by Lucy Ives
I, on the other hand, was the descendant of parents who were both the very first in their families to make good. They were trying their hands at venality-as-lifestyle, as it were, and I still had a choice. I didn’t have to go along with it. I didn’t have to believe in the meaning of these exchanges. I could elect to follow the laws of some other system.
But so far this hadn’t really worked out for me. I had struggled and written a dissertation about public irony as it existed two centuries ago. And I had married a funny man who seemed to like me a great deal, but who had no real ability to understand or accept what it was that drove me to do things like write 100K+ scholarly words about transatlantic rudeness. Like me, Whit wasn’t a worshipper of the system, which was what had made him good at interpreting and occasionally manipulating the law, but he was also and indubitably a fan of the path of least resistance. His fragile conception of himself, unwieldy, feeble, and essentially as permeable as wet tissue, could not bear up under any kind of stress. I may be misanthropic, but I know what I am and I am not a fan of the least resistant path. If I want a way out, I will cut it myself.
—
IN MY OFFICE I BEGAN doing a bit of looking into the Wunsches of New York, who I felt might be relations of Brunhilda et al. They were a German family who had owned an enormous piece of land, nearby and including what is now the town of Hudson. In the late eighteenth century, they had successfully sold the portion of territory now containing Hudson off to a dotty former Brit who was not into the Crown and who had been having some difficulties keeping up his whaling and shipping business on the island of Nantucket during the fraught years of the Revolutionary War. Much of the Wunsches’ archive was maintained at a historical museum south of Albany, which some bountiful bequest by a twentieth-century descendant of the family kept free of mildew and parasitic worms. This archive had a website, and on this website was a phone number, which I, being an enterprising person, called.
The first thing I needed to confirm with my interlocutor was that the Wunsches whose archive she upheld were plausibly the same Wunsches whose eligible daughter, attesting to the especially pronounced reproducibility of women during this time, had been painted with a rose by a limner back when New York State was a wilderness.
“Yes,” said the lady on the line. She expressed surprise that I, working at CeMArt (she had caller ID), was not already aware of this connection. “You have the right ones!”
I thanked her.
“There weren’t that many wealthy Palatines back then,” she assured me. “You can be confident!”
The next question I had for her was whether the famous nineteenth-century feminist reformer Brunhilda Wunsch Gaypoole was a relative.
“Of the Wunsches?”
I averred I meant the very ones.
“Of course! She’s one of them!” The speaker paused. “She had a very interesting husband, as I recall. He was a publisher on the side.”
“Oh,” I said.
“Sort of a Leonard Woolf.”
“Really?”
“Well, of course she was rather less prolific. But Gilbert helped her publish. Apud Gilbertium Lacunam Felicem, ‘At the House of Gilbert Joyous Pool,’ to translate rather literally, if you’ve seen one of the title pages? There was a novel, along with the social writings. It came earlier. Not so well known.”
“Right,” I said. This was Lorelei of Millbury. I reflected, with a thrilling shiver, that I had been correct. I told her that I had another question.
“And what might that be?”
I said that I wanted to know if she had ever heard of a place called Elysia.
There was momentary silence on the line.
“Hello?” I said.
“Still here!”
I repeated my request for information related to a place, real or imagined, by the name of E-L-Y-S-I-A.
The voice came back over the line. “‘A place where no one mourns, and nothing irreplaceable is lost, and nothing lost is irretrievable’?”
I didn’t know how this person knew that she could get away with this with me. But she did. And could. I replied, “Yes. A place ‘with tears dry and wrongs righted, where nothing that occurs in dreams knows human fear or cruelty.’ Do you know anything about it?”
“‘Dear seeker, careful one—’” The woman started laughing and she couldn’t go on. “OK, OK, you’ve got me. Who’s this?”
Suddenly my blood ran cold. Had I just accidentally rushed the club? “Oh,” I began, “I’m, um, new. I don’t know. I just had a question.”
“Of course you’re new,” said the voice, souring abruptly. “Everyone who calls is new.”
I refused to be intimidated. “New to this, you mean?”
“Yes, of course, new to this! What d’you think I mean?”
Oh lady, I thought. “Well, I was just wondering, you see, if you don’t mind my asking, I’ve been doing some research regarding a commonplace book kept by Brunhilda Wunsch Gaypoole—”
“Yes, you’re very lucky to have it in your collection.”
“Thank you.”
“You’re welcome.”
“Well, I was just wondering, in the book I had come upon a map.”
“Yes?”
“It describes a place named Elysia, and it seems as if you are familiar with the poem that accompanies the map. I really just wanted to know if you had any further information about—”
“The map?”
“Yes, about the map.”
“Are you affiliated with an institution?”
“What?” I said.
“Are you affiliated with an institution?”
It was an interesting question. “Yes, of course.”
“I ask because we have different rates for private individuals versus larger bodies. You’ll have to give me an email address and then I’ll get back to you with an invoice as well as the documents you are requesting.”
“I am requesting documents?”
“Yes! You are!”
“OK,” I said, “any hint as to what these might be?”
