This is one good reason why people take care to have a past, Rosie thinks. So their minds are full of stuff—big, heavy things. Anchors, buoys, urns, old statuary, armoires, lots of clutter, lots of buffers, so that some perfect stranger can’t just wander in and use up all the space.
Take a seat, she’d like to say. There, over in the corner, in the shadows with all that old junk. I’m making tea just now; don’t loaf around there in the middle of the room, please. Take a seat in the back, and I’ll be with you when it’s convenient.
Unfortunately, though, he’s a spreading blob. She doesn’t have any shapes to think of him in; she doesn’t know anything about him. She can’t make any observations about him, she can’t have any opinions about him, and she certainly can’t push him out of her mind—he just oozes back around the slammed door.
In fact, it seems to Rosie that all her resistance is just getting him more entrenched. Why not relax a bit? Why think every second about how much she’s thinking about him? Maybe she should just give him full run. Let him lounge around and put his feet up—she’s bound to get sick of it after a while, and throw him out.
“Hey, Rosie—” Jamie calls from the bathroom. “Can I borrow your duck?”
“Help yourself,” Rosie calls back.
Or, one thing that Ian used to do when he got stuck on something was just sit himself down in front of his computer and sort things out. It’s right there, he’d say, in your mind. What’s keeping you hung up? What do you know that you don’t know you know?
“Instrumental meditation,” he’d called it. “A technique.” Taught to him by some simpleton of a therapist he’d boasted about knowing. Taught, Rosie thinks. Technique. How’s that for something to get taught—making a list?
Ludicrous. Still, what’s there to lose? Rosie locates some lined yellow paper in the kitchen, and brings it into Vincent’s room along with a cup of tea. She takes a sip of tea and stares at the piece of paper. Well, you can see why Ian likes that computer of his so much—it’s a crystal ball. All that information swimming around in that blue cyberspace, ready to jump to the right bait and get reeled up to the surface of the screen. Whereas you can be sure nothing’s going to just appear on this piece of paper.
Rosie sees Ian tapping the silent keys to make a list. He’s replaced by Harris, at his screen, sending out the orders that raise up and demolish the invisible empire.
“Hey,” Jamie says, pausing at Vincent’s door, a towel around his neck and his hair dripping wet.
“Which of them makes more money, do you think?” Rosie says.
“Er…” Jamie says.
Oh, great, Rosie thinks. Why not just make a general announcement? That she’s actively thinking about some people who are hardly aware of her existence. That before she’d even laid eyes on them, her mind had gone so far as to form expectations of them, without her permission, and even without her knowledge. “Those people we’re working for. I was just wondering today—which one do you think makes more?”
Jamie shrugs. “You can’t count that kind of money. It’s indivisible. No metal coins, no flappy little bills. It’s abstract. It’s a construct. It’s outer-space gunk. Their bank accounts are just big, mad-scientist thingies, with gunk gurgling around in the tubes. People like that can’t even buy a hot dog on the street.”
“She’s not beautiful,” Rosie says.
“Huh,” Jamie says. “And so?” He sits down on the bed, next to Rosie, and she takes the towel from him to dry his silky hair. “Mmm,” he says. “That feels good.”
True: And so? She’s going to miss Jamie one of these days. She misses him now.
“So, why do you think they got married?” Rosie says, stanching a little rivulet of water behind his ear.
“Rosie, I’m surprised at you. ‘Why’—now. that’s a question that won’t take you there. Why did they get married? Why does anybody marry anybody instead of anybody else? Why does anybody anything?”
Rosie lowers the towel, thinking.
“Besides, judging by the archaeological evidence, they’re perfect for each other. Don’t stop, don’t stop! The two least interesting people on the planet.”
