* * *
When I was back inside, it was only 6:00 a.m. I took out the trash, separating waxy cartons from the cardboard in Harold’s honor. I did our delicates and hung them on the roof to dry. I took a bath. Vomited. Washed again. Then I gathered the self-help author’s most recent manuscript at the credenza and stared dumbly at the lines.
Sometimes there is doubt that the other person is right for you.
I crossed out “sometimes” and considered the sentence again.
There is doubt …
Stylistically speaking, I thought the declarative had a pleasing ring. The self-help author wasn’t given to certitude, however. That wasn’t what self-help was about. Ours was an ongoing duel in which she added qualifications and I pared them away.
* * *
I restored the sentence and read it again.
Sometimes there is doubt …
Then I leaned back in the chair and peered into the air shaft, where the super was sweeping at the flour, drawing damp clouds from the cement. I watched his shoulders swaying in his blue jumpsuit.
* * *
The computer awoke with a chime.
* * *
It was only prudent, I reasoned, to keep myself apprised of the exhibition. I had almost married the artist, after all, and who knew what sort of thing might appear on his home page. In a new “tab,” I typed in my fiancé’s name. I scrolled. The links were worn, faded to the purple of a bruise. I simply clicked again. Controversial … his bio read. The same opinions proliferated, diverged, split hairs in the Journal, the Voice, the Times, where critics argued over the political implications of the show. Its genius and impetuousness. A major artist … important people mused. They had reservations about the depiction of the dwindling skyline. They’d accused the artist of misogyny and pigheadedness. I paused. Was that correct? I myself had been billed as a misogynist before. I’d internalized too much, the self-help author said, of the logic of the world. I remember I’d consulted Harold, as I often did when I needed to break a tie. He stood in his door, gave me one of his shrugs. Sorry, Percy. Not my area of expertise.
* * *
I searched (“girlfriend” OR “spouse”) AND (“lawsuit” W/5 “art”). I typed in my own name and met familiar friends. The librarian. The scientist. The porn star, who’d recently won an industry award. I found my way to the gallery website, which spewed superlatives recycled from the catalog. A particularly salacious photo flickered into being. I squinted at the half-loaded picture. I tried to greet it as a stranger might. This could be any woman on the bed, in any woman’s room. She was a site of exegesis, as anonymous as ruins. Wasn’t it better if no one knew her origins? Of course, I thought, it was only a matter of time before everything would be revealed. People would start talking and then they wouldn’t stop. Soon everyone would know: I was Persephone Q. And vice versa, I supposed.
* * *
I checked my inbox again.
* * *
Nothing new save a chain letter from Yvette.
Sorry, I’m a sucker for these …
* * *
I hobbled to the bath. At ten weeks, the nebula drew forth waves of nausea like a moon, regular as tides. We were a chorus of retching, the psych student and I. Back in the kitchenette, I secured in my palm a tuft of steel wool. With renewed energy, I attacked the burners on the stove.
* * *
My mother was a heroic housekeeper, at least when the mood to keep house struck. You didn’t exist to her when she was cleaning the stove. The whole world fell away, and perhaps it was not too late to inherit this quality myself. At least until noon. I opened the oven door and laid siege to the grates. I tried to remember when I’d last cleaned them. Maybe I never had. The steel chipped away at char. I came up for air. As I scoured an old soup pot in which I had never made a soup, my thoughts incorporated, materialized before me like further appliances in need of cleaning. I addressed them one by one.
* * *
This would not be the first time my fiancé had announced major news through the mail. He had to have been the one to send the catalog. And yet, the exhibition had been open for months. Why not forward it along at once? As I scrubbed, I recalled the year my fiancé and I fell apart. There was a terrible fight, or at least I think there was, and I went uptown, to Morningside, to sign a sublease on an apartment of my own—the very apartment in which I still live—a whole hour’s walk away. It was the easiest move I ever made. There were no movers, no guarantors. I arrived with little more than a duffel and a change of shoes. Most of what I owned I’d left behind with him. I went to work, came home, undressed, ate a sandwich at the sink. I had three or four outfits with me, a toaster, a stack of books. The Diary of a Nobody, though it made me sad, On Murder Considered as One of the Fine Arts, by Monsieur De Quincey, and An Essay on the Noble Science of Self-Justification. I was especially partial to the Edgeworth. I slept on a mattress on the floor. I’d have to go back eventually to retrieve my things, and I assumed I’d simply stay. Meanwhile I enjoyed being alone, knowing I’d wind up back with my fiancé. Then, one afternoon, an envelope arrived. The address bore his clear, neat script. I opened the seal in the hall, and a key tumbled into my palm. The fob bore the logo of a storage facility downtown. He’d packed everything I owned and locked it away. There would be no reconciliation after all.
