It was still snowing the next morning, leaving the city frozen as the final ice age, and even the hum of white noise had disappeared into true silence, with nothing but winter all around.
“Look how easily even New York is made fragile,” Sylvie commented, looking down on the frozen city. “Just imagine what happens when a storm lands, or a drone strikes, in some place still half-made or half-defeated from being taken over.”
We stayed the next day in bed, under the comforter, reading to each other out loud, and only left the warm covers in the evening to cook.
“I will make dinner,” I said, going off to the kitchen. “Is there anything in particular you want?”
“Whatever you’re in the mood for.”
“There is the roast we bought last night, and some parsnips.”
“It sounds like a fine winter meal, but a vegetable is also sometimes green. Why don’t we make a salad of the fennel?”
Outside the power had not been fully restored, but the yellow sodium lamps glowed on the frozen snow, and beyond there were little flickers of light coming from the windows of the buildings with generators; but mostly there was darkness, the world reduced to the size of my apartment and everything beyond distant and meaningless.
“You know what this reminds me of?” she asked.
“Yes,” I said.
“Were you here?”
“Yes.”
“Me too.”
She did not say anything else for a long time after that, but simply stared out over Lower Manhattan into the storm. “You know, there are kids in grade school now who were not even alive then.”
“Time moves so fast.”
“And if we have children they will never know what it felt like here then. They won’t know what it was like before, at all.”
“Before the murders.”
“I did not know you could be like that.”
“Like what?”
“So narrow with hate. Look at your face.”
“Neither did I.”
“But our children would not know any of it. Nothing except what they read in history. They’d never have to nurse from that shapeless fear and rage, neither ours nor theirs, or the knowledge of what we forged from our sadness and fear and tarnished with shame. They wouldn’t know any of it. Wouldn’t that be glorious?”
“Yes,” I said. “Except they will know, if only from the effects, or else they will know something from the same root. They cannot escape that.”
“No,” she shook her head. “I mean if they did not know anything like that at all.”
“Yes,” I said. “That would be glorious, but it’s not possible.”
“I did not ask you to weigh it, just to think if we could make the world again. They would be brand new, and the world would be new for them. We could make the world again for them, and they would not have to know anything like that at all. Wouldn’t that be divine?”
“Yes,” I said.
From bed we could no longer see the lights of the buildings in the distance, but watched whiteness cover the invisible city, and the people below, with all their burdens, and it just kept falling over us, like ash.
31
I accepted the assignment from Bea and we flew from winter back toward warmth, taking the PATH train from World Financial Center to Newark in the early evening rush. Our plane lifted and tacked out over the bay, then up the Hudson in harmony with the boats and the evening traffic along the West Side Highway and Midtown skyline. The entire city was aglow with activity, and the silhouettes of the buildings were a calming sight, and we fell asleep peacefully.
We woke the next morning with the Atlantic sun over the Netherlands, and changed flights in Amsterdam, where we stopped to buy buttery Dutch pastries, and the European papers. It was always refreshing to see the news from a perspective beyond the information firewall of America, and shocking every time to realize how thick that firewall was. Sylvie said much the same, as we scanned the papers from around the world in the free Dutch port.
“Which do you want?” I asked.
“Let’s take them all.” She gathered up a stack. “We can compare them and sort out for ourselves how much truth is in each and what’s really going on.”
As we fastened ourselves in for the next leg of the journey I told her how much I was looking forward to the trip.
“That’s nice of you to say, sweetheart,” she said, turning from the window. “I know you’re only going to make me happy, and it does make me happy.”
“I have my own reasons, too. Did you ever wonder why us, though?”
“No. I know why.” She pulled her pashmina around her neck and leaned against me.
“Tell me what you think,” I said.
“A lot of it is stuff you don’t believe.”
“Try me.”
“A shrink might say our neuroses match. A believer would say when we are open on the deep level the universe sends to us what we need, always. A pragmatist would shrug and say it is the causal outcome of a chain of factors we can never know completely, and probably shouldn’t worry too much about. A traditionalist might say people like us belong together. A mystic, that it is only mutual submission to what is happening to us. The Greeks would say it is éros. But ask, is it also philia? Pragma? Agápe? My mother just wants to know if you are good to me. If I am good to you.”
“What do you tell her?”
“Yes.” She laughed with her eyes and kissed my cheek.
“And the rest?”
“I think if all those ways of looking at the question exist it must be rich and complex enough to sustain so many different ways of looking; the richest, most complex thing there is, which we know less about than we do the cosmos, so only a fool would think to say anything definitive. Maybe when gods walked the earth and showed themselves to us, there was certainty. Except they retreated from us, or we from them, and now — thinking that by knowing the laws of the universe we know the universe — we celebrate our reason as all there is, like little baby children who believe themselves grow. And still, it is there for us. And somewhere, I like to think, they are smiling, watching lovingly while we bumble about, claiming to know their intent, except it really is just a great mystery. So what do I know? I have given up on theories of love. All we can have is the experience and practice of it, allowing the rest to work through us. That is enough. We were willing and ready and submitted. That is what matters. Unless we decide to go all the way as seers do. But for us it is probably best to simply accept it.” She squeezed my hand.
I did not tell her I did not agree with all of it. I had no theory of my own, or anything more adorned than that she made me a better man. That was satisfaction enough, as we lifted through the sky, and fell asleep against each other.
When we woke again the Rift Valley had split open below us, ample and lush. We had a five-day safari planned. After that I would report my story, and eventually we would meet back in Farodoro. Beyond that we did not have plans.
“Where would you like to live?” I asked, as the plane descended.
“With you. Wherever you wish,” she indulged me, not too convincingly. “Let’s just enjoy ourselves, and not talk about it yet, because if you wish to live somewhere I do not, we are going to have a fantastic little fight. You will begin with whatever argument you have readied in your mind, and it will be some kind of tautology or other, which I will tenderly deconstruct, for your own good, with actual facts, so there is no winning for you that way. Next, we will start psychologizing, and after that it will be all down to the emotions. You will throw up both your hands, and say, ‘Please. Just listen to me, woman.’ Of course you will not say the last, because you are not stupid that way, but you will think it, honey, and I will overhear.