Finally, he spoke, without looking at Maggie. “You . . . you know what’s happening, don’t you?” he said.
She remained silent. She could not speak.
Jonathan turned to her. He interlaced the fingers of his right hand with the fingers of her left (she wore a silver ring with a Celtic design on the index finger of that hand, and on her middle finger, a silver ring with a piece of turquoise set in it).
He looked at her with an expression of happiness, sadness, and bravery. “What’s happening,” he said, “is that I am falling in love with you.”
Maggie began to cry. Jonathan gripped her hand more tightly.
And so it had begun. They had both been too emotional to think through anything that night, but when they met a couple of days later they decided that they had to stop seeing each other. “I love Holly,” Jonathan said, “and it’s not fair to you if this keeps going.” As heartbreaking as it was, Maggie agreed. She would make the sacrifice for Jonathan’s sake and her own.
But, inevitably, only a few days passed before they were together again. They made love for the first time a week after Jonathan’s declaration. They were in his study on a rainy day drinking wine.
For the next few months, Maggie’s whole being was wrapped up with Jonathan — when she would see him, when she would hold him in her arms. She was right, he was strong, and she liked to run her hands down either side of his muscular trunk. Making love with Jonathan made her feel as if she had never made love before. All these clumsy, selfish boys she had had sex with — looking back, they disgusted her. She had never experienced the pleasure or the closeness that she did with Jonathan. He told her early on not to fall in love with him. “Don’t, don’t, Maggie. Don’t fall in love with me, if you were thinking of doing that. Believe me, I’m not worth it.” Of course, it was too late for that warning to make any difference.
She was having an “affair.” It had never occurred to her that she might have an affair. And she was having this affair with a brilliant writer. He took her to good restaurants, relatively grown-up places, and also gave her presents, real presents, like an onyx and diamond pin for her birthday. She had no idea how much it cost. It was all so wonderful, she had never been happier, but because of the secrecy and the guilt, it was all so painful, too. She was in a constant state of intense yearning because, while Jonathan never stood her up, he seemed to have so little time. In its own way, though, the pain was delectable.
Then something awful had happened. Jonathan was killed in an accident. She didn’t even know about it until a few days after it happened. In the meantime, she had been driven wild with despair because Jonathan had missed a date, had not called her, and had not responded to messages. She was sure that he had dumped her without a word, and she was inconsolable and furious. Gina, one of the friends to whom she had talked about Jonathan for hours and hours, called her with the news. Gina worked in publishing and had heard a couple of editors talking about Jonathan’s death. There had even been a short obituary in the New York Times.
Maggie was at home, the loft, when she heard, and she felt as if she had had the air knocked out of her. For several frightening seconds, she could not breathe. “Maggie, Maggie, are you okay?” Gina had asked. Maggie began to sob uncontrollably. Gina tried to comfort her, but she was at work, and after a while she said she had to get off the phone but would come to see Maggie as soon as she left the office. When she arrived she found Maggie facedown on her bed, still heaving out sobs like waves during a storm.
Maggie spent a week crying like that and barely stirring from her bed. She skipped her classes. She lost her job at the soup place.
Jonathan had been the love her life, Maggie was convinced. Since his death, hardly an hour had gone by when she had not thought of him. She didn’t know what would have happened if he had lived. He was in torment over his wife, whom he loved. Maggie always insisted that she would never ever want to hurt Holly, and she knew that Jonathan would never be happy if he hurt her. They were going to have children, weren’t they? This passion between Maggie and him, it might not even last. But who knows? Anyway, they would have had more time together.
When Maggie rose on that Sunday morning, she had a particular plan with respect to Jonathan’s memory, for it was the first anniversary of his death: she was going to visit his grave. To do so, she would have to take a very long subway ride, and she wanted to leave early. She rinsed her coffee cup and plate and grabbed her keys and wallet. She looked in the mirror and fluffed out her damp hair a little. Then she looked around for her book.
After they had made love one day, they had planned to have a drink, but Jonathan had gotten a phone call. “Hey! Great to hear from you,” he had said when he found out who it was. “This might take a minute,” he had told Maggie. She had been sitting on the couch in the front room, and he had wandered into the interior one. While he murmured his conversation, she had written in her journal, and then had looked around for something to read. There were stacks of books all over the place. Looking through one pile she had found a paperback copy of The Magic Mountain by Thomas Mann.
When Jonathan returned she had held the book up and asked, “Do you think I would like this?”
For a split second, he had seemed to be at a loss for words, but he had said, “Yes, you definitely ought to read it. It’s, you know, kind of tough going at times, but definitely.”
Maggie had looked the book over. “I haven’t read anything by Toe-mahss Mawn. He was one of the writers in a course I was going to take but didn’t.”
“If you don’t mind my saying so,” Jonathan had said with a smile, “I’d go a little easier on the pronunciation.”
Maggie had turned red.
“Don’t be embarrassed about something like that,” Jonathan had said gently. He sat next to her and took her in his arms.
“I got that from this show-offy girl in my dorm.”
“See? We don’t want you sounding like her.”
