Frozen Butterflies

by Simona Grossi

  “Do you know if Christine knew Andrew?” Nick asked Christine’s mother.

  “Emily’s boyfriend?”

  “Yes.”

  “I think so. She didn’t say much about him, but I’m sure she knew him.”

  They talked a bit about it, but ultimately agreed that Christine would be the one to ask. Once Nick hung up, he suggested that we visit the Museum of Natural History before dinner. I had been there before, but not as often as Nick. Apparently, the museum was one of his favorite places in the city.

  “What makes it so special to you?” I asked.

  “It’s peaceful. It reminds me of the mystery of life. That we’re just a little piece in a gigantic puzzle we can’t see. And it reminds me that everything changes. For better or worse.”

  We wandered around the animals and their reproductions spread across the room, Nick absorbed in his memories. We moved slowly among the galleries, carrying our heavy coats in our hands. We walked, stopped, walked some more, stopped again. I felt drained. Is that what he felt when he visited here? Is this why he came here often? To anesthetize himself? I wish I could ask him. But there was still too much distance between us, and I knew I couldn’t cut through it so easily, nor could I ignore it.

  “Do you want a hot dog?” he asked when we left. “You should try one of these.”

  We walked toward a little hot-dog cart that was parked near the stairs leading up to the museum.

  “Nick!” called the man behind the cart when we were close.

  “Do you know him?” I asked.

  “Fred. Yes, of course I know him. I used to come here a lot, always stopped to buy a hot dog. He’d tell stories about customers, things he’d see from his cart. Fun and interesting stories.”

  “Fred!” Nick shouted.

  Fred came out of his cart, and the two hugged.

  “How’ve you been, man? I haven’t seen you in ages. You disappeared.”

  “Nine years.”

  “Is that right?”

  “Oh yeah.”

  “I must say, you haven’t changed a bit. How is—” Fred looked at me and stopped right there.

  “Elinor’s fine,” Nick said. “I saw her yesterday at my mother’s place. We’re no longer together. This is Susan,” he turned to me and smiled.

  “Pleasure to meet you, Susan,” Fred looked back at Nick somehow approving his new choice, if that’s what I was.

  “Any stories to share?” Nick asked.

  “Plenty, but look at that line.” He pointed to the long queue of customers.

  “Your business is going great as usual. Not surprising,” Nick said. “Give us two hot dogs, and we’ll come back another time. We have to be somewhere in an hour.”

  Fred gave us the hot dogs, and when Nick pulled the wallet out of his pocket, he said,

  “These are on me. But promise you’ll come back.”

  “Of course, I promise.”

  We thanked him and walked away.

  “So you must have been good friends.”

  “Yes, we were.”

  “And he knew Elinor too?”

  “Yes. This is where we had our first date.”

  “At the museum?”

  “Yes, I took her here. I was a nerd when I met her. I was into museums, readings, cultural clubs. I was in my early twenties, and I guess I was trying to compensate for my failures in school. She liked the museum, so we became regulars. We loved walking in Central Park, and after our walk, we would come here to relax. She said she wanted to imitate nature’s grace when she danced. She found inspiration here.”

  “Did the two of you talk much?”

  “Yes, we did. It wasn’t like Emily and Andrew. We were friends, partners, accomplices. At least for a while.”

  It felt good to hear his stories, to discover him slowly. He was becoming more real.

  When we arrived in front of the Dakota Apartments, we rang the intercom and waited. A voice directed us to the fifth floor. We took the elevator, and as soon as the door opened we saw a woman waiting for us. She was thin and tall, with pale skin; dark, long, and straight hair; a tentative smile; and the posture of a ballerina. She reminded me of Andrew’s description of Emily and a bit of Elinor too, but perhaps she was more fragile than Elinor.

  “Hi, I’m Christine. Nice to meet you.” She offered her hand from a distance. She wasn’t cold though; she was charming.

  “Hi, Christine. I’m Nick, and this is Susan.”

