by Norman Rush
A steep and narrow stone stairway ran up to the next story. There were red-orange oriental carpets on the floors. Whether they were top of the line, someone like Claire would know. Immediately he wanted to move past the thought of his ex love and, with a little effort, he did.
Elliot was beckoning impatiently from the stairs.
There was a definite burned smell in the air and a fireplace jammed with ashes, white paper-ash.
Ned said, “Everybody’s upstairs, right?”
“Joris is out walking and Gruen is taking a nap. You’re all on the third floor. We were up drinking last night.”
Ned winced inwardly at that. It was another part of all this that he had missed.
Elliot came down a step or two, reaching toward Ned. He said, “Take your pack off, for Christ’s sake, it’s a monster. Give it to me.”
Ned ignored Elliot’s move.
Elliot said, “You’re all on the third floor, keep coming. I’ll show you your bed. It’s dormitory style.”
“Where are you sleeping?” Ned asked.
“I’m over in the main house … there’s a reason.”
Ned said, “I need to see Iva, of course, before I do anything, don’t I?”
“Not yet,” Elliot said. “Not yet.”
Elliot kept a forefinger pressed to his lips the whole way up, screwing his head around at intervals like an idiot, to show that he wasn’t kidding about silence.
There was a shock for Ned on the third floor. A form completely shrouded in a white blanket encumbered an army cot near the stairhead. Of course it could only be Gruen sleeping in his signature mode, the covers pulled over his head, but for an instant, Ned had thought he was seeing death. Elliot was telling him in a shouted whisper that it was Gruen, and to leave him alone.
Ned went to the cot and bent close to the sleeper, whose rumbling breathing was familiar enough from the deep past. And the wine-tinctured breath sifting up through the blanket was also vintage Gruen, so to speak. Gruen had been the leading drinker in their group.
He felt like lifting the blanket enough to take a look at Gruen. Or rather, he didn’t feel like doing that, he felt like not having to wait for everything to happen. How could it be that they hadn’t connected physically in twenty years? At around five six, Gruen was the shortest of the friends. And although the hurtful phrase Small but Perfectly Formed hadn’t been around in the seventies, if it had been it would have applied to Gruen, then, with his fine Nordic head, his profile cut to go on a coin or medal.
Glancing around, Ned decided that sleeping there would be fine, if it couldn’t be avoided. Views left and right—calm prospects, no crags, just the matte grandeur of tracts of trees sweeping up to plucked-looking ridgelines, marred, if that was the word, here and there by isolate slumping-limbed firs resembling incorrect ideograms. Scenery is probably good for your blood pressure, he thought. Set into the wall back of the stairhead was a sort of booth whose door was ajar. It was a half-bath, rosily lit. So there was everything.
A pair of lustrous black cowboy boots stood at the foot of Gruen’s cot. He wore boots for the obvious reason, and in fact Ned had been the one to encourage him not to be embarrassed about making the transition from regular shoes if it made him more comfortable, which it had.
The bare cot with the block of folded bedclothes on it was going to be his. He was next to Joris, whose cot was neatly made up. Joris had always been tidy, which reminded Ned of an incident: their group in the village, strolling down Mercer Street, Douglas saluting some sanitation men at work there and calling out the phrase NEW YORK’S TIDIEST, which the men hadn’t liked, and had resulted in filth of some kind finding its way onto Douglas’s new shoes. Ned wouldn’t mind discussing the subject of just how funny most of their japes had been.
Lined up across Joris’s pillow were a shaving kit, a cordless LED reading light, and a new hardcover copy of The Twilight of American Culture, by Morris Berman. It was a luxury, buying books new, but somebody had to do it, and if Joris could afford it, good for him.
Ned stowed his things under the cot meant for him. He wanted Joris to appear, and Gruen to wake the fuck up. Elliot was talking furtively on his cell phone, again. He wanted to go up to the next level, to Douglas’s study. He wanted to see Douglas’s sanctum. He didn’t need permission. This sleeping room was uninteresting. It was storage. Around the periphery were tables loaded with books and periodicals. There were more books piled under tables. There was another vast oriental rug underfoot. He mounted to the next level while Elliot continued in conversation.
