And then, as the clock ticked its way through the enormous gatherings in celebration of the era that was due to begin in a matter of hours, then minutes, then seconds, we waited to learn the terrible consequences of the tiny oversight. Khartoum, Budapest, Paris—we watched on television, our hearts fluttering, as midnight, first just a tiny speck in the east, unfurled gently, darkening the sky and moving toward us over the globe.
But the amazing thing, Nathaniel will tell his grandchildren, was that nothing happened! We held our breath…And there was nothing! It was a miracle. Over the face of the earth, from east to west and back again, nothing catastrophic happened at all.
Oh, well. Frankly, by the time he or any of his friends get around to producing a grandchild (or even a child, come to think of it) they might well have to explain what computers had been. And freeze-dried food. And celebrity clairvoyants and airplanes and New York and America and even cities, and heaven only knows what.
Frogboil
Lucien watches absently as his assistant, Sharmila, prepares to close up the gallery for the evening; something keeps tugging at his attention…
Oh, yes. It’s the phrase Yoshi Matsumoto used this morning when he called from Tokyo. Back to normal…Back to normal…
What’s that famous, revolting, sadistic experiment? Something like, you drop the frog into a pot of boiling water and it jumps out. But if you drop it into a pot of cold water and slowly bring the water to a boil, the frog stays put and gets boiled.
Itami Systems is reopening its New York branch, was what Matsumoto called to tell Lucien; he’ll be returning to the city soon. Lucien pictured his old friend’s mournful, ironic expression as he added, “They tell me they’re ‘exploring additional avenues of development now that New York is back to normal.’”
Lucien had made an inadvertent squawklike sound. He shook his head, then he shook his head again.
“Hello?” Matsumoto said.
“I’m here,” Lucien said. “Well, it’ll be good to see you again. But steel yourself for a wait at customs; they’re fingerprinting.”
View
Mr. Matsumoto’s loft is a jungle of big rubbery trees, under which crouch sleek items of chrome and leather. Spindly electronic devices blink or warble amid the foliage, and here and there one comes upon an immense flat-screen TV—the first of their kind that Nathaniel ever handled.
Nathaniel and his friends have been subletting—thanks, obviously, to Uncle Lucien—for a ridiculously minimal rent and on Mr. Matsumoto’s highly tolerable conditions of cat-sitting and general upkeep. Nathaniel and Lyle and Amity and Madison each have something like an actual bedroom, and there are three whole bathrooms, one equipped with a Jacuzzi. The kitchen, stone and steel, has cupboards bigger than most of their friends’ apartments. Art—important, soon to be important, or very recently important, most of which was acquired from Uncle Lucien—hangs on the walls.
And the terrace! One has only to open the magic sliding panel to find oneself halfway to heaven. On the evening, over three years ago, when Uncle Lucien completed the arrangements for Nathaniel to sublet and showed him the place, Nathaniel stepped out onto the terrace and tears shot right up into his eyes.
There was that unearthly palace, the Chrysler Building! There was the Empire State Building, like a brilliant violet hologram! There were the vast, twinkling prairies of Brooklyn and New Jersey! And best of all, Nathaniel could make out the Statue of Liberty holding her torch aloft, as she had held it for each of his parents when they arrived as children from across the ocean—terrified, filthy, and hungry—to safety.
Stars glimmered nearby; towers and spires, glowing emerald, topaz, ruby, sapphire, soared below. The avenues and bridges slung a trembling net of light across the rivers, over the buildings. Everything was spangled and dancing; the little boats glittered. The lights floated up and up like bubbles.
Back when Nathaniel moved into Mr. Matsumoto’s loft, shortly after his millennial arrival in New York, sitting out on the terrace had been like looking down over the rim into a gigantic glass of champagne.
Uncle Lucien’s Words of Reassurance
So, Matsumoto is returning. And Lucien has called Nathaniel, the nephew of his adored late wife, Charlie, to break the news.
Well, of course it’s hardly a catastrophe for the boy. Matsumoto’s place was only a sublet in any case, and Nathaniel and his friends will all find other apartments.
But it’s such an ordeal in this city. And all four of the young people, however different they might be, strike Lucien as being in some kind of holding pattern—as if they’re temporizing, or muffled by unspoken reservations. Of course, he doesn’t really know them. Maybe it’s just the eternal, poignant weariness of youth.
The strangest thing about getting old (or one of the many strangest things) is that young people sometimes appear to Lucien—as, in fact, Sharmila does at this very moment—in a nimbus of tender light. It’s as if her unrealized future were projecting outward like ectoplasm.
“Doing anything entertaining this evening?” he asks her.
She sighs. “Time will tell,” she says.
She’s a nice young woman; he’d like to give her a few words of advice, or reassurance.
But what could they possibly be? “Don’t—” he begins.
Don’t worry? HAHAHAHAHA! Don’t feel sad? “Don’t bother about the phones,” is what he settles down on. A new show goes up tomorrow, and it’s become Lucien’s custom on such evenings to linger in the stripped gallery and have a glass of wine. “I’ll take care of them.”
But how has he gotten so old?
Suspension
So, there was the famous, strangely blank New Year’s Eve, the nothing at all that happened, neither the apocalypse nor the failure of the planet’s computers, nor, evidently, the dawning of a better age. Nathaniel had gone to parties with his old friends from school and was asleep before dawn; the next afternoon he awoke with only a mild hangover and an uneasy impression of something left undone.
Next thing you knew, along came that slump, as it was called—the general economic blight that withered the New York branch of Mr. Matsumoto’s firm and clusters of jobs all over the city. There appeared to be no jobs at all, in fact, but then—somehow—Uncle Lucien unearthed one for Nathaniel in the architectural division of the subway system. It was virtually impossible to afford an apartment, but Uncle Lucien arranged for Nathaniel to sublet Mr. Matsumoto’s loft.
Then Madison and his girlfriend broke up, so Madison moved into Mr. Matsumoto’s, too. Not long afterward, the brokerage house where Amity was working collapsed resoundingly, and she’d joined them. Then Lyle’s landlord jacked up his rent, so Lyle started living at Mr. Matsumoto’s as well.
As the return of Mr. Matsumoto to New York was contingent upon the return of a reasonable business climate, one way or another it had sort of slipped their minds that Mr. Matsumoto was real. And for over three years there they’ve been, hanging in temporary splendor thirty-one floors above the pavement.
They’re all out on the terrace this evening. Madison has brought in champagne so that they can salute with an adequate flourish the end of their tenure in Mr. Matsumoto’s place. And except for Amity, who takes a principled stand against thoughtful moods, and Amity’s new friend or possibly suitor, Russell, who has no history here, they’re kind of quiet.
Reunion
Now that Sharmila has gone, Lucien’s stunning, cutting-edge gallery space blurs a bit and recedes. The room, in fact, seems almost like an old snapshot from that bizarre, quaintly futuristic century, the twentieth. Lucien takes a bottle of white wine from the little fridge in the office, pours himself a glass, and from behind a door in that century, emerges Charlie.
Charlie—Oh, how long it’s been, how unbearably long! Lucien luxuriates in the little pulse of warmth just under his skin that indicates her presence. He strains for traces of her voice, but her words degrade like the words in a dream, as if they’re being rubbed through a
sieve.
Yes, yes, Lucien assures her. He’ll put his mind to finding another apartment for her nephew. And when her poor, exasperating sister and brother-in-law call frantically about Nathaniel, as they’re bound to do, he’ll do his best to calm them down.
But what a nuisance it all is! The boy is as opaque to his parents as a turnip. He was the child of their old age and he’s also, obviously, the repository of all of their baroque hopes and fears. By their own account, they throw up their hands and wring them, lecture Nathaniel about frugality, then press spending money upon him and fret when he doesn’t use it.
Between Charlie’s death and Nathaniel’s arrival in New York, Lucien heard from Rose and Isaac only at what they considered moments of emergency: Nathaniel’s grades were erratic! His friends were bizarre! Nathaniel had expressed an interest in architecture, an unreliable future! He drew, and Lucien had better sit down, comics!
The lamentations would pour through the phone, and then, the instant Lucien hung up, evaporate. But if he had given the matter one moment’s thought, he realizes, he would have understood from very early on that it was only a matter of time until the boy found his way to the city.
It was about four years ago now that Rose and Isaac put in an especially urgent call. Lucien held the receiver at arm’s length and gritted his teeth. “You’re an important man,” Rose was shouting. “We understand that, we understand how busy you are, you know we’d never do this, but it’s an emergency. The boy’s in New York, and he sounds terrible. He doesn’t have a job, lord only knows what he eats—I don’t know what to think, Lucien, he drifts, he’s just drifting. Call him, promise me, that’s all I’m asking.”
“Fine, certainly, good,” Lucien said, already gabbling; he would have agreed to anything if Rose would only hang up.
“But whatever you do,” she added, “please, please, under no circumstances should you let him know that we asked you to call.”
Lucien looked at the receiver incredulously. “But how else would I have known he was in New York?” he said. “How else would I have gotten his number?”
There was a silence, and then a brief, amazed laugh from Isaac on another extension. “Well, I don’t know what you’ll tell him,” Isaac said admiringly. “But you’re the brains of the family, you’ll think of something.”
Innocence
And actually, Russell (who seems to be not only Amity’s friend and possible suitor but also her agent) has obtained for Amity a whopping big advance from some outfit that Madison refers to as Cheeseball Editions, so whatever else they might all be drinking to (or drinking about) naturally Amity’s celebrating a bit. And Russell, recently arrived from L.A., cannot suppress his ecstasy about how ur New York, as he puts it, Mr. Matsumoto’s loft is, tactless as he apparently recognizes this untimely ecstasy to be.
“It’s fantastic,” he says. “Who did it, do you know?”
Nathaniel nods. “Matthias Lehmann.”
“That’s what I thought, I thought so,” Russell says. “It looks like Lehmann. Oh, wow, I can’t believe you guys have to move out—I mean, it’s just so totally amazing!”
Nathaniel and Madison nod and Lyle sniffs peevishly. Lyle is stretched out on a yoga mat that Nathaniel once bought in preparation for a romance (as yet manqué) with a prettily tattoed yoga teacher he runs into in the bodega on the corner. Lyle’s skin has a waxy, bluish cast; there are dark patches beneath his eyes. He looks like a child too precociously worried to sleep. His boyfriend, Jahan, has more or less relocated to London, and Lyle has been missing him frantically. Lying there so still on the yoga mat with his eyes closed, he appears to be a tomb sculpture from an as yet nonexistent civilization.
“And the view!” Russell says. “This is probably the most incredible view on the planet.”
The others consider the sight of Russell’s eager face. And then Amity says, “More champagne, anyone?”
Well, sure, who knows where Russell had been? Who knows where he would have been on that shining, calm, perfectly blue September morning when the rest of them were here having coffee on the terrace and looked up at the annoying racket of a low-flying plane? Why should they expect Russell—now, nearly three years later—to imagine that moment out on the terrace when Lyle spilled his coffee and said, “Oh, shit,” and something flashed and something tore, and the cloudless sky ignited.
Home
Rose and Isaac have elbowed their way in behind Charlie, and no matter how forcefully Lucien tries to boot them out, they’re making themselves at home, airing their dreary history.
Both sailed as tiny, traumatized children with their separate families and on separate voyages right into the Statue of Liberty’s open arms. Rose was almost eleven when her little sister, Charlie, came into being, along with a stainless American birth certificate.
Neither Rose and Charlie’s parents nor Isaac’s ever recovered from their journey to the New World, to say nothing of what had preceded it. The two sets of old folks spoke, between them, Yiddish, Polish, Russian, German, Croatian, Slovenian, Ukrainian, Ruthenian, Rumanian, Latvian, Czech, and Hungarian, Charlie had once told Lucien, but not one of the four ever managed to learn more English than was needed to procure a quarter pound of smoked sturgeon from the deli. They worked impossible hours, they drank a little schnapps, and then, in due course, they died.
Isaac did fairly well manufacturing vacuum cleaners. He and Rose were solid members of their temple and the community, but, according to Charlie, no matter how uneventful their lives in the United States continued to be, filling out an unfamiliar form would cause Isaac’s hands to sweat and send jets of acid through his innards. When he or Rose encountered someone in uniform—a train conductor, a meter maid, a crossing guard—their hearts would leap into their throats and they would think: passport!
Their three elder sons, Nathaniel’s brothers, fulfilled Rose and Isaac’s deepest hopes by turning out to be blindingly inconspicuous. The boys were so reliable and had so few characteristics it was hard to imagine what anyone could think up to kill them for. They were Jewish, of course, but even Rose and Isaac understood that this particular criterion was inoperative in the United States—at least for the time being.
The Old World, danger, and poverty were far in the past. Nevertheless, the family lived in their tidy, midwestern house with its two-car garage as if secret police were permanently hiding under the matching plastic-covered sofas, as if Brown-shirts and Cossacks were permanently rampaging through the suburban streets.
Lucien knew precious little about vacuum cleaners and nothing at all about childhood infections or lawn fertilizers. And yet, as soon as Charlie introduced him, Isaac and Rose set about soliciting his views as if he were an authority on everything that existed on their shared continent.
His demurrals, disclaimers, and protestations of ignorance were completely in effective. whatever guess he was finally strong-armed into hazarding was received as oracular. Oracular!
Fervent gratitude was expressed: Thank God Charlie had brought Lucien into the family! How brilliant he was, how knowledgeable and subtle! And then Rose and Isaac would proceed to pick over his poor little opinion as if they were the most ruthless and highly trained lawyers, and on the opposing side.
After Charlie was diagnosed, Lucien had just enough time to understand perfectly what that was to mean. When he was exhausted enough to sleep, he slept as though under heavy anesthetic during an amputation. The pain was not alleviated, but it had been made inscrutable. A frightful thing seemed to lie on top of him, heavy and cold. All night long he would struggle to throw it off, but when dawn delivered him to consciousness, he understood what it was, and that it would never go away.
During his waking hours, the food on his plate would abruptly lose its taste, the painting he was studying would bleach off the canvas, the friend he was talking to would turn into a stranger. And then, one day, he was living in a world all made out of paper, where the sun was a wad of old newspapers and the only sounds wer
e the sounds of tearing paper.
He spoke with Rose and Isaac frequently during Charlie’s illness, and they came to New York for her memorial service, where they sat self-consciously and miserably among Lucien and Charlie’s attractive friends. He took them to the airport for their return to the Midwest, embraced them warmly, and as they shuffled toward the departure door with the other passengers, turning once to wave, he breathed a sigh of relief: all that, at least, was over, too.
As his senses began to revive, he felt a brief pang—he would miss, in a minor way, the heartrending buffoonery of Charlie’s sister and brother-in-law. After all, it had been part of his life with Charlie, even if it had been the only annoying part.
But Charlie’s death, instead of setting him utterly, blessedly adrift in his grief, had left him anchored permanently off shore of her family like an island. After a long silence, the infuriating calls started up again. The feudal relationship was apparently inalterable.
Context
When they’d moved in, it probably was the best view on the planet. Then, one morning, out of a clear blue sky, it became, for a while, probably the worst.
For a long time now they’ve been able to hang out here on the terrace without anyone running inside to be sick or bursting into tears or diving under something at a loud noise or even just making macabre jokes or wondering what sort of debris is settling into their drinks. These days they rarely see—as for a time they invariably did—the sky igniting, the stinking smoke bursting out of it like lava, the tiny figures raining down from the shattered tower as Lyle faints.
But now it’s unclear what they are, in fact, looking at.
Information
What would Charlie say about the show that’s about to go up? It’s work by a youngish Belgian painter who arrived, splashily, on the scene sometime after Charlie’s departure.
The Collected Stories of Deborah Eisenberg Page 70