  “Hi,” she said, “please come in.”

  Once inside the apartment, she asked us to follow her to the dining room, which had a beautiful view of the city.

  “This place is beautiful,” I said.

  “Yes, it is,” Mrs. Bass said as she joined us. The resemblance between her and her daughter was striking, Mrs. Bass just an older version of Christine.

  “We inherited this place from my parents,” Mrs. Bass added, “and it’ll be Christine’s someday, when we’re no longer here.”

  “Mother, always positive thoughts, right?” Christine gave her older self a severe look.

  A maid came in with glasses of champagne that had raspberries at the bottom. Elegant, I thought.

  “Would you like some before dinner?” Mr. Bass asked. His look was sweet and didn’t share the austerity of his wife and daughter. He had the bearing of an artist too, though.

  “That would be nice. Thanks,” I said, and he handed me a glass.

  “This is more than we could expect. I am—we are—very grateful,” Nick said.

  “Of course,” Mr. Bass said. “Emily was very important to our daughter. We thought she would like to share her memories of Emily with you, help you find Andrew.” His daughter turned and then looked down.

  “Have you seen him recently?” I asked Christine.

  “I ran into him. Once. He wanted to talk about Emily. We met at a café. He asked me so many questions. It was hard to stop him. Thank God I had a rehearsal and an excuse to leave.”

  “Do you know where he lives?” Nick asked.

  “Andrew? Oh, no. I have no idea.”

  “How did he contact you?” I asked.

  “He came to my school and waited for me outside. In fact, he came for days before finding me. My friends told me there was this weird guy waiting for me across the street. He stopped them and asked about me. They said he’d been there for a week or two. I had been invited by a friend from Paris to dance at his theater and so I was away for two weeks. When I came back, my friends told me about him. I had no idea that he was Andrew. And then, a few days later, I met him in the hall of my school.”

  “Did you recognize him when you saw him? Had he . . . changed?” I asked.

  “Of course I recognized him. I knew him well. He and Emily were together for four years. We met often. I mean . . . not that we went out together or anything like that, but I would see him after our performances, or at friends’ parties.” She took a breath and added, “No, he hasn’t changed at all.”

  “So you don’t know where we can find him?” I insisted.

  “No.”

  “Any clue might help.” I explained the reason for our search, but she seemed disinterested.

  “He invited me to watch an old movie with him,” she continued. “He said he loved old movies and had found a theater where he liked to go often. The Thalia Theatre, I believe . . . yes, that’s the one he mentioned. He asked me if I wanted to go there with him. I said I was busy, but maybe some other time. I haven’t seen him since then.”

  “When was that?” Nick asked.

  “A week or so ago.”

  “Oh . . . so he must still be here?” I said.

  “I suppose, maybe . . .,” she said, shrugging her shoulders.

  “Did he tell you if he was working?” Nick asked.

  “He said he was drawing, painting or something.”

  “Does he work for anyone?”

  “I’m really not sure. Maybe he mentioned he had received an advance from a buyer or publisher an
d thought could live on that for a while.”

  The maid came in with the meal. Over dinner we talked about Christine and her next performances and how much she loved ballet.

  “My ex-wife’s a ballerina, and I think she teaches ballet too,” Nick said.

  “Where?”

  “At Juilliard.”

  “Really? That’s where I work. What’s her name?”

  “Elinor Clarens.”

  “Elinor?”

  “Do you know her?” Nick asked.

  “Of course I do. We have two ballets together this season.”

  “What a small world . . .,” Nick said, filling his glass with more wine. But was it really? He had decided to keep the diary and to keep . . . me. Did I have anything in common with Emily or Elinor? With Christine?

  “You guys should come tomorrow to our performance. We’ll dance the Nutcracker,” Christine said. “It’ll be fun.”

  I had to figure this out.

  Nick started to say, “I don’t think—”

  “Why not? I’d love to go,” I insisted.

  “Let’s think about it. We’ll be really busy tomorrow.”

