“They’re like flowers,” she says.
“They’re a present,” I tell her as I close the door and call the elevator, which slides right open. “This is only the first part of it. I’ll be back with more in just a second.”
She is waiting for me in her doorway when I come back with the next load. “I do like the blue ones, don’t you?” she says.
I am busy struggling to disentangle the strings from my wrist, where I had loosely tied them for safety. “Yes,” I remember to say after a while.
As I shut my door and walk back towards the elevator, she calls out once more. “However, the green is also nice.”
“I think so, too,” I say again. I get into the elevator, and wave at her as the door begins to shut. “One more trip should do it.”
The third and last load is the biggest of all; I manage to get in more than twenty balloons by making myself tiny in a corner of the elevator. When I step out surrounded by the colorful crowd, Mrs. Noffz is still standing at her door.
“Gracious,” she says, and then she uses a phrase very similar to the one that Julio used. “Somebody must love you quite a bit.”
Suddenly stricken with guilt, I whirl around to look at her, yet there is no trace of envy or bitterness on her face. On the contrary, she is from the bodice-ripper ups and downs that I knew with Phillip, when I felt as if my very knuckles hummed with life, this existence is not a bad one: the worst that can be said is that I sometimes feel as if I am half-asleep, and that I cannot be bothered to rouse myself. But then again, perhaps this feeling arises because I am living out a dream.
I like to think of this life that Eric and I have arrived at in terms of the ending that Jane Austen’s heroines (those lively, slightly untamed girls) finally meet—not their success in romance and the marriage market, but rather the fate that awaits them beyond the margins of the book, after the last page is turned. A pleasant enough existence, no doubt, but hardly the stuff that drives narrative, or pulls in readers, or keeps everyone concerned fully awake.
In this state of sleepy contentment, it seems that Theresa Chan could actually add to our store of riches. For in spite of the occasional moments when I (my father’s daughter, after all) snap awake with a desire to bash Eric’s head in with an iron, I like the idea, if not the actuality, of dealing with a problem other than Phillip for a change. It was not so long ago that I thought that there would always be the same three people to consider in this relationship, as well as in this apartment.
Besides, Eric has contended with Phillip so patiently that I almost have no option but to try to forgive.
It is Tuesday, eight days since I got back together with Eric. Thinking to give my mother an account of recent events, I tried and tried to call her, but she (strolling the aisles of the Asian foodstore? flipping through the periodicals in the public library? catching a movie at the art cinema?) has not been at home, though I called her four times in three days. I was beginning to worry again, when I finally reached her yesterday. “I’ve been busy,” was all she said in reply to my queries. I must have been irritated by her terseness, for I did not tell her after all how I cried when I went to Tiffany’s with Eric, and of how he came back to me anyway.
The third week of August has begun, and Eric is taking a vacation from work. He has been spending it here with me. The apartment has been feeling smaller and smaller: usually I dread going anywhere bethrough the open window stirs the balloons into a minor frenzy. The strings beneath them become entangled as they chase each other across the ceiling, and I fall asleep wondering if this is the way that balloons make love.
My dreams are simple and pleasant, and I wake to the sound of a patter on the skylights. After what seems like weeks of drought, the rain comes down briskly, but the sun is still shining; the room is bright enough to read in. Outside the window, the drops shatter the light like glass, refracting it in a hundred different directions. I slowly turn my head away from the view outside, steeling myself to face the sight of Phillip.
He stands near the edge of the bed, surrounded by balloons. Shards of ice and drops of water drip from his hair and trickle down his body. Naked and exposed, he has never stood so close to me in broad daylight, and I examine his penis with some attention. It is limp without being shriveled, and it does not seem much smaller than it would be during an erection. Without desire I reach out and grasp it. It is smooth and wet and freezing cold to the touch, and heavy enough to weigh my hand down. It does not swell and grow, but I would be content to hold it like this forever.
