by Marc Levy
She was right: a clumsy juggler was struggling to catch colorful balls that flew everywhere, a woman was drawing chalk portraits on the ground, two men were kissing on the grass, and children were darting about through the jets of water. Sanji sat on the edge, and Chloe positioned her chair next to him and looked at the pashmina on her lap.
“I wasn’t always like this, and something in our relationship disappeared with that part of me.”
“Your sense of humor, your quick wit, your eyes, your smile—all that wasn’t enough for him?”
“I’d prefer to change the subject.”
“I wouldn’t.”
“It’s very nice of you to tell me all this, but since you were the unintended witness of this breakup, I’d like to remind you that I broke up with him.”
“Not exactly.”
“What do you mean ‘not exactly’?”
“You broke up with me. I can’t hold it against you since it was a wrong number, but now that I think about it, maybe I would have preferred it not to be.”
“You wanted me to break up with you?” Chloe teased.
“Okay, what I’m saying isn’t very clear, but bear with me. If I had been the intended recipient of this message, it would have meant that we’d been together before that.”
Sanji looked so flustered that she burst out laughing.
“I’ve never heard anything so absurd. You’re out of your mind.”
“I think you need to be a little out of your mind in order not to lose your mind entirely.”
“You can’t imagine how much of what I’ve gone through the last few years proves you right.”
“Did you call him back?”
“What are you talking about?”
“You know.”
“How is that any of your business?”
“Deepak asked me to watch over you—I’m just doing my job as an elevator operator.”
“Why did you tell me you were a businessman?”
“You live on the top floor of a fancy building. Isn’t that reason enough?”
“You know, I think you’re coming on to me, rather awkwardly, but …”
“But what?”
“You shouldn’t worry about appearances so much. I know what I’m talking about.”
“In my country, it’s not just about appearances. People of different social standings don’t spend time together. Would you have dinner with an elevator operator?”
Chloe gazed off into the distance.
“Let’s change venues,” she suggested. “Tomorrow, I leave the studio at five. You know where to find me.”
Chloe left, and Sanji remained sitting on the edge of the fountain for a long time. Before he left the park, he saw that he’d missed a call from Sam and called him back. The investment bank Holtinger & Mokimoto had read their materials and agreed to meet with them. With shareholders like these, he could quickly raise the rest of the capital.
“Don’t tell me it’s too soon to celebrate! I reserved a table at Mimi’s, one of the best restaurants in the city. The French food there will make your pata vrap seem disgusting by comparison.”
“It’s called vada pav, and what would you know about it? Anyway, I can’t do tonight.”
“If it’s because of this Otis woman, invite her to come with us.”
“That could be complicated—she weighs around six hundred and fifty pounds, and that’s when she’s empty.”
Sam took a deep breath and hung up on him.
When his shift began that night, Sanji didn’t have a minute to himself.
He was sure he had seen the man who entered the lobby carrying a small suitcase somewhere before, but he couldn’t say where. He left the desk to go greet him.
“Ninth floor, please,” the professor said.
“Should I announce you?”
“No, it’s a surprise. Is Chloe back?”
“I don’t have permission to answer you. Those are my instructions,” Sanji retorted, closing the elevator gate.
“And what is the source of these instructions?” the professor asked at the fourth floor.
Only then did Sanji recall having seen his passenger with Chloe at Claudette’s.
“I’m not sure she likes surprises. In fact, a lot of women hate being surprised. I should have followed the rules,” Sanji muttered, turning the handle the other way.
The elevator stopped abruptly between the seventh and eighth floors. In other circumstances, the professionalism shown by Mr. Rivera’s replacement would have reassured, or even amused, Professor Bronstein, but he had just traveled five hours from the West Coast, and his sense of humor was as exhausted as he was.
“Please get the elevator moving again.”
“Not until you tell me who you are!”
“Her father!” the professor answered curtly.
Sanji turned the handle back in a very dignified manner.
“My sincere apologies, I would have preferred for us to meet under better circumstances, but—”
“You have your instructions, yes, I’m aware,” the professor interrupted. “Now, if you don’t have any objections, I’d like to go home and greet my daughter, who, I assure you, will be very happy to see me.”
“I’m very happy to see you too—that’s not what I meant—good night, Mr. Chloe—that’s not what I meant either,” he stammered. “But I don’t know her last name, I mean, your last name. Deepak always calls her Miss Chloe.”
“Bronstein, Professor Bronstein!”
Sanji went back down, beet red. He had just gotten to the lobby when he was called to the eighth floor.
The Williamses were dressed to the nines in a tuxedo and an evening gown.
“Very chic,” Sanji complimented them, leaving the couple flabbergasted.
Shortly afterward, the Clercs also left, worried about being late to the movies.
“What movie?” Sanji asked.
“La La Land,” Mr. Clerc replied.
“I’ve heard it’s very good. Apparently the actors really know how to dance,” he concluded, escorting them through the lobby.