  “What time’s the ballet?” I asked Christine.

  “Eight. Two of my friends can’t make it, so I have their tickets. I’ll give them to you just in case.”

  I took the tickets and thanked her.

  We stayed a little longer and left when it was half past nine.

  “Let’s walk,” Nick said. “I don’t want to take another taxi. It’s not that cold tonight.”

  “Why don’t you want to go tomorrow? Does it bother you to see Elinor?”

  “No, it’s not that.”

  “I’ve never seen a ballet before, and it would be fun to see Christine and Elinor dance.”

  “If you insist . . .” He finally surrendered.

  When we arrived at the hotel, Nick said he wanted to read, and so he sat on the couch close to the window, grabbed a book from his backpack, and disappeared in it. I’d lost him again.

  Day Three In New York

  “What’s the plan for today?” I asked while Nick was still half-asleep.

  “More research. We haven’t found much yet.”

  “What about that movie theater? The one Christine mentioned? Shouldn’t we go there?”

  “Yes, sure, we could do that.” He brought me a cup of coffee while I was still in bed, and then he sat at the desk and opened his computer.

  “I found it,” he said. “The Thalia Theatre. It’s an independent cinema that shows classic films.”

  “Maybe he lives in that neighborhood?”

  “That’s actually possible. It’s in Sunnyside, which, despite the name, could be a good fit for Andrew. It’s a middle-class area in Queens. There are many old buildings from the twenties and thirties converted into apartments. The type of buildings Andrew might like and be able to afford, I guess.”

  “You talk about him as if you know him.”

  “He’s revealed a lot to us, don’t you think?”

  Yes, I did, but I also sensed there was much more we didn’t know.

  We got to Sunnyside at around noon. It was a sunny day, and the sun was loud. When we got to the theater, it was closed. We walked around. The area was interesting. There were many little stores and barbershops, an Italian bakery, a pharmacy, kids with their backpacks, perhaps just out of school.

  “Do you like kids?” he asked.

  “I . . . sure.”

  “What I mean is would you like to have kids?”

  “I haven’t thought about it. I know it’s strange at my age.”

  “No, it’s not,” he said. “I don’t know if I want kids. My life is so messy. I don’t think I have the stability to be a father and, quite frankly, I don’t want to be a shitty one like mine.”

  I thought about what he had just said and realized that perhaps we had much more in common than I had originally thought. And that was probably how I came to be part of his small world. I had been fearful of committing to things, to someone, partly because I thought I’d be unfit, messy, unstable. And I was probably so in love with my instability that I wouldn’t have given it up for anything or anyone. Becoming fit, stable, organized, dependable would probably mean losing who I really was, and I wasn’t ready for that.

  “This is a place Andrew frequents,” Nick said, reviewing thoughts and ideas, the data we had been collecting for the past few days. “He likes to come here to watch movies. Maybe he likes this area. Maybe he lives somewhere close. Maybe there is a store he likes.”

  After an hour or so, we arrived in front of what seemed a garage open to the public. It was selling books—in fact, comic books.

  We entered and browsed the shelves. There was an entire section for superhero comics. That was what the bookstore mainly sold. But then, a door in the left corner of the room led to a smaller room with a couch and two big shelves filled with graphic novels. We entered, and Nick noticed that the novels were organized by author, in alphabetical order.

  “A . . . B . . . C . . . P . . . hmm . . . Pratt, here it is,” Nick said, “The Truth About Me.” He pulled the book from the shelf and showed it to me.

  “So?”

  “I wonder if Andrew ever came here. If people here know him. Let’s ask.”

  I had never searched for anyone before, and so, I must admit, sometimes I didn’t follow Nick’s logic. But I trusted him.

  Nick approached the counter. A man with a long beard, heavy black glasses, and tattoos all over his neck and arms was entering data in an old computer covered in dust.

  “Do you guys need help?” the man asked.

  “We’re looking for the author of this book, Andrew Pratt,” Nick showed him The Truth About Me.

