Noble Vision: A Novel

by Gen LaGreca

  Cool air rushed into the stuffy room as David swung the door open and left.

  * * * * *

  Too agitated to be confined in a taxi, David walked briskly through the steaming city streets. But even his anger could not sustain his fast pace that hot day, and his steps soon slowed to a plod. The dank summer air had sapped his energy, just as the meeting at the BOM had sapped his spirit. He passed an outdoor café dotted with people sipping colorful summer drinks at tables covered with checkered cloths. Quitting time had arrived, and workers were spilling into the restaurants and bars to unwind from the day’s tensions. Should he not do the same? But the bitter taste from the meeting combined with the rank smell of the city at rush hour left him feeling unable to eat or drink anything.

  He phoned his wife to say that he would be working late. Despite his intention to go to his office, he seemed unable to steer his steps in that direction. Instead, they took him to the nearby theater district. His thoughts traveled back to a time when he had leaped out of bed each morning, eager for a fresh dose of the sweet addiction that nourished him, the surgeries that were his food, water, and air, with their struggles and victories. He felt that something was now vanishing. He still had struggles. But what was he losing and needing most urgently to reclaim? He stopped before a theater marquee that seemed to hold the answer. It said Triumph.

  David Lang did not go to his office that evening. Instead, he bought a ticket to Nicole Hudson’s show.

  Chapter 5

  Hide and Seek

  When he left Riverview Hospital at one o’clock the next afternoon, David Lang was unhappy. Despite his intention to remain busy until his midafternoon office appointments, he had swiftly completed his morning surgeries and hospital rounds without any complications, emergencies, or distraught relatives to detain him. Being ahead of schedule displeased David because it gave him time to do something that he had promised himself he would not do.

  He stepped outside into the tropical forest of scantily clad people, hot asphalt, and smoking gridlock that was Manhattan in July. He walked for a few blocks until he reached the glass door of a flower shop where a puff of cool, fragrant air welcomed him. He strolled through the shop, surveying the store’s colorful inventory with the intensity of a composer creating a theme. After careful deliberation, he beckoned the proprietor, a businesswoman in a tailored dress, standing nearby.

  “I know what I want,” he said, smiling.

  Pointing to an array of exotic flowers in a display case, he described the arrangement that he envisioned.

  “And will there be a note, sir?

  “No!”

  The proprietor looked curious at the sudden edge in his voice.

  “All right,” she said pleasantly, gathering the flowers.

  The woman assembled the display while David directed the creation. With a boyish excitement, he watched the product of his imagination take physical shape.

  “On second thought, I’ll take a piece of your stationery.”

  When David received the paper, his smile vanished, his head dropped, and he stared intently at the blank sheet. Sitting on a stool at the end of the counter, he began to write. With a hand that controlled minutely accurate instruments in the exacting repair of the intricate human brain, he wrote in a script of such exquisite precision that the letter he composed seemed more like art than mere communication.

  * * * * *

  Five blocks away at the Taylor Theater, a leotard-clad Nicole Hudson had just completed a ballet class with her fellow dancers prior to the day’s matinee. Returning to her dressing room, she sprawled across the couch to relax for a moment before showering. Her head rested on a pillow, her long legs extended past the armrest. Her eyes paused on a picture hanging on the wall. The photo captured her at age sixteen, in arabesque, playing the princess of her favorite childhood ballet. Nicole smiled at her likeness, remembering the thrill of her first leading role, a thrill she now felt every day as Pandora.

  She was born Cathleen Hughes, the daughter of an alcoholic mother and a father she never knew. She had lived with her mother in a dilapidated building on Manhattan’s West Side, in a neighborhood never visited by the tour buses. Whenever her mother spoke of her father’s disappearance, the subject of Nicole’s birth invariably followed. “Your father had a job. He gave me money. I thought he’d marry me once I had you. But, no, he wasn’t ready for a little brat. He took off the day you were born,” her mother would tell her resentfully. “That day’s cursed, I tell you! It’s the day I started drinking.”

  Because the mother tried to forget the cursed day, the child did not know when she was born. Sister Luke from St. Jude’s Parish, where the neighborhood children gathered, had a practice of lighting a candle on a cupcake for a youngster having a birthday, leading the other children in singing to the honored one. “When’s your birthday, Cathleen?” the nun once asked. “The Fourth of July,” the child replied, because she liked the holiday’s bands and fireworks.

  What the mother failed to provide, the child tried to substitute. On the frequent days when her mother slept until noon, the child rose early, dressed herself, climbed onto a chair to search the kitchen cabinets for a stale cookie or bag of pretzels for breakfast, took her key, then went to school. Always draped over her shoulder was a torn serape picked from the trash behind a flea market. On occasions when she returned home to find the door locked from the inside, indicating that her mother was entertaining a male visitor, the child neither whined nor cried nor pounded on the door. In the silent, matter-of-fact manner that became her habit, she made do. She canvassed her favorite garbage cans for food. Wrapped in her colorful serape, she slept in the hallway of her building. When the dinner pickings were slim or the night was cold, the child went to St. Jude’s to be sheltered by Sister Luke until such time as her mother noticed her absence and retrieved her.

