Eventually they would have to rejoin the world, Phoebe supposed, but when she tried to imagine it, herself and Wolf sharing a life like normal adults, no picture came to mind. But that was because of the newness, she reasoned; though it felt like ages had passed, it was really only days. They needed time to grow into this thing, would be guided through its later stages as naturally as they’d been led to this first one. Besides, her own future had always seemed unreal to Phoebe when she tried to imagine it.
When several days had passed, they decided to take a short trip, a day trip into the world to remember what it felt like. “Reassimilation,” Wolf said. “Rehabilitation.” He suggested Lucca, a place he’d not seen himself but heard was lovely.
It felt odd, getting back in the car. A week and a day had passed since their arrival, Wolf said, though Phoebe would never have known. The morning light astounded her eyes. Olive trees shook silver. She felt like an invalid emerging from long convalescence. The world’s resilience impressed her, its ability to proceed, unhindered, despite her own lapsed attention.
Maneuvering his car on the curved roads seemed to make Wolf lighthearted. Phoebe wondered if he’d missed it. The last time she’d ridden with him was before, when it seemed, looking back, that they’d hardly known each other. Phoebe sensed she should act differently now, some way that reflected the changes between them, but she wasn’t sure how. You couldn’t hold hands with someone driving a stick shift.
“Don’t you think it was fate?” she said. “How I found you?”
“It was lucky,” Wolf agreed.
“But not lucky. You know, predestined.”
She explained how she’d come to Europe knowing there was something she needed to find, how she’d flailed, grabbing at possibilities until finally, in the depths of despair, she’d stumbled on Wolf.
“I see your point,” he said. “But don’t things always look inevitable in retrospect?”
“Which is how you know there’s fate.”
He said nothing. Phoebe sensed Wolf was letting her think what she wanted. “You don’t believe in it,” she said, disappointed.
“I’m not sure,” he said. “I used to. That’s what I liked about getting high, feeling all those connections—a bell rings, the light falls a certain way, a song comes on the radio and you look around and think, Dig it.”
Phoebe nodded appreciatively.
“Maybe it just got dull,” Wolf said, “having everything sort of converge into one pattern, the Buddhists, the Egyptians, the Apaches, hell, why not the Christians, too—it’s all one groovy thing, man. It’s all, like, spirituality …”
“Stop it.”
She’d startled him. “I’m making fun of myself, Phoebe,” Wolf said. “Not you.”
“Things were a lot more spiritual back then. Period,” she said.
Wolf glanced at her. “You mean objectively? As in, God was more present?” He looked incredulous.
“Since when are you the expert?”
“Expert, hell. That’s what nostalgia is: you see layers of meaning you never dreamed were there at the time.”
“But you did see the meanings at the time,” Phoebe said. “The bell and all that—you just said.”
“We thought we saw meanings.”
“Well, if you saw the meanings then, and you see them now, when you look back, how can you tell they weren’t really there?”
“Huh,” Wolf said, grinning suddenly. There was a long pause. “The weird thing about that time,” he said, tentative now, “is in a way we were nostalgic for it even while it happened. I think it had to do with constantly watching ourselves, on drugs, the whole out-of-body thing, but also on TV, in the papers. We were news. Whatever we did felt so big, so unbelievably powerful, almost like it was happening in retrospect. I’ve never felt anything like that, before or since. It wasn’t real life. Which I guess is what made it great.”
“I wonder what we’ll say about this someday,” Phoebe said. “You know, right now.”
“Right now is good right now,” Wolf said.
The moment felt odd, precarious. “Maybe you’ll say it was fate. That I found you.”
“That’s possible,” Wolf said.
From a distance Lucca rose above the land like a gigantic fortress, surrounded by thick formidable walls. Phoebe and Wolf left the Volkswagen outside its ramparts and walked hand in hand into the town.
Inside, rich green lawns ran flush along the tops of the city walls, like an emerald moat on the verge of overflowing. There was a good view of the dry surrounding hills. I’m with my lover, Phoebe thought, and had a longing to be seen, as though the presence of witnesses would seal some final bond between herself and Wolf.