  “Oh, yeah, he comes around pretty often.”

  “Does he live in the area?”

  “Who are you?”

  “I’m a blogger, Nick Levitt, and this is Susan Blanc. She works with me. We’re doing a profile on him.”

  “I don’t know where he lives. He does come here from time to time. Give me your business card and I’ll give it to him if I see him.”

  “Didn’t you say he comes here often?”

  “Now that I think about it, that was an overstatement. Last time I saw him was . . . I don’t recall. Three weeks maybe? But he does come here, and I’ll give him your business card if I see him.”

  “OK, thanks,” Nick said, and pulled a business card from his jacket.

  “Sure. I’ll do what I can.”

  We shook hands and left.

  “I’m sure he knew more than he wanted us to believe,” Nick said, as soon as we were alone.

  “Why would he not share what he knew?”

  “To protect Andrew?”

  “Protect him from what?”

  “Who knows . . . In any event, we should keep coming here, check the schedule of movies at the Thalia Theatre, hang out in the neighborhood. Maybe we’re closer than we think to finding him. Or we are not.”

  We walked back to the subway and returned to the hotel to rest before leaving for the ballet.

  “Are you sure you want to go?” he asked.

  “Yes, I am. But we don’t have to if you don’t feel like it.”

  “It’s not a big deal,” he said. He poured some scotch and sat on what it was now his couch. That was the sign that he wanted to read or be left alone, so I took a nap. He woke me up when it was time to leave. We took a shower, got dressed, and left.

  The theater was packed. Our seats were in the front row, central. I could almost touch the curtain with my feet if I extended my legs. I was curious, eager to see, learn, discover who knows what. I leaned back and waited for the ballet to begin. When it started, I immediately recognized Elinor. And then I saw Christine. Both had major roles. Their performances seemed perfect to me, and they were smiling, but I could hear their whispering to each other and the other dancers, commenting on one move or another, breathing heavily. I sensed that their smi
les were hiding stress, perhaps unhappiness too. I was discovering Emily, and perhaps Elinor, Christine, Andrew, and Nick too. Their small world of which I had become part, clearly not by chance.

  Christine had told us to wait for them after the ballet. She said there would be a reception for the artists and a few guests, and we should join them. Nick didn’t seem enthusiastic, but after I asked, he agreed to go. When Elinor and Christine arrived, we all drank champagne around a tall round pedestal table with a long red-velvet tablecloth draped over it.

  “Did you like it?” Christine asked.

  “You were both fabulous,” I said. Elinor eyed me with a smug look that made me almost sad or sick. Were we competitors? I didn’t want that.

  “Can I get you ladies another drink?” Nick asked.

  “Champagne,” said Christine.

  “I’ll come with you,” Elinor said, and she and Nick disappeared into the crowd.

  “Aren’t you jealous?” Christine asked me.

  “Jealous?”

  “Aren’t you and Nick together?”

  I smiled and said, “Who knows. But, no, I’m not jealous.”

  “News on Andrew?”

  “No big news, except we found a comic book store he seems to frequent in Queens.”

  “How do you know that?”

  “A guy who works there told us, and he told us he would give Andrew Nick’s business card and ask him to contact us.”

  “He’ll never do that.”

  “Why not?”

  “If he knows Andrew, he knows he hates journalists. He doesn’t trust them.”

  “But a blogger is not exactly—”

  “I don’t think it would make any difference to him.”

  “How do you know?” I asked. I didn’t have the impression she knew Andrew that well. The comment had surprised me.

  “Oh . . . I remember Emily talking about it. When a journalist wanted to interview her, Andrew tried so hard to convince her not to do it. Emily didn’t listen to him, and once the article was published, he didn’t talk to her for days.”

  “So Andrew and Emily were in New York for a while before Emily . . .”

  “Yes. She came here for performances and stuff. When that happened, he came with her. But most of the time we spent in L.A. That's where we trained.”