by Tom Rachman
In the week before their arrival, Duncan had considered tidying his room but opted for passive rebellion. His defiance dissolved when Naoko called from a phone booth outside Lincoln Center to say they were on their way. He spent the next twenty minutes stuffing soiled laundry under his mattress, wiping down the bathroom basin with paper towels, hiding dirty dishes in the cupboards.
“I can offer you white wine or …” Tooly said, hands clasped before her, looking from Naoko to Keith, then back at Naoko, who presented the more sympathetic countenance. “Actually, white wine is all we have. That okay?”
“Plus, we got three types of chips,” Duncan added.
Keith, an unblinking lump of middle-aged Scottish clay, looked askance at the sofa, where his wife invited him to sit. “I only drink if I’m getting drunk,” he said. “And I’m not getting drunk with my son.”
“I’ve gotten drunk with him,” Tooly said, “and I can recommend it.”
Duncan gave an embarrassed cough.
“Diet soda,” Keith ordered. “Can we get the TV going?” He did the honors, switching to NBC Nightly News, which was broadcasting a segment on New Year’s security measures after the arrest of an Algerian caught with explosives at the border, possibly for a terrorist attack in Los Angeles.
“Wrong,” Keith told the television, when the anchor spoke of the upcoming Year 2000 celebrations.
“What is?” Tooly asked, handing him a soda can.
“The Year 2000,” he said. “If the counting starts at one A.D., you don’t reach the millennium till 2001. Not like there was a Year Zero. How hard is that for people to understand?” He looked at the TV again, which now showed footage of Bill Clinton joshing with a foreign dignitary. “Can this guy just go?” Keith said, meaning the president.
Naoko’s wandering gaze suggested that it wasn’t the first time she’d heard such laments.
“It’ll take industrial cleaners to get this guy’s stench out of the Oval Office,” Keith continued. “It’s time to restore dignity to our country.”
“I like hearing such patriotic American views delivered with a Scottish accent,” Tooly said, offering a smile.
“Give me one iota of evidence changing anything I just said to you,” he said, glaring at her.
Late that night, Tooly lay in Duncan’s bed, thinking about his father, who, during a hundred hectoring minutes, had not once looked at his son. While Tooly knew it to be unfair, she couldn’t help but like Duncan slightly less for having this man as his father.
Duncan hugged her back, sliding his legs up to spoon with her. She felt vaguely unsafe with anyone behind her like that when sleeping. “Flip!” she said jovially, as if he were an egg. Their positions reversed, she pulled herself against his back, warming it with her naked front. “Your spoon was a travesty,” she told the nape of his neck. “I had to act.”
“You’re a spoon fundamentalist.”
“I support traditional spooning values. You have cheapened the office of the spoon and it’s my job to restore honor and credibility to the spoon.”
He twisted around, laughing. “Tooly?”
“Duncan?”
“I completely fucking love you.”
She smiled and poked his cheek, then got out of bed and lay on the floor among dust balls, printer paper, socks under the bedframe. “It’s boiling in here tonight.”
“The super went away for the holidays and left the heat going so that no one complains.”
His arm hung over the edge of the mattress, and she encircled his wrist with her thumb and forefinger, holding still for a minute. But, eventually, you must do things with things. She pulled his wrist closer and nipped the bumpy bone, causing him to yelp and laugh. Tooly stood, stretched, and put on yesterday’s outfit, then went to the living-room window, peeking onto the fire escape for the pack of house cigarettes. None left, and Noeline had gone for the holidays.
She gazed down at the street. Seemed ages since her first night here, when—contemplating an icy walk home—she had preferred the warm bedcovers (and the warm man) in Duncan’s room. She could’ve slipped those credit cards from his wallet then, and concluded it. Instead, she’d nested here, they mistaking her for one of them, she making the same error—until that pre-Christmas dinner, when Tooly observed anew the division between her and other people.
Venn was the only person who protected her. And she wanted to have something for him, to justify her time up here. Duncan was the obvious target, yet she couldn’t bring herself to do that. The others? Emerson was her preference, yet gaining his confidence required stroking the man’s ego, and she refused. Standing in the dark corridor, she noticed the light under Xavi’s door. She rapped with one knuckle, as if her others weren’t so sure. “Hey,” she said, as he opened. “Want to walk the pig with me?”
They borrowed the animal and were off, footprints and hoofprints down the frosted sidewalk. Xavi was skittish about touching Ham, but she forced him to pat the creature, which seemed to cause the pig to fart, sending them into tears of laughter. Composure regained, they continued to the red-brick path across the Columbia campus, which was nearly deserted this close to the holidays—just the distant hollers of a few frat boys. Ham kept bumping into her leg, like a child jealous when the grown-ups chatted.
“I’m a detective,” Xavi remarked.
“How’s that?”
He named a street in Brooklyn—to her alarm, the street where she and Humphrey lived. Weeks earlier, Xavi explained, he had found a city map in the corridor by the front door, amid all the Chinese menus and America Online marketing disks. At first, he’d assumed it was garbage, because it was covered in pen lines. But he’d never owned a map of all five boroughs, so he’d kept it. Problem was that the lines made navigation nearly impossible. What were those? Delivery routes? There was a pinprick hole where ink had saturated and loosened the fibers of the page. Everything radiated out from that point, at the end of a small street in Brooklyn, just off the Gowanus Expressway.