Still holding on to it, I look up at his face. It is as expressionless as ever, the muscles rigid and inflexible, and yet perhaps because of his proximity, perhaps in one of the flashes of insight that often precede a full waking up from sleep, for the first time I am able to see the tenderness in his eyes. So often before have I tried to figure out the feelings that lay behind that impassive face, but if I had only looked at him, really looked without letting my own guilt get in the way, then I would have known why Phillip came back to me. He did not come back out of jealousy, paying visits to make sure that I would spend years pining for him in front of a window, as my mother had pined for my father; nor did he return out of malice, hoping to ruin my life with Eric. Phillip came back to me simply because he had promised he would, and because he loved me, just as I had always loved him.
I tighten my hold on his penis, squeezing until my muscles tense.
“Don’t go,” I say. “Please don’t go.”
Slowly he shakes his head at me. He bends over and with some effort he uncurls my fingers from his penis, and then he straightens his body.
He stands tall and ready, like a soldier. A battalion of balloons ranges itself into a spot above and before him and then, as if at an invisible signal, they fall upon him. There are so many of them that the force of their combined flight creates a gust of wind that ruffles both his hair and mine. In a silent, deadly rush, they push his body onto the floor, and at the same time they cushion his fall so that he hits the ground without a sound. Other balloons hover near me and when I sit up to see what is happening, they pin my arms to the bed so that I cannot move. His limbs are kicking and thrashing, his face can no longer be seen, and his head keeps turning back and forth as he tries to get air. For a few minutes, the room is filled with the sound of his breathing. Finally, after one last twitch, he lies still.
The balloons disperse slowly, floating upwards to their former positions. His body is relaxed and limp, and his feet splay outwards. One of his hands seems to reach out for me, yet I know that that is only wishful thinking: Phillip, with his scars, his twisted grin, his passion for the subways, and his eyes that moved with a life of their own, is dead.
Ceremoniously the balloons organize themselves into a circle above him. There are so many that they make three layers, and the strings dangle down to form a thick curtain. His face is calm and once again smoothed of all expression, with not a trace left of his former agony, and his eyelids hide his look of love.
The hum of the distant Broadway traffic grows more and more powerful, until the engine and the subway sounds are throbbing like a dirge through the window. Parting the curtain of balloon strings, I stretch out my arm to touch him, but his body leaves the floor and drifts away, the ring of balloon strings following it protectively, until it lies just beyond the reach of my hand. The traffic dies down to its usual barely perceptible murmur. His body hovers at the foot of my bed for a second or two longer, and then with a flash of light and a sound like the rushing of birds’ wings during a flock’s startled flight, Phillip is gone.
The hour is a little past noon. After a while I become aware that I am rocking back and forth on my heels, like a midget I once saw on a park bench. I stop myself from rocking when I realize what I am doing, and lie stomach down on the bed to look at the floor, where the dust was stirred during the scuffle. I watch the dust drift slowly back to the ground, each piece swirling in the air, some of them getting caught in the light so
that for one brief moment of stardom, they are as luminescent as the gold on mothwings. When all the dust is settled, I sit up and smooth my clothes out. Then I go to the bathroom and comb my hair, passing time until Eric’s arrival.
Obaasama, I will say, dear Grandmother. How did you feel after Sekiguchi’s funeral? Did you, too, feel diminished but also lighter, a jar hollowed of half its contents?
I am drinking iced tea in the living room half an hour later when the phone rings. It is Eric.
“Hi,” I say. “Thanks for the balloons.”
“They’re nice, aren’t they.” He pauses, and I can hear the sound of people talking behind him. “I’m sorry I didn’t call you back sooner.”
“That’s okay,” I say, and then the words come out in a rush. “I’m sorry, too—you’ve been so patient and I’ve acted so badly—”
“Stop it,” he interrupts, the evenness of his tone condemning my outburst. “You weren’t at fault.”
“That’s not true, but thanks.” He does not say anything, so I clear my throat and fill in the silence. “So,” I say. “So how have you been?”
