The City of Mirrors

by Justin Cronin

  “You’re very observant.”

  “I don’t mean to be impertinent. Merely demonstrating a point.”

  She shifts uncomfortably in her chair. “If you must know, I was bitten by a dog. I was eight years old.”

  “So you do remember that. Not what you ate last week, but something that happened long ago.”

  “Yes, of course. It scared the hell out of me.”

  “I’m sure it did. Was it your dog or a neighbor’s? A stray, perhaps?”

  Her expression grows irritated. Not irritated: exposed. As he watches, she reaches with her other hand to the scar and covers it with her palm. The gesture is involuntary; she isn’t aware that she is doing it, or is only partly cognizant.

  “Professor, I fail to see the point in all this.”

  “So it was your dog.”

  She startles.

  “Forgive me, Miss Tripp, but if it wasn’t, you wouldn’t be so defensive. The way you covered your hand just now? It tells me something else.”

  She moves her hand away deliberately. “And what’s that?”

  “Two things. One, you believe it was your fault. Perhaps you were playing too roughly. Perhaps you teased him, not meaning to, or maybe a little. Either way, you were part of it. You did something, and the dog responded by biting you.”

  She shows no reaction. “And what’s the other?”

  “That you never told anyone the truth.”

  The look on her face tells Logan that he has hit the mark. There is a third thing, of course, that has gone unstated: the dog was put down, perhaps unjustly. Nevertheless, after a moment passes, she breaks into a grin. Two can play at this game.

  “That’s quite a trick, Professor. I’ll bet your students love it.”

  Now he’s the one who smiles. “Touché. But it’s not a trick, Miss Tripp, not entirely. The point is a meaningful one. History isn’t what you had for breakfast. That’s meaningless data, gone with the wind. History is that scar on your hand. It’s the stories that leave a mark, the past that refuses to stay past.”

  She hesitates. “You mean … like Amy.”

  “Exactly. Like Amy.”

  Their eyes meet. Over the course of the interview, a subtle shift has occured. A barrier has unexpectedly fallen, or so it feels. Logan notes yet again how attractive she is—the word he thinks of, somewhat old-fashioned, is “lovely”—and that she wears no ring. It has been a while for him. Since his divorce, Logan has dated only occasionally and never for long. He does not still love his ex-wife; that isn’t the problem. The marriage, he has come to understand, was really a kind of elaborate friendship. He isn’t sure quite what the problem is, though he has begun to suspect that he is simply one of those people who is destined to be alone, a creature of work and duty and not much else. Is his interlocutor’s flirtatious manner merely a tactic, or is there more to it? He knows that he is, for his age, passably appealing. He swims fifty laps each morning, is still blessed with a full head of hair, favors pricey, well-tailored suits and somewhat splashy ties. He is aware of women and maintains a certain courtly style—holding doors, offering his umbrella, rising when a female companion excuses herself from the table. But age is age. Nessa calls him “Professor,” the appropriate mode of address, yet the word also carries a reminder that he is at least twenty years older than she is: old enough, technically, to be her father.

  “Well,” he says, rising from his chair. “If you’ll excuse me, Miss Tripp, I’m afraid I’ll have to stop there. I’m running late for a lunch engagement.”

  She seems caught off guard by this announcement—jarred from some complex mental state by this ordinary detail of a day. “Yes, of course. I shouldn’t have kept you so long.”

  “May I show you out?”

  They make their way through the silent building. “I’d like to talk more,” she says, as they are standing on the front steps. “Perhaps once the conference is over?”

  She retrieves a card form her bag and hands it to him. Logan glances at it quickly—“Nessa Tripp, Features, Territorial News and Record,” with both home and office numbers—and slips it into the pocket of his suit coat. Another silence; to fill it, he offers his hand. Students flow by, singly and in groups, those on bicycles weaving through the stream like waves around a pier. The air is alive with the buzz of youthful voices. Nessa lets her hand linger an extra second in his, though perhaps it is he who does this.

  “Well. Thank you for your time, Professor.”

  Her watches her walk down the steps. At the bottom, she turns.

  “One last thing. Just for the record, the dog wasn’t mine.”

  “No?”

  “He was my brother’s. His name was Thunder.”

  “I see.” When she says nothing else, he asks, “If you don’t mind my asking, what became of him?”

  “Oh, you know.” Her tone is causal, even a little cruel. She raises her index fingers to make air quotes. “My father took him to ‘a farm.’ ”

  “I’m sorry to hear it.”

  She laughs. “Are you kidding? Couldn’t have happened to a nastier son of a bitch. I was lucky he didn’t bite my hand off.” She hikes her bag higher on her shoulder. “Call me when you’re ready, okay?”

  She smiles as she says this.

  Logan takes a streetcar to the harbor. By the time he arrives at the restaurant, it is nearly one o’clock, and the hostess directs him to the table where his son is waiting. Tall and rangy, with pale blond hair, he takes after his mother. He is wearing his pilot’s uniform—black slacks, a starched white shirt with epaulets on the shoulders, and a dark, narrow tie clipped to the front of his shirt. At his feet rests the fat briefcase he always carries when he flies, emblazoned with the insignia of the air service. When he catches sight of Logan, he puts down his menu and rises, smiling warmly.

