Let the Great World Spin

by Colum McCann

—

  The day dawns winter bright. She finds out in the morning that breakfast is not included in her hotel bill. She can only smile. Four hundred and twenty-five dollars, breakfast not included.

  Upstairs, she takes all the soaps from the bathroom, the lotion, the shoeshine cloth, but still leaves a tip for the housekeepers.

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  She walks in the neighborhood for coffee, up north from Fifty- fifth Street.

  The whole world a Starbucks, and she can’t find a single one.

  She settles on a small deli. Cream in her coffee. A bagel with butter.

  She circles back around to Claire’s apartment, stands outside, looks up. It is a beautiful building, brickworked and corniced. But it’s too early to stop by yet, she decides. She turns and walks east toward the subway, her small bag slung over her shoulder.

  —

  She loves the immediate energy of the Village. It is as if all the guitars have suddenly taken to the fire escapes. Sunlight on the brickwork. Flowerpots in high windows.

  She is wearing an open blouse and tight jeans. She feels at ease, as if the streets are releasing her.

  A man passes her with a dog inside his shirt. She smiles and watches them go. The dog crawls to the top of the man’s shoulder and looks back at her, its eyes large and tender. She waves, sees the dog disappear down the man’s shirt again.

  She finds Pino in a coffee shop on Mercer Street. It is just as easy as she has imagined: she has no idea why, but she was convinced that it would be simple to find him. She could have called him on his cell phone but decided against it. Better to seek him out, find him, in this city of millions. He is alone and hunched over a coffee, reading a copy of La Repubblica. She has the sudden fear that there is a woman somewhere nearby, perhaps even one who is due to join him at any moment, but she doesn’t care.

  She buys a coffee, and slides back the chair, joins him at the table. He lifts his reading glasses to the top of his forehead and leans back in the chair, laughs.

  —How did you find me?

  —My internal GPS. How was your jazz?

  —Oh, it was jazz. Your old friend, how is she?

  —Not sure. Yet.

  —Yet?

  —I’ll see her later today. Tell me. Can I ask? Just, well, y’know. What brings you here? The city?

  —You really want to know? he says.

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  —I think so, yeah.

  —Are you ready?

  —As I’ll ever be.

  —I’m buying a chess set.

  —You what?

  —It’s a handmade thing. There’s a craftsman on Thompson Street.

  I’m picking it up. It’s a bit of an obsession of mine. It’s for my son, actually. It’s a special Canadian wood. And the guy is a master . . .

  —You came all the way from Little Rock to pick up a chess set?

  —I suppose I needed to get out for a while.

  —No kidding.

  —And, well, I’ll bring it to him in Frankfurt. Spend a few days with him, have some fun. Go back to Little Rock, return to work.

  —How’s your carbon footprint?

  He smiles, drains his coffee. She can already tell that they will spend the morning here, that they will while the time away in the Village, they will have an early lunch, he will lean forward and touch her neck, she will cradle his hand there, they will go to his hotel, they will make love, they will open the curtains, they will tell stories, they will laugh, she will fall asleep again with her hand on his chest, she will kiss him good- bye, and later, back in Arkansas, he will call on her message machine, and she will leave his number on her night desk, to decide.

  —Another question?

  —Yeah?

  —How many pictures of women are on your cell phone?

  —Not many, he says with a grin. And you? How many guys?

  —Millions, she says.

  —Really?

  —Billions, in fact.

  —

  There was only one time she ever went back to the Deegan. It was ten years ago, when she had just finished college. She wanted to know where it was her mother and grandmother had strolled. She drove a rental from JFK airport, got stopped in traffic, bumper to bumper. At least a half- mile of cars up ahead. In the rearview mirror the traffic pinned her into place.

  A Bronx sandwich.

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  So, she was home again, but it didn’t feel like a homecoming.

  She hadn’t been in the neighborhood since she was five. She remembered the pale gray corridors and a mailbox stuffed with flyers: that was all.

  She put the car in park and was fidgeting with her stereo when she caught a glimpse of movement far up the road. A man was rising out from the top of a limousine, strange and centaurian. She saw his head first, then his torso coming up through the open sunroof. Then the sharp swivel of his head as if he had been shot. She fully expected a spray of blood along his roof. Instead the man extended his arm and pointed as if directing traffic. He swiveled again. Each turn was quicker and quicker.

  He was like an odd conductor, wearing a suit and tie. The outstretched tie looked like a dial on the roof of the car as he turned. His hands rose on either side of him and he pulled his whole body up through the sunroof and then he was out and standing on top of the limousine, legs splayed wide and his fingers outstretched. Roaring at nearby drivers.

  She noticed then that others were out and about, with their arms draped over their open doors, a little row of heads turning in the same direction, like sunflowers. Some secret between them. A nearby woman started beeping her car horn, she heard screaming, and it was then that she noticed the coyote trotting through the traffic.