Also true: Why—a completely primitive concept. Still, why does anybody anything, Rosie thinks, looking around the next day at the pure, breathing silence of the bedroom. Why does this person want to be with that person rather than with any other? Why did Lexi Feld get together with Arnold Schaefer? Because he was blocking her path? To Rosie neither Lexi nor Arnold ever seemed to have much in the way of attributes, let alone allure. What is it about the mere sight of Jamie that does to Morgan the strange things it does? What could have been so special about Vincent that to this day Jamie never says a word about him? What on earth could it be about some stranger, who does not, in fact, seem particularly interesting, that keeps Rosie’s attention nailed to him? And why did he marry that woman?
Lots of people want to have a dog around; others prefer cats. Once in a while, someone goes into the pet store and comes out with a mynah bird or a snake or a miniature African hedgehog. And even about this matter, which should be pretty simple to figure out, what do people say? They say, “It doesn’t shed” or, “You can walk it” or, “You don’t have to walk it”—whatever. In other words, no one has a clue why it’s some particular creature rather than another that causes them to exclaim, “Oh, hey, now—that’s for me!”
Rosie’s hungry, she notices. This whole Thursday has gone by as if it had been poured slowly into sand. It would be nice to have a bite with Jamie tonight, but he’s sure to be at his studio, or with Trevor. No matter. She looks around—still a few smears left to clean up.
She’ll do it tomorrow, though. It’s taken her all day to do about fifteen minutes worth of work. Because when you’re waiting, she thinks, waiting is all you can do.
So much for all the wasted head space. By afternoon of the following day, Rosie has pretty much resigned herself—really, she thinks—to the idea that she’s not going to be running into Harris again. Obviously she’s not going to run into him. She hadn’t actually thought she was going to run into him anyway. And she just isn’t.
How stupid this has all been. What had she actually hoped to gain by sacrificing the magic hum of her blood, anyway? Ordinary human experience? Ordinary human experience—something, obviously, only an elephant could survive.
Not a sound in the place other than the creakings of the scaffold as Rosie clambers up and down, the comforting little clicks of the paint-can lids as she removes and replaces them, and the handles of the brushes against the jars of paint and mineral spirits. Tarnished gold veils are beginning to drop through the blue at the window; soon, the planet will turn its back on the day.
In half an hour she’ll be gone. Rosie finishes cleaning up slowly. She could just take the little train back to the apartment. Or she could walk around for a while, stalling in the grimy air, or hang out at a bar, watching the early-evening drunks ricochet between desperation and pointless hope…
The room glitters with cool shadows, like a garden on the last day of summer. She should have used her time here better—her time on this job. On Wednesday, she’ll return with Jamie, and within a few hours everything she’s been doing with her day will be sealed off from her. And then what? In these weeks Jamie’s done some brand-new paintings; in these weeks Jamie’s acquired a brand-new lover.
Rosie goes to wash up and change out of her painting clothes. The silk slip is hanging over the screen, of course, glimmering, winking at her. She turns away, as if she’d encountered in genteel company someone with whom she’d once had a sordid affair.
Just one last look at the view that will cease to be hers, today, the moment she shuts the door of the apartment behind her. Bright days out on the water, indigo nights…Oh, yeah—memory! Now Rosie gets it; memory—the thing humans get to keep, a little travel kit to bring along with you. A little substitute for eternity. Pathetic. Rosie looks at her hands, her arms, every part of her bod
y she can see that isn’t covered by her dress. No fresh paint, she’s certain. She sits down as gently as possible on the bed, and after a minute or two leans back against the cloud of pillows.
She can see only one sail now, in the darkening blue. Someone out there, gliding farther into the darkness, a hand trailing in the water, edged with light…
Later, Rosie once again finds it impossible to recapitulate in any way that seems trustworthy the thing that happened next—the last, unexpected entrance of Harris.
Unexpected? Of course not. Shocking, yes, but not unexpected. And there it all is, over and over—a wedge of dark where the door is opening, herself against the pillows, his hand resting on the doorframe, his watch flashing against his wrist—as though it were all being reflected in the falling pieces of a shattered mirror. Rosie sits herself up fast, speechless.
They stare at one another. “Not feeling well?” he says.
