What Are You Going Through

by Sigrid Nunez

  It was over, he said. It was too late, we had dithered too long. Our society had already become too fragmented and dysfunctional for us to fix, in time, the calamitous mistakes we had made. And, in any case, people’s attention remained elusive. Neither season after season of extreme weather events nor the risk of extinction for a million animal species around the world could push environmental destruction to the top of our country’s list of concerns. And how sad, he said, to see so many among the most creative and best-educated classes, those from whom we might have hoped for inventive solutions, instead embracing personal therapies and pseudo-religious practices that promoted detachment, a focus on the moment, acceptance of one’s surroundings as they were, equanimity in the face of worldly cares. (This world is but a shadow, it is a carcass, it is nothing, this world is not real, do not mistake this hallucination for the real world.) Self-care, relieving one’s own everyday anxieties, avoiding stress: these had become some of our society’s highest goals, he said—higher, apparently, than the salvation of society itself. The mindfulness rage was just another distraction, he said. Of course we should be stressed, he said. We should be utterly consumed with dread. Mindful meditation might help a person face drowning with equanimity, but it would do absolutely nothing to right the Titanic, he said. It wasn’t individual efforts to achieve inner peace, it wasn’t a compassionate attitude toward others that might have led to timely preventative action, but rather a collective, fanatical, over-the-top obsession with impending doom.

  It was useless, the man said, to deny that suffering of immense magnitude lay ahead, or that there’d be any escaping it.

  How, then, should we live?

  One thing we should start asking ourselves was whether or not we should go on having children.

  (Here, the discomposure I mentioned earlier: murmurs and shifting among the audience, that woman’s nervous laugh. Also, this part was new. The subject of children had not been raised in the magazine article.)

  To be clear, he was not saying that every woman expecting a child should consider having an abortion, the man said. Of course he was not saying that. What he was saying was that perhaps the idea of planning families in the way that people had been doing for generations needed to be rethought. He was saying that perhaps it was a mistake to bring human beings into a world that had such a strong possibility of becoming, in their lifetimes, a bleak and terrifying if not wholly unlivable place. He was asking whether to go ahead blindly and behave as if there was little or no such possibility might not be selfish, and perhaps even immoral, and cruel.

  And, after all, he said, weren’t there already countless children in the world desperate for protection from already existing threats? Weren’t there millions upon millions of people suffering from various humanitarian crises that millions upon millions of other people simply chose to forget? Why could we not turn our attention to the teeming sufferers already in our midst?

  And here, perhaps, was a last chance for us to redeem ourselves, the man raised his voice to say. The only moral, meaningful course for a civilization facing its own end: To learn how to ask forgiveness and to atone in some tiny measure for the devastating harm we had done to our human family and to our fellow creatures and to the beautiful earth. To love and forgive one another as best we could. And to learn how to say goodbye.

  The man took his iPad from the lectern and walked swiftly backstage. You could hear from the rhythm of the clapping that people were confused. Was that it? Was he coming back? But it was the woman who had introduced him who now reappeared on the podium, thanked everyone for coming, and wished us all good night.

  And then we were on our feet and moving herdishly out of the auditorium, spilling out of the building, into the crisp night air. Which, in spite of it being so far one of the warmest years on record, was, just now, the perfect seasonable temperature for that month in that part of the world.

  I need a drink, a voice near me said. To which: Me too!

  There was a subdued aura about the departing crowd. Some people looked dazed and were silent. Others remarked on the lack of a Q&A. That’s so arrogant, said one. Maybe he was miffed because it wasn’t a full house, said another.

  I heard: What a bore.

  And: It was your idea to come to this thing, not mine.

  An elderly man at the center of a knot of other elderly people was making them all laugh. Oy! It’s over, it’s over, it’s ohhhh-ver. I thought it was Roy Orbison up there.

  I heard: Melodramatic . . . Irresponsible.

  And: Totally right, every word.

  And (furiously): Will you please tell me, what was the fucking point?

  I quickened my pace, leaving the crowd behind, but walking almost in step with me was a man I recognized from the audience. He was wearing a dark suit, running shoes, and a baseball cap. He was alone, and as he walked he was whistling, of all tunes, “My Favorite Things.”

  I need a drink. To be honest, I’d been thinking the same thing well before I heard someone say it. I wanted a drink before going back to the apartment, before going to bed. I had decided to walk back from the campus, as I had walked there (it was less than a mile), and I knew that along the way I’d be passing several places where a drink—a glass of wine was what I wanted—could be had. But I was a stranger in that town and unsure where, if anywhere, I’d be comfortable having a drink by myself.

  Every place I looked was too crowded or too noisy or seemed, for some other reason, uninviting. A feeling of loneliness and disappointment came over me. It was a familiar feeling. I thought of a woman I knew who had started carrying her own flask. I was ready to give up when I remembered that there was a café on the corner of my host’s street that had been empty when I passed it earlier and where, I had noticed, wine was served.

  Now, of course, the café was not empty. But from the street I could see that, though all the tables seemed to be taken, there were places to sit at the bar.