Any physical contact between Jonathan and Maggie always led to their making love, and so it was this time, as they had begun to kiss and caress, and then, for the second time that day, had taken off their own and each other’s clothes.
She had borrowed the book and had started to read it several times, but she just couldn’t get too far in it. After Jonathan died, she put it aside. But she’d picked it up again a few days before the anniversary and had read about twelve pages. She thought it would be a good book to take with her on her long subway journey, and she finally found it under a magazine on the coffee table.
She got on her train and settled into her seat. With the bookmark placed on page twelve, the section she had read looked like the thinnest slice of salami. She opened the book and began reading: “They had reached the second floor, when Hans Castorp suddenly stopped in his tracks, mesmerized by a perfectly ghastly noise he heard coming from a dogleg in the hall — not a loud noise, but so decidedly repulsive that Hans Castorp grimaced and stared wide-eyed at his cousin. It was a cough, apparently — a man’s cough, but unlike any that Hans Castorp had ever heard.”
One would not hew strictly to the facts if one said that the novel in her hands held Maggie’s attention throughout her journey. Indeed, at its end, the bookmark had not advanced by a single page. Maggie was lulled by the two rhythmic movements of the train, the small one as it rocked back and forth while traveling at full speed and the larger one as it stopped at regular intervals. She daydreamed. She gazed at the other passengers, in all their variety, representing the city’s horizontal strata of different neighborhoods. Here and there, she dozed.
A few stops from the cemetery, the train burst into the sunlight; it was an exciting moment that Maggie had been unprepared for, and she was surprised by the indifference of those around her. She reached her station and got off with a couple of people who, incongruously, carried bags of golf clubs.
The morning had by this time become hot; the sky was clear, with a few clumpy clouds. Maggie descended a long
flight of stairs from the platform and saw the entrance to the cemetery, a huge wrought-iron gate that was open. Reaching it, she realized that she had no idea where Jonathan’s grave was or how to find it. A perspiring guard stood nearby and she approached him.
“How do I find where someone is buried?” she asked. She felt nervous, believing, as crazy as it sounded, that the guard would know her secret. In a Jamaican accent, and with the same brusque manner that an usher at a movie house or stadium would use, he directed her to the offices.
Maggie had never been anywhere in the city that was as still and quiet as this place. There were large, leafy trees and the grass was green and carefully cut. She was amazed by the size of the mausoleums; some were surrounded by terraces with balustrades. It all reminded her of the wealthy town a few miles from her parents’ house, only with miniature stone mansions.
Like the guard, the people at the information center showed no sign that they were working at a cemetery; they were indifferent and bored. A woman behind a counter punched in Jonathan’s name on a computer and, not immediately finding a corresponding grave, told Maggie, with a hint of annoyance, that he was not a resident. Maggie said that she was sure he was, she had read a death notice, and the woman searched again and finally found him. She gave Maggie a map, rapidly explained where he was, and had already turned to another task by the time Maggie was able to thank her.
The paths all had names like streets in an old-fashioned town. She strolled along Spruce Lane, waggling her book against her leg. It was delicious to pass into the shade of the trees after walking a ways on the hot path. She saw no one else; she had the whole place to herself. The experience conformed to the richness and drama that she associated with Jonathan.
She found the Speedwell plot at the intersection of Elm and Maple. In the center was a massive stone tomb. Gravestones surrounded it in concentric circles, and Maggie soon found the newest one. It showed no weathering. Crisp shadows made the letters and numbers of Jonathan’s name and dates half light and half dark. There was also an inscription in Latin, Maggie was pretty sure.
Maggie stared at the gravestone and remembered Jonathan’s face. She remembered his looking down into her eyes when they lay together after making love. She remembered his voice and the feel of his hands. She began to cry softly. “Oh, Jonathan!” she whispered. She ached with love and grief. He was the only man she would ever love, she knew. What would become of her? She would never, never experience the same kind of love for someone. She would probably get married, of course she would. She would marry a nice guy, and one night, after they had been to a party where something had reminded her of Jonathan, he would come across her sobbing for no evident reason, and she would have to decide whether to tell him the truth.
What do you do at a gravesite? Maggie didn’t know. She hadn’t brought flowers. She was at a loss. But then she knelt. She could feel the cool earth through the knees of her jeans. She put down the book, fingered the small crucifix she wore around her neck, and put her hands together. Closing her eyes, she began to pray. She prayed for Jonathan’s soul, asking God to admit it into heaven, if He had not done so; she prayed for herself and asked God’s forgiveness; she prayed to Jesus, asking Him to help her carry her burden.
While she was murmuring these petitions, repeating them several times and also reciting the Our Father and Hail Mary, she was startled to hear voices. Her eyes popped open and she listened. It was a man and a woman. She listened for another moment; they were close and getting closer. She should have known that other people might come today! Maggie crept on her knees a few feet and peeked around the side of the tomb. Her heart flew into her throat: a man and woman were approaching the plot, and the woman was Holly Speedwell, Jonathan’s wife! They had never met, but Maggie knew her from her photograph and had even seen her in person at a couple of Jonathan’s readings, which Maggie had attended anonymously.
