by Tom Rachman
“You should be in sixth! In seventh! Better, I put you in medical school. That is how intellectual you are.”
“I hate trivial beings.”
“I hate them also. But careful; it is trivial beings that run the world.”
So went their days—talking, reading, commending each other’s forbearance in a world bedeviled by the Moron Problem. Whenever it suited them, he cooked a meal. His specialty was anything potato-based: potato sandwiches, potato pie, and his favorite, smashed-potato pizza.
“What’s your favorite food, Humphrey?”
“Me? I like all things eatful.”
That was daytime. When night fell, all changed. Some evenings, Venn kept her near. Other times, he entertained associates, and she watched from a distance until he summoned her. “Little duck!” he said, scratching his thick beard, lines crinkling around his eyes. And she walked away from Humphrey as one might from a classroom friend when a fancier after-school companion arrives. She was ashamed of him, and he knew this, so let her go. Yet he watched from afar. When she was tired, it was he who asked Venn to banish the revelers upstairs, a trick that Humphrey, despite his pleas to the crowd, had no power to effect.
2000
A COUPLE OF DAYS PASSED before Tooly noticed that the students’ apartment was less populated, and that the missing person was Noeline. She and Emerson had broken up. Without her there, he walked around shirtless, stroking his blond ringlets, and inserting his opinions everywhere. That is, he hadn’t changed at all.
But Noeline had, as Tooly witnessed when they ran into each other on Broadway. She appeared jollier, slimmer, and was startlingly affectionate, insisting on a hug. Neither had eaten lunch, so Noeline proposed Chinese. Tooly loved the idea; it was exciting, a professor inviting her for a meal. Since she couldn’t afford to dine out, Tooly pretended to have no appetite, but agreed to sit and watch. Noeline falsely attributed this abstention to dieting and insisted that Tooly was thin enough to eat whatever she wanted—who cared, anyway! She requested an extra plate and extra chopsticks, making the case that it wasn’t a diet violation if you hadn’t ordered it.
Noeline chose General Tso’s chicken and white rice—not brown rice, which was the only kind she’d been allowed during her year with Emerson, who was a nutrition hard-liner. Tooly sampled the food, then laid down her chopsticks, took up her napkin, dabbed her lips, trying not to look famished.
“What’s your opinion,” Noeline inquired, “of thongs?”
“The sandals?”
“No, no. Thong underwear. The kind that goes up your butt.”
“Don’t think I have a strong opinion about it.”
“Okay, can I just tell you something? The thong is why Emerson and I broke up.”
“You found him wearing yours?”
“I wish. No, he wanted me to wear one, which—if you have any familiarity with my butt, there’s just no cause to expose more of it. He called it ‘a point of principle.’ ”
“Your butt, or the thong?”
“The one in the other.”
“So did you?”
“It’s a long-standing credo in my life that dental floss is not for covering one’s nether regions.”
“And this was an ongoing issue?”
“You have no idea. Once he fixates on something, you can’t pry him off it. Anyway, why don’t men have to wear a goddamn thong?”
“It wouldn’t work,” Tooly said. “They’ve got stuff to hold up.”
“They wear boxer shorts, and those don’t support anything.”
“Maybe they need an underwire thong.”
Noeline loved this and clapped her hands. “That’s a totally disturbing image.” As she continued her review of the Emerson relationship, squirmy details emerged, including sexual quirks and small cruelties. “When you see what looks like an ideal relationship from outside,” Noeline remarked, “you don’t realize how much crap is going on inside.”
“Hmm.”
“What’s that mean?”
“Just that your relationship didn’t seem all that ideal to me. You guys argued a lot.”
“How do you know that?”
“Thin walls.”
“Well, that’s kind of embarrassing.”
“And he was rude to you, I thought.” Tooly took a sip of water. “Are you offended if I say this stuff? Is it better that I keep my mouth shut?”
“The more awful things you say about him, the better. Badmouthing this jerk is my favorite sport right now. But wait—you didn’t like Emerson?”