The Clercs exchanged amused looks under the awning and got into the taxi that Sanji had just hailed for them.
Mr. Morrison had given up his evening at the opera. In fact, he had given up going out at all. Since nightfall, he had been pacing back and forth in his living room, shooting stealthy, nervous looks at his couch every time he served himself a glass of whiskey.
In an even rarer occurrence, Mrs. Collins rang at 8:50. She appeared on the landing with a small suitcase in hand. She initiated the conversation, complaining that she hadn’t been able to bolt her door.
“I can never do it! Usually Deepak does it for me.”
Sanji offered to help, but Mrs. Collins replied that her locks were so unpredictable that she was afraid she wouldn’t be able to open the door the next day.
“I’m not sleeping at home tonight,” confided the charming elderly lady. “My friend on the Upper West Side is hosting a bridge tournament. Her parties always go late, and we drink a little more than we should, so I prefer to spend the night at her place.”
“Don’t get too tipsy if you want to win the tournament,” Sanji advised.
“Thank you for your wise advice, young man,” she said, closing the cab door.
By midnight, all the other owners had returned. When he took the Clercs up in the elevator, Sanji asked if they had liked the movie.
“Eet was a delightful musical,” Mrs. Clerc replied with a smile.
Sanji enthusiastically recommended Jab Harry Met Sejal to them, a remake with much better dance numbers than the original.
And since Mrs. Collins wasn’t staying in her apartment, Sanji used his set of keys and went to sleep in her living room.
The Day I Put Away My Prostheses
Every time I put them on, two blades penetrate my skin. Standing up requires superhuman effort, and taking a few steps makes me look like a misshapen robot.
When I stand
, I don’t feel like a woman anymore.
My prostheses will sleep in my closet, and I’ll stay seated. I have to accept my life for what it is and stop pretending.
19
Mr. Mokimoto listened to Sam for two hours, taking notes from time to time. Suddenly, he tapped on the table with his pen, indicating that the meeting was over.
“Could you leave us for a moment?” the banker asked Sam.
To put Sam at ease, Sanji gave his friend an assuring smile to show that he could continue the conversation without him. Sam gathered his materials and went to wait in the hallway.
“Your associate was very convincing,” Mr. Mokimoto said.
“But?” Sanji asked.
“Why do you think there’s a ‘but’?”
“There always is.”
“I’d like to know the real reason you came up with this idea.”
“I’m not sure you want to hear it—the business world isn’t crazy about idealism. But since you asked … My algorithm doesn’t work like the others. It doesn’t deliver the information you expect, the kind that reinforces your own way of thinking. Well, it does that in the beginning, but only in the beginning. Then, gradually, it offers you different points of view, narratives, and impressions. It opens a window into other lives. My social platform pays more attention to human relationships than virtual ones. When you post something, whether it’s photos of places you’ve been or things you like, users can really choose the privacy settings and be in control of their private life. Unlike Facebook, there’s no algorithm deciding the order in which information appears to the user. And what’s even more unique is that there are no ads. Our users aren’t cash cows, and we don’t steal their data. Basically, we do the opposite of all our competitors. It’s not just what they have in common that brings our users together, but also their differences. Social networks function in a vacuum—they divide us, set us against each other, and support a caste system maintained by the dominant classes, a system that is eating away at India. Imagine what society could become if people listened to each other instead of insulting each other. We want to teach people to get to know each other, understand each other, respect each other, broaden their horizons, and to put out the fires of hatred that feed on ignorance.”
“That’s certainly an unorthodox approach.”
“My family didn’t hesitate to point that out to me, and I suspected your reaction would be no different. I’ve probably wasted all of Sam’s hard work, but hypocrisy isn’t my strong suit,” Sanji added as he stood up.
“Stay—we’re not finished. My oldest son is twenty-three. The day before yesterday, he told me everything he thinks is wrong about the way the government is running our country. America is more divided than ever, inequality is increasing, and those in power seem to lack the conscience to do anything about it. I’ll spare you the rest because the criticism was directed at me. It’s not unjustified, I admit. Programs for education, health, reducing poverty, protecting the environment, justice, civil liberties—my friends are destroying it all, methodically and relentlessly. Last week, the third-highest official in the nation congratulated himself for having passed tax reform that will let a teacher take home a dollar fifty more per week. Paul Ryan got half a million dollars from the Koch brothers after saving them a billion and a half in taxes. I’m not complaining—like all the magnates in this country, I benefit greatly from this reform, and I’ve rarely made as much profit as I have this year. So I asked my son to consider the following question: How will he react the day when, as a responsible banker, I seize his house, his car, his health insurance, when I increase the cost of his children’s studies, put a cap on his salary, or when I fire him and replace him with a machine that’s more profitable than he is—basically, when I annihilate all his hopes for a decent life? Will he be angry, will he hate me? He answered that he already did. But his anger does nothing except cause more hatred and frustration in the world. I couldn’t care less about his feelings, because, however noble they may be, there’s no risk they’ll prevent us from continuing to enslave his generation. We have acquired everything—industries, businesses, agriculture, banks, even information belongs to us. As for the political parties, we bought them a long time ago.”