  When she was eight, her mother left her on the steps of St. Jude’s with a promise: “I’ll come back for you as soon as I can.” She never returned. The child remembered the man waiting for her mother in a nearby car, the man who spoke of marrying her mother but who always referred to her as a “nuisance.” Thus, Nicole was born in her mother’s attempt to land a man and abandoned for the same reason.

  Perhaps because the child had already acquired a stray cat’s skill at caring for herself and a future star’s dream of dancing on stage, she survived her gloomy predicament. The radiant sixteen-year-old princess pictured in the dressing room looked unscathed. Never one to take success for granted, Nicole instead always cherished every signpost of it. From her spot on the couch, she smiled at her likeness in quiet salute.

  Just then the phone rang.

  “Hello.”

  “Is this Nicole Hudson?” a voice whispered.

  “Yes.”

  “This is Tony from Regal Flowers. You were in here a week ago—”

  “Yes, Tony!” Her heart raced. She remembered the shop and the teenage clerk.

  “You said to call if somebody came to buy you flowers.”

  “That’s right! Is he there now?”

  “You said you’d give me two hundred bucks—”

  “The money’s yours! Is he there? Can you speak up?”

  “I don’t want him to hear,” the caller whispered. “The boss is making an arrangement for him that I’m supposed to bring you. He won’t be here much longer.”

  “Did he give his name?” She flew into her closet and threw a pair of slacks and a blouse over her leotard.

  “No, but he’s tall, black hair, light gray suit, tie—”

  “Is he . . . young?”

  “He’s pretty old,” said the teenager. “But not wrinkled yet,” he added encouragingly.

  “Is he . . . handsome?”

  “Looks like any other guy to me.”

  “Stall him till I get there! You hear, Tony? I’m on my way!”

  Seconds later, as she rushed out the back door of the theater, the humidity outside flushed her face.


  Hopes of hailing a cab vanished when she saw the gridlocked traffic. Walking would be faster. She tried running, but the lunch crowd was formidable. Her gazelle’s legs were reduced to a turtle’s pace as she skirted around people and wedged between cars. She remembered the flower shop; it was one she had contacted recently in her search for the Phantom. She wondered at the eagerness of her steps. What kind of force was pulling her? She could not answer. She only knew that she must meet it head-on. After walking one street west, she had four blocks left. She must hurry. But a red light and a caravan of vehicles barred her advance. Like a caged cheetah, she paced across the width of the walkway, ready to leap forward on the green.

  * * * * *

  The shop owner presented a lively, scented flower arrangement for David’s approval. He examined it, touched it, turned it, smelled it, shook it. The proprietor thought he would taste it.

  “It could use a little red here,” he said, pointing.

  The proprietor reached for flowers with the velvety richness of a prized Bordeaux. “Will these do?”

  “Oh, yes!” he said, smiling.

  The owner embellished the arrangement, and David proclaimed it perfect. He slipped a sealed letter into the wrapping and paid the bill.

  * * * * *

  Two blocks away, exhaust fumes thickened the air, horns blared, and pedestrians cluttered the sidewalks. With a football player’s swinging arms and raised elbows, the graceful Nicole of classical ballet charged past the obstructions. She advanced only a few paces when a conveyor belt unloading boxes from a truck blocked her path. She joined the trickle of people winding into the street around the vehicle. Dainty feet accustomed to tiptoeing on pointe tripped over the heels of the protesting person ahead. Then Nicole collided with three tourists taking a picture. The world seemed to move in slow motion. She reached the corner, with only one more block north to walk. You’re not going to get away this time! she thought. But then came another red light.

  * * * * *

  The husky youth named Tony looked more like a linebacker than a flower deliverer. With his hands on his hips and his legs spread apart, he formidably blocked David’s advance to the door.

  “Excuse me, Mr. . . . uh . . . Mr. . . .”

  “Yes?”

  “I’m going to be delivering these flowers, sir, but I’m not sure where the Taylor Theater is.”

  David looked surprised, as the theater was well known. “It’s three blocks south and two east. You can’t miss it,” he said, stepping around Tony to reach for the doorknob.

  With one quick lunge, Tony blocked the door with his body.

  “But, sir, I was . . . uh, wondering—is the Taylor Theater on the street with the construction? Is it that old building next to Harley’s restaurant?”

  “It’s on that street, but a few doors east. Now, if you’ll excuse me.”

  David’s hand reached out to Tony’s midsection, behind which lurked a doorknob.

  “How much farther east?” Tony’s body did not budge.

  “You’ll find it.”

  David and Tony faced off; David tried to reach the door while Tony stood stalwart against it. A line of scrimmage developed, attracting the attention of the proprietor. Her two raised eyebrows finally prodded Tony’s body from the exit, and David was permitted to leave.

  * * * * *

  Nicole sprinted north, her voluminous hair waving behind her like a banner. She stretched her long neck to see the flower shop at the end of the block and across the street. What if she did not like the Phantom? she wondered. Good, she thought. Then I’ll be rid of this intrusion in my life! Nicole had no experience dealing with intrusions.

