Nowhere City

by Alison Lurie

  Katherine typed; “Bert” and “Charlie” recommenced their favorite conversation: the comparison of mechanical and electrical devices. Both of them, and also Dr. Einsam, were amazingly knowledgeable about all sorts of project equipment, from typewriters to high-speed computers. They followed the new models in calculators with the enthusiasm and detailed technical interest of sports-car buffs. They also followed the new models in sports cars; in cameras, boats, and hi-fi components—and, what’s more, in refrigerators, electric blenders, and washing-machines. Last year Dr. Einsam had become so interested in a de luxe Norge washer-dryer that he did a little study of its effects on the attitudes and perception psychology of the user. Dr. Smith was deeply loyal to his red Porsche, Dr. Haraki to his TR-3 and Dr. Einsam to his black Jaguar XK-E.

  “Good afternoon; I’m late,” Dr. Einsam announced, as if this were a surprise, sliding in the door. “Sorry, sorry. Katherine, how are you?” Katherine, who had a sinus headache, said she was fine. “What’s new? How’s the space race?”

  Dr. Einsam was not referring to international science, but to a purely local if equally intense competition for office and laboratory space in the new Social Sciences building now being erected on campus. The four sub-departments of Social Sciences (Clinical and Experimental Psychology, Anthropology, and Sociology) each wanted a large share of the available area, and so did every faculty member. The problem was, of course, in the hands of a committee, which had already drawn up a series of conflicting floor plans. The question for the Project on Perception and Delinquency was what sub-department to line up with—whether Soc. or Experimental Psych, was more powerful and would give them more and better space in return for the prestige and graduate fellowships that went with any large project. But in playing off the committee members against each other they might end up with no space at all.

  “I talked to Jekyll today,” Dr. Smith said. “He was a little withdrawn, but I think he’d like to have us up on the third floor with the other Psych. labs, on the south side.”

  “Jekyll is a good guy,” Dr. Haraki remarked. “He projects hostility sometimes, but basically he’s a good guy.”

  “The way I brought it up was,” Dr. Smith continued, “I dropped in after lunch, just casually ... Katherine had heard the story before, and stopped listening, but Dr. Einsam sat silent, attentive. He looked lean and dark and foreign and secretive. Unlike Dr. Smith and Dr. Haraki, who were always telling each other about their wives and children, he never said anything about his private life. According to the girls in the Social Sciences office, he was actually married to, though separated from, a beautiful Hollywood starlet.

  Obviously he thought very well of his own appearance, too, sitting there in his very English tweed jacket and those ridiculous horn-rimmed glasses, smiling and stroking his pointed beard as if it were a pet dog. Really, Dr. Smith and Dr. Haraki had much more pleasant faces. The trouble with them was that they were both overweight: Dr. Smith bulkily fleshy, and Dr. Haraki round and soft, like a Japanese boy doll. As Dr. Einsam occasionally told them, they ate too much.

  “Okay,” he said finally, as if he had been waiting for them. “Let’s get to work.”

  Katherine brought her sharpened pencil into juxtaposition with a clean page of her stenographic pad, and the meeting began.

  The hands of the clock had moved round to four by the time it was over. Dr. Smith and Dr. Haraki had left the project office, and Dr. Einsam sat reading a summary of several articles on juvenile delinquency among immigrant groups which he had dictated to Katherine two days before. He frowned as he tossed the pages over, and pinched his dark beard, as if the dog had misbehaved.

  “Look, Katherine. You’ve got this all wrong. It should be ‘Nisei’ here. Not ‘Isei.’ And this word here is ‘Sanisei,’ not ‘Sansi.’” He flapped the report at Katherine, beckoning her to come and see.

  Katherine moved her chair a minimum distance. “I can change it,” she said, uncomfortably aware of being at fault. These unprofessional errors were the result of her aversion to Dr. Einsam. Had she been typing the report for anyone else, she would have taken the trouble to ask them about any word she didn’t understand, or looked it up in the dictionary. “I’m sorry, Dr. Einsam,” she added stiffly.