Ned was in distress. It was all right because it was going to go away. He was sitting in Douglas’s desk chair, a heavy throne-like baronial thing that could roll smoothly to any point along the wooden desk ledge that encircled the room, except for two interruptions, one for a fireplace and one for the circular iron stairway to the tower roof, where Ned wanted to go next. He might feel better up there, if only because it would get him out of this ultimate venue for a person to think and work in, ever. Douglas’s study was not only esthetically elevating, it was consummately equipped, the essential tools distributed intelligently around the scene. He was seated in front of the computer-scanner-printer complex, next to the phone-fax setup, and a short slide away from an imposing stereo layout. There was an intercom microphone at hand and next to it the speaker that went with it. The lighting was mostly green-shaded bankers’ lamps, with a few tensors included for variety. Where Douglas had found a completely round Persian rug was a question. Ned’s feet encountered a couple of ten-pound dumbbells under the desk. Douglas had once announced his intention to die thin as a curate. They had all been thin, then, Gruen less so. There were no photographs of Douglas on display. In fact the only images in the little selection on the wall to the right of the desk were of Douglas’s boy Hume. They were all early childhood pictures.
Everything was a fount of sadness. This perfect workplace sitting empty, abandoned by the one it was perfect for, abandoned abruptly years too soon. There was only one photograph that wasn’t of Hume as a small child. The disparate one was a framed tear-out from an ancient tabloid showing Sophia Loren shooting a disconcerted sidelong glance at her dinner partner Jayne Mansfield’s cleavage. That was Douglas. Ned didn’t like it that Iva wasn’t represented, nor anyone other than Hume who was related to him in any way. The friends had been a presentable group, overall. Douglas had taken the position that his success with women at NYU was a mystery to him. Nina, studying one of the few photos Ned possessed from their college days, had suggested that Douglas’s success had been attributable to a brooding manner and his permanent five o’clock shadow, the political prisoner look.
Ned heard his name being spoken below. He wanted to get out on the tower roof before he went downstairs.
He knew he was looking at something salient but not seeing it. At the center of the miscellany of books lining the back edge of the section of desk right in front of him was Douglas’s Oxford UP paperback copy of Boswell’s Life of Samuel Johnson. Douglas had been an absolute Johnsonomane. And in a fax communication years ago, he’d claimed that he’d gotten so much pleasure out of reading The Life that he’d stopped and placed a bookmark at page 847 so that he would have finishing the book in pleasant increments to look forward to. And here it was. Ned pulled the book from the shelf. It was bookmarked at page 847. He slipped the book into his rucksack. Douglas had related powerfully to Samuel Johnson somehow. All the friends had been hectored to read the damned thing. It was great, of course.
The stereo’s power light was on. Impulsively, he pressed the open/close button and removed the CD the tray delivered. This would have been one of the last things Douglas had listened to. It was Vivaldi’s Concerto for Guitar in D Major played by the Wiener Soloisten. He found the jewel case, put the CD away in it, and slid the case into his pocket.
Out on the roof, the wind was raw and lurching. Dark was coming fast. There was a ludicrous parapet around the roof with embrasures useful onl
y for archers who were toddlers. The pebbled surface of the roof was convex, for drainage. Ned didn’t want to pitch over the side. He concentrated on his footing. A telescope on a tripod was wrapped in black plastic sheeting bound tightly with long twist ties. Probably he should take it inside. Out of the way, a child’s wooden chair lay on its side, bleached, coming apart, obviously abandoned years ago.
Gruen was calling to him.
“Don’t come up,” Ned said. “There’s nothing here.”
• • •
Gruen looked lost standing beside his cot, wrapped in blankets, using a bath towel for a hood. He had a cold, he was saying, with difficulty. He shook a Kleenex at Ned as a warning sign of his condition.
“I don’t care,” Ned said, and embraced him. Both of them wept briefly. Elliot had gone into hiding in the main house. Joris was still wherever he was.
