Intimations

by Alexandra Kleeman

  “This water looks great,” said Karen. She nudged it on the table, but did not pick it up. She smiled tightly. “It’s nice,” she said, feeling like she hadn’t said enough. “It’s pretty.”

  “My name is Martin,” said the man solemnly.

  “I’m Karen,” said Karen.

  “I’m working,” she explained.

  “Yes,” said Martin. “So am I. I’m sorry to disturb you.”

  He had a slight accent, his words were blurry. He wore a blazer and a red and black striped T-shirt with a small, useless pocket sewn onto it. He was fairly attractive, with a face like an exsanguinated Jared Leto. While Martin turned back to his computer, Karen listened to the sound of his breath, even and calming, a foot and a half away.

  Karen still hadn’t settled on a title for the article, and she stared again at the list of phrases she had been able to come up with. At Home On the Range. The Holstein Whisperer. Some were just phrases: Milk-Fed, Whole Milk, The Milky Way. She opened the document up and tried to start again, this time beginning with her arrival at Ned Regan’s dairy farm. The gentle green hills. The round smell of cow manure, the soft sounds of grass tearing and flat teeth chewing ambiently everywhere. She and Tim had broken up the week before she went to stay at the farm; was that important? Would it add something? Ned Regan’s hard jaw, handsome but set at an unhandsome angle, like it was sliding off the side of his face. And the cows, all the cows, their hipbones jutting up, moving past her at almost eye level. Once they were too old to produce milk, they would be eaten. Martin was bent over his keyboard, his back supple, while he scrolled down, down, continuously down, stroking the trackpad with one finger. He looked utterly absorbed. A feeling of loneliness overtook her. “What are you working on?” she asked, and tried to lean a little toward him. Karen’s ex-boyfriend Tim hadn’t written or called in over four days, even though he had said that he would check up on her once she got back to the city.

  “I am re-creating a website,” said Martin, sitting up and blinking at her with his round, factual eyes. “It is an artist’s website, a photographer. I create the infrastructure,” he said, drawing something like a box in the air with thin fingers.

  “I am from Germany,” he said.

  “Oh,” said Karen. “That’s interesting.”

  “I am here for work,” said Martin. “I am staying in the neighborhood, with a friend. We work together on this project. We had a great deal to do.”

  “I’m writing an article,” said Karen. “Beginning an article,” she explained. She felt self-conscious. She could no longer talk about her troubles with the article without revealing herself to be a disaster. “It’s on a farmer, a dairy farmer. Who is supposed to be a genius at cows.”

  “You must have to go far to find a cow in this part of the country,” he said, “unless I am misunderstanding.”

  He had a very gentle voice. He didn’t seem to know much about agriculture. He asked about the size of the farm, the distance from the city, and about the cows—were they gentle? They were very gentle. They were tender with their young. But they weren’t really interested in anyone. It made them easier to slaughter: up until the very moment of the act you could imagine they might not notice. Karen twisted open the bottle of water and took a small, polite sip. She was becoming interested in herself again after several weeks of wishing she could be anybody else. Did she like milk very much? Yes, she did, this is how she found the story, she drank the wonderful milk that cost $13 a bottle and then began to investigate where it came from and how it could be so good. It was three o’clock in the afternoon and the grayish winter light looked flat through the plate glass windows. She had a sense of her face as flexible, soft. This was the longest that Karen had talked to a person since Vanessa’s birthday party last week where Vanessa had compromised herself with whiskey sodas and made Karen promise never to get back together with Tim, ever, because he was a sneak and a pervert, practically a stalker and she could do so much better, she was better off. Vanessa and Tim had been friends since college, but after the breakup Vanessa said she was choosing Karen. “I’m not saying Tim’s a terrible person,” she said, “he’s a mediocre person. But he’s one of those people who won’t let up. He thinks he can wear you down, and he can.”

  When Martin asked her if she’d like to go next door and have a pizza, she didn’t think about whether it would be awkward. She thought about how normal it was to talk to someone, to drink coffee, to thrust your face into full view of other faces, to let the daylight grime up your skin. “I think I can take a break,” Karen said abstractly, like one being shaken out of deep concentration, “but I’ll need to come back afterwards, I have a deadline coming.” They put their things into bags and stood up. He tried to carry her bag, but he kept dropping it.

  A middle-aged man and woman were sitting at the tables closest to the exit. They sat separately, but had identical laptops. “You know what,” Karen heard the man say as she passed by. “I haven’t dreamt in a very long time.”

  In the pizza restaurant, Martin looked five years older. A waiter brought them ice water in green-tinted glasses of pebbled plastic, and straws. Karen watched as Martin tore the tips from the paper casings of the straws and gently pulled them off. He split the remainder of the wrapper down its seam precisely, like he was undressing a doll. She wondered whether this had to do with being German. Karen didn’t use the straw he had prepared for her. She lifted the glass to her lips and drank the cold, slightly sour water. Ice tapped against her teeth. She felt like she was going to cry, but then inexplicably she felt okay again. Food was disgusting, but she had to eat it anyway. Martin was telling her that he, too, had been interested in writing for a brief time. He had become involved in film criticism during his time in the media studies program at Humboldt University in Berlin. In those days he used to watch a film each night, walking a mile and a half back home along the Spree River. He liked to see the other regulars there, although he never spoke to them—the old man with the antique briefcase, the young mother who brought her slumbering infant. He thought that he might even write a book on Carl Theodor Dreyer’s work, in particular the film Vampyr.

