The City of Mirrors
Page 55
Lear was sloppily pouring gin. “Tim here is from Ohio. That’s about all I remember.”
“Ohio!” She spoke this word with the same delight she might have used for Pago Pago or Rangoon. “I’ve always wanted to go there. What’s it like?”
“You’re kidding.”
She laughed. “Okay, a little. But it’s your home. Your patria. Your pays natal. Tell me anything.”
Her directness was totally disarming. I struggled to come up with something worthy of it. What was there to say about the home I’d left behind?
“It’s pretty flat, I guess.” I winced inwardly at the lameness of the remark. “The people are nice.”
Lear handed her a glass, which she accepted without looking at him. She took a tiny sip, then said, “Nice is good. I like nice. What else?”
She had yet to avert her eyes from my face. The intensity of her gaze was unsettling, though not unwelcome—far from it. I saw that she had a faint swirl of peach fuzz, dewy with sweat, above her upper lip.
“There really isn’t very much to tell.”
“And your people? What do they do?”
“My father’s an optometrist.”
“An honorable profession. I can’t see past my nose without these things.”
“Liz is from Connecticut,” Lear added.
She took a second, deeper sip, wincing pleasurably. “If it’s all right with you, Jonas, I’ll speak for myself.”
“What part?” I said, as if I knew the first thing about Connecticut.
“Little town called Greenwich, dah-ling. Which I’m supposed to hate, there’s probably no place more hateable, but I can’t seem to manage it. My parents are angels, and I adore them. Jonas,” she said, gazing into her glass, “this is really good.”
Lear dragged a desk chair to the center of the room and lowered himself onto it backward. I made a mental note that this would be how I sat from now on.
“I’m sure you can describe it better than that,” he said, grinning.
“This again. I’m not some dancing monkey, you know.”
“Come on, pumpkin. We’re totally wasted.”
“ ‘Pumpkin.’ Listen to you.” She sighed, puffing out her cheeks. “Fine, just this once. But to be clear, I’m only doing this because we have company.”
I had no idea what to make of this exchange. Liz sipped again. For an unnervingly long interval, perhaps twenty seconds, silence gripped the room. Liz had closed her eyes, like a medium at a séance attempting to conjure the spirits of the dead.
“It tastes like—” She frowned the thought away. “No, that’s not right.”
“For God’s sake,” Lear moaned, “don’t be such a tease.”
“Quiet.” Another moment slipped by; then she brightened. “Like…the air of the coldest day.”
I was amazed. She was exactly right. More than right: her words, rather than functioning as a mere decoration of the experience, actually deepened its reality. It was the first time that I felt the power of language to intensify life. The phrase was also, coming from her lips, deeply sexy.
Lear gave an admiring whistle through his teeth. “That’s a good one.”
I was frankly staring at her. “How did you do that?”
“Oh, just a talent I have. That and twenty-five cents will get you a gumball.”
“Are you some kind of writer?”
She laughed. “God, no. Have you met those people? Total drunks, every one.”
“Liz here is one of those English majors we were talking about,” Lear said. “A burden on society, totally unemployable.”
“Spare me your crass opinions.” She directed her next words to me: “What he’s not telling you is that he’s not quite the self-involved bon vivant he makes himself out to be.”
“Yes, I am!”
“Then why don’t you tell him where you were for the last twelve months?”
In my state of information overload, and under the influence of three strong drinks, I had overlooked the most obvious question in the room. Why had Jonas Lear, of all people, needed a floater for a roommate?
“Okay, I’ll do it,” Liz said. “He was in Uganda.”
I looked at him. “What were you doing in Uganda?”
“Oh, a little of this, a little of that. As it turns out, they’ve got quite a civil war going on. Not what the brochure promised.”
“He was working in a refugee camp for the U.N.,” Liz explained.
“So I dug latrines, handed out bags of rice. It doesn’t make me a saint.”
“Compared to the rest of us, it does. What your new roommate hasn’t told you, Tim, is that he has serious designs on saving the world. I’m talking major savior complex. His ego is the size of a house.”
“Actually, I’m thinking of giving it up,” Lear said. “It’s not worth the dysentery. I’ve never shat like that in my life.”
“Shit, not ‘shat,’ ” Liz corrected. “ ‘Shat’ is not a word.”
These two: I could barely keep up, and the problem wasn’t merely that I was smashed, or already half in love with my new roommate’s girlfriend. I felt like I had stepped straight from Harvard, circa 1990, into a movie from the 1940s, Spencer Tracy and Katharine Hepburn duking it out.
