The apartment felt emptied — or, more, the apartment emptied itself into Adine.
Fine! she called. Leave me. I don’t care!
Somewhere down the hallway, in another unit, someone sneezed. Adine was left with Isa Lanyess and Loopy, beseeching viewers to share with them, for one full minute, a ceremonious moment of hope and silence.
IS HE WALKING all the way across?
What? said Starx.
I can’t see him anymore. Can you? He went out on the bridge and now he’s just — gone.
Bailie, I don’t know, maybe he’s expressing himself over the side.
Peeing? You think?
No. No I don’t think.
Then? What’s he doing out there?
You’re so curious, go see.
They’d parked again by the onramp to Guardian Bridge. Above the Citywagon the bridge opened up: the crosshatch of beams and girders, all that black-painted steel, the setting sun carved through it in coppery spears. The bridge looked unfinished, a skeleton yet to be draped with skin.
No, I’m okay, said Olpert. I’ll wait here.
Me too, said Starx.
It was that time of day when the light seemed to slow and loosen before it collapsed into evening. Olpert always found this hour melancholy, maybe even nostalgic: before dusk, before nightfall, for a few careful moments the day took stock of what it had been.
He turned to Starx: What’s your favourite season?
Why, thanks for asking, Bailie! Starx faced him from the driver’s seat, the great bulk of him heaped there, head scraping the ceiling, arms wrapped around the steering column for lack of anywhere else to fit them. He seemed to be considering, his breath came in whistles and gasps. Finally he spoke: I think probably winter.
Winter. Why?
Oh, I don’t know. Probably because I’m packing such a massive heater — Starx nodded toward his lap — and the cold makes it easier to heave this monster around.
I like fall.
I’m kidding, right? Bailie? That was a joke?
I like fall because it feels like the end of the day, all the time.
You like the end of the day? Why?
Why? Olpert searched his thoughts: he was sure, as the sun painted everything golden, that he felt in these cautious, delicate moments most at home in the world. He tried to explain this to Starx, but when the words came out they sounded inadequate, even false, and when Olpert looked out again over the Narrows the light seemed cold and harsh.
I’m a nighttime fella myself, said Starx. And the reason why is that’s when I’m at my awesomest. But you? I can see it — the fall, twilight. They’re like in-between. You’re an in-between kinda guy.
Olpert pointed up the bridge: He’s coming.
Back down toward the Citywagon Raven was moving swiftly, twirling his whip at his side, a self-satisfied smirk plastered across his face.
What I’m saying, Bailie — Starx started the car — is that you’ve gotta start living. This in-between shet? It’s just waiting to die, man.
But you like the winter, Olpert said quietly. Doesn’t that mean you’re already dead?
Starx shifted into reverse. Shut your yap, Raven’s here, he said.
Gentlemen! cried the illustrationist, sliding into the backseat. One final question, Mr. Bailie, a most simple question. May I ask what it is you want?
I. . want?
Yes! What you most desire, Mr. Bailie — what is it?
Um. What do you mean?
In life, in love!
In love?
Mr. Bailie, would it be presumptuous to suggest that you are a man without desires? And, Mr. Starx, what about you? What about anyone here, in your nice-looking city?
Starx drummed the steering wheel. What do I want? Quite a question. I mean —
Nevermind! Raven was gleeful, bouncing around in the backseat. You and your fellow citizens are in for a visionary performance! Such a people of longing! Now, let’s go.
Sure, said Starx, backing the car onto Topside Drive.
Mr. Bailie, please, activate your radio device. There are certain preparatory measures that I require. And then, my friends, all will be revealed.
What’s that then? You wanna give us a little sneak preview?
Ah, Mr. Starx, you impatient rogue! I’ll tell you only this: the people of this city strike me as wanting to wall up infinity. And you’re afraid to look on the other side of that wall.
Gotcha, said Starx.
Olpert checked the rearview: Raven was swivelled in the backseat, watching Guardian Bridge recede from view. So you’re going to show us, said Olpert, what?
Raven turned, caught Olpert’s eyes in the mirror, and held them. Why, he said, what you have always known to be true, Mr. Bailie. Only the truth. And nothing more.
WITH THE TV chattering Adine tried her brother again — no response. She flicked channels, ended up back at In the Know. In her telejournalist’s cadence, that exaggerated lilt only spoken on TV, Lanyess was amping the night’s festivities. With We-TV eyes on every corner of the island, she cooed, Cinecity is going to be the place to be. And don’t forget Saturday night’s premiere of All in Together Now — the movie made by you, for us.
These vocal undulations faded into sinewaves, a boring music that had little to do with words. Adine’s thoughts drifted to Debbie: she imagined her now arriving at some dim brown apartment that smelled perennially of stew. Around the dining table would be a bunch of sloppy moccasin’d creatives who subjected each new arrival to hugs, one of them would stroke Debbie’s hair. The food: waterlogged salads and congealed sludgy putties flavoured with great ladles of cumin. And for flouting the rigour of cookbooks these ungodly repasts entitled Debbie’s friends to an unearned, manic pride.
Oh, and the eye contact — incessant and creepy, and palpable behind every unblinking stare was a brain instructing: eye contact, eye contact. Like having dinner with a roomful of those portraits that seemed always to be watching you. Everyone was doing great, each self-celebratory anecdote was met with weirdly vicarious joy. Or, in the rare case of a grievance, a spectacular show of empathy — chests were clutched as though stabbed, then came the hand-pats and aphorisms: Well you’re safe now — You’re good though you know that right? — You are special, you are loved.
These people confused bohemianism for authenticity, homeliness for inner beauty, prolonged, distraught embraces for a communion of souls. And this blind faith in one another stitched their collective mediocrity into a tapestry of the somehow unique, the debatably valuable, the dubiously good. It all spoke to a shared hunger to believe they were loved, they were good, they were surrounded by good. And so when Debbie came home from these dinners Adine had to read the sated look in her eyes as a false light.
Though it was this hunger that Adine had first found attractive, and then fallen in love with. Debbie kissed with a passion approaching fury. In the middle of the night if Adine, overcome with some licentious urge, nudged her out of sleep, she was ready, right away, as though she’d been awake the whole time waiting for it. Her life seemed spent anticipating intimacy — at any chance to be loved, her whole soul sparked and blazed.
Sometimes this was nice. Sometimes it was what Adine wanted too, what she needed even. But quickly Adine learned that Debbie was like this with everyone, and their intimacy started to feel cheap. Just once, she wanted Debbie to say, Not now. Or: Ew your breath is gross. It never mattered if Adine’s breath was gross or she had a little shred of food in her teeth or if Debbie was in the middle of something — a shower, making dinner, work. She returned Adine’s kisses without hesitation, stopped only when Adine pulled away, and even then in her face burned a pleading look, craving more.