I was going to utter a determined “Great,” but then decided to soften the tone to the more upbeat but formulaic “Done,” which I altered to the more compliant “I’ll be there,” to the mock-imperative “Be there,” but which, at the very last second, I wanted to mollify to the more gentle and evasive “Until then,” opting in the end for my original “Done.”
All so very guarded and shifty. Posturing. On both our parts? Or just on mine?
Afterward, I went to my Greek diner and did exactly what I’d longed to do yesterday. Sat by the large frosted window. Managed to exchange the exact same words with the Greek kukla who is no longer a kukla. Had my bottomless insipid coffee, ate all my hash browns, read the paper and yesterday’s as well.
Then I went to a music store and bought CDs of all of Handel’s piano suites and of the Bach-Siloti. I would put on the music as soon as I got home and try to remember how the ice had cracked to the beat of a prelude that cast a haunting spell all day.
I walked into a Starbucks, ordered the same coffee infused with mocha she had brought along yesterday, and opened one CD box after the other. I liked the post-Christmas crowd, tourists milling around Lincoln Center and so many New Yorkers off for the day. I still had two presents to buy. Then I realized that what I truly wanted to do was to buy Clara a present. Why buy me a present? Because. Because is a terrible reason. Because you changed everything, because as soon as you touch a day in my life, it changes color, like one of those mood rings, because if you so much as graze my skin that part of me is burned forever. Here, see this elbow? You tapped it once when we walked back from the bar. It hasn’t forgotten. See this hand? It held the tips of all your fingers when you cried. And as for my forehead, you once said you liked it, and ever since my thoughts are no longer the same. Because you make me like my life, who I am, and if everything stops here, not to have met you would be like having lived in a north country and never tasted a single tropical fruit. Cherimoya, mango, guava, papaya, I’ll name them all like the Stations of the Cross, or the towns to Campostella, or the stations on the Broadway local line, including the ghost station under Ninety-first Street, which is where you and I, Clara, drink of the same blood like two shades from the underworld who need to time-out together before heading back to what are called the living.
And then it hit me: I’m someone you’ll forget having known, aren’t I?
I’m someone you’ll never remember meeting.
I could die and you wouldn’t know.
I bought her a copy of the Busch Quartet playing Beethoven’s A minor. With an indelible marker, I scribbled my dedication: The Heiliger Dankgesang is for you. It’s me.
Dramatic.
Subtle.
Sweet.
Fatuous.
Happening.
I liked it.
Something told me she’d laugh and still forget.
At two in the afternoon, when I came by, Clara was already waiting for me downstairs.
“Last night’s film does not make sense at all,” she said as soon as the other Boris opened the door for her. “He didn’t desire her knee, he wanted her, but knew he’d never get her, so the insidious little perv went for the knee. A cheap diversion. Actually, he desired her but didn’t want to own up to it. Or — and it gets worse — he never did want her but thought he should, which put him in the double-bind position of wanting her and not wanting to want her, without perhaps ever having wanted her—”
“How are you?” I interrupted.
She started laughing.
“I’m very well. But do you think I’m wrong?”
“I think all of Rohmer’s men — oh fuck it!”
She wrapped her huge multicolored wool shawl around her head and tucked it under her chin.
“Scarf!” She wasn’t budging.
“Scarf,” I repeated, undoing my scarf and fumbling with the knot she liked.
“I’ll do it,” she said.
Then she put her arm in mine and suddenly began walking north. We could take a cab, or we could take the bus — very scenic route, she said. Let’s walk, she wasn’t cold, she said. I immediately felt dismayed and began wondering whether this was going to be another outing that would require work or turn out to be one of those restaurants where she and Inky were regulars, where she and Inky did this, ate that, met So-and-so. “I know exactly what you’re thinking, it has nothing to do with it.” “That’s a relief,” I said. “I have to think of everything, don’t I. We don’t want no pouting.” “Who pouts?” “Someone I know gets easily worked up.” “I wouldn’t talk,” I replied.
On our way up the totally deserted sidewalks of Riverside Drive, we finally remembered the barges and the giant tankers. “I see something up higher,” she said. “Do you think it’s what I think it is?” “Might be. Just might be.” But we both knew it couldn’t be. It was just our way of resurrecting yesterday.
As we walked, I kept looking at all the buildings along Riverside Drive. I hadn’t walked on this sidewalk for years, and it hadn’t changed a bit. Now they had Clara written all over them.
At some point along the way her phone began to ring. She looked for it in every pocket of her thick coat and finally found it. “I don’t have my glasses, who is it?” she said, handing over her phone. “It says Ricardo.” She grabbed the phone from me, turned it off, and put it away. “Who is Ricardo?” I asked. I’d always felt that she was surrounded by men, but why had she never mentioned Ricardo before?
“It’s Inky.” Spoken abruptly.
“Named after a ship, perhaps?”
“No.” She didn’t think I was funny.
The restaurant was empty. At one of the large tables closest to the kitchen, the help was already busy having lunch. One of the waiters was sitting at a small table all by himself reading the Corriere dello Sport-As soon as Clara walked in, she greeted him by his first name. He was the co-owner. Was there pasta? Plenty. He didn’t look up. She snuck behind the bar, opened what must have been an old fridge, produced a bottle of chilled wine and two glasses, asked me to uncork it, and headed into the kitchen, all the while removing her coat and undoing the complicated shawl wrapped around her head.
Timidly, I uncorked the bottle, poured wine for the two of us, and joined her in the kitchen. The water, apparently, was still hot, so she asked Svetonio to “throw” in the pasta and begin heating the sauce. There were also some slices of chicken waiting to be sautéed if she wanted. “Grazie, Svetonio.” She turned to me and, without making introductions, explained that their friendship went back a long way. Should I read anything into it? Svetonio lets me come here and do my thing. I get him the best opera tickets all year. Believe me, I get the raw end of the bargain, non è vero, Svetonio? “Who’s to argue with Clara?” he said.
She found the dry frying pan she was looking for, took out the sliced chicken wrapped in cellophane from the large refrigerator, then poured some olive oil into the pan. Svetonio produced some sliced vegetables. “Are you going to just stand there?” “No, I’m observing,” I replied.
“Observe away. Lunch in no more than nine minutes. Better than anything you’d planned, right?. . I need lemon and some herbs.” But she was talking to herself, not me.
I watched as one of the waiters set a table that was far away from everyone else, but right by one of the French windows. I took out the CD and placed it on her side of the table.
“What’s this?” she said when she came out to see if everything was ready. “Ein Geschenk.” “Für mich?” “Für dich.” “Warum?” I looked at her and couldn’t help saying: “Cuz.”