“Noeline, I don’t think anybody likes him. There’s a saying: ‘Every cockroach looks beautiful to its mother.’ But when Emerson calls his mom she lets the answering machine get it.”
“That is fantastic!”
“I can keep going?”
“Yes, please!”
“He’s arrogant. He’s pushy. Constantly showing off. What is it with taking his shirt off all the time? Yes, we know he works out. Congratulations, you have abs. But it’s winter in New York, not July in Malibu. And I don’t doubt that he knows a lot, but it’s—”
“He doesn’t know one-tenth of what he claims,” Noeline interrupted. “He thinks he’ll do what I did and go from postgrad straight to teaching at Columbia. Dream on.”
“Really?”
“They like us to make our bones on the mean streets of rural academia. I got insanely lucky.”
“You were good, probably.”
“Lucky. Anyhoo, back to insulting the loser. I just used the guy for his body. I’m joking. Whatever. I’m pretty cynical about relationships. And I blame my parents. Even though they live on different continents, they keep up this amazing relationship. They’ve allowed each other to pursue separate careers. And they love each other still. So they’ve ruined me. Because that is not the rule. Most guys cannot deal with a smart woman. Male-female relationships are basically incompatible with mutual dignity. But society mounts all this pressure on heteros to mate for life or be outcasts.”
“How does society do that?”
“Like, consider the romantic comedy. That whole genre is intended to guilt us into breeding. Women are made to look lonely and pathetic if they ever dare be independent. ‘Fear not, loser girl—here’s dimple-cheeked Hugh Grant, who will save you with his mumbly bullshit!’ It’s social engineering to make us make babies.”
“Did Emerson want babies?”
“I could never procreate with a guy as stupid as him. Okay,” Noeline said, smile rising. “I’m going to tell you something. But don’t pass this on to anyone.”
“I don’t know anyone.”
“Seriously, it could bounce back on me. Get this: I basically wrote half his doctoral thesis. Not even kidding. You have no idea what shit he had in there before I looked at it.”
“What’s his subject again? Something about roller coasters?”
“ ‘The Sign, the Signified, and the Cyclone: Lacan Goes to the Fairground.’ ”
“What does that even mean?”
“Who knows. But fine, I worked with it. And then he goes and fucking breaks up with me! Like, what is up with that?” She took a big mouthful of food, talking and chewing together: “Good to vent … My friends all hated him, so now they’re, like, I told you so…. Anyway. Duncan? How’s stuff with him?”
“Fine.”
“You in love?”
“Me? Gosh, I don’t know that I have that emotion. I like people,” Tooly said. “But there’s not a separate emotion involving stardust and harps. Nobody’s convinced me such a thing exists. What exists, I think, is liking to a greater or lesser degree. But this idea of a magical separate thing is sort of a swindle—like you were saying about romantic comedies.”
“I never said I didn’t fall in love. I do constantly. That’s my problem. You must not have met the right person.”
“I don’t think there are ‘right people,’ ” Tooly said. “Just variations on types.”
“How did you get so cynical at s
uch a young age?”
The answer, which Tooly failed to give, was that these views were not necessarily hers. They belonged to Venn, and he was the most convincing person she knew. “It’s complicated.”
“Is this the part where you get all mysterious and clam up?”
“Probably, yes.”
The camaraderie cooled. “I don’t really fall in love, so I’m not with Duncan, no,” she said, trying to make reiteration sound like disclosure. “I do like Duncan. He’s a nice guy. And I feel sad for him.”
“Ouch.”
“Not in a bad way.”
“No, no—most men want to be pitied,” Noeline said sarcastically. “Actually, maybe they do. Holy shit! Maybe that’s the key to everything!”
“I don’t pity him. I’m just saying I don’t get sentimental about people.”
“Isn’t sentimental what you’re supposed to get about people? If you don’t, what’s the point of going out with Duncan at all?”
“There are rational reasons.”
“What’s the rationale of sleeping with Duncan McGrory, whom you sort of pity?”
