The Secret of Provence House

by Aubrey Rhodes

  Yeshua picked an olive from the tree and guarded it in the pocket of his tunic. The Romans offered prayers. Then the three of them wandered down a goat path to a stony ledge where they began a competition to see who could cast stones the greatest distance. As I listened to their cheering and yelling carried off by a gentle breeze moving through a grove of towering umbrella pines, I realized that I had stood there upon that very spot on nine occasions. I thought about how the temple had been there long before I was born. After I left Gades it would remain there. As my life proceeded, moving from place to place, and even at the moment of my death, that temple shall be there, just as it is. While we slept that night in the city, this temple and its statue and the olive tree would be here, silent, in the dark. One would be hard put to call attention to a more ordinary observation, but the sensations these thoughts provoked could not be disparaged. What is time? What is home? Why do we wander so?

  Chapter 23

  Once again Laura found herself astonished by the naturalistic realism of her ancient author, overturning her beloved Erich Auerbach’s theory which claimed that authors from this period were incapable of introspection. According to him they could only keep events front and centre, their use of dialog limited to expressions of rhetoric, their views of the world two-dimensional, far from an individual’s inner thoughts. And yet the feelings that Joseph of Arimathea was describing were as human as language itself. It was one seized upon in modern times by the likes of Proust, Thomas Wolfe (‘a stone, a leaf, an unfound door …’), and found in the final pages of Finnegan’s Wake. That it had been transcribed two thousand years ago and that it was she of all the people in the world who was bringing it to light, brought her to tears. She put on a pair of sunglasses. To her relief the man sitting in the aisle seat to her left, absorbed in an action film, did not pick up on her state. She shut down and closed her laptop. Bright light shone upon her right wrist through a sliver of window not covered by the shade. She closed it fully, removed the sunglasses, and dried her eyes with some tissue.

  Sleep took hold of her above the North Atlantic and by the time it released her she could see the eastern tip of Long Island below. She recognized towns and bays and beaches and saw the stretch of shore between Water Mill and the Shinnecock Canal where the Beach Club and her stepfather’s summerhouse stood. Soon after the plane descended and swung out to sea, making a long slow turn that put it onto its final approach into Kennedy. As it came to a stop at the British Airways gate it felt like she had been out of New York for a year rather than the three weeks it had actually been.

  She took a taxi into town and thought to warn Nathan, feeling sheepish about what had been her plan as she entered Manhattan through the Midtown Tunnel. But then she got an email from James telling her he was at The Bowery Hotel and might they meet for a drink before a dinner he had to attend? She did her best to answer him typing against the frantic driving style of the man at the wheel. Before she knew it, the cab came to a stop by her building’s awning near the corner of Tenth Street and Fifth Avenue.

  The doormen were glad to see her, and she suddenly felt happy to be back, amazed at how easily she had allowed herself to adapt to Camilla’s world in Cornwall. But when she got out of the elevator on the top floor and stepped into her apartment, a woman’s voice called out, called out a single word as Laura closed the door. The word was ‘Nathan?’

  As her heart began to sink and anger rose, she found a waif-like girl in her own bed. The sheets were wrinkled into a messy bundle at the foot of it. The girl, wearing one of Nathan’s white T-shirts and a black thong, was startled. She made no attempt to cover herself.

  ‘Who are you?’ she asked.

  Her accent was strong.

  ‘This is my home,’ Laura replied. ‘The better question is, who are you?’

  ‘I am Oksana. You are Laura?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘You’re not supposed to be here.’

  ‘Neither are you.’

  Less than two hours later Oksana was preparing the dinner shift at Veselka’s and Laura had already had the locks changed. Movers had been alerted to remove certain items of furniture belonging to Nathan, along with his clothing and books to be put into temporary storage, all of it tagged by Laura with Post-its. She also called the painters she had used when she was first given the apartment. She asked them to repaint the entire place starting the following week. Then she watered her plants out on the terrace, collected some favourite clothes, shoes, and mail, and reserved herself a room at the Bowery Hotel.