It was maudlin, for a time. Ned let himself go. Gruen had a sore throat and kept saying he had to stop talking. But they went on. Gruen pulled his towel down for use as a scarf. Ned could see his face clearly then. His hair was thinner, and was auburn, to Ned’s surprise. Gruen had gained weight. His face was still youthful, though, somehow. Gruen owned an agency dedicated to creating public service announcements for television. He was under the impression that Ned was still living with Claire, Douglas’s Claire of the old days. Ned had to explain that he and Claire hadn’t been together for five years, and that he would tell the whole long story when Joris got there. He didn’t want to have to repeat it. He was married to Nina and he had never been married to Claire. He underlined that. Both men expressed guilt for not staying in better touch with one another, and with Douglas. In different ways, they were repeating disbelievingly that the founder of their group, their friendship, was suddenly dead, and here they were, camped out in the pretty stupefying domain he had left behind. Gruen had no children. He wondered if Claire had been informed about Douglas’s death and Ned said she would see it in the papers, probably already had. He wanted to shake the shadow of Claire off them, away. They wondered together what was going to happen to Iva now. Gruen said that Douglas’s son, according to his latest understanding, lived in the woods, strangely enough. There was going to be a ceremony. And press was coming, was already coming, and Elliot was in charge, giving orders. Gruen said that Douglas had been more famous in Europe than they had known.
Abruptly, Gruen sat down. He said something about steam, and tea. Ned tried to think of what he could do. Upstairs in the study there had been a niche with a mini-kitchen built into it—no stove, but a midget microwave oven. And he had noticed a box of Earl Grey in the vicinity. He would take care of it in a minute.
Gruen was fishing around in his wrappings. He said, “I brought this,” handing Ned a milky Polaroid photograph. Ned studied it. There they were, their group circa 1974 when they’d lived together off campus on the Lower East Side at 71 Second Avenue. He remembered the super taking this picture, organizing them in the widest part of their railroad apartment, the dining ell. There they were, sitting in disparate kitchen chairs, facing the future. Ned had worn his hair longer, then: the wavy front rose up in a way that now reminded him of bleachers. Douglas was the only one presenting in profile, very Apollonian, except for his unusually prominent Adam’s apple. A spatula was protruding from the breast pocket of Douglas’s tweed jacket, for no reason. It was not meant to suggest that Douglas was connected to any cooking duties. Joris had his hands on his knees and was leaning forward in a crouch, scowling balefully. Gruen was staring into the bowl of a Meerschaum pipe, seemingly perplexed, being a clown. There was at least one other dumb group shot, as he recalled. In it, Douglas, in bathing trunks, was aiming a hand mirror at his navel and Elliot was smirking into the inside pages of a gag New York Times they had had printed up at a novelty shop, whose headline was, in forty-eight-point type, SEA GIVES UP ITS DEAD. What dumb jape he himself had been engaged in for the camera he didn’t remember. The group portrait in his hand would, in the ultimate dimness, be all there was of the five of them as an organism.
Gruen told Ned he could have the photo. Ned didn’t want it.
“You keep it,” Ned said to Gruen, who shook his head. Ned put the photo in the pocket containing the Vivaldi CD.
Not going over to present himself to Iva at the main house was beginning to seem idiotic. And he hadn’t seen Hume, except fleetingly, if in fact that had been Hume. True, he was deferring to the strong, what? Requests or instructions of an old friend. He could put it off a little longer, he guessed, without seeming rude. He was going to try Nina again. And when Joris turned up, they would go over together, unless Joris could provide a good reason to obey Elliot. Ned was upset with Elliot.
Gruen was lying down again, again shrouded to the top of his head. Ned decided to erect a card table at a considerate distance from Gruen. Ned had brought him a cup of tea. He retrieved the empty cup from inside the blanket cave Gruen was keeping himself in. Nina continued to not answer.
Ned opened up four folding chairs and placed them around the card table. Earlier, he had located the thermostat. He was satisfied that the baseboard heating strip was functioning. His cardigan would be adequate for warmth. He had laid out his petitions and some ancillary paperwork on the table. For light, there was a floor lamp and a ruby-red pillar candle on a dinner plate. Joris would have book matches or a lighter. So would Elliot, but where was he when you needed him?
He settled himself. Company! he thought. He was hearing definite sounds of arrival, followed by sounds of ascent.