  “Why Carl Dreyer?” Karen asked.

  “Carl Theodor Dreyer,” said Martin. “This is like asking ‘Why history? What is interesting about history?’ It is not a matter of interest. There is no opinion on it.”

  “I haven’t seen Vampyr,” she said.

  “Oh,” he replied. “It’s quite all right.”

  In her weeks at Ned Regan’s farm, Karen had seen why they called him a genius. With a long, knuckly arm, Ned guided cows from field to shed, weaving them through the gates like huge, slow-moving agility dogs. When yield fell below Ned’s expectations, he knew how to adjust the feed, supplementing grass with alfalfa, fenugreek, thistle. With firm pressure on the flank he could signal a cow to slow or stop, with a deep, low groan he could still an anxious mama and she would let him come close and take her knobby calf into his rough hands. In the empty restaurant Martin seemed to be having a nice time. His smile had grown easier, he was marveling at the menu. All of this was locally grown? Here, so close to the city, the marvelous towers of cold, hard glass? He suggested they order the “Bad Girl,” a pizza with four different types of cured meat on it, plus smoked cheese and green onions. Over by the register, their waiter was talking to a waitress in a black tank top. “That’s terrible,” he said, patting the countertop instead of her hand. “That’s not all,” replied the waitress. Karen told Martin that she would prefer a different pizza. The only meat that she ate these days was beef: somehow, after having spent so much time with the cows, she felt certain that they meant her no harm.

  When the pizza came, it was covered in mushrooms. They had the earthy smell of something that has been buried and then dug up. Martin said he would also like a beer, but Karen told him she had to write later. They were the only customers in the whole place, it was too early for dinner. The sky seen through the windows was a pale, eve
n gray as though it had been scrubbed bare. Martin had nice skin. With his small front teeth, he nibbled at a mushroom, seizing it delicately and pulling it from the pizza. He was nice, and he asked good questions. He asked whether Karen had traveled much and if, when she did, she felt like a different person. He asked if she liked to know where her food came from, or whether she preferred to think that it had been created just for her at that moment. He asked if she often met strangers in the coffee shop and then went with them to eat pizza, and she told him honestly that she never had before. She didn’t tell him that she hadn’t spoken to anyone besides Vanessa in the past week and even that had been strange, stilted and vague as they spoke surrounded by Vanessa’s other friends, hard-eyed young women from the world of television news. Martin would be here, in this city, in this neighborhood, for a few more days. He would be completing the project with his friend who also lived in the neighborhood, in a loft building overlooking the motorcycle-themed Biergarten. Perhaps Karen and his friend were neighbors. There was a gallery event on Thursday that she might be interested in attending. Or she could show him some of the other sights of the neighborhood, like the grocery store operated by the Korean family that also sold martial arts merchandise and kung fu DVDs. Their waiter was no longer talking to the waitress in the black tank top, though they stood near each other still. Martin ordered a large can of beer from the waiter, and when it came Karen ordered one too.

  When she went to use the restroom she didn’t check her phone. It almost didn’t matter to her whether Tim had called, though she had to admit it still mattered. Talking with Vanessa had made her feel that she was nearly ready to forget him completely; all she needed was another week or two. Last time they hung out, only their second time without Tim around, Vanessa had told her about something terrible that he had done to her while they were still in college. In senior year, a large group of their friends had decided to rent a six-bedroom lake house for the weekend. The house had five full-size beds, four cots, and two couches, but the situation was such that different people would still have to bunk together, systematically, to fit everyone into bed at night. This was ideal for Vanessa, who knew that she had a good chance of sharing a bed with Jason, who not only had admitted that he had feelings for her but also really understood why she was interested in broadcast journalism—not because it was the best or most rigorous journalism but because it felt like it was happening in the immediate now. The first night they spooned together in bed, but the next Vanessa drank too much tequila. When she woke up, it wasn’t Jason but Tim crawling naked under the covers with her, his pink and sunburned arms reaching up under her nightshirt, rooting around the folds of her flesh, grabbing at her nipples. Even though nothing else happened, Tim told Jason that they had sex. Jason didn’t speak to her again until after graduation. Now Jason was in Hollywood, acting in a popular TV show where he played a high school athlete. Although Vanessa had slept with Tim a few months after that under different circumstances, she had never completely forgiven him for having foreclosed for her the possibility of sleeping with the person she had truly wanted and hoped to sleep with. It was news to Karen that they had slept together. The week after she met Vanessa, she had asked Tim if anything had ever happened between them. He told her nothing had, then he made her apologize to him for asking. It was a fight over this piece of information that had broken them up, and this surprised her: there had been so many fights that left behind no trace or consequence.