The sight of Holly put Maggie into a panic. She didn’t know what to do. Looking around, she saw a huge sycamore behind her. If she stayed low, she could reach it while remaining out of sight. So she scuttled to the tree, darted around to the far side, then stood up, and leaned against the trunk. Her heart was pounding. With difficulty, she tried to take several deep breaths. She had calmed down just a little when she realized, Oh my God! The book! I left it! There wasn’t anything she could do about it, though. The man and Holly must have arrived at the plot. They were talking and she could hear what they were saying clearly.
“So,” the man said with a little sigh. “Here we are.”
They were silent for a moment.
“Let’s see,” the man said. “ ‘The Lord preserveth the simple.’ Psalm One hundred sixteen.” That was the scripture on the tomb.
“Very nice,” said Holly, “although it doesn’t seem to apply to this place very well.”
“No.”
Maggie heard one of them take a couple of steps.
“Look at that one,” said Holly, “that tiny headstone. Curtis, 1887 to 1888. Here’s a husband and wife, Minturn and Catherine. They both died in 1919. The flu epidemic, I suppose. You know, they’re buried on top of each other, four or five deep, like an apartment building.”
There was another silence. Then Holly spoke.
“All these dead people. It’s so depressing. To think that they were alive once, and doing things — I don’t know what — going to baseball games. And now: dead. It’s so hard to fathom. When people you love die, it’s so hard to believe that they’re gone, but they are gone. No matter how much fancy footwork you do to feel better about it, that’s the truth. And then to think that the universe couldn’t care less. Or, forget the universe, look at those clouds wandering up there like a lonely poet. They don’t know or care what’s below them. Or that huge sycamore.” Maggie tensed up. “It doesn’t know that it’s shading these graves.” She paused. “Sorry. I’m being lugubrious. Is someone who’s going to have a baby allowed to have these thoughts?”
“I think so,” the man said quietly.
The sound of rubbing fabric suggested to Maggie that there was an embrace.
“Okay. Well,” Holly said after a minute. “Where is he? I don’t remember.”
“Neither do I.”
After they took a few slow steps, Holly called from Maggie’s left, “That must be it. The new one.” They moved again, more quickly, until they were right behind Maggie. They stopped, and then she heard two sharp intakes of breath.
A long time passed before either Holly or the man spoke.
“Holly,” the man said, “do you see what I see?”
“I’m crying. I can’t see anything.”
“Just reassure me that I’m not hallucinating.”
“No, you aren’t.”
“Uh . . . Hm. Have you been able to locate your copy?”
“No. It’s been very upsetting and I keep opening boxes and expecting it to be there. But, no, I haven’t found it.”
“I see,” said the man. “Well, it doesn’t matter. I was just asking out of curiosity. Because, regardless, there is absolutely no possibility whatsoever that your old copy of that book has . . . has —”
“No. None. Absolutely not.”
With her back pressed against the tree, Maggie looked across a path at another family plot, this one with a huge statue of an angel. Her whole body tingled. It was nerves, but she was also amazed by what she heard Holly and the man saying. The book — it wasn’t just any book, it was important to them.
“I guess one of us should pick it up,” the man said.
“I’ll do it,” said Holly.
“Okay.”
Maggie heard a step, a sound of crunching grass, and another step.
“Here it is,” Holly said.
“There it is.”
“I suppose the next thing to do is to give it a careful examination.”
“I suppose.”
“Okay,” said Holly. “Here goes. Same edition. Oh, boy, the title page is missing.” Hol
ly took a deep breath. “All right, there’s one way to tell for sure.” She riffled the pages. “Let’s see. It should be about two thirds of the way through, the snow chapter — your favorite — somewhere around here.” The pages stopped turning, and Holly gasped. “Peter,” she said, “read that.”
“Okay. ‘Hans Castorp was fed up with such promenades.’ ”
“No! The other page. Look at what’s written in the margin.”
There was a pause. Then the man read, “ ‘Met P.’ ” There was another pause.
“Oh. My. God.”
“How bizarre,” the man said.
“Oh, Peter!” Holly cried out. “Peter! Our magic book! It’s come back to us! It’s come back to us here! Do you know what this means?”
“I think . . . well, I think . . . well, maybe I don’t know. What does it mean?”
“I have no idea. But isn’t it wonderful?”
“Oh yes, Holly, it is. It’s wonderful!”
“Das Zauberbuch!”
From what Maggie could hear, they seemed to be laughing and crying and embracing. This went on for a while. Met P here, she repeated to herself. P — the man’s name was Peter! What did it mean? Their emotion, her own emotion, and the mystery made Maggie feel dizzy. Also, she had stopped breathing.
Eventually, Holly and the man recovered from their fit of laughter and tears. They sighed a few times.
“Do you remember this?” the man asked. Pages turned. “Here it is. ‘For the sake of goodness and love, man shall grant death no dominion over his thoughts.’ ”
“Of course,” said Holly. “In italics.”
They were silent. Then Holly said, “It’s amazing. Unreal.”
“Unbelievable.”
“The next thing you know, that title page with the phone number written on it that you idiotically lost will turn up.”
“Please — this is weird enough.”
“There’s got to be an explanation.”
Beginner's Greek Page 42