  Her greatest relief was that Nathan did not return to the apartment while she was there. The girl had probably warned him away. Mixed with her anger and sadness was a less recognized portion of relief. Oksana’s presence in her bed had solved a significant conundrum. She even felt sorry for the girl. Her fury was only marginally connected to Nathan’s betrayal. More of it derived from the fact that he had not brought the girl to his own apartment, the one NYU had given him – a drab but perfectly adequate two-bedroom in a Village high-rise with vast views of lower Manhattan. A young woman like the Eastern European waitress would have been just as impressed with it as she was no doubt by Laura’s penthouse, but Nathan’s ego apparently knew no bounds. She did not want to see him or speak with him. Alarmed with herself for having wasted four years of her life, she finally sent him a text message from the safety of her room at the Bowery:

  Met Oksana in my bedroom. Very cute. I’ve changed the locks and the doormen have been instructed to accompany you only once back into the apartment. The movers come on Thursday for your things, either to put them into storage or wherever you like. Don’t ever want to hear from you again you dumb pompous bastard.

  Only then did she allow herself a mega shower. She was in the bar in the hotel lobby by seven thirty, ordering a Ketel One on the rocks when James arrived.

  ‘Laura.’

  ‘James.’

  He was dressed in a dark suit and a white shirt open at the collar. She thought he looked very good.

  ‘Sorry I’m late,’ he said. ‘I’ve been glued to the phone with Spain where, clearly, people need to learn to go to sleep.’

  ‘That’s OK. I’ve been happy here,’ she said. ‘It’s a lovely spot. I’ve walked by this place many times and had no idea it was so nice inside.’

  ‘It’s totally fake and totally authentic.’

  ‘Something like that.’

  ‘The English gentleman’s club motif. You’d think I’d run from it, but it gets me every time. Not quite sure what that means. But of course, it’s also very “downtown”. Lots of film and rock stars stay here.’

  ‘Your kind of people.’

  ‘My true family, as it were.’

  This was a playful, far from home, wife, and children side of him she had not seen before.

  ‘Speaking of which,’ she said. ‘Camilla asked me if I was going to see you here – and I didn’t know what to say.’

  ‘But you said something.’

  ‘I said “yes, of course, if our schedules permitted”.’

  ‘And here we are. She’s off to her house in Mallorca for a few days anyway, taking advantage of your absence, so she’s pleasantly distracted.’

  ‘She mentioned she might do that. I’m glad.’

  The bartender appeared.

  ‘I’ll have what she’s having,’ James said to him. Laura smiled.

  ‘Isn’t that the famous line from When Harry Met Sally?’

  ‘If it’s a film you are referring to – I’ve never seen it.’

  ‘Amazing.’

  ‘What’s amazing is this. A few nights ago, we were in The Wounded Hart for God’s sake.’

  ‘It is strange. I promise I’m not stalking you. I wanted to see this man up at Columbia University while he’s still alive – and I needed to deal with some personal stuff too.’

  ‘As disappointed as I am to hear that, I don’t doubt it for a second. But still, this is like kismet, isn’t it?’

 
‘It is.’

  ‘Whatever kismet actually means.’

  ‘It’s from a Persian word, referring to fate or chance.’

  He was seized by a sudden urge to kiss her. His drink arrived. She raised her glass.

  ‘Cheers.’

  He did the same, before taking a good sip, ‘God that’s good.’

  ‘I can’t live without it these days,’ she said.

  This reminded him of Carmensina, a thought he did his best to push away. ‘So, how was your flight?’

  ‘Fine. How was yours?’

  ‘Fine.’

  ‘Well I’m glad we got that out of the way.’

  They both laughed nervously.

  ‘Where’s your dinner?’ she asked.

  ‘Here – at the Italian place they have on the corner. It’s lively, the food is perfectly good and it’s perfect for jet-lagged pseudo-executives.’

