Читать книгу The Apotheosis - Darrell Lee - Страница 15

She hadn’t wanted to move back to Boston. She wanted to be away from its neatly trimmed old houses on old shaded streets. It smelled of soccer games and PTA. A good place for a family. Not so much for an exciting life. Almost all her friends from high school had left. The few who remained had a couple of kids already and a schedule too packed with motherhood to socialize. Real friendships, ones close enough for her to share her problems, to find some sympathy, had been replaced with Facebook ones.

Amira liked New York. She liked the fast pace and busy streets and bustling restaurants. She enjoyed the cultural shiny side and reckless underside of the city at night. It took four breathtaking years at New York University to obtain her journalism degree. A position waited for her at The New Yorker, where she had interned for two summers. Anticipating her career and life in the big city experience, her mood soared. One day, she knew she would write something important. An investigative piece perhaps, or maybe a novel. For her, New York City pulsated. From The Big Apple, she could springboard to anywhere.

She met Ethan at the beginning of the last semester of her senior year. Unlike her friends who dreamt of meeting Mr. Right and marrying, she felt too young for long-term relationships. Life moved too fast for obligations. Certainly, Ethan wouldn’t be anything but another quick fling. She studied him while they were in line at the cafeteria. Tall, fit, and awkward. He was Jewish, like her, the kippah always atop his head.

They lunched together for the next few days. Then a movie and dinner. His family had money. His body was muscular and lean. A touch socially awkward, but polite. Devoutly Jewish; his father was a rabbi in New York. He was graduating with his Ph.D. in Biomolecular Science at the same time as Amira. He had a job lined up in Boston. Perfect. She would be staying in New York. She knew she was out of his league; she would have the upper hand. She was sure the romance would be short-lived. The way she liked them. All her plans changed with two tiny pink lines on an early pregnancy test the week before graduation.

Ethan argued that he had a good job at a growing company. And it was a good job; however, it was in Boston. He looked at her earnestly and told her she would be happy back in Boston. This relieved Amira’s parents, her mother really more than her father. One of her mother’s constant worries was that Amira would meet a man outside their faith and culture. Amira came back. To have his child, to watch it grow. They would raise a family. Spend fall afternoons at football practices or buy a prom dress. Whichever would be required.

After Elona’s birth, Ethan wanted her to remain at home with the child. She didn’t have to worry, he would provide. Elona became Amira’s one true bright spot. A child-sized image of herself, with cream-colored skin, big brown eyes, and a mane of black hair. Full of energy, enthusiasm, and love. Amira returned to Boston for Ethan; she stayed in Boston for Elona.

Slowly, over time, it became clear to her that Ethan expected her behavior to model the traditional housewife role. Dinner should be ready when he arrived home. He dictated the food acceptable in the house. Removing meat, eating only organically grown vegetables in very small portions. He said that through the pain of self-deprivation he desired to get closer to God. His hair and beard grew shabby.

She resented how Ethan restricted her interactions outside the home and her access to unsupervised funds. Sex became infrequent and mechanical. She battled him for the first four years, with many tears from her, and many apologies from him. However, nothing obtained resolution, nothing changed. Ultimately it wore her down, like the unrelenting current of a river. Pulling her down and keeping her from breathing. Now, it was a movie now and then, when the tension between them abated.

Her one time a year to dress up was the company’s holiday party. Only held a month ago, it seemed like a year. Now that the holidays were over, the forced amicableness for the sake of the season no longer held sway. Yesterday’s fight erupted over money she’d spent on makeup, or at least that was the pretense. But she knew the real reason, the root cause of all of Ethan’s tirades: control. A cloud hung over her life, like being homesick for a place that never existed.

She looked around the dining room of the restaurant. Pale tablecloths, candle-lit tables, waiters in white jackets, crystal chandeliers, and tall wine glasses. She sat at a table alone, in her best cocktail dress, bought before she met Ethan. So stylish and trending then, but now it looked dated. She would order something expensive and have at least two glasses of wine. This passive-aggressive dinner would cost three times what she had spent on the makeup. That is what she had reduced herself to. She would deal with the consequences of an unapproved absence from the house later.

She looked up from the wine list and saw the maître d’ leading him through the tables. He was dressed in a suit. She knew fashion and recognized an elegant designer suit when she saw one. She thought the same thing about the suit he’d worn at the holiday party. A red tie with that one; a light blue tie gave this one the right touch. He glanced around the room. Their eyes met for an instant, but his continued. She felt a twinge of disappointment. Then his head swung back to her and their eyes locked. He stopped, and a smile came to his lips. Hers too. He moved confidently through the tables to her. Soon he was standing on the other side of the table.

“Good evening, Amira. It’s so good to see you again.”

His eyes looked directly at her and her breathing paused for an instant. She felt the tension in her stomach she got when talking to a man she found attractive. She felt her face flush. He remembered my name.

“Good evening, John. Very nice to see you again, too.”

The maître d’ realized he’d lost his guest and made his way toward them. John noticed only one place setting.

“Dining alone?”

“Yes.”

“Could I join you?”

Yes. No. What if someone who knows Ethan sees us? How will I explain? Certainly, nobody from our building would be at a restaurant this expensive on a weekday night. They’re too busy paying for their kids’ braces or college. “Yes. I’d like that.”

He sat across from her. He moved with grace, even in the simple act of seating himself at the table. His shoulders were broad under the light gray silky jacket. His white shirt was neatly pressed. She liked his looks, that he was taller than she; the sharp bone structure of his face and his thick brown hair gave him a dignified demeanor. She couldn’t discern any distinct feature about him. He was handsome just the same. Two waiters set his place and handed him a wine list. He didn’t open it.

“Did you have any particular wine in mind?” John asked her.

Amira knew little about wines. In college she was too broke for anything but the cheap stuff. Ethan knew less than she did. He attempted to hide his ignorance with an attitude that it was superfluous.

“No.”

“Can you provide us with a bottle of Crémant de Loire Brut NV?” John asked the waiter.

“Yes, Dr. Numen.”

The waiter collected the wine list and left. They each studied the entrée menu. The waiter came to the table and opened the bottle John had ordered. He poured a small amount of it in the wine glass at John’s setting. He took a small sip and set his glass back down—an act she could tell he had done countless times.

“It’s fine, Victor, as usual.”

The waiter filled his glass and then Amira’s.

“To friends and life with passion,” John said and lifted his glass for the toast.

Amira Shinwell, wife and mother, looped a strand of hair behind her ear, lifted her glass, touched it to John’s with a smile, and had her first drink of sparkling wine since she’d left New York. It felt good.

“What is it you do—I mean in your lab?”

John looked at his wine glass for a moment then to her eyes again. “I’m doing research in cloning. That’s what has been occupying all of my time lately. Hopefully this year I’ll see the work I’ve been doing come to fruition.

“If it does, as I expect, there is another area of research I am working on that involves an extensive software system. I have been writing the core pieces of that also. At least that’s the high-level description, suitable for dinner conversation. How about you?”

“I take care of our daughter and run the house. Nothing really suitable for dinner conversation either. But I have a plan I hope to implement this year.”

“Care to share it?”

“I already have a degree in journalism from NYU. I’m thinking about trying to find a position with a local newspaper or do freelance writing.”

“How old is your daughter?”

“A very precocious five.”

“Do you have a picture?”

Amira removed her cell phone from her purse, flicked to her favorite picture, and turned the screen toward John. The screen was filled with the smiling face of a child. Big brown eyes, a mane of raven-black hair in a need of brushing, blushed cheeks on an ivory complexion. A miniature of Amira.

“She’s beautiful.”

“She’s my whole world.” Amira put the phone back in her purse. “But don’t let that innocent face fool you. Yesterday I was driving her home from school. I ask the usual question. ‘Anything interesting happen at school today?’ She answered, ‘My teacher asked me what I wanted to be when I grow up.’

‘What did you tell her?’

