"You want someone impervious to hurt?"
"Not impervious, but resilient, and strong."
"You want a woman."
"Yes. Of course. I've said that.” Only after the words were out of his mouth did he realize that it was not a question so much as a recommendation.
"Women are difficult."
"To make?"
"Yes."
"More difficult than men?"
"Men are difficult too. We do better with women. We have a higher success rate. Better results."
"Why is that?” asked Robert, and for this received a lecture in the fundamentals of filigree mo-bi, which Stanovic was more than happy to dispense and which quickly blossomed into something so labyrinthine and obtuse that it could have come from the workshop, the very kitchen, of Mother Nature herself. Robert was impressed, though truth to tell, he had his own theory, which, frankly, he preferred. To wit: women had so many strengths to begin with, so many virtues and so few inherent flaws, that in making one, you were bound to be close to perfection. This seemed only common sense. How close depended, he presumed, on making as few mistakes as possible.
Upon hearing this, Stanovic stared at him, as though wondering what hole this sad, benighted creature had crawled out of, and whether to repeat himself and whether it would matter.
"You are an architect?"
"Yes."
"You build for people?"
"That's right."
"Women as well as men?"
"Yes. Both."
"And you talk to them, these women? You meet with them? You get to know?"
"Of course."
He seemed to find this hard to believe, given what he had just heard, but he had a scientist's curiosity, and he studied Robert as he might a conundrum or thorny biologic puzzle. Slowly, his expression changed from incredulity to amusement and then, remarkably, appreciation.
He raised his glass. “We make a toast. To you, my friend, and all you desire. To beauty and truth. To everything you want and nothing you don't want. To satisfaction and hard work."
It took three weeks, three grueling, intensive, invasive, exhausting weeks. Robert had no idea how much he would be called upon to unearth, process, and decide. He thought he knew, for example, how he wanted his creation to look, which was the easiest part, the appearance, and he did, but he didn't know nearly enough. After spending just a few hours with Stanovic, he understood what it was like for his own clients, trying to put an idea and a vision—for a dream house, say—into words. His personal vision had eyes and lips and limbs and shape, but she was also a feeling, and this feeling, rather than sharpening her features, made her harder to define, as if to observe her too closely changed her, blurred her, made her more intangible and abstract. It was not that she was vague but rather elusive, her personality most of all. Affectionate, cheerful, playful, intelligent ... these were words he used to describe her, and they did and at the same time missed the mark. It wasn't that they lacked meaning but that their meaning was relative, subjective, open to interpretation and therefore imprecise. It was like being a foreigner with a limited vocabulary. A million different women could be spun from his words.
Stanovic was used to this in his clients and had ways to get a more detailed, exact, and specific picture. Some of these involved instruments that he attached to the body. Some involved deep, internal probes. He used drugs to unlock Robert's unconscious and other drugs to keep that unconscious from babbling incomprehensibly, to prevent it, in effect, from running amok. He used retrievable cortical and limbic retroviruses to identify and reproduce embedded engrams, and memory magnets to extract fluid neuronal circuits and fixed ganglionic nexi, the so-called “cloudburst webs.” His goal was to get at Robert's core, the essence of who he was, and work from that, inside out, as it were. This required a certain shaking up of the parts. As an architect Robert understood: a building got built from the bottom up, not the top down. Even so, he dreaded these sessions. They left him feeling raw, weak, and disoriented, and it took him days to recover and feel himself again.
As if this weren't enough, he had homework to do as well. Chins and cheeks and hips and breasts and skin tone and skin type and hair and height and weight and musculature to look at, gaits and postures and mannerisms to peruse, voices to listen to, laughter to hear, smells—of the mouth, the neck, the belly, the privates—to sample. But hardest of all, by far, were the personalities, which he was given to assess and which he also concocted on his own and had to interact with in simulated sessions. Hundreds of them, until his head was ready to burst, thousands, like swatches of paint, selecting, rejecting, revising, until he could barely tell one from the other and was ready to accept—or dismiss—them all.
Finally, though, the work was done. Stanovic had what he needed, and Robert had nothing more to do but wait. He passed the time walking around the city, making a circuit of its neighborhoods and taking in all the new construction, which stirred up feelings of excitement, envy, and appreciation, along with the deep and chilling fear of being left behind. He loved his city and longed to build something for it, something timeless and fine. It seemed impossible that he never would, much less that he would never design and build any building whatsoever, except for the fact that he wasn't able to, and no one was asking for him. With Stanovic there was hope, but it was a sliver of hope. Still, with each passing day he found himself clinging to it ever more fiercely.
At last the call came, and as before, Stanovic met him at the front door. He looked tired and out of sorts, and save for a curt “Come in,” he didn't speak. For a second Robert panicked, fearing something awful. His mind raced as they climbed the stairs. Trapped behind Stanovic's plodding, silent bulk, he had ample time to second-guess himself and spin disturbing fantasies.
Finally they reached the top and then the living room, where Stanovic told him to wait, disappearing through the door in the long wall. The room smelled of stale beer. There were empty bottles on the table. The television was on but muted. On the couch was a rumpled yellow blanket and a lumpy pillow.