“Ohio!” She spoke this word with the same delight she might have used for Pago Pago or Rangoon. “I’ve always wanted to go there. What’s it like?”
“You’re kidding.”
She laughed. “Okay, a little. But it’s your home. Your patria. Your pays natal. Tell me anything.”
Her directness was totally disarming. I struggled to come up with something worthy of it. What was there to say about the home I’d left behind?
“It’s pretty flat, I guess.” I winced inwardly at the lameness of the remark. “The people are nice.”
Lear handed her a glass, which she accepted without looking at him. She took a tiny sip, then said, “Nice is good. I like nice. What else?”
She had yet to avert her eyes from my face. The intensity of her gaze was unsettling, though not unwelcome—far from it. I saw that she had a faint swirl of peach fuzz, dewy with sweat, above her upper lip.
“There really isn’t very much to tell.”
“And your people? What do they do?”
“My father’s an optometrist.”
“An honorable profession. I can’t see past my nose without these things.”
“Liz is from Connecticut,” Lear added.
She took a second, deeper sip, wincing pleasurably. “If it’s all right with you, Jonas, I’ll speak for myself.”
“What part?” I said, as if I knew the first thing about Connecticut.
“Little town called Greenwich, dah-ling. Which I’m supposed to hate, there’s probably no place more hateable, but I can’t seem to manage it. My parents are angels, and I adore them. Jonas,” she said, gazing into her glass, “this is really good.”
Lear dragged a desk chair to the center of the room and lowered himself onto it backward. I made a mental note that this would be how I sat from now on.
“I’m sure you can describe it better than that,” he said, grinning.
“This again. I’m not some dancing monkey, you know.”
“Come on, pumpkin. We’re totally wasted.”
“ ‘Pumpkin.’ Listen to you.” She sighed, puffing out her cheeks. “Fine, just this once. But to be clear, I’m only doing this because we have company.”
I had no idea what to make of this exchange. Liz sipped again. For an unnervingly long interval, perhaps twenty seconds, silence gripped the room. Liz had closed her eyes, like a medium at a séance attempting to conjure the spirits of the dead.
“It tastes like—” She frowned the thought away. “No, that’s not right.”
“For God’s sake,” Lear moaned, “don’t be such a tease.”
“Quiet.” Another moment slipped by; then she brightened. “Like…the air of the coldest day.”
I was amazed. She was exactly right. More than right: her words, rather than functioning as a mere decoration of the experience, actually deepened its reality. It was the first time that I felt the power of language to intensify life. The phrase was also, coming from her lips, deeply sexy.
Lear gave an admiring whistle through his teeth. “That’s a good one.”
I was frankly staring at her. “How did you do that?”
“Oh, just a talent I have. That and twenty-five cents will get you a gumball.”
“Are you some kind of writer?”
She laughed. “God, no. Have you met those people? Total drunks, every one.”
“Liz here is one of those English majors we were talking about,” Lear said. “A burden on society, totally unemployable.”
“Spare me your crass opinions.” She directed her next words to me: “What he’s not telling you is that he’s not quite the self-involved bon vivant he makes himself out to be.”
“Yes, I am!”
“Then why don’t you tell him where you were for the last twelve months?”
In my state of information overload, and under the influence of three strong drinks, I had overlooked the most obvious question in the room. Why had Jonas Lear, of all people, needed a floater for a roommate?
“Okay, I’ll do it,” Liz said. “He was in Uganda.”
I looked at him. “What were you doing in Uganda?”
“Oh, a little of this, a little of that. As it turns out, they’ve got quite a civil war going on. Not what the brochure promised.”
“He was working in a refugee camp for the U.N.,” Liz explained.
“So I dug latrines, handed out bags of rice. It doesn’t make me a saint.”
“Compared to the rest of us, it does. What your new roommate hasn’t told you, Tim, is that he has serious designs on saving the world. I’m talking major savior complex. His ego is the size of a house.”
“Actually, I’m thinking of giving it up,” Lear said. “It’s not worth the dysentery. I’ve never shat like that in my life.”
“Shit, not ‘shat,’ ” Liz corrected. “ ‘Shat’ is not a word.”
These two: I could barely keep up, and the problem wasn’t merely that I was smashed, or already half in love with my new roommate’s girlfriend. I felt like I had stepped straight from Harvard, circa 1990, into a movie from the 1940s, Spencer Tracy and Katharine Hepburn duking it out.