“Fine. Well, at least work has been fine.”
“I’m glad,” I say.
“Kiki,” he begins, and then he hesitates. “Kiki, I don’t want to talk over the phone. I want to see you now.”
“Wait—aren’t you at the office?”
“I left work early. I’m actually in that cafe on 105th Street. I was going to drop by and surprise you, but at the last minute I thought I’d better call first.”
“You’re just a few blocks away?”
“Yes.”
“Come on over,” I tell him. “I’d love to see you.”
In rhythm we take turns saying good-bye, and then in unison we hang up the phone.
CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO
WHEN WE FIRST see each other, Eric and I do not speak. In his elegant corporate attire, with that unruly lock of hair falling over his forehead, he stands just inside the door, his hands shoved deep in the pockets of his pants. He glances at me and then he gazes down at his polished black shoes. He rubs the floor with one foot until it squeaks. We are both watching the ground when he begins to talk.
“Look,” he says, his voice loud and arrogant, “I need to know once and for all. Are you sure about this?”
“Yes.”
Looking up from the floor, he directs his words squarely at a point on the wall behind me. “Kiki, I know it was tough for you after Phillip died, but I don’t want to hear about it anymore. I think I’ve been sympathetic and patient long enough. There comes a time when you’ve got to forget and move on, and now is that time.”
He looks away, back at the floor, as if he grudged me even that much kindness. I am about to protest the harsh tone of his voice when he coughs and rubs his hand across his forehead. He turns so I can no longer see his face, but he is a little too slow: it must be my day for seeing through people because for the first time, I can see that there is doubt lurking within those fine dark eyes, and nervousness held in check by the hard line of his mouth. Eric is scared.
Something tugs at me, then, an almost physical need to go to him and stroke his head and hold him against my chest. It is a tenderness that rises from deep within me, from a recess so hidden I was never before aware of its existence. Yet I resist its urge and remain still, watching him as he looks down at his feet.
I never could determine why, exactly, I loved Phillip, nor could I pinpoint what it was that drew me to him. But when Eric came along to romance me out of mourning, so soon after all that I had had with Phillip, I had to ask myself why I would want to be with him. And I came to the conclusion that I would grow to love Eric for the way he first took me by the hand and led me to his bed, for the breadth of his shoulders, the comforting circle of his arms, the umbrella he held over me when it rained: I would fall in love with him for his strength and confidence. Yet I was wrong.
Obaasama, I will say, you whose husband founded and ruled a banking empire, becoming a man so powerful that the Emperor himself inclined his head to him. Grandmother, is this a secret that you and I share: that the most admired of men are the neediest of all?
If a person is male, white, heterosexual, and even good-looking, if he is earmarked for success by virtue of birthright, upbringing, talents, and his own predisposition, if he has been praised, admired, and cheered from all sides throughout his lifetime, if he has in fact achieved success and success only, then I would guess that he must be one of the world’s more vulnerable people, as well as the luckiest. It must be a little scary to have gotten everything one ever wanted, or could want. If a person has always been that lucky, then he does not know how much misfortune he can take, and how far he can fall without dying.
Given that after Phillip died, I was so numb I could not muster the energy to desire on my own, perhaps it was only inevitable that what I responded to was the depth of Eric’s need for me. It was his weaknesses that drew me to him: the bluster behind his bravado, the skinny white knees and the hole in his sock, the fingers that clutch at my hair as he sleeps. In the end, I fell for Eric because he needed me enough for the both of us.
No longer able to resist that urge which rises from deep within my body, I move or rather sway towards Eric slowly, almost involuntarily. But even as I approach him, I am thinking that with Phillip (the apex to our triangle, the guest of honor at our party) well and truly gone, my relationship with Eric will be a completely different affair. Through no fault of his, we are going to have to start over.
He has been waiting, studying his shoe.
“Okay,” I say.
“Well?” he asks. “What’s the verdict?”
