She stopped typing and looked at me. “Again?”
“I’m getting your milk.”
“I told you, you don’t have to do that.”
“Of course I do,” I said, and left the apartment.
The restaurant was unnecessarily dark, a long and windowless space, lit only by flickering candles. I felt completely exposed at my small table in the middle of the room, unnerved by the figures shifting and murmuring around me. I finished my drink in one long swallow without knowing what it was, only that it burned on its way down. On the far side of the restaurant, a corridor with an unusual number of doors reached back into darkness. A large man with a moustache emerged from one of the doors and walked towards me. It took me a moment to recognize him.
“Still no food?” David asked, sitting down.
“Doesn’t look that way,” I said vaguely.
“Trust me, it’ll be worth the wait. The head chef’s an artist. People come from all over the country for this stuff.” He crossed his legs and leaned back. “So about this book of yours, Felix. Frankly, I’m surprised that you came to me, after everything that’s happened. You really put me in a tight spot, cutting off all communication like that.”
“I was having a hard time.”
“I gathered.”
“My father had just died.”
David’s jaw went tight. “I’m sorry. Why didn’t you tell me?”
I shrugged. “It’s not important.”
“Well, are you all right now?”
“Yes. I’m living with someone.”
“Hey, that’s great! You should have brought her along.”
“Yeah… she’s not really a people person.”
“Match made in heaven,” David observed with a grin.
I had a sudden impulse to punch him in the mouth.
“So the proposal you sent me.” He tugged on his earlobe. “I have to say, I’m not quite sure what to make of it. There are some, shall we say… plausibility issues. And your protagonist isn’t exactly sympathetic.”
I nodded, thinking I never should have called him.
“A loser,” he said, pressing home the point. “And the way he sees women? A little tone-deaf, wouldn’t you say? I don’t know if you’ve noticed, but women are having something of a moment right now.”
I started to defend myself but David kept talking.
“I’m not saying you can’t write about sex. But it’s going to be difficult. Women have a perspective too, you know.”
“I understand that.”
“Do you? The women in your books aren’t real, Felix. They’re ideas. Symbols.”
“I—”
“How are you doing over here?” a waitress in a short black skirt interrupted, suddenly appearing at our table.
David gave her a wolfish grin. “Ravenous.”
The waitress ignored him, directing her frozen smile at me. “Um…” I shifted in my chair. “I’m good.”
“Great! Your food will be out in just a minute.”
She walked off and David’s eyes lingered on her behind. He leaned back, looking gloomy. “Irony,” he said.
“What’s that?”
“Your proposal. It’s loaded with irony. Just think about how passive your hero is. He can’t even womanize properly. He never takes charge of his situation. Things just happen to him.”
“Isn’t that what life’s like?” I asked.
David gave me a puzzled smile. “No,” he said. “It’s not.” His expression grew serious. “Felix, are you sure that this is the book you want to be writing right now?”
I didn’t know how to answer that question. For me, when writing went well, it happened under almost trancelike conditions, as if I were transcribing someone else’s words. Whether or not it was the book I wanted to write was beside the point. It was the book I’d been given.
“Have you ever considered writing something a little less… personal?” David asked. “Historical fiction? Maybe a good mystery?”
As he continued to suggest alternate directions for my career, a couple sat down at a table in a far corner of the restaurant. The man had his back to me, but I had a clear view of his red-headed companion. The longer I stared at her, the more familiar she appeared. If it really was Jasmine, she’d grown out her hair since I last saw her and adopted a new style, dressed in a kimono-like top and dark slacks, chopsticks either holding her hair in place or imbedded in it for effect. From behind, the man looked much older than her, sitting with an elbow hooked over the back of his chair and one hand on the table, palm down, pointing in her direction. He seemed to have said something funny, as Jasmine (I was certain it was her now) nodded and laughed.
“Something to think about anyway,” David was saying. “Obviously, I’m not inside your head. Only you can say what really excites you. But I feel like a change of direction could be helpful.”
Jasmine touched her companion’s hand and an invisible vise tightened around my throat.
David swept back his hair. “I’ve upset you.”
“No,” I said, keeping my eyes on Jasmine’s table.
“Then why are you so quiet?”
“I’m always quiet.”
The room was stifling. The man took Jasmine’s hand and turned it over, running his fingers over the lines of her palm, as if reading her future.
“For Christ’s sake,” David said, loudly, “what’s so interesting back there?” He twisted around and Jasmine’s eyes flicked up, landing on me for a moment before dodging away. “Do you know that woman?”
“No,” I muttered.
Jasmine said something to her companion, who twisted around to look at us exactly as David had looked at them a moment before. My face went cold. It was my father’s double. The photographer with the truck. He wore a nicely tailored sport coat, his shirt unbuttoned to reveal a thatch of grey chest hair and a pendant on a thin gold chain. I couldn’t gauge his precise expression in the dim light, but he looked amused, as if Jasmine had just said something disparaging about me.
David cleared his throat. “Uh… Felix?”
My father’s double turned to Jasmine and made a seesawing motion with his hand. She nodded and laughed again.
“I have to go,” I announced.
“Hey.” David spread his hands. “I’m sorry if I offended you. You want to keep writing books about yourself? Knock yourself out.”
I stood abruptly, jostling the table, making the cutlery clatter.
The restaurant felt static, unnaturally quiet. I had the sense of walking through a painting, past suggestions of people, towards the only possible exit: the dark corridor beside Jasmine’s table. Neither she nor the man she was with seemed aware of my approach—Jasmine frowning at a wine list, while he looked at his watch. I veered towards them at the last second, coming up on the man from behind and hissing in his ear: “I know who you are.”
The man jumped, nearly falling out of his chair. I’d never been that close to him before and was surprised by how little he actually resembled my father, his jaw stronger than Dad’s, his nose more prominent, his eyes more symmetrical. I could feel Jasmine staring at me, but remained focused on the man. “Who sent you?” I demanded. “Why did you take those pictures?” I grabbed his arm, then stopped, registering his baffled (and terrified) expression. The more I studied his face, the less sure of myself I became. The woman was on the verge of tears. She looked nothing like Jasmine—several inches taller and at least ten years older. All they had in common was the hair. Everyone in the room was watching. David should have been furious, but from his place at the table, he looked strangely pleased. I let go of the man’s arm and strode off down the corridor, passing door after door until I came to a flight of stairs that led to what looked like the main exit. The handle was solid and reassuring. I swung the door open and emerged onto a busy street: headlights streaming past under a purple sky, the air cool and bracing, a line of well-dressed people standing under a glowing marquee across the road. I walked away from the underground restaurant, feeling as if the world were being hastily assembled in front of me, the ground solidifying an instant before I stepped onto it. As I walked, my panic began to fade. None of it was real. Not the restaurant or Jasmine or David. Not the street under my feet. And not me. Least of all me. Yes, a voice in my ear confirmed. “Well?” I said out loud. “What do I do now?” Close your eyes, the voice said. I obeyed, walking blind for five, ten, twenty paces without stumbling. I opened my eyes, recalling David’s broad smile. He wanted action, I’d give him action. I shut my eyes for another twenty paces. Forty. Sixty. I may not have known exactly what to do next, but sensed something protecting me, guiding me, leading me exactly where I needed to go.