He took her map from his inside pocket. So there it was: must’ve fallen from her pocket on that first visit, when she’d opened her coat and flopped atop Duncan on the floor. “Never seen it before in my life,” she said.
Xavi grinned. “I’m a detective!” To celebrate, he took a cigarette from his velvet jacket and lit it grandly. He had a peculiar way of smoking, cheeks filling, as if not to inhale. He inquired about her place in Brooklyn, but she diverted the conversation to his studies, and how he was going to make the fortune that they all knew would one day be his. Pure finance was extremely lucrative, he explained, but it left him cold. Entrepreneurship was what appealed. A dot-com, maybe.
“Can I get a drag off that?” she asked.
“Only if you give me a million-dollar idea.”
“I have a ten-cent idea,” she responded, grabbing the cigarette.
He took out his PalmPilot, which he flipped open with a flourish, rapping the stylus pen on the screen, like a conductor’s baton on the music stand. “Go.”
“Well,” she said, exhaling smoke. “What about a dishwasher-like product, but for the whole apartment, so you pour detergent into a hole in the floor, press a button, and leave for an hour, then return, and the house is clean.”
“I like it,” he said, smiling. “Very practical.”
“I notice you’re not writing that down. Oh, and I always think about how they should make it so that cars run on tracks and are controlled electronically, which would end accidents and traffic jams.”
“This idea already exists. It’s called a train.”
“Spoilsport,” she said. “What about the salt shaker?”
“What about it?”
“I hate salt shakers. I don’t want a little heap of salt on my mashed potatoes,” she said, paraphrasing Humphrey. “I want salt evenly over the whole area. A salt sprayer. Make it happen!”
“I’ll do my best.”
She took another drag, returning the cigarette. “What’s your big idea?”
“You are not the only one who can be secretive.”
“Oh, come on! I gave you solid gold. The salt sprayer! And the train—I just reinvented the train! Don’t I get credit for that?”
“Okay, okay. My big idea,” he said, “is Wildfire.”
As they walked, Xavi delivered a version of the presentation he’d done in class. “The greatest impediment to online commerce is that the modern consumer is afraid to input bank details on a website. Both sides—sales point and client—want to do business. But they need a secure way to take the next step. That is where Wildfire comes in: a new form of money, for all transactions conducted on the information superhighway. You send a credit-card payment to Wildfire, mail a check or bank order, and in exchange you get tokens redeemable with cooperating businesses on the World Wide Web. Consumers get security and vendors get income. Furthermore, Wildfire tokens offer protection against instability in the world. You are safe from currency fluctuations, from government irresponsibility in monetary policy, from devaluations. Keeping money in the currency of the country where you happen to be born makes no sense in today’s globalized world. We need a virtual currency for a virtual future: Wildfire.”
“Xavi!”
“What?”
“That sounds like an actual idea.”
“Yes, of course.”
“How did you come up with that?”
“You like it?”
“I mean, I don’t know anything. But it sounds insanely great.”
He laughed shyly.
Tooly—calibrating her effect on him—considered commending him even more lavishly, or kissing his cheek, or saying they must go into business together. She inhaled the bracing air. “I always wanted a hand muff, like in those glamorous movies about the tsars,” she said, then unglamorously lost her balance and snatched his arm to steady herself. She held it all the way to the corner of 115th Street. Outside the building, she handed him the leash and pushed away, skating down the frosty sidewalk in alternating black streaks. “Are you staying in the city through Christmas and New Year’s?” she shouted.
“For part of it.”
“I’m around, too,” she said, skating back.
Tooly had no seasonal festivities at her place in Brooklyn. Humphrey boycotted public holidays, considering them rank conformism. But when she stopped in they did play Christmas Ping-Pong. Even that was ruined by the presence of Sarah, sulking because Tooly hadn’t come for a shopping expedition on her twenty-first birthday. Worse still, Venn hadn’t been in touch—never had he ignored her like this. She’d waited weeks. Her flight to Italy was in a few days, and she pressed Tooly to come along. When the invitation was rejected, Sarah stormed off into the night.
Humphrey looked up from his book and wiggled his eyebrows, which made Tooly laugh. He called her over to the couch and wondered if perhaps she should consider Sarah’s offer, especially since there was a job there at that leather-goods store.
“I’m not going anyplace with the empress,” Tooly responded with irritation. “And you just know there’d be no job waiting once I got there. There probably isn’t even a leather-goods shop. Can you imagine Sarah running a store? You can’t shoplift from yourself.”
He ducked behind the book.
After a minute, Tooly prepared him a smashed-potato sandwich, an edible apology for having snapped.
“I have items,” he muttered, as she delivered his food. “Items for discussing purposes.”
“I’m sure. Let me guess,” she said. “We should run away together?”
“If I tell you,” he said, “then you get cross at me. You hate me, maybe.”
“Whatever you have to say,” she said, amused, “I think I can handle it.”