  “Iz.”

  She did not repeat either name. “The trouble is, those terms are rather confusing.”

  “No, it’s easy. Look.” Dr. Einsam turned the paper over and wrote on the back in his spiky European scrawl: Isei, Nisei, Sanisei. “Now. The Isei are those Japanese-Americans who were born abroad, and emigrated to this country. Like me. I would be an Isei if I were Japanese. Nisei: those are their children; second-generation Americans. Charlie Haraki is a Nisei; his parents both came here from Japan before he was born. The Sanisei are the third generation; for example Bert. His parents were born here, but his grandparents came from Europe. Now you understand.” He turned his head to look at Katherine, so near that she could see the separate shaved hairs growing out at the edge of his beard.

  “I think so, yes,” she said, moving her chair slightly away along the floor.

  “Good. Okay, which would you be?”

  “None of them. I mean, I’m afraid I don’t qualify,” Katherine said, rather superciliously. “My parents and grandparents were all born in America. My great-grandparents too. Our family’s been here quite a long time.”

  “Is that so? A real Daughter of the American Revolution.” A current of hostility passed between the two citizens of the United States.

  “Come back here,” Dr. Einsam ordered. “Let’s go over this.” He waited for Katherine to move her chair towards the desk. She did not do so, but merely sat on the extreme edge of it and leaned forward. “You can’t see from there.”

  “I can see perfectly well, thank you,” Katherine replied chillily.

  “Come on,” he insisted. “Don’t be so defensive. I’m not going to rape you.” Bending towards Katherine, he took hold of the near leg of her chair and dragged it across the floor towards him. “There. Now, look here. ‘The Isei group ... Katherine followed his pen along the page; afraid to cause a further scene by moving her chair again, but insulted and furious.

  “So okay,” Dr. Einsam said finally. He shoved the pages along the table towards Katherine. “Can you type that up now?”

  Katherine hesitated before she answered. Five pages, and since Dr. Einsam had written on all of them with his ballpoint pen, she would have to do the whole thing over. “I suppose so,” she said, resting her headache on her hand.

  “If you can’t do it, say so. I’d like to have this before tomorrow, but it actually doesn’t matter.” Tomorrow was Saturday; he had no reason to want anything then. “There’s nothing at stake.” Katherine looked at Dr. Einsam; she did not agree. She did not like being in the wrong, and badly wanted to put him back there where he belonged.

  “Oh, I can do it,” she said. “I can take a later bus home.”

  “I tell you what. You type this for me, and I’ll drive you home. That way you won’t have to worry about the bus.”

  “But I don’t live anywhere near the campus. I have to go to Mar Vista.”

  “So? You type it. Okay?”

  “All right.”

  The descending sun had just reached the tops of the trees; in the speckled golden light the little colored stucco houses looked more unreal than ever.

  “Here you are.” Dr. Einsam pulled up sharply in front of Katherine’s walk. “Not bad.” She did not know whether he meant the house or their breakneck drive to it in his open car; in either case, she disagreed. She took her hands down from her head, where she had been futilely clutching her hair against the whipping wind, and tried to catch her breath. Dr. Einsam was the most dangerous motor-vehicle operator she had ever ridden with. She had managed, just barely, not to protest or cry out at the perilous way he drove, several times endangering both himself and others.

  “You know,” he added; “I’d like to meet your husband, if he’s
around. When does he get home?”

  “About five-thirty,” Katherine answered. “I don’t think he’s here yet.” She fumbled along the smooth leather side of the car looking for the door handle, though her impulse was to stand up on the seat and jump out. But Dr. Einsam got there first and held the door open for her.

  “Ten after five.” He consulted his watch. “Maybe I’ll wait for him. I haven’t got anything else to do. If you don’t mind, that is.”

  “No; that’s all right,” Katherine replied. What else could she say?