Mansions lined the narrow streets. For centuries, Wolf said, rich Florentines had made their second homes in Lucca. Old villas sprinkled the countryside, some converted into museums. Phoebe noticed Rolex watches in the shop windows.
They stopped at a beautiful church called San Michele in Foro, tiny animals carved in its façade. Inside the church Wolf drifted away from her, exploring the vaulted corridors. Phoebe watched him, making favorable comparisons between Wolf and the other male tourists. She especially loved his gait, athletic yet so elegant, the opposite of that chimplike trot of high school athletes. Naked or clothed, Wolf walked like that. My lover, Phoebe thought, but the word did not seem right. She’d heard it too often in high school, employed by girls who wanted to advertise the fact that they were sleeping with their boyfriends. What was it called—what she and Wolf had? Phoebe watched him arch his back to gaze up at a relief of the Madonna and Child, and for an instant Wolf looked like a stranger, a man she had no claim on. Phoebe waited anxiously at the door for him to finish.
Back on the street Wolf was quiet. Phoebe sensed his thoughts traveling far from her, but was unsure how to reclaim them. In the privacy of their room she would have rolled against him or left the bed to shower, fetch a glass of water, and by the time she returned he would be there, waiting. But without this physical recourse, Phoebe felt powerless. As they wandered the streets, she engaged in a frantic mental dialogue: Weren’t fluctuations normal in a relationship? Hadn’t the whole point of coming here been to ease their intensity a little, exist in the world like two normal people? But the world proved too distracting, it rushed in like static, invading the space between them. Phoebe no longer knew what to say, how to act with Wolf. Too many subjects seemed off-limits.
They stopped for lunch. The restaurant looked like a cloister; a fountain bubbled in the courtyard. A waiter ceremoniously disengaged the bones from their grilled fish. Their fellow diners were oldish and bejeweled. Phoebe and Wolf exchanged smiles at their expense. Still, a silence tugged at them. What did they normally talk about? Or had there always been these silences, and Phoebe was just too happy to notice? Her awareness of all that Wolf had given up for her sake seemed to turn on Phoebe now; she felt a sudden, paralyzing onus to make each moment of her company worth his while. Wolf crossed his arms. She saw tension in his face, and he leaned back in his seat with a languor Phoebe knew was forced.
“What are you thinking about?” she demanded, unable to bear the silence.
She’d spoken too loudly. Wolf flinched, but Phoebe rushed on before he could answer. “You’re thinking about Carla, aren’t you? If you are, just say it!”
Wolf began to speak, then stopped. Phoebe saw pain in his face and panicked, words overtaking thoughts. “Do you want to call her?” she cried. “Maybe you should do it, go call her right now! I don’t care.”
“I’d be doing that for me, not her,” Wolf said quietly. Phoebe saw she was making him angry.
An old feeling resurfaced: Carla seemed as fully present at the table as if she were seated between them, smoking her cigarette. Phoebe felt a wild urge to seize control, to comprehend. “Do you feel guilty?” she said. “Is that what it is?”
Wolf ran shaking hands through his hair. “I’m confused,” he said. “Okay? I’m just confused.
It would help a lot if you’d calm down a second.” He looked far from calm himself. “Anyway, guilt is irrelevant,” he said. “You do what you do, that’s what counts.”
“You’re always saying that.”
Wolf stared at her. “Don’t push me, Phoebe. Jesus.”
He looked away. Phoebe imagined him wishing her gone, and it crossed her mind that perhaps she should make a scene the way women did in movies, holler some insult, flip the table into Wolf’s lap. But instead she thought of Carla, alone in the empty Munich apartment, left behind with nothing but the lovely diamond on her hand. Phoebe’s outrage dissolved into pity. “Well, I feel guilty,” she said.
“That’s ridiculous,” Wolf said.
When he looked at Phoebe, really looked at her, something behind Wolf’s eyes seemed to fall away almost by accident. Phoebe saw this now, and relaxed. As long as she saw that opening, there was nothing to fear.