He frowned, on the verge of speaking, wet lips flapping for a moment—then he curled forward and resumed his book, The Unreality of Time by J.M.E. McTaggart.
Tooly preferred that he keep reading. His “items” were only ever pretexts to keep her at the apartment, which saddened her, since she longed to be elsewhere.
Yet she couldn’t entirely spurn Humphrey. Mostly, it was from pity. But another motive lurked, one she denied: she had no money to manage alone, and he’d always helped with small amounts. She had too much pride to ask Venn for cash, and, anyway, she saw him too irregularly. On occasion, Venn noticed her penury and slipped her a few banknotes. But she regretted those occasions, which only reinforced her uselessness. She could have taken a job, of course, and wouldn’t have minded. But something was always afoot with Venn and she had to remain available—he could call at any minute and say, “I’m leaving tomorrow. Coming?”
THE DAY BEFORE New Year’s Eve, the city awoke white. A blizzard hit overnight and sanitation trucks plowed the streets at dawn, driving snow into gritty ranges that rose from the gutters and sank to the cleared sidewalks. Tooly strolled through the West Village, stepping between two parked cars on Hudson Street, up an icy hillock whose peak collapsed underfoot. She stamped her snowy sneakers on the pavement, causing the automatic glass doors of a residential building to part. Right past the doorman she went, with such confidence that he merely returned to his horoscope. On the ninth floor, she found a low-lit hallway, doors all the way down. One was ajar, and she entered.
A man stood at the far end of the room, his back to her, gazing through floor-to-ceiling windows at the view of Manhattan.
“Excuse me,” she said, hesitating in the doorway. “So sorry to bother you but—this might sound weird—but I actually grew up in this apartment. I happened to be walking by and was wondering, would it be insane if I asked maybe to peek inside? I’m getting a flood of memories even just standing here. Is that—”
“Very nice,” Venn said. “You’ll ask to use the toilet next.”
“I’m too old for that line,” she said, closing the door behind her. “Pity, I wouldn’t mind walking into random apartments when I need a bathroom. Actually, yes—why don’t I?”
The place was sumptuous, floorboards and walls brilliant white, a white orchid on the coffee table before a leather divan, a braided pachira tree in a pot. Tooly checked out the bookshelf, which contained only volumes about beads, buttons, and Bakelite jewelry.
She joined him at the windows. The panes were four times her height and as wide as the entire apartment, a crystal cityscape of West Village rooftops steaming, high-rises crammed in higgledy-piggledy.
“Who lives in this place?” she asked. His eyes looked so intently ahead that she followed his gaze, only for him to turn to her, a grin creasing his cheeks.
“Who lives here?” he repeated back.
“Yes, here. The place where we’re both standing right now. The apartment that—I think I can confidently say—isn’t yours.”
“You mean this place, where you grew up?”
“Seriously, whose?”
“Just a friend, duck.”
“Speaking of your ladyfriends, Sarah is still holding out hope of hearing from you. And Humph is going nuts dealing with her. Could you just see her before she leaves? Or at least phone her at the apartment? It’s easy for you, hiding out here in luxury. But we have to deal with her.”
“And the boy-lawyer?” he asked, meaning Duncan. “How’s that?”
“I’m making friends with the whole place.”
“Friends? Make them fall in love with you.”
“I might have something for you from there.”
He pointed a remote control at the shutters, which lowered with an automated whirr, wiping out the city. “We ready to go?” He often spoke of “we” like this, as if he and Tooly were akin, which flattered her, since she viewed her personality as so small and his as so large. He understood her character and spoke of it so convincingly. When she was little, and he praised her as brave or uncomplaining, she sought to become that way. Until, gradually, she adopted the traits he claimed to have seen from the start.
They set forth into the snow. Venn went most places by foot, and she had assumed this ha
bit. He was as likely to walk for three hours as three minutes, and never informed her of their destination. They tracked north today, past Fourteenth Street, through Chelsea, east at Penn Station, along secondary streets uncleared except over subway grates or where muddy footsteps had preceded them. For blocks, he said nothing.
“So,” she asked, to break the silence, “the owner of the white apartment? Anything special?”
“No, no.”
“Don’t you get the urge to stay with any of these women?”
“Absolutely not. You know me.”
“I know you,” she said. “But I don’t get you. You seem to be cutting out more and more stuff these days.”
“That’s exactly what I’m doing. I try to distance myself from things.”
“What for? I don’t see what you gain from that.”
“I achieve a peace in it, I suppose,” he said. “It’s about recognizing how little I need and sticking with that, as forces around (and in me) tempt me to set it aside. I try to get rid of everything unnecessary.”
“Meaning what?”
“Everything possible. Even unnecessary thoughts,” he explained. “Fear, for example. The only way I was able to deal with fear was to reconcile myself with death. And no longer fearing death makes it so much easier to live how you want, without the interference of conventions, so many of which are just ways of staving off death anyway.”
“How so?”
“Things like family, kids. Some people have children expressly so they’ll be looked after in old age. They want adulation guaranteed, even when they’re no longer worthy of it. The love they give is only because they expect it in return. There’s always that condition, and it’s at the root of failed love, marriages, friendships.”