“Oh, there will be a complete description. Fear not!”
“And when might I expect these, the, er, documents?”
“Oh, certainly by midafternoon, I should say.”
“Great,” I told her. “And, actually, I’m just going to go with ‘individual,’ if that’s OK?”
“It’s fine by me.”
I spelled out my Gmail address.
[ 23 ]
After I had hung up the phone, something made me turn in my seat.
Fred was standing in the doorway of my office. “Sounds like you’re doing some intriguing research,” he said.
I smiled. “Always.”
“It’s nice to see.”
This was the cue that we were going to play the game of pleasantries. I wasn’t totally opposed to this, although I could think of better things to do with the next hour. The main thing that annoyed me about this game was that Fred always got to decide when it would begin and when it would end. Here my input was less unwelcome than irrelevant; Fred, being the more puissant of the two of us, had to take it upon himself to perform the role of game master. It wasn’t, again, that I was so bad at the game. I just wasn’t quite as invested as my lover.
The emotional affair continued: “How are you doing?” I offered.
Fred indicated with his body that he was exhausted. He was not incapable of physical humor. “May I come in?” he wanted to know.
I made a gesture to the effect that, yes, of course. And Fred shut the door most of the way and seated himself on a rickety period piece that had once been part of the collection but which a curator before my time had identified as a subtle reproduction and which had subsequently been deaccessioned into my office. The chair resembled a converted umbrella stand to which a cushion had been haphazardly stapled. It groaned in protest even at Fred’s meager derriere.
“It’s been kind of an incredible week.” I really didn’t care that much a
bout Fred’s show but now was the time for me to express my awe, and if I didn’t make a good display, there would be trouble.
Fred smoothed his hair back. His face was getting plainer. He wanted to be himself. “It has. I’m kind of overwhelmed.” He sat with his legs apart, hands on his knees, leaning over. He was wearing black slacks, a light blue button-down with sleeves rolled up. I eyed the veins on his forearms.
“That’s understandable. You do so much.”
“Not really. Not enough.”
“It’s hard to imagine how you could do more.”
“Ha!” said Fred. “I guess so. But there is so much to do.”
“It’s true.” The pleasantries were really starting to wear thin. If things continued this way, soon I would have to resort to complimenting him on his clothing, with exhaustive treatment of each individual item.
Fred sighed. “It is true,” he repeated, with new emphasis. “I try to keep a balance.” This last comment, by the way, was for Fred tantamount to a major confession. He did not easily admit to any kind of difficulty in relation to work.
I decided that I could make this quality time together somewhat more useful for myself by trying to extract some information from Fred regarding the future. I said, “I was amazed about the collaboration with WANSEE. I mean, franchises of the museum, wow. I imagine that will really help with revenue.”
“I know!” Fred smiled. “The board was very reluctant at first.”
“Why was that?” I knew exactly why, but Fred would enjoy answering the question and I wanted, for reasons of both affection and self-interest, to give him that pleasure.
“Well, you know, what are we going to put in these places? How will they possibly reflect the core mission, and so forth.”
I nodded. “I’d imagine they would be concerned about dilution”—I paused—“of the institution, I guess. If that’s an apt metaphor.”
“No, I think that’s exactly right.”
“So what convinced them in the end?”
“I brought in statistics on the number of people who graduate with doctorates in the history of art each year and the number of jobs available to them. And I gave a little talk about the state of inheritance tax, and the artworks people currently give and would like to give, that is, would like to be able to give, based on my own research. And I showed some figures regarding the recent changes to the museum’s collection—and to collections of the few comparable museums around the world? It’s clear that if CeMArt would like to maintain market share it must continue to scale. We are also probably the only major collection of pre-nineteenth-century Western art anywhere in the world that does not have significant government funding. And the City of New York is not about to give us ten acres of parkland to build on for free anytime soon. If you think about the Louvre, how it commandeered its own medieval foundations at one point? This is a literal expression of what is possible in Europe that is not possible here. And the contemporary collections have become so unbelievably aggressive. And then there’s Saadiyat and things of that nature. We don’t even need to go into that.”
“No,” I agreed. I didn’t know what he was referring to.
“So this makes sense, I think.” Fred looked up from the carpet. His large, fine eyes searched me out. He wanted to know if I was willing to go along with him.
“It does,” I lied. And then I lied some more. “Also, it seems incredibly exciting.”
“That’s how I’ve tried to think about it!” The sudden enthusiasm betrayed his own doubt and even reluctance to undertake the very measures he had, ostensibly, already undertaken. “I mean, can you imagine being someone incredibly young and having the opportunity, for all intents and purposes, to direct her own museum? It’s not like you’d have to travel to Mars.”
I started to wonder what Fred was trying to tell me. Was he offering me a promotion, and/or exile? Would I, Stella Krakus, be granted the distinct pleasure of picking up shop and transferring my existence to Nevada or São Paolo or Abu Dhabi, or wherever it was going to be? Here I could be in remote dialogue with dear Fred, be his loyal extension and creative emissary. I could attempt to realize my own vision, and if I were lucky and successful enough, perhaps I would someday distinguish myself to the extent that I could return to New York City and have some sort of viable job by the time I was fifty. What an idea!