“No, no—” she says, her heart pounding. “I’ll be fine in a moment—”
“Mmm,” he says. He shakes his head, as if he’d fallen asleep for an instant. “Probably best to be still.” He runs a hand through his black-and-silver hair. “Very pale. Migraine? Do you get migraines?”
“Not often,” Rosie says, truthfully.
“Sometimes tea works,” he says. “They say not, but what do they know? I say it does.”
The kitchen is a million miles away. Of course Rosie can’t even hear Harris there, clattering around, let alone see him. And yet this, too, is something that happens later: watching him search for the teakettle, the cup, the saucer, observing his intent expression as he fills the kettle at the tap, waits for it to boil…
And then he returns, with a pretty little tray. “There,” he says, pleased.
The tray holds a tiny china teapot, the most beautiful cup and saucer Rosie’s ever seen, a paper napkin, a silver spoon, a small silver bowl of sugar, and a little dish containing various sorts of tea bags. “This is not the way it’s done,” Harris says. “I do know that. And, to tell you the truth, there are boxes and boxes of the real thing out there—the stuff in shreds. But all that paraphernalia! The little mesh things…” He presents her with an expression of cheery bewilderment. “I don’t know why we’ve got that stuff, anyhow. Neither of us drinks it. Just to persuade Lupe we’re legit, I suppose. Oh, Christ—lemon.”
“This is perfect,” Rosie says.
“Just as well,” Harris says, sitting down in the little chair. “Probably is no lemon.”
Rosie selects a tea bag and puts it in the cup. She looks up at Harris; he’s watching her. She pours the water out from the teapot, and nearly chokes from the stench of synthetic fruit. Harris frowns worriedly. “O.K.?” he says.
Rosie nods. “Perfect.”
“Things really do fall apart back there when Elizabeth’s away,” he says. “Not that Elizabeth’s all that domestic. But she is very…”
Rosie looks demurely at her teacup.
“…well organized,” he says. “Funny to remember, but there was a time, back in our very first place, when we used to cook a lot. Penthouse, miles of terrace. That was all back then, when people did that. You wouldn’t remember, probably. Maybe your parents were into it.”
Jesus fucking Christ, Rosie thinks. Who on earth might he imagine her parents to be?
“Little dinner parties,” he says. “Sort of a blood sport. Everything just right. Very competitive. Stakes escalating…” He laughs. “Seriously, though, it was grim…”
And how on earth old does he imagine her to be?
He’s got the facts all wrong. But, Rosie thinks, only the facts. This man has some quality that works like intuition. It’s confidence. Or generosity of a sort. He seems to believe he has only to say something in order for her to understand it; that he’ll understand whatever it is she might say…
He’s tapped into some great, generous reserve—the ocean that flows around everyone, between everyone, rolling like a heartbeat, making big, comforting, heartbeat sounds, oceanic sounds…approbation, pleasure…
Mr. Gage and Mr. Peralta, the men she used to work for, were so nervous—as if they were afraid that she or one of the other secretaries would suddenly speak up. Calm down, guys, Rosie could have told them; no fear of that. What do you think those suits of yours are for? Those sad, furry suits…The shirt Harris is wearing right now probably cost what any of those suits did.
“I wonder where these things disappear to,” Harris is saying. “These trends, or whatever you want to call them. You do something all the time, and then one day you’re telling somebody about the things you used to do. It’s peculiar, getting older.” He smiles at Rosie. “I’d advise against it. Oh, well, who has time for those little dinners? Who can afford that sort of thing these days? More expensive than eating out every night. Which is pretty much what we do now. Well, or order in, actually. Elizabeth gets sick of it, but to tell you the truth I’d much rather have Chinese in those cardboard things than one of those grand—just something from the deli. A sandwich…”
“Pastrami sandwich,” Rosie says.
“Pastrami sandwich,” he agrees. “In bed. Hmm!” He stands up impatiently, and walks over to the window. “Light so late.”
Rosie looks at him. “I should probably leave,” she says.
“No, no,” he says. “Not at all. Finish your tea.”