  ‘Would that be you or your clients?’

  ‘That would be me. The clients, fortunately and unfortunately, are the real thing.’

  ‘But not you, not even in that gorgeous, executive suit.’

  She could not believe she had just said that. She blamed the vodka.

  ‘No.’

  ‘Don’t you like what you do?’

  ‘Not really.’

  ‘That’s too bad.’

  ‘I don’t believe anyone has ever asked me that question.’

  ‘Here you are in a foreign country, and me a virtual stranger – it’s a golden opportunity to let it all hang out.’

  ‘What does that incredibly vulgar sounding expression actually mean? Can’t be Persian.’

  She laughed. ‘You’re right.’

  ‘Anyway,’ he said, ‘it’s fine what I do. It’s respectable and pays many of the bills and gives me sharp looking business cards and a corner office in a renovated, beaux-arts building in Barcelona.’

  ‘The media company,’ she said. ‘The one Carmensina’s family owns.’

  ‘Precisely. She gets a failed Bohemian aristocrat with land and a title. I get a well-paying job and two beautiful children. Not a bad deal as things go these days.’

  His frankness was startling.

  ‘Are you on something?’

  He downed the rest of his drink.

  ‘No. It’s you. I don’t know what it is, but you have this effect on me.’

  She smiled, flattered, and began to feel an inner glow of her own.

  ‘Do you really have a title?’

  ‘Yes, which, as you New Yorkers used to say, along with a token, or I guess these days, a Metro Card, will get one on the subway. But for Carmensina and her family it’s worth a lot.’

  She finished her drink too. The bartender arrived like a shark and they went for another round.

  ‘Tell me more about this failed Bohemian aspect,’ she said. ‘That interests me.’

  ‘Are you seeing someone?’ He asked it very quickly. ‘Mother mentioned something about a beau.’

  ‘That’s very Celtic,’ she said, ‘answering a question with another one.’

  ‘Guilty as charged.’

  ‘Not the sort of behaviour toward a lady one would expect from an aristocrat in a gentleman’s club.’

  ‘Quite right. I’ll go first then. Let’s just say that had I been a successful Bohemian I would not have this job.’

  ‘What would you be doing instead?’

  ‘I’d be rising early in a little villa nestled in some Mediterranean hillside writing a novel – based on my childhood for example. This just came into my mind.’

  ‘I would love to read that.’

  ‘Really?’

  ‘Really. On the other hand, if you didn’t have your current job, we wouldn’t be here having this conversation.’

  ‘Like I said – kismet.’

  ‘Do you really need to work? I mean, work-work.’

  ‘Pretty much. What I collect each month in – call it inheritance – isn’t enough to keep a family of four.’

  ‘But if it was just you?’

  The new drinks arrived along with some salted almonds.

  ‘If it was just me, I could probably swing it. But that’s not the case. But enough about me. It’s your turn.’

  She ate an almond and took a sip, considering distinct levels of disclosure.

  ‘I’ve had a “beau” as you call it, these past four years.’

  ‘Aha.’

  ‘Aha. I’ve had a beau these past four years, until today.’

  He actually blushed. ‘I didn’t realize this suit was quite that compelling.’

  She looked down and in a second, he felt the truth seeping in. ‘Today,’ he said. ‘Good Lord. What happened?’

  She took in another mouthful of the vodka.

  ‘I got off the plane from London, went to my apartment, and found a twenty-year-old waitress in my bed.’

  ‘No.’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘What did you do?’

  ‘I kindly asked her to leave, told her she’d been misinformed about the “open” nature of my relationship with Nathan – that was his name – then I changed the locks, hired movers to get his stuff out, and then I came here.’

  ‘This just happened.’

  ‘That’s right. I got myself a room here too. The idea of spending the night at my place tonight is just too upsetting.’

  He put his hand on her shoulder. ‘Laura. I’m so sorry. What a cad.’

  ‘Things have not been great for a while between us actually, and a big part of me was looking for a way out, and “boom” he handed it to me on the proverbial silver platter.’