He looks and sounds cool and businesslike, as if he really was just waiting for a verdict in a remote court case, but I will not be fooled by his mask again.
“I’m over Phillip. He’s dead.” Then I laugh at how silly that sounds. “I guess it’s about time I figured that one out.”
He looks at me for a moment in silence.
“And you want to be with me?”
“Did I forget to mention that?”
He holds back, perhaps still shy. “Are you sure?”
“Oh Eric,” I say, and that is all I can manage, but somehow my feelings must come out in my voice, because his eyes widen and he slowly begins to smile.
He holds out his arms; I walk into them and then he holds me, tight.
Throughout the afternoon and the evening and well into the night, Eric and I made love beneath the slanting shadows of the swaying balloons. In between the sex we lay on our backs with our hands behind our heads, talking and laughing as we watched the balloons scud across an imaginary cloudless sky, our feet bumping and rubbing against each other. When it became too dark to see more than the outlines of the balloons, we whispered together as we lay entwined around each other, our limbs anonymous in the soft glow of the New York light.
In the living room the moths were giddier than usual, drunkenly soaring in gorgeous arcs and loops. There were dozens and dozens of them. They seemed to be celebrating, and when I walked among them I felt as if I were standing in happy clouds of violet. If life with Eric is balloons in the bedroom and dancing moths in the living room and sex all the time, then my future with him bodes well indeed.
It is five in the morning now; the room is filled with shadows, and the balloons are starting to sink. Colorless and shapeless in the pale light, they seem to loom over us. A loose string dangles down, and when the last night breeze blows, it brushes against Eric’s forehead. His face twitches, and I pull the string away from him.
One evening, as we stepped out of a restaurant downtown, a Mexican boy came up to us and tried to sell us rosebuds. It was past midnight and the air was chilly; the streetlights were very bright. Eric wanted to buy me one but I told him how I dislike getting flowers, how depressed I feel when the petals fall off and the leaves shrivel and curl up into brown balls that litter the floor, how even flowers pressed in books
eventually and inevitably disintegrate into dust. The boy was persuasive and terribly funny, though, so after much friendly bargaining I ended up buying four awfully overpriced rosebuds for Eric, and all three of us—Eric, me, and most of all the boy—walked away pleased with the transaction. But all this time, Eric has remembered that I do not like getting flowers. Instead he buys me candies from India and pastries from Greece, and big presents like gold earrings and the television, and now the balloons.
While the sky is blue and getting bluer, the sun has yet to rise. In the murky light of the bedroom, I cannot make out the details of the fingers on my left hand, but when I rub them together, I can feel the hard surface where the skin has grown over the blisters. I look at Eric lying next to me, sleeping so deeply that for once he is beyond making little noises, and like my mother and her mother before her, I bow my head to express gratitude. In his sleep he stirs as if he understood, and he rolls over towards me. Like a wave, his arm hangs suspended in midair before it crashes down over my body. It is too heavy, and suddenly the bed seems overcrowded and stiflingly hot. I want to push him away and run outside, and then just as quickly, the moment is over. “Eric,” I whisper, the word like a charm. Silently I thank him once again and wrap his arm tighter around me, and then I close my eyes.
After only three or four hours of sleep, Eric gets up at six so he can go home and change before heading off to work again. For once I wake up with him; we remain glued together all the way to the front door and then out to the hall. Dressed in a floral print nightgown and her red Wellingtons, Mrs. Noffz opens the door and benevolently watches us as we kiss outside in the hallway. When the elevator comes, Eric gets into it and still we do not miss a beat, our lips remaining stuck together until the doors almost close on our noses.
He calls me three times from the office just to say hello.
In the evening, he comes over straight from work; I meet him with a big hug at the door, and we go right back to bed. Three hours later, we are so hungry that we reluctantly get dressed to leave the apartment. I am wonderfully sore from all the sex. We go to an Ethiopian restaurant that Phillip and I had discovered; I feel proud of myself because the memory does not cause me even a pang.
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