“It sounds like you’ve had a difficult year,” she said. “I’m sorry.”
“Thank you. It hasn’t been easy, but I keep reminding myself, people have much worse years than mine. I lost a few battles,” he said, “but that isn’t the same thing as losing the war.”
Miranda raised her mug. “To the war,” she said, which elicited a smile. “What else is happening?”
“I’m always talking about myself,” he said. “How’s your life?”
“Good. Very good. No complaints.”
“You’re in shipping, aren’t you?”
“Yes. I love it.”
“Married?”
“God, no.”
“No children?”
“My position on the subject hasn’t changed. You had a son with Elizabeth, didn’t you?”
“Tyler. Just turned eight. He’s with his mother in Jerusalem.”
There was a knock at the door just then, and Arthur stood. Miranda watched him recede across the room and thought of their last dinner party in the house in Los Angeles—Elizabeth Colton passed out on a sofa, Arthur walking away up the stairs to the bedroom. She wasn’t exactly sure what she was doing here.
The person at the door was very small.
“Hello, Kiki,” Arthur said. The visitor was a little girl, seven or eight years old. She clutched a coloring book in one hand, a pencil case in the other. She was very blond, the sort of child who appears almost incandescent in certain lighting. Miranda couldn’t imagine what part there could possibly be in King Lear for a seven- or eight-year-old, but she’d seen enough child actors in her time that she could recognize one on sight.
“Can I draw in my coloring book here?” the girl asked.
“Of course,” Arthur said. “Come in. I’d like you to meet my friend Miranda.”
“Hello,” the girl said without interest.
“Hello,” Miranda said. The girl looked like a china doll, she thought. She looked like someone who’d been well-cared-for and coddled all her life. She was probably someone who would grow up to be like Miranda’s assistant Laetitia, like Leon’s assistant Thea, unadventurous and well-groomed.
“Kirsten here likes to visit sometimes,” Arthur said. “We talk about acting. Your wrangler knows where you are?” In the way he looked at the girl, Miranda saw how much he missed his own child, his distant son.
“She was on the phone,” Kirsten said. “I sneaked out.” She sat on the carpet near the door, opened her coloring book to a half-completed page involving a princess, a rainbow, a distant castle, a frog, unpacked her pencils and began drawing red stripes around the bell of the princess’s dress.
“Are you still drawing?” Arthur asked Miranda. He was noticeably more relaxed with Kirsten in the room.
Always. Yes. When she traveled she carried a sketchbook in her luggage, for the times when she was alone in hotel rooms at night. The focus of the work had gradually shifted. For years Dr. Eleven had been the hero of the narrative, but lately he’d begun to annoy her and she’d become more interested in the Undersea. These people living out their lives in underwater fallout shelters, clinging to the hope that the world they remembered could be restored. The Undersea was limbo. She spent long hours sketching lives played out in underground rooms.
“You’ve actually just reminded me. I brought you something.” She had finally assembled the first two issues of the Dr. Eleven comics, and had had a few copies printed at her own expense. She extracted two copies each of Dr. Eleven, Vol. 1, No. 1: Station Eleven and Dr. Eleven, Vol. 1, No. 2: The Pursuit from her handbag, and passed them across the table.
“Your work.” Arthur smiled. “These are beautiful. The cover of this first one was on the studio wall in L.A., wasn’t it?”
“You remember.” An image that Arthur had once said was like the establishing shot for a movie: the sharp islands of the City, streets and buildings terraced into the rock, high bridges between. Far below in the aquatic darkness, the outlines of the airlock doors that led to the Undersea, massive shapes on the ocean floor. Arthur opened the first issue at random to a two-page spread, ocean and islands linked by bridges, twilight, Dr. Eleven standing on a rock with his Pomeranian by his side. Text: I stood looking over my damaged home and tried to forget the sweetness of life on Earth.
“He was on a space station,” Arthur said. “I’d forgotten that.” He was turning the pages. “Do you still have the dog?”
“Luli? She died a couple years back.”
“I’m sorry to hear that. These are beautiful,” he said again. “Thank you.”
“What is that?” the little girl on the carpet asked. Miranda had forgotten about her for a moment.
“Some books my friend Miranda made,” Arthur said. “I’ll show you later, Kiki. What are you working on there?”
“The princess,” Kirsten said. “Matilda said I couldn’t color her dress with stripes.”
“Well,” Arthur said, “I can’t say I agree with her. Is that why you snuck out of your dressing room? Were you fighting with Matilda again?”
“She said it wasn’t supposed to have stripes on it.”
“I think the stripes are perfect.”
“Who’s Matilda?” Miranda asked.
“She’s an actor too,” Kirsten said. “She’s sometimes really mean.”
“It’s an unusual staging,” Arthur said. “Three little girls on the stage at the beginning, playing childhood versions of Lear’s daughters, and then they come back as hallucinations in the fourth act. No lines, they’re just there.”
“She thinks she’s better than everyone because she goes to the National Ballet School,” Kirsten said, returning the subject to Matilda.
“Do you dance too?” Miranda asked.
“Yeah, but I don’t want to be a dancer. I think ballet’s stupid.”
“Kirsten told me she wants to be an actor,” Arthur said.
“Oh, how interesting.”
“Yeah,” Kirsten said without looking up. “I’ve been in a lot of things.”
“Really,” Miranda said. How does one talk to an eight-year-old? She glanced at Arthur, who shrugged. “Like what?”
“Just things,” the girl said, as if she hadn’t been the one to bring these things up in the first place. Miranda was remembering that she’d never liked child actors.
“Kirsten went to an audition in New York last month,” Arthur said.
“We went in an airplane.” Kirsten stopped coloring and considered the princess. “The dress is wrong,” she said. Her voice quavered.
“I think the dress looks beautiful,” Miranda said. “You’ve done a beautiful job.”
“I have to agree with Miranda on this one,” Arthur said. “The stripes were a good choice.”
Kirsten turned the page. Blank outlines of a knight, a dragon, a tree.
“You’re not going to finish the princess?” Arthur asked.
“It isn’t perfect,” Kirsten said.
They sat for a while in silence, Kirsten filling in the dragon with alternating green and purple scales, Arthur flipping through Station Eleven. Miranda drank her tea and tried not to overanalyze his facial expressions.
“Does she visit you often?” Miranda asked softly, when he’d reached the last page.
“Almost daily. She doesn’t get along with the other girls. Unhappy kid.” They sipped their tea for a moment without speaking. The scratching of the little girl’s pencils on the coloring-book page, the steam rings that their mugs left on the glass of the coffee table, the pleasant heat of the tea, the warmth and beauty of this room: these were things that Miranda remembered in the last few hours, two weeks later, when she was drifting in and out of delirium on a beach in Malaysia.
“How long are you in Toronto?” Arthur asked.
“Four days. I leave for Asia on Friday.”