  As she reached the corner and stepped off the curb, she saw a tall man in a gray suit leave the flower shop and step off the curb on the opposite side of the narrow street, facing her across a distance of twelve feet. They both stopped and stared at each other in astonishment.

  Somewhere on the edge of David’s awareness, he now understood the reason for the employee’s odd behavior. With reflexes primed for shocks, he remained expressionless, except for his eyes, which widened in amazement. He made no attempt to hide being caught. His glance fixed on her, and his astonishment softened to a look that was open, calm, almost tender.

  Nicole eyed the starched collar of his shirt and the crisp lines of his suit. He seemed impervious to the stifling heat that wilted the figures around him. His hair formed a black backdrop for his face. His eyes seemed to hold center stage, two green magnets pulling her. His mouth was the mysterious part of the scene, its muscles drawn tight, its next move unknown. She found no trace of the despair punctuating his letters and wondered if she alone knew of an inner struggle he kept hidden from the world. His straight posture and penetrating face suggested a man possessing the capacity to write her letters. His countenance was so proud that it seemed as if a spotlight were shining on him, dimming everyone else by contrast. She thought that the stage, not the street, was the fitting place for such a presence. He looked like the prince of her favorite ballet, the one whose powerful kiss awakens her from a long sleep and delivers her to everlasting happiness.

  But he was not a prince in a fairy tale, she reminded herself. He was a real man in the world—her world. She suddenly wanted to force him to blink, to make his eyes turn away first. She cocked her head and looked at him insolently. I don’t know anything about you, she thought, but maybe I know you better than anyone. I know your deepest longings and your worst despair. You tell me. I think you tell only me. You need me!

  He saw the meaning of his letters written on her face, a sight that did cause his eyes to break away from hers, but not in the manner she had intended. His eyes danced over her body in a momentary sweep, too subtle to be rude yet too pointed to be polite, a sweep so palpable it made her suddenly aware of her breasts beneath her thin blouse, her thighs against her slacks, the strange tingling down her throat. When his eyes again met hers, it was she who dropped her glance.

  This was the first time he had seen her offstage. Without makeup, she looked younger—and more beautiful. He saw a slender young woman with a slim waist, a swanlike neck, and legs too long for a human form, legs suited to a graceful feline. He liked the contrast between the dainty body and the power of its movements on stage. She looked at once vulnerable and strong.

  He was struck most by the arresting face that watched him. The firm set of her mouth showed no trace of the laughter that had enchanted him from the stage; the intensity of the giant blue eyes bore no hint of the gaiety he knew. He saw instead an earnestness that was more haunting than her joy, an earnestness he had not anticipated. He searched her face for a sign of levity, which he knew would set him free of her forever, but he could detect no amusement. He saw only a quiet solemnity that conveyed to him what his letters meant to her.

  While they stared at each other, neither one seemed to notice that the traffic light was green and the street clear; either one could have crossed at any moment. They continued to face each other across twelve feet until the light changed and a city bus lumbered into the road between them. After the vehicle passed, Nicole was left with a question. Her eyes darted to the nearby subway entrance, to the stores along the street, to the crowded sidewalk, searching for an answer.

  Where did the Phantom go?

  * * * * *

  David returned to his office and arranged to take his wife out to dinner. He told himself that he had written his last letter to Nicole. He’d never intended to meet her. He’d certainly never intended to cross the street that afternoon, wrap his arms twice around the slender waist, and press his mouth against hers before any words could be spoken between them. That was just an impulse! Fortunately, the bus had passed, jolting him back to his senses.

  “Dr. Lang, are you feeling okay?”

  He realized that his secretary had been knocking for a few moments.

  “What is it?” he asked the head peering through the door.

  “It’s about the chocol
ates you want sent to your wife. Do you prefer dark chocolate, milk chocolate, white choc—”

  “Why don’t you decide?”

  “And would you like truffles or—”

  “Whatever you think is good.”

  “And do you want a note or—”

  “Have them scribble my name on a card.”

  “Okay.”

  She watched him through the shrinking slit in the door she was closing, puzzled by his uncharacteristic curtness.

  Trying to tackle the mound of paperwork on his desk, he grabbed a document but instead saw across the page the immense innocence of Nicole’s face. But that was the one thing he must not see, for the delicate figure had been dangerous to him from the start.

  The previous summer, in a laboratory that he kept at the university, David had begun an experiment of great importance. By the fall, after hundreds of hours spent isolating his new embryonic protein and scar inhibitor, he hoped to overcome seven years of failed attempts in his research. On the brains of fifty rats, he performed the first of his two operations to regenerate nerve tissue. This experiment, he believed, could finally bring success.

  In January, as he was ready to perform the second surgery on the rats to determine whether the new technique worked, he received visitors—inspectors from the Department of Animal Welfare.

  “Dr. Lang,” said the chief inspector, Daryl Denkins, a thin man with a colorful bow tie and lifeless eyes, “the approval period for your study is expiring, so we’re here to reevaluate your research and discuss revisions.”

  Standing by the door, David stepped aside to let the officials enter, but the annoyance on his face conveyed another message. He remained silent while Denkins and two assistants analyzed his records, examined the animals, and surveyed the premises.