  ‘But still.’

  ‘It’s not what I needed today – and what I can’t forgive was that he brought her to my place when he has a perfectly decent apartment of his own.’

  ‘Of course. So, you’re staying here. I can’t believe it.’

  ‘You put the idea in my head and I’m glad you did because it’s very nice and cosy. The only other place I know of in the neighbourhood is a depressing dive on Washington Square that NYU uses for visitors.’

  ‘God. What a day you’ve had. Come and join us for dinner.’

  ‘I don’t much feel like dinner.’

  ‘As my guest. It’s right here, right through that door.’

  ‘That’s very kind but I don’t think I’d be very good company. What I really want to do is get into that white robe up in the room, turn on the TV, and fall asleep. It’s my idea of heaven right now.’

  Later on, she discovered that staying in a hotel in her own city, four blocks east and three blocks south from her own empty apartment, was harder to do than she had imagined. She had so much trouble falling asleep, even with the jetlag, the vodka, and an Ambien, that she almost got dressed and went back to Tenth Street. She even came close to calling Nathan at one point. But then she remembered James was there, somewhere in the hotel, and her favourite shops and local stores were nearby, and out of the window, down below, the elegant frenzy that defined her town flowed on its honking way, just as it had before she was born and just as it would after she was gone.

  She came to the conclusion that she had done a healthy thing coming to the hotel and she was grateful for having the resources to do it without worrying about it. That she was finally in the thick of breaking up with someone she should never have got so deep into to begin with was progress. Tomorrow would be another day and, after all, she was on the verge of a professional breakthrough. With a little perusing of Shopbop on her phone and an extra pillow, she soon fell sound asleep.

  She woke at dawn, famished and refreshed, took a quick shower, and got dressed. In the dark wood-panelled lobby there were two crisp piles of the day’s New York Times and New York Post she helped herself to. The young hotel doormen in their red vests and black derbies were cute and friendly, and it felt familiar and reassuring to be out on the street at that hour. Garbage trucks were finishing their rounds and some homeless were still asleep in doorways lending a note of realism
to the otherwise gentrified avenue. She turned west at Cooper Union going toward Broadway, avoiding the entire Veselka area as best she could. It was going to be another clear, warm, and fresh autumn day. At her bagel shop on University Place, the Moroccans and Latinos who worked there greeted her like she had never left. The morning doorman at her building, one of the last standing Irishmen in the union who was already alerted no doubt to yesterday’s drama, tipped his cap with an appreciated mixture of warmth and reserve.

  The apartment felt better at that hour. She enjoyed the coffee and the buttered bialy out at the table on her terrace. Most of the plants had miraculously survived the stingy ministrations of Nathan. The birch tree and the small fir trees planted in half barrels were doing well, and some pansies and geraniums were thriving. A robin was perched on the edge of the birdbath when she came out. Looking down Fifth Avenue toward the arch, the plantain trees were still green-leafed even with the late September nip in the air.

  She went back inside, got a trash bag, and went through the medicine cabinets tossing every item that was Nathan’s. Then she tied it off and placed it in a bin by the service elevator before leaving and walking back to the hotel. There had yet to be a single message from him. She imagined that his hurt pride had trumped anything resembling remorse. She thought to try and schedule a session with her therapist while she was there, but knew too well what they would talk about – how Nathan had been an awkward fit for her still unresolved and ambivalent Oedipal strivings blah-blah-blah and so what had she expected? Was any of that true, or had it just been a mess of chance, hormones, and stubbornness?

  Back in her room at The Bowery she read the papers she had been carrying around all morning. Instead of visiting her favourite bookstore on Prince Street or walking down to the new Whitney where there was an exhibit she’d been meaning to see, she put in a call to her favourite day spa, booking treatments that would take her right up to the time she would have to head uptown to meet Jean-Paul Bonnerive. A text message from James appeared:

  Dinner tonight?

  She smiled and replied: