They said they’d try to get you a message, but they couldn’t—
Couldn’t what?
Promise anything.
He shakes his head. He’d never gotten any message.
So I wrote you a letter.
Well, I never got it, he says irritably. So, what do you want?
It comes out too fast and sounds harsh; he doesn’t mean it to be. But maybe he does—this intrusion into his life. He watches it take effect. She looks offended but not surprised. She stands and yanks her bag from the floor and digs around for her wallet.
This was clearly a mistake, she says.
Hey, put that away, I’ve got this.
She looks at him with finality. Goodbye, Rye.
Then she’s walking away, turning through the door.
The photographs of the boy seem to jeer him. He shuffles them back into the envelope and shoves it into his pocket, then lays two twenties on the bar.
The cold hits him. He scans the street. For a turbulent moment she is gone forever, and then he spots her, crossing Eighth Avenue, heading east in her long coat. It has begun to snow, thick flakes floating through the air. He jaywalks against the light, missing a cab’s fender by inches, and jogs to catch up, sensing that time has already swallowed her, that she has retreated to her place in history, where nothing changes.
Let her go, a voice in his head is telling him. He slows down, breathing heavily, watching her brown hair swinging across her back.
Magda! he shouts. Magda, wait!
He’s just about to touch her shoulder when she turns on him, fiercely. Turn around, Rye, and walk away. That’s something you do very well.
What are you talking about?
The letter? I sent it certified. You signed for it.
No. I didn’t.
Well, somebody did. Maybe you should ask your wife.
He stands there, unable to speak. The thought of this is too much for him.
I assumed you wanted nothing to do with me, she says.
He shakes his head. No, Magda. You know that’s not true.
It doesn’t matter now. She looks at him coldly. Don’t worry, I got over it.
She starts walking. He follows. They walk for several blocks without talking, he a few steps behind her. She shifts her heavy bag from one shoulder to the other, and there’s the sound of her boots hitting the ground. Her hair is long and thick, a little wild. She walks with the brusque impatience of a woman who knows her own beauty. Who has learned to expect nothing from people like him.
Look, he says, catching up to her. Magda, wait.
She turns.
I have to ask—and forgive me. Why didn’t you get an abortion?
But the question only makes her angrier. She turns again but he grabs her hand a little roughly and pulls her toward him. Why didn’t you find me?
You didn’t want to be found.
You didn’t try hard enough.
Maybe you’re forgetting you were married.
It shouldn’t have mattered.
She looks away, as if she despises him, tears rolling down her cheeks. But it did.
They are too close, he can smell her, a hint of fragrance, sweat.
Does Julian know? I mean about—
She just looks at him. Doesn’t answer. Theo, she says finally. He’s gone.
What do you mean?
She shakes her head. Gone—there are many ways to disappear.
Drugs?
She nods. I only contacted you now because there’s no one else.
The girl in the picture? Who is she?
I don’t know. A ghost—
She can’t seem to finish. I’ve lost him, she says. I’ve tried—
She shakes her head. I’ve tried everything.
She looks at him now, the determined gaze of a predator. Will you help me, Rye?
Just now, he is not prepared to answer. Instead, they stand there like the opponents in a strange, dangerous game, their eyes negotiating the rules and how far they will go before one of them falls.
They walk up Fifth Avenue under the falling snow. They pass the Christmas tree at Rockefeller Center, the tourists snapping pictures, the holiday a week away. People rushing through the streets with their bags of wrapped gifts. They don’t speak. They are like refugees after an arduous journey, clutching each other. Come with me, he says finally, when they reach the awning of a hotel across from the park.
I shouldn’t. I need to go—
Just to talk. Just to sort this thing out.
It’s an older hotel, elegant, Old World. They ride the elevator to the ninth floor. They don’t look at each other; they say nothing. The room is large with big windows and wood floors. The walls are pale blue.
Here, he says, sit down. Let me get you some water.
He finds her a glass in the bathroom and fills it at the tap.
Thank you, she says, taking the glass. He watches her drink.
Better?
She nods.
It’s almost four, the sky gritty. I’m going to order something for us to eat, all right?
Again, she nods, avoiding his eyes.
From room service, he orders a bottle of wine, a plate of cheese and olives. He helps her remove her coat and hangs it up in the closet. She uses the bathroom and he can hear her washing her face. An older waiter brings a cart, sets the plates out on the table, the olives and the cheese and the basket of bread, then uncorks the wine and pours some into two glasses, necessary as blood. Thank you, sir, he says, handing the man a generous tip.
Magda returns as the man leaves. Thank you for this, she says.
Of course. He hands her a glass, and they sit at the small table by the window. The sound of the street rises up. It’s a comfort somehow, he thinks. A reminder that there’s a whole world out there. That they are not responsible for everything.
We didn’t know he was using, she says. For a while we didn’t know. She shakes her head. The girl. She’s the one who got him started.
Did you call the police?
No. Maybe we should have. I keep thinking there’s still a chance he’ll come back, you know, to the world. That he’ll come back and stop.
What does Julian say?
He’s very upset. Theo won’t talk to him. We’ve been having—
She doesn’t finish the sentence. It’s been very difficult.
He senses there’s more to the story—much more.
She covers her eyes. It’s all my fault.
Look at me, he says.
No, I can’t.
Magda—
Ashamed, she looks at her hands. I was in love with you, she says quietly. Stupid, right?
No. He can barely speak. Not stupid.
He kisses her face, her hands, but she resists him.
I’m sorry, he says. I’m sorry.
Then he shakes her a little and tells her, I was in love with you, too.
They lie together, fully dressed, facing each other, staring into each other’s eyes. The windows are dark now. The room is very quiet.
I’m a little drunk, she says.
You’re beautiful.
No.
I was afraid of you, he tells her. I took that job because it would get me on a plane, away from you. From how much I wanted you.
They cannot wait any longer. Their lips find each other.
It begins with her face, the time that has shaped it. The grief in her eyes.
This feeling of being as she allows him to touch her, to discover her as he pulls off her clothes, one garment at a time—this feeling of being alive with her. With her. At this moment.
This moment, he says.
She understands. Yes.
The sheets are white and cold. They hold each other.
He remembers when her photographs were pinned up in class and everybody would stand back a little. The strength of her vision. The tenderness she brought to every shot. The world pulls you to it, he thinks. You see it, and you take it. You see it. You sh
ow it all, you hold nothing back. You give everything to the image.
You give everything, he says.
Inside the crowded rooms of his memory he finds her again, the girl he knew and feared. For all of these years, they have lived in alternate worlds. He can almost smell her younger self, the patchouli scent she’d leave behind in the darkroom, her photographs hanging on the line, mocking them all. He hadn’t known her feelings for him. She hadn’t shared them. They talked about their work, and that was all. He didn’t think she was the kind of girl who wanted someone like him. Someone who would leave.
Magda, he says. Where have you been?
I don’t know. Lost.
You’re not lost now, he tells her. You’re right here.
They lie there a long time without talking. There is the sound of the street, the traffic, a symphonic lull, and the slow shadows of passing cars on the ceiling. He looks over at her. What are you thinking?
I don’t want to think.
Are you hungry?
Yes. But I don’t feel like eating.
I can order more room service.
I don’t even want to talk.
We don’t have to, he says.
Just hold me. That’s all I want.
She turns away and he lies against her warm back. His stomach aches with hunger—hunger for her, this woman, this stranger. This bed is our country, she says.
Yes.
Where can we go? I would go somewhere—
Where?
Away. She decides, Canada. She whips off the sheet. There’s no escape.
No, he says.
She walks naked through the dark, through blocks of window light, and pours herself more wine and stands at the window with her back to him, drinking it. I want to get very drunk now, she says.
He wants to tell her something essential, some philosophical truth, but he can’t find the words. Come here, you look cold.
She sets down her glass and puts on his shirt, sits on the edge of the bed. It’s like a plague, she says. People are sick. The world is sick. The planet. It’s only a matter of time, you know. What do they even have to look forward to? Nothing, that’s what, I don’t even blame them.
It’s very difficult, he says.
It’s like a war. Worse. There are no bombs dropping from the sky. There are no troops marching in the streets. But there are dead people, dead kids. You never think it’s going to be yours. You think things like that can’t touch you. But they can. They do.
Ravenous, they go down to the street and find a café. It’s a neighborhood joint, bustling, noisy, white tablecloths, waiters in black vests. They are seated at a quiet table in the back. They order oysters and fresh trout cooked in butter and a bottle of Albariño. He watches her closely. Her eyes are at once hesitant and resolute. He hasn’t yet earned her trust. And as close as he feels to her right now, he knows she has not forgiven him.
The colors in the restaurant seem to radiate, the people who have come to dine, the determined waiters, the gleaming white dishes.
She is watching him intently, a rare smile brightening her face. The waiter brings the wine and the oysters.
I’m dreaming, he says.
She reaches across the table and touches his hand.
Again, he feels a surge of anger. He wants to tell her that she should have tried harder. Tracked him down. Shown up at his door with the boy. He wants to tell her that he’s furious she didn’t. That marrying Julian Ladd was a terrible mistake. He wants to tell her he hates her for it. That he’ll never forgive her. But he knows better. Because what if she had found him? What then?
He remembers now: he couldn’t wait to get on that plane. To start his life as a real photographer. But it came with a cost. Because to do that, to really be that, you had to be free. You had to be okay with hurting the people you loved.
He thinks of the boy, Theo—his son—out on that highway ramp with the girl, but somehow now it’s far worse. What he’s feeling is anger, no longer at her, but at himself for being reckless, for assuming that their brief relationship, as undefined as it had been, was less important than his ambition. That in all honesty, she’d meant no more to him than any other of his subjects. He’d used her, as harsh as it sounds. He took what he wanted and left.
Back at the hotel, they sit at the small table, finishing the bottle of wine. It is their impromptu home. The light is dim under the yellow shade.
People change, she says. The world hurts.
Yes, it does. But not everybody feels it.
I feel it. Too much.
She tells him about their son, the boy he does not know, her face alight with pride. She is a mother, a warrior, whose only armor is love.
He’s a sensitive person, maybe too sensitive. He sees things. He sees too much. I suppose he takes after you, she says, and smiles. And he smiles too.
I don’t know why he started, she says. I’m a good mother. We gave him everything we could. Julian has his flaws, but he’s not ungenerous. I take the blame. It’s my fault.
Don’t blame yourself. People do things. You don’t always know why. He opened a door and walked through it.
That girl, she says. She lured him to it. And now he’s trapped.
No, Magda, Rye says. He’s not trapped. He can walk out anytime he wants.
He holds her in his arms. While he regrets the lost years, time that could have been theirs, the son they might have raised together, he knows this is pure fantasy. It is not his nature to be paternal. Even with Yana, he was rarely there. He knows this. Regrets it, perhaps. But wouldn’t likely change it. He thinks of Simone, alone in that house, at this very moment waiting for his call, the small gestures that make her happy, the gifts he brings her from his trips, their time together, rare as it is, the meals, the occasional sex. Over the years, Yana has been a good foil. She distracted Simone from fully seeing him. He never wanted that life in the country. That was her dream. But he knows, even for his wife, the reality has worn through. She has finally discovered who he is, a man who prefers to be alone, who has better things to do than stay at home with her.
They sleep a little and wake in the night. The wine has worn off. She wants a drink of water. He runs the tap till it’s cold and hands her the glass. She is like a child who has woken from a bad dream, her hair like a nest, her lips full and pale.
They lie under the white sheets, facing each other. The watery light of the city washes over them. What are we doing here, Rye?
He doesn’t answer.
Who are you?
He tries to think. He is muddled, enervated.
Did you forget?
Yes, he says. I forgot.
Me, too.
No. I know you—I know you. And you’re—
He can barely speak. Very beautiful.
Not beautiful. Nothing is. Not even this.
She meets his eyes, a dare, an ultimatum. Will you find him? Will you do that for me?
Yes, he promises at last. For you, I will do that.
Finally, she sleeps. He stands at the window, looking out at the empty streets. For the first time in years, he feels no impulse to take a photograph. He simply stares out, enlisted in a silent vigil, a vigil of the self.
When they wake a few hours later, snow has fallen, muffling the moving parts of the city. He showers alone, his body thrumming, as if he has been brought back to life. He doesn’t know how long he can exist without her.
They dress in silence. They are like soldiers preparing for battle. She scrubs her face and brushes her hair. They pull on their coats.
The hotel lobby is empty. They leave, entering the cold darkness just before daybreak. The streets are desolate. They stop at an all-night diner and drink coffee and order breakfast, although neither feels like eating. He watches her across the table. Their hands still touching. Already, he feels the weight of his longing.
Outside, he holds her very close. Just for a few more minutes. For a few more minutes, it is just the two of them standing the
re in the cold wind. And then they part.
On the drive up the Taconic, he thinks about what she said. How the boy is like him. For a moment he allows himself to feel almost proud. But then he understands the reality of his own recklessness.
He imagines her now, walking downtown to the train, wrapped in her scarf, concealed, his. It begins to sleet, and for a moment he can’t see, and there’s the sound, like a thousand pins hitting the roof of his truck. It feels like a warning. No matter, he drives straight into it, toward whatever may come.
Magda
The train is nearly empty at this hour. These are travelers, not commuters, a few tourists. She leans her head against the window as they leave the city behind. The river is black. The sky like smoke. She tries not to feel guilty. She feels grateful, mostly. That he is willing to help her. That she can try to forgive him now, that they can move on.
She allows herself to remember his hands. She is still wearing his scent.
She didn’t want to love him, but she did. From the moment he turned to her at the bar and uttered her name.
She wanted to hate him, to punish him, but he followed her out onto the street, and they kissed, a Doisneau kiss, with people all around and the heavy snowflakes melting on their faces. They stumbled along, looking for someplace to go. He knew a hotel on Fifth. She didn’t argue, her finger in the belt loop of his trousers. They were like drifters, nomads, new to this foreign city. The people around them strangers, aliens. It was only the two of them, that moment in time—a place in between what was real and what was imagined. The past was useless. Their lives meant nothing.
She stood behind him as he checked in. The concierge was fastidious, assured. He didn’t raise his eyes as he slid the key card across the marble counter, and Rye thanked him with a nod.
It was an old building, the elevator slowly rising. He took her hand. They hurried into the room and removed their coats. She told herself that they were just going to talk. To maybe drink a little and talk and she’d tell him all about Theo. But that’s not what they did.
In the grand room with the endless ceiling, she gave herself over to him. This time, this place, was theirs. They were removed from the world. Nothing outside mattered. Not the streets or the snow falling. Not the sky, even, or the moon. They lay in bed fully clothed, looking at each other. Her hand perched on his cheek, his on the small of her back. It was like being inside a cloud, as the light crawled across the walls, one hour, then two, in the lull of early afternoon.
The Vanishing Point Page 8