‘I told her I want to be just like my mommy.’ So, you can imagine the pride swelling inside me. ‘Really?’ I said. ‘Yep, I told her I want to drink wine and say bad words.’”

“Uh-oh.”

“It gets worse.”

“Worse?”

“I, of course, am about to wreck the car trying not to laugh when she says, in a casual sort of way, ‘Oh, and you can’t say fucking cow at school. The cow part is okay, just not the fucking.’”

“That is worse.”

“You can imagine the shock. My jaw almost hit my lap. ‘Elona!’ ‘I’m sorry, Mommy, I didn’t mean to say it.’ We both have to work very hard on not saying that word, I said. ‘Okay… the teacher says she wants to have a conference with you next Thursday.’”

John choked on his wine. “So, journalism degree… interesting. Have anything published?”

“As an intern for The New Yorker I got a small piece published. That’s the extent of my literary achievements. But I love fiction, I’ve been an avid reader as far back as I can remember. Two years ago, I started on a manuscript for a book but only got about one hundred pages done. It’s hard with a toddler in the house.”

“I can imagine it would be hard to get settled in behind a keyboard.”

“I do all my creative writing longhand, in a notebook. The old-fashioned way. It slows my mind down enough to really think about what I’m writing, and, of course, I can then write anywhere. But even with that I just couldn’t keep it up.”

“That’s a pure Boston accent you have. Do you like it here, in Boston?”

“The place is nice. The people are nice. Good place to raise a fam—.” She paused. “May I have some more wine?”

He poured her some more from the bottle.

“I’m supposed to say, ‘Great. A wonderful place to raise a family.’ And that’s true, mostly. It’s a nice place for a family. But—being a housewife in Boston isn’t what I dreamt about when I was at NYU.” Finally, she’d said it out loud, the words she had held back for years. She said them now to a man with whom she hadn’t spent twenty minutes.

John was silent for a minute. “Life can throw us curveballs. Taking our best swing at them is all we can do.”

The waiter returned to the table. Amira hadn’t looked at the menu enough to make a decision. John didn’t need to.

“Did you have anything particular in mind?” John asked Amira.

“Not really.”

“Do you mind if I order for you?”

“Be my guest.”

“We’ll spilt the pan-seared beef tenderloin medallions with mushrooms and Marsala sauce, baked au gratin with Romano and Fontina cheeses, accompanied with Vesuvio potatoes and vegetable of the day.”

The waiter wrote the order, took their menus, and left.

It will be nice to eat a meal with a man who enjoys meat, Amira thought. An articulate man, an elegant suit, and perfect wine. On a cold Wednesday evening, this was a world of change for Amira.

“Your work sounds complicated,” Amira said, feeling the need to keep the conversation going.

“Not as much as you might think. Science can involve a lot of boring repetition and mundane observations. But I like the excitement of discovery and doing things not done before. Having a passion, a theory, maybe just an insight that nobody else has and running with it.”

Amira laughed quietly, thinking about a life with passion. She supposed John thought like this every day, lived his life like this every day. Spoke like this every day. In the Shinwell household, and in the house where she grew up, no such paradigm existed.

“When you were studying at NYU, what was your favorite modern piece of literature, one from an author still living today, the one that inspired you to write, that gave you passion?”

Amira hadn’t expected the question. She hadn’t thought about her inspiration for years, suppressing it along with the rest.

“The Rest Was Folly and Ashes by Joseph Clarke.”

“His first novel, written when he lived in Prague, almost forty years ago,” John said.

“Yes, that’s right.” Amira wasn’t surprised he knew, she could feel the raw intelligence sitting across from her.

“Probably ranked top twenty of the most influential novels of the twentieth century. It has themes of love, death, renewal, and the fundamental nature of femininity and masculinity. Very interesting coming from a Jewish girl from Boston.”

“Maybe there’s more to Jewish girls from Boston than you’re giving us credit for.”

“Maybe.”

“I remember the company brochure said you went to Harvard. I remember it said you have a Ph.D. What was your field of study there?”