  “Good.” Dr. Einsam followed her into the house, which had never looked smaller, pinker, or more impossibly Los Angeles. At least it was neat. She put her bag on the shelf, turned on some lights, hung her coat in the closet, washed her hands, and then she had to go back and face Dr. Einsam, who was sitting on one of her new wicker chairs stroking his pointed beard and appearing to read the American Historical Review.

  “Would you like a cup of coffee while you wait, or something?”

  “No, thanks. You sit down over here.” Katherine had been about to sit down, but now she did not do so. It was intolerable, being ordered about not only at work, but now in her own house. She stood, and Dr. Einsam looked at her, through his horn-rimmed spectacles.

  “You don’t like me, do you?” he suddenly asked.

  Katherine looked back at him, at the end of her patience. “No.” She heard herself speaking. “I don’t like you, if you must know.” How could she have said that?—not that it wasn’t true. Well, at least now he would go.

  Instead, Iz sat back. His face broke into a smile, as if Katherine had given him a big present. “Good,” he said. “And why not?”

  Katherine was flabbergasted. She could think of a dozen reasons, but she paused. “Come on,” he urged.

  “Well,” she said unwillingly. “You’re inconsiderate.”

  “How am I inconsiderate?” Iz was still smiling, almost laughing at her; Katherine grew more enraged.

  “You ask rude questions, like why does someone dislike you. Why shouldn’t someone dislike you, if they want to? Who do you think you are, anyhow?”

  Iz nodded his head once, and kept it lowered. Katherine felt that she had won round one, though with some loss of poise. “All right,” he said. He looked up, not as subdued as she had expected, but somewhat so. “Now will you sit down? How about that chair there?” This time he pointed to a modern one in the shape of a large brown wicker fish. “You didn’t get that back in Boston, I’ll bet.”

  “No, I bought it here, at the Akron,” Katherine said. Obviously he wasn’t going to go until Paul came home, so she sat down on the edge of the fish. “All this furniture is new. Of course it’s just cheap stuff; I won’t take it when we go back East.” Iz nodded, but made no comment. She went on, pleased to have put the conversation back on a conventional basis so soon. “Paul’s company moved our own furniture out to Los Angeles for us, but it just didn’t look right here. This house is really much too small for it.”

  “So you sold all your old furniture?” Iz asked.

  “Oh no. It’s in the garage. I wouldn’t sell it; it belonged to my parents. Some of the pieces have been in the family for generations. They’re really too good to use.”

  Iz seemed to ponder this, stroking his beard. “Your parents also don’t use this furniture,” he remarked. “Or maybe they have more at home?”

  “No. My parents aren’t living now,” Katherine answered.

  “Ah.” Iz held his chin; he did not offer the usual condolences. “Too good to use,” he said. “What kind of furniture is that? It is like clothes that are too pretty to wear, food so delicious you can’t eat it. Some sort of art object.”

  “Well, some of the pieces really are art objects,” Katherine explained. “There’s a Hitchcock chair that’s like one in the Worcester Art Museum. And the Empire clock—that’s really very valuable.”

  “I’d like to see this unusual furniture,” Iz said. “Could I see it?”

  “If you want to,” Katherine said, rather surprised; she would never have suspected Dr. Einsam of an interest in antiques.

  They went out through the kitchen door. The sun was behind the trees now, and golden motes swam in almost horizontal layers across the little back yard. The heliconia, still blooming now in February (but did it ever stop?) was intensely red and yellow against the wall. Katherine opened the garage doors.

  Gradually, over the past few months, the garage had filled up with ghosts: white-sheeted objects stood awkwardly about on the stained cement like a collection of ill-trained modern dancers. Katherine raised the shroud first from an early Victorian love-seat, tightly upholstered in velvet and encrusted with mahogany roses. The marble-topped pedestal table with bird’s claws, the tall chests, the chairs, the lamps, and the Empire clock supported by two gilded deities—all were displayed, explained, and recovered one by one. Iz, now apparently harmless, stood and listened to what she said.