“Please don’t,” Wolf said. “Please.”
“Okay.”
“Forget about this, okay?”
“Will you?”
“I will,” Wolf said. “I’m trying.”
They were themselves again. The relief was terrific. Phoebe finally dared leave the table for the bathroom. On her way back, Wolf caught her waist in his hands and pressed his ear to Phoebe’s stomach as if to hear the sea. Phoebe felt that loosening within her, like a knot being cut. Blood filled her cheeks.
Outside, siesta hour had fallen. The shutters were down. Phoebe could think of nothing but lying down with Wolf; the meal, the wine, even the conflict between them had quickened it. As the craving sharpened, it nagged, distracting her from everything but the beat of Wolf’s footsteps beside her. How long would it be before they were back in their room? Hours, Phoebe thought, hours and hours, and the knowledge nearly brought her to tears. She began torturing herself with memories of them together, yesterday, this morning, and a demented sort of clarity descended upon her. Nothing mattered but that, having it back. To hell with Carla and everything else.
At a cul-de-sac they stopped. Wolf shut his eyes, kissing Phoebe as if to pull something from within her, deeper than her mouth or throat—from her lungs, heart, stomach. Overhead Phoebe glimpsed tall houses with their green shutters closed. She and Wolf were trembling, even their mouths shook. She wished she were wearing a skirt like that other day. This was torture, like needing desperately to pee and being stranded; once she’d lost a pair of skis that way, left them lying in the snow, and when she came back from the bathroom, they were gone. Afterward she’d lied about it, said someone broke her lock while she was eating lunch. Her own desperation had shamed her. Now her hips were wedged against Wolf’s. When Phoebe kissed his neck, he leapt as if she’d shocked him. “Let’s get a room,” he said.
They’d passed a hotel before lunch. They made for this now, unsmiling, like two thieves who must reach a window before an alarm goes off.
Wolf made the arrangements and they sprang up the marble stairs to the room. It was a fancy hotel. Wolf had trouble with the key but the door finally opened. Phoebe caught a blur of velvet and gold as they made for the bed, but the shades were drawn. The moment they were naked she took Wolf into her mouth, something she hadn’t dared try because it scared her—there seemed a danger of choking or damage to the throat but now that very fear egged her on, she wanted something more. Phoebe shut her eyes, taking long slow pulls. Wolf lay very still beneath her. After each breath he would wait a long time before taking another, until suddenly he shuddered, crying out so violently that Phoebe was certain she’d damaged him—she pulled away, her mouth filled with a very strong taste, not bad exactly but strong, too strong; she swallowed quickly to be rid of it. But the taste stayed in her mouth, and for some reason Phoebe began to cry and stretched beside Wolf, sobbing. He lay like a corpse. When finally Phoebe looked at him she saw tears running from the corners of his eyes, a steady flow like something leaking accidentally from inside him. His chest shook when he breathed, but he kept his eyes closed and said nothing. They lay that way for some time. There was a feeling in the air of hopelessness. Yet even now, even amidst that hopelessness, Phoebe still wanted more; she was two people, one despairing, the other greedy and low, overjoyed when Wolf roused himself and moved down to stroke her with his mouth—the sensations were murderous, unbearable, she came almost instantly, like being smacked in the head and losing consciousness. Afterward she lay as if broken, the words “sickness unto death” drifting through her mind from someplace; she was drifting free of everything now, even Wolf. Thank God for these moments of calm, although they never lasted long enough; soon the inevitable pounding started up again like a toothache, faintly at first but mounting steadily until she and Wolf clung to each other and he pushed himself inside her, both of them gasping slightly at the rawness of their flesh.
Afterward they lay flung together. The bedspread smelled of orange peels. Phoebe wondered if there was a potpourri somewhere.
“This is bad,” Wolf said without strength. Phoebe nodded. She felt as if someone else had abused them, a reckless, insatiable third party.
“I feel crazy,” Wolf said, his voice flat. “I swear to God.”
Phoebe looked at the room. It was full of shadows.