A minute later Stanovic returned.
"She's a little shy. They're all a little shy at first."
He called through the door, and at length, noiselessly, she appeared. Stanovic did not attempt to hide his pleasure. Nor his admiration. All trace of weariness was gone.
Robert took her in at a single glance and opened his mouth to say something—introduce himself, welcome her, anything—but found he couldn't speak. She was too beautiful to speak to. Stunningly, heart-stoppingly beautiful. Composure was simply not an option.
"Meet Grace,” said Stanovic, the name that Robert had chosen for her. He held out his hand, palm upturned, and with a patriarch's pride and the gentlest, most tender of gestures, presented her. “Grace, meet Robert."
* * * *
—2—
It is one of the imponderables of a man's life that not every woman he loves sees fit to love him back. Robert loved Grace from the moment he laid eyes on her, but this was no guarantee that Grace would love Robert. Stanovic had warned him of this, and several anxious weeks passed before he could say with any certainty that she did. How did he know? How does any man know? By the looks she gave him, by the lift in her voice when he entered the room, by the way she couldn't keep her hands to herself or take her eyes off him. And by the words she whispered, and how, like a colt, she nuzzled against his neck, and like a rabbit, she nibbled his ear. And by the happiness he felt, the elation, the euphoria, the relief.
How to describe her? He couldn't, not really, except in this way: she was beautiful—in mind, body and spirit—to a degree that she made every woman around her beautiful, and at the same time every woman paled before her; she surpassed them all. He longed to be with her and only her, and she longed to be with him. This made life easy, for togetherness was something they could achieve. They slept together, ate together, whiled away their time together. They took a trip to the desert, where they hiked and baked in the heat together;
to Rome, where they sat in cafés and explored the ancient streets together; to the mountains, where they climbed a peak and stood atop the world. Each day, impossibly, they fell deeper in love. And little by little, what was dead inside of Robert, or dormant, began to stir.
* * * *
There was a piece of undeveloped land not far from Robert's office, one of the few left in the city. It was a site he had always coveted (he and every architect in town): three flat acres south of the city's heart, at the edge of a long, bifurcated inlet of the ocean, empty save for weeds, unused railroad tracks, and two abandoned wharves. Over the years he had envisioned any number of projects blossoming here—housing, a hospital, a corporate headquarters, a park—every one of them a pipedream, as the land was not for sale. Still, it never failed to excite his imagination ... never, that is, until his imagination went south. For more than a year he had avoided the site, as it did him more harm than good. It was a stone in his chest, this place, a reminder of better times, and he would have continued to give it a wide berth had not Grace requested to see it. He agreed, for her.
The day they chose, in early fall, broke warm and sunny. The blue of the sky was rivaled only by the deeper, steelier blue of the water. Fancying a picnic, Grace brought cheese and a bottle of wine; Robert, at her insistence, carried a blanket. Much of the rusty fence that surrounded the site was down or missing, as were signs forbidding entrance. There were several well-worn paths, used primarily by birders. Grace chose one, but after a short while she veered off into the weeds and waist-high grass, searching for something more private. Robert followed stoically, halting when she did, in a clearing near the water.
"How about here?"
"Fine."
She waited for him to spread the blanket.
"Robert?"
"Yes?"
"Is something the matter?"
It was a struggle for him. The site stirred up feelings he preferred not to face.
"Do you want to spread that thing?"
He spread it.
Grace sat down, depositing her canvas bag. The city surrounded them on three sides—skyscrapers to the north, homes and warehouses to the south and west—but from the blanket these were invisible. She stretched out her legs.
"This is nice."
Robert, who had remained standing, gave a wooden nod.
"Our own little hiding place."
"It's hardly hidden."
"It is from down here."
He glanced at her.
"Come sit."
"I used to think of all the things I could do with this place. All the things I could build. It was like an invitation, a magnet, for my dreams."
She reached for his hand.
"Not that I could ever do anything about them. Still, it was fun."
"You felt free."
He looked around, shrugged, then sat.
"Cheese?” she asked.
He didn't answer.
She poured some wine into a plastic cup, which they shared. After a while she lay down, arms at her sides, eyes closed. She wore a halter top and shorts. Her skin was smooth and tawny. Her great bushel of hair pillowed her head, shining like a halo. Robert began to lose himself in her face.
"We could be the only people left on Earth,” she said dreamily. “This could be our last day together."
"Don't say that."
She turned on her side. “What would you do?"
"What I am."
"You'd look at me?"
He nodded.
"What else?"
"Make love to you."
She smiled. “What else?"
When he didn't answer, she told him to lie back and close his eyes.
"What do you see?” she asked.
"The backs of my eyes."
"What do you feel?"
He took a moment. “Warm."
"I'm going to tell you how I feel. Happy. Grateful. Lucky. Beautiful. Alive. In love."
"That's a lot of things."
"I'm a complicated person."
After a time he said, “I see something else."
She waited.
"It's hard to describe."