* * *
I sprayed more cleaning fluid, coughed. I consulted the label on the bottle. There were no warnings for pregnant women that I could see. I closed the broiler drawer. The plastic crisper slid easily from the fridge, and I lowered it into the sink. Suds splashed across the counter and slid onto the floor.
* * *
As I rinsed and dried the refrigerator shelves, I considered a second and more alarming possibility: my fiancé had nothing to do with the package at all. Ten years down the road, he might not care to let me know about his recent success. I wouldn’t have been surprised if he’d forgotten about me altogether, lost track of crucial information. Like my name. After all, this was a man who’d neglected his own save-the-date, RSVPing, incredibly, to a different wedding held the very same day as ours. We’re flexible, he said. I had always regarded these gaffes with a kind of wonder. But who else would have sent it, if not he? I ruled myself out—I was never so dazed and delirious as that. I considered the self-help author. My psychic. Even Harold crossed my mind. I thought of the random number generator at Insta-Ad, still on the fritz, the matching algorithms meant to pair consumers with banner ads. Perhaps they were more powerful than I’d thought.
* * *
I peered into the air shaft, where the super was still sweeping. He looked up at the column of windows that rose above his head. With a jolt, I stepped away. I scolded myself. Look how paranoid you’re becoming. Nothing’s even happened yet.
* * *
A roach skittered out from beneath the broiler, a big grandfather roach, like a buckeye with legs. Hi, friend, I said. Then I glanced at the clock. Ten. It struck me my psychic was exactly the person to ask about such extraordinary events. In the mirror in the hall, I applied some blush. I dropped my keys into my purse. Then I was in the lobby, I was out on the street. It was only as the building door, freshly restored with tinted glass, closed behind me that I felt the first twinge. He couldn’t have forgotten. And yet, in all those interviews and exhibition texts, he hadn’t once thought to mention me.
9
My psychic was not a morning person. Nevertheless, I stood beneath the red awning outside her storefront and rang the buzzer with my usual persistence. After a few minutes, she appeared. Ugh, she said. Her eyes were swollen, and a stray charm clung like a beetle to her hair. She rubbed her face. Percy, she said. Come in.
* * *
Sometimes, when I went to visit my psychic, it seemed that she was the one who needed to talk. Such was the case today. I followed her inside and settled on a pouf. Percy, Percy, she said, as she plugged in a hot plate, set the kettle for tea. The heavens can be a bitch. She ran
the flat of her palm along a temple. A formidable bitch indeed. But other times, mind you, fate manifests in the form of man. She produced a sachet of chamomile from the roomy sleeve of her robe and dunked it into her empty mug. The velvet drapes, drawn snugly around the storefront, were a bulwark against the day, and in the resultant dim I could hardly see her face. She seemed so fragile that morning, shielding her eyes. I don’t know how much longer I’ll last, she said. My landlord’s driven the rent up again. That’s awful, I replied. She pushed a palm against the dark, as if bad luck were as easily deflected as a ray of light. Oh, I’ll fight it, she said. Just you watch. He’s been trying to have me out for years, but I persevere. Urban renewal is a fuck in the ass. Excuse me, Percy. But it’s the truth. It’s us small business owners who get screwed. I nodded. There were plans for a megamall on 125th, and already banners had begun to eclipse the old marquees. I hate Old Navy, I said. The kettle whistled. My psychic filled her mug and stared at the sheet of velvet where the window should have been. It’s a long, slippery slope we’re headed down, Percy. I’m not sure I’ll make it to the end. I shook my head. Please don’t say that. She waved her hand. Not that. I meant because of rent. Oh, I replied. Tea steamed. The kettle shuddered on the plate. After a moment, I ventured forth with problems of my own. I cleared my throat.