  When Karen got back to the table, Martin was putting away his phone. “Sorry,” said Karen. “It’s not a problem,” Martin replied. He tried to be warm to her, he reached his hand across the table and placed it near hers. Tim had liked this place, with its stupid pun-filled names for pizzas and its great beer menu. The tank top waitress was humming a different pop song from the one playing over the speakers. Karen and Martin listened to her humming. Neither of them had anything to say.

  “You should come for a visit,” said Martin.

  “Visit?” said Karen.

  “In Berlin. It’ll be spring soon. There are fantastic clubs,” he said.

  Karen was surprised. She smiled.

  “Maybe I’ll visit,” she said. She had a vision of herself walking in the sunshine. She was wearing the same clothes, same hairstyle. She felt happy. Was she in Berlin? They drank from their huge cans of beer.

  “Are you doing something after this?” Martin asked.

  “Well, I need to work,” Karen replied.

  “Yes, yes,” said Martin. “But can you take a break?”

  “Well,” said Karen, confused, “I might watch a movie.”

  “Do you want to watch a movie together?” he asked.

  “I don’t know where,” she said. “I just watch movies in my room. I don’t even have a TV. It’s a small screen.”

  “It might work,” he said.

  More people were entering the restaurant now. They had come off work nearby. They were chattering and laughing. They were the loudest thing in the room. Every time someone entered, a frigid draft passed through and made all the customers look around. It was decided that Martin would go to Karen’s apartment. Karen felt tired. She wanted to be alone now, but it wasn’t fair to want someone around only when you wanted them around. As Martin had grown more relaxed, he had also grown more agitated. When he spoke, he gestured with a pointed finger. They talked about their parents while they waited for the check. Martin’s mother was an angel, a kind and very pretty woman who had left him the money to go to graduate school.

  “Did she pass away?” Karen asked.

  “Away?” asked Martin.

  “Passed away,” she repeated.

  “No,” he said sharply. “She is alive.” He sounded irritated.

  “When we say someone has left money, we usually mean they’ve passed away,” Karen explained.

  Martin leaned back in his seat.

  “No,” he said, more mildly. “Not dead.”

  Karen thought of her article, of the different scenes she had tried to begin with, none of which were right. She thought of Ned Regan, bending down to grasp a teat infected with mastitis, a persistent and sometimes fatal inflammation of the udder. The teat was black and necrotized and surrounded by other abnormal teats, deeply red and swollen. He pulled at it to show her how the tissue was dead, how the tissue felt nothing. The cow released a tired moan. Because the Regan farm was 100 percent antibiotic-free, cases that weren’t identified in time were nearly always fatal. That day Tim had written to her, admitting that he hadn’t been honest about his relationship with Vanessa, that he was sorry, that he only failed to mention it because it wasn’t important and took place so long ago. Karen felt unhappy. She thought she might cry. Then she felt a little less unhappy. When the waiter brought the check, she noticed that there were small cuts all over his hands, each one scabbed over and neat.

  As they left the restaurant, Karen remembered how she had left food out on the kitchen counter hours ago. The sliced deli cheese would still be there, shiny and hard, sweating out beads of grease atop the waxy paper.

  Martin and Karen stood in front of her building, a converted warehouse that housed over twenty different lofts on each floor. The lofts were labeled A through V. Though over a hundred people must have lived in her building, Karen had met none of them. When she came upon them in the stairwell she looked away, at the painted gray cement or out the window at the roof of the warehouse across the street. As she looked away they looked at her quizzically, trying to gauge whether she belonged. Martin stood next to Karen as she tried to key in the security code to the front door. She wished that he’d look away while she pushed the buttons in order, but he did not. When the door buzzed and she pulled it open, they stepped into the chilly foyer. He held her hand for a second and then dropped it. The texture and shape of his hand reminded her of a washcloth.

  They climbed the steps slowly and without talking much. Through the window you could see a large truck unloading boxes at the doughnut wareho
use. Karen stopped at the apartment door. “I may not be much fun,” she said, trying to make it sound like a joke and a serious statement at once. “That’s all right,” said Martin, picking her hand up and holding it longer this time, patting it three times with his free hand. At the end of each workday, after they had finished with dinner and cleaned up the dishes, Ned Regan would sit down at the table with a cool glass of fresh whole milk squeezed from his favorite cow, Lainey. Ned used to say that it was this daily glass of milk that reminded him why he should get up the next morning and do it all over again. He also said that it had cured him of acid reflux and sleep apnea. Ned was a picture of health, his cheeks ruddy and tanned, his teeth straight and the strong hands clutching a column of pure thick white. But as he brought the glass to his mouth and began sucking up the creamy, frothy top with his sun-chapped lips, Karen always fought the desire to look away. She could hear the wet slap of tongue against liquid, the greedy glug of the throat as it tried to swallow as much as it could and then swallow more. When he had finished the entire glass and breathed a sigh of relief, she saw the white ghost of milkfat on his upper lip and couldn’t help but think of him as an infant, a gigantic callused infant.