For a moment there’s disastrously nothing to say. It would be rude to just run now, Rosie thinks; it would make him feel that he’d been rude. “Aren’t you going to have some, too?” Rosie manages. “Tea?”
“Hmm,” Harris says. “Or something. Now, that’s a thought.”
Rosie swings her feet over the side of the bed.
“Easy does it,” he says.
What he seems to want, it turns out, is not really to hustle her away but to resettle her in the living room. “More comfortable here, yes?” he says. “Less like death’s door.”
She’s curled up on some divan-type thing, and he’s given her an astonishingly soft little blanket—cashmere, she thinks—to tuck around her feet.
“So, tell me,” he says, as he makes himself a drink. “Tell me something. Who are you? What are you?”
Rosie looks at him.
“Quite a sight, you realize. Strolling into your own room and there’s a dying artist on the bed.”
“I’m feeling better,” Rosie says.
“Good,” Harris says.
“Really much better.”
“I notice,” Harris says, “that you’re evading my subtle but probing questions. No matter—I’ll try another. Are you…let’s see…in art school?”
Rosie hesitates. “Actually, I’m not in school at all anymore.”
“Um-hmm,” he says. He waits for a moment, taking a sip of his drink. “So, you are no longer in school, and now you are…”
Rosie shakes her head, and gestures helplessly.
“Biding your time,” Harris says. “Just biding your time…”
“Yes…” Rosie says.
“And painting while you’re doing it…That’s a nice thing to be able to do—paint…”
Rosie looks down at the undrinkable reddish liquid in her teacup.
“But it must be very interesting, what you do,” she says.
“Not really,” he says. “It’s really rather boring, most of the time over here on our side. Tense, but boring. Elizabeth gets some of the fun—travel, dinners, armies at her command…I just sit here.” He smiles at Rosie. “Oh, not to complain. The situations, I suppose you’d call them, in my line can be quite…There are some real pirates out there, I’ll tell you. Rascals. Real buccaneers. Of course, you don’t know how some of those characters can live with themselves.”
He doesn’t look bored, Rosie notes; a little smile has crept over his face as he thinks about it all.
“Much better to be a painter,” he says. “You’ve got to be able to look at yourself in the mirror. Well. And is that your beau?”
�
��My…?” she begins.
“The other painter. Your beau?”
“Oh,” she says. “Jamie?” Harris is holding his drink up so that the ice casts strange reflections on the wall. “No, Jamie’s just a friend.”
“Ah ha,” Harris says.
The potent, otherworldly aroma of paint pervades even this room faintly. Rosie leans back, shutting her eyes, and breathes it in. Maybe it’s coming from her.
“I understand, from the decorator, that he’s very serious about his art.”
“Very,” Rosie says, happily; Harris doesn’t even know Morgan’s name! “But people don’t buy his paintings much. It’s discouraging…”
“Of course,” Harris says. “It must be hard not to lose heart…but I suppose you all must really love what you do.”
Rosie bows her head. Poor Jamie; lucky Jamie.
It’s twilight, she notices—twilight has drifted into the room like a fragrance, entwining with the smell of the oils. “So. You’re feeling better?” Harris says.
“Oh,” Rosie says. “I should—”
“Because if you are, maybe you’d like a drink.”
She looks at him. “Well, yes, actually. Actually, I would.”
He pours another for himself and one of whatever it is for her. “I drink so rarely these days,” he says. “Mostly when Elizabeth’s away. The thing is, drinking makes me crazy for a cigarette.”
Rosie smiles.
“Would you be horrified?” he says.
She shakes her head.
“Because I happen to know where Elizabeth hides them.”
He leaves the room and comes back in a moment, flourishing one. “We quit together years ago, but I happen to know she still sneaks one from time to time.” He wiggles an eyebrow at Rosie. “The sneak. Oh, damn—” he says, looking around.
“Matches?” Rosie says. “I’ve got matches—” She dives into her backpack. She’s sure there are some in there, from the old days. She comes up with a matchbook, opens it, bends a match over, and strikes it, holding it out for Harris.
All Around Atlantis Page 14