Hey, I said. About that spirit you found in me.
* * *
She sipped her chamomile. Yes? The curtains cast a red glow onto her skin. Is it still there? I asked. She extended a lazy hand in my direction. I felt a lump rise in the back of my throat. Yup, she said. Definitely there. In fact, it’s multiplied. I sat back on my pouf. I wanted to ask how to interpret these signs that I’d been given. The catalog. Misha’s nose. Flour falling in the air shaft. I was ready to confess. Then cathedral bells pealed, noon rolled down Manhattan Avenue and landed softly at the door: I was late. I shouldered my purse, pushed a ten into the vase in which she collected her commissions. Weak sunlight spilled into the room. My psychic averted her face. It’s your life, she called. You’re never late!
10
I always found it calming to visit the premises of Insta-Ad. A sense of higher purpose lingered, the benefit, perhaps, of occupying a former church. The rows of external hard drives stacked against the wall emitted a sort of hymn: the low, choral buzz of data compressing into bytes. I came by sometimes when Misha wasn’t around. Sometimes I came to sleep.
* * *
When I arrived that afternoon, the steam heat was hissing like a tropical storm, and Misha was in his shirtsleeves, tapping at one of his many keyboards. The windows were open, and an errant breeze lifted his dark hair from his brow. I watched him type a line, run the program, skim the log. He tweaked the loop and ran it again. The metal detector and bucket were installed in the far corner, by an outcrop of potted plants and discarded winter layers. I peered into the blue plastic tub to see what he had gleaned. A handful of change, a crab shell, the faint musk of the sea. I reached for a silvery contraption that spun on its rusty axle, sprawling sand.
Who leaves a pencil sharpener on a beach?
* * *
The day was still bleak with the false promise of snow. I turned on a lamp. Misha stretched his arms, retrieved his jacket and shirt from a set of hooks by the door. He fiddled for a minute with buttons, collar, cuffs, threaded a blue silk tie. I sat in the window, by the potted violets, with a copy of his slides. He paused to look down at his shoes.
I am thinking I will wear this?
I tilted my head.
Too formal? I asked.
Misha frowned.
I thought not formal enough.
I quoted from the presentation packet, which I had proofed the week before.
“The American consumer is a casual consumer.”
Misha studied the floor.
I think I will wear at least the shoes, he said.
* * *
The following week, Misha was to speak at an annual start-up expo, a carnival of poster boards and booths and gratis stress balls held in a warehouse near Port Authority that I had thought was meant for storing cars. Normally it was Misha’s advisor who appealed to investors, but these days venture capitalists sought younger talent. Ivy League grad, Bulgarian accent? They couldn’t say no to Misha, his advisor said. I agreed. He was commanding in his tweed. He paced as he talked, uncapping and recapping a marker with his thumb. I was a one-woman audience in the window, taking notes.
* * *
Everyone is afraid of how consumers will respond when they learn their data is being stored and auctioned. But what if you encrypted cookies? Insta-Ad is making consumer data safer than ever—
I raised my hand.
Isn’t the whole point how much more attractive online shopping becomes?
* * *
We went through the entire presentation slide by slide. It was a real dress rehearsal. He walked me through the company valuation as if I were an investor. I nodded along, pushing the self-help author’s thoughts on role-play from my mind. In the start-up business money moved like water, I was learning. Cash flowed. Accountants churned. Fresh funds poured into reservoirs set aside for droughts. In a healthy firm, revenues parted around unforeseen obstacles, like a stream around a rock. Misha laser-pointed at images projected onto the wall. As you can see, he said, the burn rate is high, but comparable to endeavors of similar size. I studied the corresponding graph, where many lines traversed a downward trend. He ran a thin hand through his hair. His widow’s peak was sharpening, drawing inward at the sides.