  “Interesting,” he remarked. “Very interesting. And is it comfortable?” He sat down on the sheet which again covered her father’s wing chair. “Uhh,” he groaned, and got up again. “I see what you mean now: too good to use. Yah, I think this furniture is much better off here in the museum.”

  In spite of herself, Katherine laughed too.

  “I’ll tell you something else,” Iz added, leaning over the back of the chair now. “Maybe you don’t know it, but I think you’re happy to have the excuse to get it all out of the house.”

  “Of course not,” Katherine told him, but not with irritation. “You don’t understand.”

  “Oh yes,” Iz said. “I understand exactly. I know this type of fetishism. We have more in common than you think. When my parents left Germany—they had the foresight to get out early, in 1933—they took all their most dear possessions with them. To Brussels, to London, and then to Montreal, and then to New York, all those trunks and crates, and barrels of Meissen china, too good to eat off of, all went with us. And the heavy drapes, most of the furniture, the Biedermeier, you know what that is? Very beautiful, very valuable, very uncomfortable.”

  “And where is it now?” Katherine asked.

  “In their apartment in New York. A very small apartment, much smaller than the one we had in Berlin, but all the things are there. In the apartment now are so many things there is almost no space for my parents. Each time I get married, my mother says, Take, Izzy, take some of the furniture. Of course there is ambivalence: Yah, I think, why not? But I always manage to refuse. Sell it, I tell them, sell it so you have some room to breathe, so at least you can see New York City out of your windows.”

  “You could take a piece or two,” Katherine suggested. Iz shook his head.

  “No, I couldn’t. Not in my apartment.”

  “Of course, if you have modern things already,” Katherine said, “I see what you mean. Because I did have some old pieces inside for a while, along with the new furniture, and it looked all wrong.” She twitched the dust-sheet straight over the bow legs of a table, then, followed by Iz, she left the garage.

  “I can’t imagine where Paul can be,” she said. “He’s usually home by this time.” That wasn’t true, she thought; lately he was delayed more often than not. She shut and locked the garage doors and they walked down the driveway to the street. The sun was just setting; the smog-blurred sky had begun to turn from smoky blue to pale red; lights were on in the houses next door, but across the street everything was dark.

  “Looks as if nobody’s living over there,” Iz said. “All the houses look empty.”

  “Oh, that’s where they’re building the new freeway,” Katherine explained. “The city’s bought all that property now, and they’re going to move the houses away, or tear them down. They’ll probably take this block too, eventually.”

  “Is that so.” Iz stared across the street.

  The houses across the way had been vacant for three to six weeks. Uncut, the grass around them had continued to grow; in s
ome places now it was half a foot high. The sample Spanish villa, English cottage, and French château looked like toys forgotten on the lawn by some child who had been playing with them until, at sunset, he was called in to supper.

  Stepping off the curb, Iz crossed the street; Katherine followed him.

  Seen close to, it was even more apparent that the houses were deserted, though Venetian blinds still hung in many of the windows. Flowers had bloomed and fallen on to the front walks, and here and there an avocado or a bitter orange tree held its branches out over a litter of bruised fruit. Cars continued to pass at both ends of the block, but their street was empty and very quiet.

  “It’s nice here,” Iz said, wading into one of the overgrown lawns.

  “Um,” Katherine agreed. “A little weird, though.” Dr. Einsam wasn’t as bad as she had thought, she decided. He was crude, of course, and had absolutely no tact—imagine such a person trying to be a psychiatrist! But he wanted to be friendly, and once you knew how, it was easy to manage him. “Look at those rose bushes,” she added. “Imagine just abandoning them like that; I don’t understand people. All these beautiful flowers just going to waste. I come over here sometimes, and pick them.”

  “Is this where you get those roses you’ve been bringing to the office?” Katherine nodded. Iz laughed. “What do you know.”

  “Well, why shouldn’t I?” she said. “Nobody else seems to want them.”