She waited longer.
"I'm not sure that I can."
It was a building in the form of a fountain, made entirely of glass and erupting from the ground like a geyser, in what seemed a froth of light. It was fixed in place but also fluid, gravity-defying, straining against the constraints of space and time. And the way it played with light, concentrating it, reflecting it, diffusing it. It seemed spun half of reality, half of dream. He had never seen or imagined anything like it.
He sat up and opened his eyes. He blinked and rubbed them, but the vision remained. It was pulsing now, which was the beating, the pounding, of his heart. He got to his feet and started walking.
"Robert?"
He didn't answer.
Maybe, she thought, he hadn't heard. She called again, then rose.
He was halfway to the car, and Grace wondered if he was going to stop. Clearly, he was possessed by something, and having lived and waited with him for this moment, this spark, she felt a quiver of excitement. She was pleased to see him so engrossed and engaged, as pleased as anyone who in the blink of an eye becomes an afterthought. Forgiveness flowed through her like honey, and like honey, forgiving him for leaving her behind without a word was sweet. It was a new experience for her, being left, and she was not a person quick to judge or take offense. Especially not toward a man for whom she felt such love. If it happened again, she would figure out what to do. She was made to think for herself, just as she was made, with craftsmanlike precision, not to be hurt.
* * * *
From that day forward Robert overflowed with ideas. New ideas, bold ideas, crazy, romantic, incredible ideas, bubbling out of him, pouring, gushing, like being in the love for the first time. And everybody loves a lover. And everybody wants a piece. He starting getting jobs again, small jobs at first. Then bigger ones. Before long he was up to his neck in work.
He worked seven days a week, as much as he could at home. Typically he labored deep into the night, breaking for dinner, which Grace cooked, and often for an hour or two in the afternoon, when he and she would do something together, take a walk, explore a neighborhood, pull the curtains and make love. Occasionally he would break in the morning too, roused by the sound of her moving in the house, distracted by the thought of her, the smell of her, which he could summon even in her absence, her smile, her warmth, her sweet and loving nature, her embrace.
It was a wonderful thing to be working again, to be noticed and sought out. More wonderful in some ways than his initial success. He was older and wiser. He appreciated what he had, all the more for knowing how quickly and utterly it could be gone. He felt lucky: if birth (whether by natural means or by nature once removed), was a miracle, then rebirth was nothing less than an act of grace.
It would have been hard to say who was happier. Robert had the happiness of a man, inexplicably crippled, restored to health. A man from whom the curse (and who had uttered it? and by what power? what right?) was lifted, gone. Grace had the happiness of the lover at her beloved's good fortune, the satisfaction of having been part and parcel of that good fortune, the joy in the knowledge of the strength of love and all that love can achieve. She was so good at loving, so generous, so thorough and complete. If love were a violin, she played it with the finest tone, the deepest understanding, the most impeccable technique. There was nothing that rivaled it in her world, nor would it be contained. Like a rain-swollen river will spill beyond its banks, her love spilled beyond the principal object of her affection. She loved animals. She loved music. She loved puzzles, children, shoes, and conversation. She was also very fond of books.
In this she resembled Robert's mother, an avid, indiscriminate reader, and the resemblance went further, for Grace was also fond of reading in bed, waiting for Robert to join her, and also in a certain armchair, with a curved upholstered back that had been in the
family for generations. His grandmother had owned it, then his mother, who had passed it on to him. It sat in a corner of his house, waiting for someone like Grace, who fit it perfectly, and a lasting image for him was of her in the chair, lost in a book, lifting her head and gazing out the window, pondering something she had just read, perhaps relating it to herself, perhaps to him. She had a past, in the sense that she had memories, and she also lacked a past, in the sense that these memories were artificial; they had been given to her. Like all memories, there were gaps that had to be bridged. And like all memories, they gave birth to new thoughts and memories, and they were colored by her state of mind, which they also contributed to. Some, of course, stood out more than others. Once, when Robert was watching her unseen from a doorway, her head bent, her hair hanging loose about her face, she lifted a hand and unconsciously began twirling a lock around a finger. This was a physical memory, a memory of the body, and it made him smile, and he felt a great wave of affection, for it was something his mother used to do.
But these moments, of simply watching and enjoying her, were rare. As his star rose, he didn't have time for them. He worked late. He traveled extensively. He was gone nearly as much as he was home.
It was a busy life, too busy, and he told her so again and again, as though by acknowledging it, he could mitigate the consequences. He missed her, sometimes desperately. He wished it were different, but what could he do?
And what could Grace do but look after herself when he was away and welcome him back on his return? He was in the grip of something, and she admired him for it, and sometimes pitied him too. And the pity made her love him more, but respect him, perhaps, a little less. It was an oversight, no doubt, in her design. That, or—heaven forbid—a flaw, and she sought to mend it with kindness.
"I wish it were different too,” she told him one night. He had just returned from a month-long absence. “But it isn't. Let's be honest."
"I'm sorry."
"Don't be."
"But I am."
"What I mean is, it's okay. I understand. I get it."
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