  It looked entirely calm, loping along in the hot sun, stopping and twist-ing its body, as if it were in some weird wonderland to be marveled at.

  The thing was that the coyote was going toward the city, not back out.

  She remained seated and watched it come toward her. It crossed lanes two cars in front of her, passed alongside her window. It didn’t look up, but she could see the yellow of the eyes.

  In the rearview mirror she watched it go. She wanted to scream at it to turn, that it was going the wrong way, it needed to double back, just swivel and sprint free. Far behind her she noticed siren lights turning.

  Animal control. Three men with nets were circling through the traffic.

  When she heard the crack of the rifle shot she thought at first it was just a car backfiring.

  —

  She likes the word mother and all the complications it brings. She isn’t interested in true or birth or adoptive or whatever other series of mothers McCa_9781400063734_4p_04_r1.w.qxp 4/13/09 2:39 PM Page 347

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  there are in the world. Gloria was her mother. Jazzlyn was too. They were like strangers on a porch, Gloria and Jazzlyn, with the evening sun going down: they just sat there together and neither could say what the other one knew, so they just kept quiet, and watched the day descend. One of them said good night, while the other waited.

  —

  They find each other slowly, tentatively, shyly, drawing apart, merging again, and it strikes her that she has never really known the body of another. Afterward they lie together without speaking, their bodies touching lightly, until she rises and dresses quietly.

  —

  The flowers are cheap, she thinks, the moment she buys them. Waxy flower paper, thin blooms, a strange scent to them, like someone in the deli has sprayed them with a false fragrance. Still, she can find no other open florist. And the light is dimming, the evening disappearing. She head
s west, toward Park, her body still tingling, his phantom hand at her hip.

  In the elevator the cheap scent of the flowers rises. She should have looked around and found a better shop, but it’s too late now. No matter.

  She gets out on the top floor, her shoes sinking into the soft carpet. There is a newspaper on the ground, by Claire’s door, the slick hysteria of war.

  Eighteen dead today.

  A shiver along her arms.

  She rings the doorbell, props the flowers against the frame as she hears the latches click.

  —

  It is the Jamaican nurse who opens the door for her again. His face is broad and relaxed. He wears short dreadlocks.

  —Oh, hi.

  —Is there anyone else here?

  —Excuse me? he says.

  —Just wondering if there’s anybody else home.

  —Her nephew’s in the other room. He’s napping.

  —How long has he been here?

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  —Tom? He spent the night. He’s been here a few days. He’s been having people over.

  There is a momentary standoff as if the nurse is trying to figure out just exactly why she has returned, what she wants, how long she’ll stay.

  He keeps his hand around the doorframe, but then he leans forward and whispers conspiratorially: He brought a couple of real estate people to his parties, y’know.

  Jaslyn smiles, shakes her head: it doesn’t matter, she will not allow it to matter.

  —Do you think I can see her?

  —Be my guest. You know she had a stroke, right?

  —Yes.

  She stops in the hallway.

  —Did she get my card? I sent a big goofy card.

  —Oh, that’s yours? says the nurse. That one’s funny. I like that one.

  He sweeps his hand along the corridor, points her down toward the room. She moves through the half- dark, as if pushing back a veil. She stops, turns the glass handle on the bedroom door. It clicks. The door swings. She feels as if she is stepping off a ledge. The room looks dark and heavy, a thick tenor to it. A tiny triangle of light where the curtains don’t quite meet.

  She stands a moment to let her eyes adjust. Jaslyn wants to part the dark, open the curtains, crack the window, but Claire is asleep, eyelids closed. She pulls up a chair by the bed, beside a saline drip. The drip is not attached. There is a glass on the bedside table. And a straw. And a pencil. And a newspaper. And her card among many other cards. She peers in the dark. Get well soon, you funny old bird. She is not sure now whether it is humorous at all; perhaps she should have bought something cute and demure. You never know. You cannot know.

  The rise and fall of Claire’s chest. The body a thin failure now. The shrunken breasts, the deep lids, the striated neck, the intricate articula-tion. Her life painted on her, receding on her. A brief flutter of her eyelids. Jaslyn leans close. A waft of stale air. An eyelid flutter once more.

  The eyes open and stare. In the dark, their whites. Claire opens her eyes, wider still, does not smile or say a word.

  A pull on the sheets. Jaslyn looks down as Claire moves her left hand.

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  of age. The person we know at first, she thinks, is not the one we know at last.

  A clock sounds.