Joris looked joyful, seeing Ned. He sprang into the room from the top step and ran over to Ned and stood there with his arms spread wide, gesturing with his hands for Ned to stand up and endure what would be a crushing hug. So Ned did, full of happiness himself. Joris was the least changed. Or maybe they were in a tie. Joris had all his hair, solidly gray, dense as ever, cropped short. He and Ned were the same height, but Joris was powerfully built. He had heavy brows, a hard face generally. He had a low blink rate that Douglas had observed and proved to him. He did project a kind of Teutonic severity, which had led to Douglas referring to him just once as the Hun. His background was Latvian.
Joris ducked into the half-bath and closed the door. They had yet to get to the death that brought them all there. Ned waited. Joris was the smartest of them. He had gone from mathematics to maritime law, he had had the darkest worldview available then. Joris came out of the half-bath. Somewhere he had found a bottle of Evian water and two tumblers, which he brought to the table. “It’s warm,” he said, indicating the bottled water.
“That doesn’t matter,” Ned said.
“Should we talk quietly?” Joris asked, pointing his chin at Gruen.
“I’m awake,” Gruen said.
“Then you should get up,” Joris said.
“I’ll get up for dinner.”
Joris said something unfathomable to Ned. It was definitely a word. He had said it in his throat. Joris had been raised speaking Latvian at home and English at school. His mother had gone deaf when he was young. For Joris, speaking English seemed a little effortful. Often he gave the impression he was concentrating what he needed to say into pellets, which he delivered after longish intervals. Wait, no, it wasn’t his mother who had gone deaf, it was his father. He’d gone deaf working in the quarry he owned. He was like the king of a rainy country: own a veritable gold mine of a quarry, work it, work in it, get prosperous, go deaf.
Ned and Joris gripped hands across the table, elbows on the tabletop, as though they were going to arm-wrestle. “I concede,” Ned said. It was the way many discussions between them had ended.
“So, you bastard, you came. Hello,” Joris said.
They talked sadly about the freakishness and unfairness of Douglas’s fate. All of them were going to be saying the same things over and over to one another. Douglas had been a man attentive to what he ate, hyperattentive. He had taken care of himself.
Closing the topic for the moment, Ned sai
d, “The group is finished.”
“No,” Joris said, in a voice loud enough to cause Gruen to thrust his head back into the room. “It was finished long ago.”
“What?” Gruen asked.
Ned said, “He doesn’t mean dead from the beginning.” He looked at Joris, who hesitated but finally said what Ned wanted to hear, “No, nono.”
“What were we, nineteen seventy-four to nineteen seventy-eight, the five of us?” Ned asked generally.
Joris closed his eyes. He was considering.
Ned had his own private image of that time. He saw himself looking back, down a very long road, at night, and seeing dimly lighted establishments spaced along the road—but at one point, far back, a gathering of bright lights something like an arcade or a carnival, red and gold lights and shreds of music coming from that location only. It was cheap.
“Look at me, I’m emotional,” Joris said. He was going to say more. Ned knew it was a sign that Joris was ready to give his finished opinion when he took his glasses out of his shirt pocket and laid them down in front of him, as he was doing.
Joris said, “What we were … well, I could quote from when we discussed this on the phone a few years ago: I said we were a cult, but not exactly a cult, a cult of friendship. We got the whole idea of it from Douglas. Without it, we would have made ordinary connections like everybody else does passing through college and not noticed anything particular about that. And some of us might not have made any connections at all. I am not naming names …”
Ned knew enough about Joris’s life to provide a base of real sympathy. They had been in contact through letters, and then email, and very rarely by phone, through the years. Joris’s marriage had produced twin boys, now grown, both in pre-med, one at the University of Hawaii, one at a dubious school in the Caribbean. Joris was divorced. He had divorced and had never remarried for what had always seemed to Ned a singular reason. He had described himself as a married-woman fetishist, that is, a fetishist for married women except the one he was married to. And he realized it was going to ruin any marriage he undertook the same way it had wrecked the first one. Helen was the name of his first wife. Joris had said that maritime law was a perfect field for him because absolute cynicism was the best Weltanschauung to have if you were in it, because the field was strewn with pirates and crooks.