“Well, we’re working on a business project. Me, him, and Xavi. This Wildfire online-currency thing.”
“That’s not serious, is it? I thought that was just you guys messing around.”
“It’s getting serious.”
“And that’s your reason for dating Duncan? I completely don’t believe you.”
“I have this friend,” Tooly said, “who is like an extreme version of me, in terms of not being sentimental about stuff. He’s purely rational—yet also decent to people who deserve it, and tough with those who don’t. Doesn’t care about rules, or how you’re supposed to act. He behaves how he thinks. That’s how I try to be.”
“You’re in love with this guy?”
“No, no, no—he pretty much raised me.”
“Aha! So, this is the guy you live with in some batcave outside Gotham.”
“I live with someone else, actually,” Tooly said.
“Your parents?”
“My parents aren’t in the picture.”
“You’re an orphan?”
“I didn’t say that.”
“So mysterious! But I’m getting somewhere. You’re using Duncan, and you’re in love with a mysterious superhero. Only kidding! Hey, should we get more tea? You have to come to my place sometime—I have all sorts of awesome herbal teas. Are you into drinking tea and bad-mouthing guys sometime? We have to do that.”
“Name the date.”
“Tooly, why don’t you apply here to college? You totally should.”
“I can’t go to college. I was a disaster at school.”
“What were your grades like?”
“I got C’s.”
“I don’t believe that.”
“I’m glad you have this misconception about the size of my brain. If I could open up my skull, you’d find a little peanut in there. I never even graduated from high school.”
“Bullshit.”
“I only went till I was ten.”
“What? How is that even legal?”
“My life to date hasn’t been entirely legal.”
“Divulge. Right now.”
Tooly shook her head, laughed downward.
“I’ll pry it out of you, young lady!” Noeline said. “How the hell do you talk like you do if you dropped out at ten? You’re, like, the only person I know who says words like ‘scoundrel’ in conversation and makes it sound normal. My students—kids who can, like, reel off SAT words—never say things like ‘scoundrel.’ ”
“I read a lot, I guess. Lots of words that I say, I’ve only seen in print—I’m probably mispronouncing half the stuff.”
“I noticed. But all college is, Tooly, is reading. It’s reading lists, plus professors checking that you read the reading lists. Well, that’s not entirely all. But a lot of it. You’ve never been to my place on West End Avenue, right? You have to come over.”
“Can I see your books?”
“That is my favorite question ever. Tea and books?” She clinked Tooly’s cup. “Then, afterward, I can see your place, right?” she teased. “Somehow, I don’t think that’s happening—I don’t get to visit the batcave, do I. How about you introduce me to your mystery man?”
“Wouldn’t be a good idea.”
“I’d fall in love with him?”
“Very possibly.”
“I have to meet him, then. And you guys live together, right?”
“No.”
“Just testing. But you grew up in that apartment on a Hundred and fifteenth, which was how you came to meet Duncan, right?”
“I lived there for a few years when I was a kid, yeah.”
“That composer dude with the pig downstairs, Gilbert—I was talking to him one time, and he’s been there thirty years. He’s the last remaining rent-control resident from before Columbia bought the building. I mentioned how I knew this girl—meaning you—who lived in the building as a kid. I calculated that it must’ve been in the eighties. He said that’s impossible; the whole building was single-room-occupancy back then. No kids allowed. You weren’t allowed to sleep more than one person per room.”
“That’s weird.”
“More than weird,” Noeline said, smiling. “Come on—I just confessed to, like, forging a thesis or whatever. That’s the end of my career, if anyone knew.”
So Tooly confided part of the truth: that she had never lived in that apartment; that she was fascinated with seeing inside strangers’ homes, so she had a hobby of talking her way in. Originally, her house visits were conducted with that guy, the aforementioned male friend, who occasionally needed to look around someone’s home. “Way easier for a little girl to get in than a grown man.”
“But sorry—why were you guys doing this?”