  I went in and sat down. I had a moment’s panic because the bartender, a young man with the kind of ornate tattoos and facial hair that make me think of a conversation piece, ignored me, even though he was not just then attending to anyone else. I took out my phone, that reliable prop, and spent a few moments tickling it.

  Raindrops on roses and whiskers on kittens.

  At last the bartender sauntered over (so I had not become see-through) and took my order. At last I had my drink. Red wine: one of my favorite things. It would be easier, with a glass, to gather my thoughts, after a long hard day that had given me much to think about. But immediately I was distracted by a conversation taking place at a table right behind me. Two people whom, unless I turned around, I couldn’t see. I did not turn around. But I soon got the gist of their story.

  A father and daughter. The mother was dead. She had died a year ago after a long struggle with an illness. They were a Jewish family. The time had come for the unveiling. The daughter had traveled from somewhere out of town for the ceremony. The father kept his voice low, just above a mumble. The daughter spoke louder and louder until—partly because for some reason the bartender kept turning up the music—she was almost shouting.

  It was so hard for your mother.

  I know, Dad.

  What she went through.

  I know. I was there.

  She was brave, though. But no one could be that brave.

  I know, Dad, I was there. I was there the whole time. In fact, that’s something I was hoping we could talk about. You remember how it was, Dad. I was the one taking care of everything. You were so worried about Mom, she was so worried about you. I understand how hard it was for both of you.

  I remember how hard it was for her.

  I was hoping we could talk about this, Dad. I was going through so much myself then—nobody really knew. You and Mom were there for each other, and I was there for both of you. But no one was there for me. It was like my own need
s had to be pushed aside, and we’ve never really dealt with that part of it. My therapist says it’s why I’m having so many problems.

  (Inaudible.)

  I know, Dad. But what I’m saying is that it was hard for me, too, and it’s still hard for me, and I need for that to be acknowledged. All this time, and it’s still going on, still impacting my life every day. My therapist says it has to be dealt with.

  I thought the service went well. What did you think of the service?

  When I arrived back at my host’s apartment, I found her at the kitchen table with a mug of tea.

  I saw you, she said—stumping me.

  At the lecture, she said. I saw you there.

  Oh, I said. I didn’t see you.

  You were in the back, she said, but I was way up front. I was with a friend of mine, and she always likes to sit close. I saw you when we were leaving. Did you stop somewhere to get something to eat?

  Yes, I lied, feeling ridiculous. Was it because I was ashamed to say that I’d stopped for a drink? In fact, I had not been able to eat at all since leaving the hospital that day, because of what I had seen—and smelled—there.

  She offered to make me some tea, which I declined.

  I don’t know about you, she said, but I really did not like that man. My friend was the one who said we should go hear him, because she’s a big fan. Honestly, if we hadn’t been sitting right under his nose, I think I might’ve got up and left. I mean, I know he’s a big intellectual and all, with important things to say, but I think tone matters, and his tone really bugged me. And I’m not saying he isn’t right about how bad things are—I tremble for my grandchildren’s future, believe me—but to talk like that, like there’s no hope, I don’t know, that just seems wrong to me. I don’t think anyone has the right to tell people there’s no hope. You can’t just get up and tell people there’s no hope! And it doesn’t make sense. He thinks you can take away people’s hope and then expect them to—what did he say?—love and take care of each other? Like, how is that going to happen.

  I agreed that this was a good point.

  And can you imagine, she said, if people ever really got so hopeless about life that they stopped having kids? Sounds like something from a dystopian novel. In fact, I’m sure I read that in a book somewhere. Or maybe it was that the state had made getting pregnant a crime. I forget. Anyway, I can’t believe he’s serious. Telling people to stop having kids. Who the hell is he?

  He was my ex. But I didn’t say that.

  And did you notice, she said, even though it was a campus event, there were almost no young people there?

  I had noticed.

  I guess it’s not really their thing, she said.

  Well, I can’t say it wasn’t an interesting way to spend an evening, she said. What did you think?

  I agreed that it was an interesting way to spend an evening.

  Are you sure you don’t want some tea? Anything? A glass of wine?

  No, that’s all right, thanks, I said.

  Before I went to my room, it occurred to me to tell her about the man who’d left the talk whistling “My Favorite Things.”

  Oh, that’s hilarious, she said. She had a sharp, tooting laugh. I never liked that sappy song, but I do know all the words.

  And so, in yet another of that day’s odd moments, I stood in the kitchen of a strange house listening to a woman I didn’t know sing all the words to “My Favorite Things.”

  * * *

  —

  In bed, about to turn out the light, I picked up the topmost book from the stack of mysteries on the nightstand. A psychological thriller in the tradition of Highsmith and Simenon, set in the seamy noirish world of seventies New York.

  A man is plotting to kill his wife. He and she have not been married very long, and, except for a brief period of sexual infatuation after they first met, he has never really cared for her. Believably enough, given that she is mean and selfish and treats him with contempt, the man has come to hate her. Misogyny has always run deep in this man, partly thanks to a mother who enjoyed beating him when he was small. It seems he has never had sex with any woman—from the town prostitute he frequents to his lawful wedded wife—without experiencing intense shame. Beginning in childhood, with his own mother, he has often fantasized about murdering this or that particular woman. In his mind he dubs these women “candidates.” For strangulation, that is.