“Why humiliate your son like this?”
“So he’ll realize that preaching vainly won’t make him one of the good guys. So he’ll stop thinking and instead stir up trouble as long as he’s able; so he’ll stop being rebellious and start revolutionizing his world; and above all, so he’ll go out and start living!”
“What does all this have to do with me?”
“I’m getting to that. We have so much money that we don’t know what to do with it anymore. But we’ve gone too far. My friends are buying democracies—their appetite for power is insatiable. Call it remorse, if you like, but I’d like to throw a monkey wrench into the works before it’s too late. And I have the means. So tell your friend waiting outside to send me the contracts. You’ve got your money, if you’ll accept an investor like me.”
Sanji looked Mr. Mokimoto in the eye and then hastily left the room.
He sped past Sam, raced down the staircase of the bank, and took a taxi to 28th Street.
Chloe was waiting for him on the sidewalk. Sanji apologized for being late, grabbed the handles of her wheelchair, and made a mad dash down the sidewalk, zigzagging between other pedestrians.
“Can you tell me what you’re doing?”
“Racing with this bus,” Sanji replied. “I bet you we’ll beat it to the river.”
“How do you know it’s going toward the river?”
“I don’t, but we are!”
“Would you like to tell me what has put you in such a good mood?” she asked when Sanji finally slowed down.
“Spending time with you isn’t a good enough reason?”
“Shoot! I forgot my book in the recording booth, and I wanted to rehearse tonight.”
“I’ll go get it for you later.”
“Why are you going to all this trouble for me?”
“I like to help people. Otherwise, I wouldn’t be an elevator operator.”
Before reaching the banks of the Hudson River, they passed under the old elevated train tracks of the High Line, which had been converted into a pedestrian path. Sanji looked up and admired the imposing metal structure. Chloe told him there was an elevator at 30th Street.
They strolled along the greenway, going south from Chelsea all the way to the Meatpacking District. They stopped and watched two joggers pass them by at a quick pace.
“I’m not saying this to brag, but a few years ago, I would have left them in the dust.”
“Did you ever think about prosthetic legs?”
“I have two beautiful ones in my closet, with steel calves and ceramic feet. But they only improve the way people look at me, not the way I live.”
“I wasn’t talking about aesthetics, but standing up, walking again.”
“Try spending a day up on stilts, and then we’ll talk.”
“You wouldn’t need to wear them all the time. My father used to take off his glasses before he went to sleep. That said … sometimes he did forget them on his nose when he took a nap.”
Chloe burst out laughing.
“What did I say?”
“You have a spontaneous way about you that’s very disarming.”
“And that’s good?”
“Not for everyone, but for me, yes.”
“There’s nothing I want more than to disarm you.”
“Please stop.”
“Stop what?”
“This game of flirtation. It feels good now, but it will hurt later, like the prostheses.”
“It’s not a game. What are you afraid of—that someone might be interested in you?”
Chloe turned toward the seating area overlooking 10th Avenue a few yards away.
“See that couple watching us? They can’t stop looking at my wheelchair.”
“You’re
so vain!”
“Very funny, but I don’t get it.”
“You’re always convinced that people’s attention is focused on you. I’m the one they’re watching—they’re wondering if I’m your friend or your servant. Well, actually, I am your elevator operator.”
“Very funny.”
“You have nice wheels, but I have dark skin. What do you think shocks them more?”
Chloe looked at Sanji for a moment.
“Come here,” she said, taking his hands and pulling him toward her.
She wrapped her arms around Sanji’s neck and kissed him on the lips. A movie-style kiss, but a kiss nonetheless, and Sanji’s cheeks turned from dark to crimson.
“There, now they know you’re not my servant.”
“Why do you care so much what others think of you?” Sanji asked.
“I don’t give a flying fig what people think,” she replied.
“Not even a flying one?”
“I just told you!”
“So why did you kiss me?”
And before Chloe could answer, Sanji kissed her back, a real kiss this time.
It took a moment for their heart rates to return to normal. They looked at each other in silence, both equally surprised. And then they began moving again without saying a word.
When they got back to the street, there were so many tourists that Chloe had a hard time making her way down the sidewalk. Sanji spotted an ice-cream shop. Since there were only stools at tall tables, he sat down cross-legged on the floor, facing Chloe’s wheelchair.
“This is the first time a man has thrown himself at my feet,” she said with a smile.
Sanji lifted up the bottom of her pashmina and made a dubious face, which amused Chloe more than it offended her.
“You’ve never asked what happened to me.”
“Is that bad?”
“At first, I thought you were afraid to, and then …”
“Then what?”
“I thought you were being sensitive.”
“Maybe I’m just self-centered and I don’t care about what happened to you.”
“That’s also possible,” she said.
Sanji looked at her and got up.
“I have something important to do before my shift starts. Can you get home on your own?”