“It’s interesting meeting complete strangers, seeing what their apartments are like. Haven’t you ever wished you could just peek into someone’s place?” Tooly said. “And people are different at home. You can figure out stuff.”
“What stuff? Which things to burglarize?”
“We never did that. I never did that.”
“So why, then?”
“Opportunities come from knowing people.”
“Is that why you hang around at Emerson’s place? Opportunities?”
“Maybe.”
“Wow. You are cold. Well, if you end up burglarizing their place, please take Emerson’s tofu. It’s the object that means most to him in the world.”
Tooly laughed.
A week later, they bumped into each other again. Noeline stepped from the bathroom at 115th Street in pajamas, sheepishly bypassed Tooly in the corridor, and hastened into Emerson’s bedroom.
2011
SHE TOOK HIM.
Mac was scheduled that morning for floor hockey, a sport at which he demonstrated absolute ineptitude and corresponding dread. Tooly clicked him under the passenger-side safety belt, tossed a bag of their belongings on the backseat of the minivan, and drove right past the Y, taking the turnoff for interstate south. He looked at her. “Is this the right way?”
“No.”
“Oh, good. Today was quarterfinals.” He stared out the window, incurious about the change of plans. Mac tracked their mileage through Westchester, checking the odometer against the highway signs. After a silent patch, he said, “Trees don’t count as being alive because they don’t have heads.” He returned to his open window, warm air fluttering his belt strap, the late-July sun intensified through the windscreen.
“Don’t you want to know where we’re going?” she asked.
He shrugged. They drove that whole morning, playing car games and listening to the radio. She inquired about his moviemaking class, and he explained his Flip videocamera, with the combination of patience and inexactitude that young children exhibit when informing their elders about the present day. He fell asleep for a couple of hours, miles rushing beneath them, past Philadelphia a
nd Wilmington, southwest around Baltimore, before they turned off for Lodge Haven, Maryland.
That name had always felt privately hers, the place of birth listed on every form and passport of her life. But she remembered nothing of the place, just a Washington, D.C., suburb that she’d left as an infant and never seen since. She woke Mac gently, houses sliding past, a neighborhood of long lawns, basement romper rooms, college stickers on car windows.
“It’s okay that I kidnapped you?” she asked him.
“It’s okay.”
“We can travel around and I can show you all sorts of things. No piano lessons required, and no Seroquel.”
He looked down, ashamed of his medications. “I like my piano lessons.”
“In that case, we’ll find a piano teacher and kidnap him, too.”
“Where are we right now?”
“We’re going for lunch with my father.”
“With the banana split?”
“No, not him. My real father,” she said, scanning the street for the address.
At a distance, she spotted him kneeling on the lawn outside his home, pruning a flower bed beneath the bay windows, his back to her, trowel in hand, a long strand of white hair on his balding head flapping back and forth in the wind, like an arm waving Mayday. She lowered her window. Paul turned, smoothing the hair across his head, raising the trowel in greeting. “That you there?” he asked, shading his eyes with gardening gloves, his arms sun-freckled, polo shirt tucked into khakis. “Park in the driveway, or on the street. Nobody tows here.”
An urge to stamp on the pedal and zoom away came over Tooly. She pulled to the curb, cut the engine, and reached over to Mac. “Shake my hand for luck.”
“Why?”
“Just an old habit.”
But he wouldn’t, so she unclicked his seatbelt. “Hungry for lunch?”
As they crossed the road, she watched Paul’s thin mouth, which wavered rather than spoke, as if the lips were engaged in a dispute over how to greet her. “So,” he said, “you found the place.”
During all these years apart, Paul had existed for Tooly as a character in her story, one who had left the stage. Now he stood before her, a little man around sixty, awaiting a response. Custom suggested she inform him that the drive was easy, the traffic sparse, his flower bed lovely. Instead, she said, “It’s such a pleasure for me to see you again,” and touched his forearm, whose slenderness discomposed her, a warm, brittle limb. He was so much smaller than he ought to have been. His arm tensed at her touch.
