until you see where I’m taking you,” he says with the enthusiasm of a boy sharing a secret play spot.
There are several black doors on the side of the building—entrances for musicians and staff. Metis twists the handle of one door and pushes against it. It’s darker inside. It takes a minute for Aris’s eyes to adjust.
She follows him through a maze of hallways that he navigates with familiarity. They walk past exposed pipes and electrical lines. She hears clunking sounds from the silver air ducts above their heads. From this perspective, Carnegie Hall looks no different than the basement of any prewar building.
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