“Medical science related.”

“Medical science related? That’s it? That’s all I’m getting from you?”

John smiled and shrugged his shoulders.

“Oh no, I’m not letting you get away with that.”

She took her cell phone from her purse and began searching on the internet. “Let’s see what Harvard University’s website has to say about you.” Amira read and scrolled. She looked up from the small glowing screen. “No wonder you don’t talk about it. Who would believe you? I don’t even understand the titles of any of these papers you wrote.”

John remained poker-faced.

Amira looked down at the screen again and read again. “I assume all these awards are a good thing.”

“They sound fancy but don’t really pay the bills.”

“Like you have to worry about that.”

The waiters came with their plates. Amira put the phone away. The plates of vegetables and potatoes they would share was placed in the middle of the table. One of the waiters refilled their glasses. Without windows to the outside, no indication of the pace of the day or passage of time, only the gentle light from the chandeliers and the candle on the table, reserved intimacy enveloped them. It came somehow with the food.

“Joseph Clarke seems to put a book out about every ten years. Do you like any of his other novels?” John asked.

“Of course, I love them all, but that one is my favorite. Since clearly we can’t talk about whatever it is you do in your lab, I’m afraid you are going to have to tell me about yourself. I already know about your father founding the company and that you’re on the board of directors. Just begin at the beginning.”

“The real beginning happened when I was ten. My father died. We were close. Life was good. That seems like one part of my history frozen in time.

“After he died, my mother never recovered. Soon, I was living with my Aunt Cathy and Uncle Robert. They were great to me. Aunt Cathy couldn’t have children, so they raised me as their own. My mother drifted farther and farther away. I guess she was guilt-free enough, knowing I was with good people. We spent summers in Europe. I love Rome. I think I really fell in love with the city when I was in my teens. It’s alive, yet holds all this culture and history and priceless works of art. The people there work among mankind’s greatest achievements in architecture, engineering, and art and still make time in their day to have a simple lunch at a sidewalk café.

“I acquired a large trust fund at twenty-one, and my ownership in the company when I turned twenty-five. After too many years in school to talk about, I returned to Boston to continue my research at the company. I’ve put in some long hours; it has been years of research, but I still treat myself to a Christmas-season vacation in Rome. I own an apartment there just outside Vatican City. From my second-story bedroom window, I bet you could shoot an arrow and hit the dome of St. Peter’s Basilica.”

“Sounds wonderful.”

They ate their beef medallions, vegetables, and potatoes with small talk and familiarity. John ordered the perfect dessert. She could feel his eyes on her constantly, but never obvious. He poured the last of the wine into their glasses. She could tell John Numen had poured many servings of wine into many a girl’s wine glass. She wondered how many meals in how many restaurants across Boston, Europe, or Rome there had been.

Amira felt good, like she did in her carefree days. However, their empty glasses testified to the length of the evening. The time to go had arrived. He rose from his chair. And moved to pull hers back.

“But they haven’t brought my check,” Amira said.

“I come here often. I’ve an understanding with them. If they see me dining with anyone else, I always get the bill, especially if it’s a beautiful woman.”

Amira blushed and stood. They walked through the tables and out into the wintry air. Amira handed the valet her ticket. His car arrived first. A long, sleek, black BMW coupe. Wide and low to the ground. The valet stopped the car in front of them. The engine purred with power, lazy steam rolling from the tailpipes.

John’s eyes met hers. “Thanks for the conversation and the evening,” he said. “It was very nice. You’re a very lovely, intelligent woman. Treat yourself to a new dress and insist Ethan dine out once in a while. Maybe he isn’t as stupid as I think. Maybe it’ll work out.”

She knew he knew. His words didn’t hurt. She knew he was talking about romance and intimacy and passion. She could tell by his tone. John walked to the open driver’s door.

“Goodbye,” John said. He looked at her for a moment, then he was behind the wheel and shutting the door. The car shot forward out of the parking lot into the street, the red taillights disappearing into the traffic.