“I love you,” Wolf said. “I love you, Phoebe.” He’d never said this before, although Phoebe had said it to him, many times. He was watching her with a slightly crazy look, yet at the same time he seemed attentive to something else, like a noise in the hallway. Phoebe listened, but heard only the vague beginnings of that pounding deep within herself, like evil footsteps making their approach, and it frightened her now, her whole body hurt and she didn’t want any more but she did; some part of her was always empty.
“I love you,” Wolf said, between kisses. “Phoebe, I love you.” They moved together sorrowfully, with apology almost, like strangers consoling each other in the midst of a crisis.
A drenching sleep overcame them. When they woke, it was well past dark. The day had gone, leaving Phoebe with a panicky sense of having missed something important. They discussed whether to drive back now, in darkness, or wait until morning. The prospect of a long drive at this hour was dismal, but even more dismal was the thought of remaining overnight without toothbrushes or changes of clothes. A mood of failure hung in the room like a smell. Phoebe was anxious to confine it within the present day, keep it from touching tomorrow.
They would go back, they decided. Back to their home, such as it was.
Moroccan tiles glazed the bathroom. Big soft towels were folded over rods. “How much does this place cost?” Phoebe asked.
“The beauty of credit cards,” Wolf said. “I have no idea.”
“We’re paying for the whole night, aren’t we?” she said. “Even if we leave.”
Wolf smiled haggardly. “I’d say we’ve gotten our money’s worth.”
In the shower they gently soaped each other’s bodies, but despite their halfhearted efforts to resist, were soon hunched against the tiles, hot water beating against them. Wolf looked paler than Phoebe had ever seen him. She wondered if losing too much semen could be physically dangerous, but decided it was not the time to ask.
A towel at his waist, Wolf examined his beard in the mirror above the sink. He’d been shaving twice each day so his stubble wouldn’t hurt her, and so much shaving had made a rash on his neck. Watching him, Phoebe was startled by the look Wolf exchanged with himself: a cold mix of regret and stubbornness, the look of a man who believes he has ruined his life. But when his gaze met Phoebe’s, she saw the tenderness again, that helpless opening which seemed to flush away everything else. “Let me dry you,” he said, and did so very gently, tamping Phoebe’s shoulders and breasts as if wiping sweat from a feverish child.
In the bedroom they switched on a light. The room was beautiful. Their failure to make proper use of it dogged Phoebe. Clothing lay everywhere, though the bed looked surprisingly neat.
“All right,” Wolf said, checking t
o see they’d left nothing behind. “We’re doing okay here.”
The night was cool and clear, moonless. The only illumination on the empty road came from the sweep of their headlights. To Phoebe the glittery sky had a hapless, random look, as if some precious substance had been wasted there.
“Here’s my idea,” Wolf said when they’d driven a ways from Lucca. “I think we should get out of Italy.”
The suggestion caught Phoebe off-guard. “Why?”
“Because I think we’re in some kind of limbo here, and it’s having this weird effect on us.”
“What about Corniglia?”
Wolf turned to her. The town had not been mentioned for days. “You still want to go to Corniglia?”
Phoebe hesitated. “No.”
“So the question becomes, what are we doing here?”
They twisted through the dark hills. The feeling between them was fragile, dangerous. They’d reached the center of something. “So where would we go?” Phoebe asked.
“Anywhere. Greece, Yugoslavia, hell, Mozambique. We can go anywhere we want—”
“Except Munich.”
Wolf said nothing.
“What about your work?”
“I’ve got a few things pending,” he said. “I’d just—I don’t know, I’d get myself out of it.”
Phoebe listened with rising dismay. Not a word of this sounded plausible. Wolf was talking as if they were fugitives, planning a life on the lam. It was ludicrous. He must have felt this, too. “Hell, I don’t know,” he said. “I don’t know what to do.”
Phoebe turned to the window. The land flew past. It seemed wasteful, how much of it there was. The world was a rash, chancy place, a hill here, a star there. Even this car, herself and Wolf inside it, hurtling under a pointless sky. None of it mattered; it could be this way or any other way.
The Invisible Circus Page 27