  Little else to distract attention from the evening, just a clock, in a time not too distant from the present time, yet a time not too distant from the past, the unaccountable unfolding of consequence into tomorrow’s time, the simple things, the grain of bedwood alive in light, the slight argument of dark still left in the old woman’s hair, the ray of moisture on the plastic lifebag, the curl of the braided flower petal, the chipped edge of a photo frame, the rim of a mug, the mark of a stray tea line along its edge, a crossword puzzle sitting unfinished, the yellow of a pencil dangling over the edge of the table, one end sharpened, the eraser in midair. Frag-ments of a human order. Jaslyn turns the pencil around to safety, then rises, rounds the far end of the bed, toward the window. Her hands on the windowsill. She parts the curtains a little more, opens the triangle, lifts the window frame minutely, feels the curl of breeze on her skin: the ash, the dust, the light now pressing the dark out of things. We stumble on, now, we drain the light from the dark, to make it last. She lifts the window higher. Sounds outside, growing clearer in the silence, traffic at first, machine hum, cranework, playgrounds, children, the tree branches down on the avenue slapping each other around.

  The curtain falls back but still a corridor of brightness has opened up on the carpet. Jaslyn steps to the bed again, takes off her shoes, drops them. Claire parts her lips ever so slightly. Not a word, but a difference in her breathing, a measured grace.

  We stumble on, thinks Jaslyn, bring a little noise into the silence, find in others the ongoing of ourselves. It is almost enough.

  Quietly, Jaslyn perches on the edge of the bed and then extends her feet, moves her legs across slowly so as not to disturb the mattress. She fixes a pillow, leans, picks a hair out of Claire’s mouth.

  Jaslyn thinks again of an apricot—she does not know why, but that’s what she thinks, the skin of it, the savor, the sweetness.

  The world spins. We stumble on. It is enough.

  She lies on the bed beside Claire, above the sheets. The faint tang of the old woman’s breath on the air. The clock. The fan. The breeze.

  The world spinning.

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  A U T H O R ’ S N O T E

  P

  hilippe petit walked a tightrope wire between the World Trade Center towers on August 7, 1974. I have used his walk in this novel, but all the other events and characters in this work are fictional. I have taken liberties with Petit’s walk, while trying to remain true to the texture of the moment and its surroundings. Readers interested in Petit’s walk should go to his book To Reach the Clouds (Faber and Faber, 2002) for an intimate account. The photograph used on page 237 is by Vic DeLuca, Rex Images, August 7, 1974, copyright Rex USA. To both of these artists I’m deeply indebted.

  The title of this book comes from the Alfred, Lord Tennyson poem

  “Locksley Hall.” That in turn was heavily influenced by the “Mu’allaqat,”

  or the “Suspended Poems,” seven long Arabic poems written in the sixth century. Tennyson’s poem mentions “pilots of the purple twilight dropping down with costly bales,” and the “Mu’allaqat” asks, “Is there any hope that this desolation can bring me solace?” Literature can remind us that not all life is already written down: there are still so many stories to be told.

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  A C K N O W L E D G M E N T S

  t h is pa r t ic ul a r s tory owes enormous thanks to many—the police officers who drove me around the city; the doctors who patiently answered my questions; the computer technicians who guided me through the labyrinth; and all of those who helped me during the writing and editing process. The fact of the matter is that there are many hands tapping the writer’s keyboard. I fear I will forget some names but I’m deeply grateful to the following for all of their support and help: Jay Gold, Roger Hawke, Maria Venegas, John McCormack, Ed Conlon, Joseph Lennon, Justin Dolly, Mario Mola, Dr. James Marion, Terry Cooper, Cenelia Arroyave, Paul Auster, Kathy O’Donnell, Thomas Kelly, Elaina Ganim, Alexandra Pringle, Jennifer Hershey, Millicent Bennett, Giorgio Gonella, Andrew Wylie, Sarah Chalfant, and all at the Wylie Agency, Caroline Ast and everyone at Belfond in Paris. Thanks to Philip Gourevitch and all at The Paris Review. For my students and colleagues at Hunter College, especially Peter Carey and Nathan Englan
der. And in the end nobody deserves more thanks than Allison, Isabella, John Michael, and Christian.

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  A B O U T T H E A U T H O R

  C o l u m Mc C a n n is the internationally bestselling author of the novels Zoli, Dancer, This Side of Brightness, and Songdogs, as well as two critically acclaimed story collections. His fiction has been published in thirty languages. He has been a finalist for the International IMPAC Dublin Literary Award and was the inaugural winner of the Ireland Fund of Monaco Literary Award in Memory of Princess Grace. He has been named one of Esquire’s “Best and Brightest,” and his short film Everything in This Country Must was nominated for an Oscar in 2005. A contributor to The New Yorker, The New York Times Magazine, The Atlantic Monthly, and The Paris Review, he teaches in the Hunter College MFA Creative Writing Program. He lives in New York City with his wife and their three children.