  The man has arranged to take his wife on a second honeymoon to the Caribbean resort where they’d spent their first one. He chooses the resort hotel for the scene of the crime because he figures it will be quite easy to fake a break-in from the balcony of their room. The “burglar” will find his wife alone and end up strangling her. The man plans every detail with scrupulous care, then sits back to wait for the day of their departure, set for some months away. In the meantime, though, he detects certain changes in his wife’s behavior that he is unsure how to interpret. He becomes convinced that she is hiding something, something that might foil his plan. As it turns out, the wife’s secret is that she’d become pregnant. The man learns this at the same time that he learns that she has just had an abortion. A Catholic—albeit a lapsed one—the wife becomes obsessed with the idea that she is going to Hell.

  The man can hardly believe his luck. No need to travel all the way to Aruba. No need to fake breaking and entering. Best of all, no need to wait. His wife has just handed him a wholly believable reason for her to take her own life. He has even overheard her crying to her best friend about her fear that, in the eyes of the Church, she is guilty of murder. And so the man begins to work out details of a new plan.

  But before the murder can take place, the wife springs another surprise, running off with a boyfriend whose existence the man had never even suspected. At this, the man turns raging beast. He drives straight to the house of the prostitute and strangles her, then strangles her pimp, who happens to be watching television in the next room. Later he thinks that, although killing the woman had given him the big rush and release he’d been seeking, it was killing another man that made him feel proud. Later still, he reflects on his feelings about killing the woman: He’d had nothing against her. He didn’t think she deserved to die. But he didn’t feel bad for her, either. She was a whore, and whores got murdered all the time. It was one of the things whores were for.

  Thus ends part one.

  Patricia Highsmith once admitted that she liked criminals, finding this type of person extremely interesting and even admirable for their vitality, freedom of spirit, and refusal to bow down to anyone. But the criminals in most crime fiction are not like that. Especially the killers, most especially the serial killers, are not like that. This one has the familiar one-dimensional personality of the violent psychopath. He is brutal and sadistic, lacking in conscience and empathy. What makes him somewhat more sympathetic is that he has a yearning for self-improvement. Still in his twenties, he is gripped by the idea that he has somehow missed out on some very significant part of life, which he connects to an understanding and appreciation of the arts. When the novel opens, it’s a beautiful summer dusk, and the man has been hanging out by himself at the gleaming, brand-new complex of Lincoln Center. He sees rainbows in the jets of the plaza’s central fountain and watches enviously as people stream toward the various performances, a thing that he not only has never done but has trouble even picturing himself doing. He may be plotting a barbaric crime, but he is also fantasizing about “getting more culture.” Later, the same yearning impels him to sneak into classes at Columbia University. Getting more culture, reading big books, learning about music and art—this is how he hopes to spend more time once he’s got uxoricide out of his system. This aspect of the killer’s character did not make me like him. But it did make me feel for him. I had the sense that, as much as his sins, this virtue would have a role in bringing him down.

  I was perfectly happy not to fi
nd out, though. I was happy to leave the story there, after thirty-odd pages, at the end of part one. I didn’t have much curiosity about how the murders would be solved. It never matters to me how a mystery ends. In fact, I have found that, after so many pages of so many twists and turns and other to-do, the ending is usually something of a letdown, and the bad guy being caught and ultimately brought to justice or destroyed is invariably the least exciting part of the plot.

  I like the story of a nursing home resident who had one book, one whodunit, that she was able to read over and over as though it were new. By the time she finished it she would’ve forgotten everything that came before, and as she started reading again she would forget how it all turned out.

  * * *

  —

  My host has hearing loss. She did not hear me come into the living room though I made no attempt to be quiet. It was the following morning, I was ready to leave, and I’d come to thank her and say goodbye. She did not see me because she was standing at the window, looking out. When I spoke she spun around with a gasp, hand on heart.

  It happens to some women after a certain age that something babyish comes back into the face. The flesh has fattened and slackened at the same time, and you can see what the woman must have looked like as a toddler. So the woman looked to me just then: like a frightened toddler. I cannot say how much this impression was heightened by the fact that she was crying.

  Of course she was all right, she said, tooting a laugh. There was nothing wrong, she said, nothing at all. I was just, well, you know. I was just thinking.

  * * *

  —

  Imagine my surprise (he wrote) to see you in the audience last night. Have you moved? I had no idea. I suppose if you’d wanted to talk to me you’d have looked for me afterward. I suppose if you’d wanted to be seen you wouldn’t have sat way in the back. Anyway, I did want you to know that I saw you and to thank you for coming. I thought of trying to reach you after dinner, but it went on quite late. I thought maybe if you were willing to get up very early we could have breakfast at my hotel before I had to leave. Then it occurred to me that the very idea of having breakfast with me might fill you with horror. Well, too late now. I’m at the airport. Again, thanks for coming. It made a difference to me, up there, knowing that you were listening. I hope all’s well with you and that you won’t mind my sending this message. I worry that it might give you pain, and yet it seemed the right thing to do. But, needless to say, please don’t feel that you have to reply.