But I tried not to let it show too much when Fred’s machinations terrified me, and so I said, “Of course not. I mean, it’s not like anywhere is really that far away anymore!”
“Ha!” said Fred. But all the same he seemed slightly sad.
“Hey,” I said, attempting to catch our respective emotions up to speed, “it’s not like I said I’m taking the job.”
This made Fred crack a lopsided smile. “I didn’t say I was offering.”
“I know. You’re not running this entire place—”
“Yet.”
“Right.”
Fred was loose, liberated by my intuitive understanding of his plan. He could trust me as much as he needed to because I didn’t have any power. But he enjoyed and respected my intelligence. He was someone who had never stopped liking a good time.
“It’s sort of unbelievable, the current climate. Everything’s going to be different, so very soon. Change is the order of the day. But we can also define it, that’s the thing. That’s the thing, I think, that makes this distinct from other periods in human history.”
Fred was becoming messianic and obviously felt at home in this state. I wasn’t sure if I myself felt so sanguine about climate change, whatever Fred meant by that phrase, though clearly he wasn’t exactly or exclusively referring to the earth’s ecology. This sort of ruthless cheer was one of his go-to modes. I used to like this about Fred, this quality he had, because it suggested that he knew what he wanted and was not afraid to obtain it however it could be gotten, hook, crook, etc. He wasn’t ashamed of creating a world in his own image and then adding a house to that image. Inside that image, in that house, he could privately dwell. He clearly respected his own self-sufficiency, maybe even considered it a kind of political good. When I was still with Whit, this aspect of Fred seemed like a safe and comforting bet and therefore made Fred an excellent sidepiece. Fred’s vision of life corresponded to his own desires in a way that was novel to me. It was eminently rational. He had painstakingly measured the height and depth of his needs and created an appropriate container for them. I saw the little house, too, sitting there inside that imaginary world. It fit Fred so well. I had, fool that I was, walked blithely up to the front door and I had knocked. From inside the house there had come a noise as if someone had fallen off his chair. And someone rushed to the window and looked out and I saw that person’s face. It was Fred. Fred, I called out, open the door. He peered out his window, surprised to see someone standing in his yard, otherwise completely neat and obviously long empty. Fred, I am here. I am here, please let me in. The Fred in the window made signs indicating that he was not permitted to open the door to anyone. Could you, I suggested, at the very least open the window. Fred considered this. He opened the window just a crack, less than an inch. He put his mouth down to the aperture. I’ve never done this before, was what he said, before closing the window again. From behind the glass, I saw him mouth, Things are perfect the way they are. Then the lights in the house Fred had constructed for himself in the world he had created for himself went dim. No matter how many times I knocked on the door and no matter what I screamed up at him from his cabbage garden, he never came to the door again. To be honest, I wasn’t even sure he lived there anymore. But I was still standing there in that garden. Maybe I was enraged, maybe stricken with grief, it was difficult to say. I seemed, even to myself, an implausible player in this drama. The ground was sandy, and I’d recently retreated to the base of a tree to wait out eternity. Fred had sent a number of friendly but efficient messengers to let me know that I could stay as long as I wanted, but that I shouldn’t expect anyone to answer my calls.
The messengers were polite but basically firm. Also, when rhetoric and repetition failed them, they simply disappeared into thin air.
I examined Fred’s face. I had become completely motionless in my own real desk chair, but also under that imaginary tree. You could have mistaken me for a statue, inside of Fred’s imagination, and at this point I think some of the messengers did. I think some of them thought that I had stopped being human long ago and now they just walked by me without bothering to convey the message. And because my legs were now basically marble, it was not really possible for me to get up from under the tree, and so I resorted to a Jedi measure. I had begun, over the millennia, to construct an exact replica of the world of Fred’s imagining within my own mind, with a single small difference, that here there were not one but two of me, and the second one of me had arrived to carry the first one of me out. If my mission was successful, I would be able to see the world beyond Fred again, I would remember what this was, and I would be able to leave him, if I wanted to. I didn’t need, you see, so much to escape as I needed that choice. I needed to learn how to have that choice, to make it something that I could do, because without it, I could not be with anyone.
“Stella?”
The bubble popped.
“Sorry,” I said. “I was doing some reading last night and I didn’t sleep as much as I probably should have.”
“That’s OK.” Fred did not ask me how I was. He said, “I’ve been thinking about Paul.”
“Yes?”
“Haven’t you?”
I nodded. I said, “I didn’t realize that he used to be married.”
“It seems like that was a little while ago.”
“Have you read many of her books?”
“Ella Voss’s? Mostly about them.”
“It’s interesting.”
“What about it?”
“Well,” I said, “just how it is when two writers are together. If that ever works out.”
“I’d imagine it’s like it is for anyone. You can either be with someone or you can’t. And for a long time even if you’re not with them you’ll think that you’re together.”
Fred was being extremely forthcoming.