* * *
I had every confidence in Misha’s talents. It seemed there was no problem he could not solve. How he and his advisor planned to transform those solutions into income, however, was something I did not quite grasp. Not that I myself possessed much pecuniary sense. My own finances were plenty unreliable. I took pleasure in the pale blue envelopes that arrived at my door from various origins, checks that could be summed every which way to make the rent. For most of my life I had lived like this, converting piles of mail into cash. It was not a very profitable endeavor. It’s possible I should have worked a little more. Certainly I could have worked a little more. I ought to have found a more regular and better-paying job, especially now that the nebula was on its way. As matters stood, I had not. I’d done the mental math. Plus child. Minus rent. The margins were suboptimal, and yet I was not moved to action. There was only the mood I was in today, and hunger, nausea, more work to do tomorrow, which was how I’d fallen into the habit of eating rice, peanut butter, and other no-chop foods, soy sauce packets stolen on the sly. The projector shone with lunar clarity on Misha’s skull where his hairline had begun to retreat. I was wrong about many things, and I hoped Insta-Ad’s prospects were among them. Perhaps it really was the future of online shopping, of all shopping, and Misha would no longer need to worry. He’d keep his hair. Though he seemed to want nothing to do with the fruits of his own labor. He regarded his algorithms with a kind of paternal disgust. He often said when he came home, Honestly, I am not feeling good about this at all.
* * *
An easel stood before a mini-fridge stocked with cucumbers and coffee. Misha took up a length of fresh white chalk and began to section the board. He labeled one half “cookies.” On the other, he wrote “bids.” These being determined by criteria advertisers give beforehand, he said. A client might ask to target traders who telemark ski and live in New York. And how might a firm like Insta-Ad corral such a population? Cookies, of course. Misha divided the cookies column into a grid and labeled every section. Username. Location. Occupation. IP address. One rectangle flowed into the next. The diagram recalled an engine, only this one was silent, devouring data, not gas. What we have in the end, Misha said, is a cookie match. He connected the cookie-flow to the bid-flow and in the center hashed an asterisk. A match. What Insta-Ad did best, he explained, was to maintain efficiency while preserving anonymity, as ads and consumers were wedded in real time. The projector flung the adva
ntages over industry competitors onto the opposite wall.
Privacy-protected!
Real-time matches!
Superior bidding logic!
Encrypted!
I raised my hand again.
Do you need all those exclamation marks?
Misha stood back and studied the wall.
Probably not, he said.
* * *
He went to the computer and tapped a few keys. On the wall, the exclamation marks disappeared one by one. Then he joined me in the window, sliding the pot of African violets to the side. I looked across the room at the diagram he had made. Arrows spawned and darted, connecting names with addresses and number of clicks, the binary variable (if purchase, then 1; else 0) that recorded whether or not the consumer had bought what she’d been told to buy. The scent of hamburger and curry carried from the street. I picked at the loose threads that rose, like a halo, from the worn tweed of Misha’s jacket. Beneath my palm, I felt him heave and sigh.
You did great, I said.
* * *
I reached out to comfort him, placed a palm on his cheek. How very tired he seemed, even though, from my perspective, he was nearly always asleep. The folds beneath his lids were lilac. I missed him. I pressed his shoulder. Hey. His collarbone. Hey. I pressed hard. He swayed. I watched my hand pass over his face and come to rest on his chin. Wake up, I said. Then my fingers floated to his nose. I pinched it softly. Misha looked at me. A glimmer wavered in his eyes like a cursor on a screen. He reached out and took my nose in turn. Touché. We sat there, holding on. Let’s have a hold-your-breath contest, I suggested. Misha shook his head, tugging my wrist to and fro. Then he shrugged. All right. He gulped the air and pursed his lips. I puffed my cheeks. We looked at each other, eyes wide. Outside, two people called to one another on the street. A car passed, and its music swelled and faded. I counted backward in my head as my lungs began to burn. The stopper in my diaphragm was knocking at my chest. I gasped. Misha’s fingers released, my own hand fell away. He smiled, his cheeks only slightly flushed. I guess I win, he said. We looked across the room. The flowchart of the bidding logic tangled on the board.
The Exhibition of Persephone Q Page 6