  “Sorry I’m late,” Logan says.

  They embrace—a quick, manly hug—and settle in. It is a restaurant they have been coming to for years. The view from their table embraces the busy waterfront. Pleasure boats and larger commercial craft ply the water, which sparkles in the bright autumn sunshine; offshore, wind turbines stand in echelon, propellers spinning in the ocean breeze.

  Race orders a chicken sandwich and tea, Logan a salad and sparkling water. He apologizes once again for his lateness and the short time they will have together, their first visit in months. Their talk is light and easy—his son’s twin boys, his travels, the travails of the conference and Logan’s next trip to North America, scheduled for late winter. It is all familiar and comfortable, and Logan relaxes into it. He has been away too long, depriving himself of the enjoyment of his son’s company. He has certain regrets about Race’s childhood. Logan was too absent, too distracted by work, and much was left to the boy’s mother. This capable, handsome man in uniform: what has Logan done to deserve such a prize?

  As the waitress takes their plates, Race clears his throat and says, “There’s something I’ve been meaning to talk to you about.”

  Logan detects note of anxiety in his son’s voice. His first impulse, born of his own experience, is that there is trouble in the marriage. “Of course. Say what’s on your mind.”

  His son folds his hands on the table. Now Logan is certain: something is wrong. “The thing is, Dad, I’ve decided to leave the air service.”

  Logan is stunned beyond words.

  “You’re surprised,” his son tenders.

  Logan searches frantically for a response. “But you love it. You’ve wanted to fly since you were young.”

  “I still do.”

  “Then why?”

  “Kaye and I have been talking. All this travel is hard on us, hard on the boys. I’m gone all the time. I’m missing too much.”

  “But you were just promoted. An airship captain. Think what that means.”

  “I have thought about it. This isn’t easy, believe me.”

  “Is this Kaye’s idea?”

  Logan is aware that his words sound somewha
t accusing. He is fond of his son’s wife, an elementary school art teacher, but has always found her a bit too fanciful—the effect, he supposes, of her spending so much time around children.

  “It was, at first,” Race answers. “But the more we discussed it, the more it made sense. Our life is just too chaotic. We need things to be simpler.”

  “Things will get easier, son. It’s always hard, with young children. You’re just tired, that’s all.”

  “My mind’s made up, Dad. There really isn’t anything you can say to change it.”

  “But what will you do instead?”

  Race hesitates; Logan realizes the core of his announcement is coming. “I was thinking of the ranch. Kaye and I would like to buy it from you.”

  He is speaking of Logan’s parents’ horse farm. After his father died, Logan sold off a quarter section to pay the estate taxes; for reasons he cannot quite name, he kept the rest, though he hasn’t visited it for years. The last time he saw it, the house and outbuildings were a wreck, falling down and full of mice. Weeds were growing in the roof gutters.

  “We’ve saved the money,” Race says. “We’ll give you a fair price.”

  “You can have it for a dollar, as far as I’m concerned. That’s not the issue.” He regards his son for a moment, utterly nonplussed. The request makes no sense to him at all. “Really? This is what the two of you want?”

  “It’s not just me and Kaye. The boys love the idea.”

  “Race, they’re four years old.”

  “That’s not what I meant. They spend half their time in daycare. I see them two weeks out of four if I’m lucky. Boys like that—they need fresh air, room to roam.”

  “Trust me, son, country life is much more appealing in the abstract.”

  “You turned out fine. Take it as a compliment.”

  He feels a growing frustration. “But what will you do out there? You don’t know anything about horses. Even less than I do.”

  “We’ve thought about that. We’re planning on starting a vineyard.”

  It is a pie-in-the-sky plan if ever he heard one; it has dreamy Kaye written all over it.

  “We had the land checked out,” Race continues, “and it’s close to ideal—dry summers, damp winters, the right kind of soil. I have some investors, too. It won’t happen overnight, but in the meantime, Kaye can teach at the township school. She already has an offer. If we’re careful with money, that should tide us over until we’re up and running.”

  Gone unspoken, of course, is the underlying criticism: Race wants to be around for his boys, a deep part of their lives, as Logan failed to do for him.

  “You’re really certain about this?”

  “We are, Dad.”

  A brief silence passes as Logan searches for something to say that might dissuade his only child from this ludicrous plan. But Race is a grown man; the land is just sitting there; he has expressed the desire to sacrifice something important in behalf of his family. What can Logan do but agree?

  “I guess I can call the lawyer to get the ball rolling,” he concedes.

  His son seems surprised; for the first time, it occurs to Logan that Race expected he might say no. “You mean it?”

  “You’ve made your case. It’s your life. I can’t argue with it.”

  His son looks at him earnestly. “I meant what I said. I want to pay you what it’s worth.”

  Logan wonders: What is something like that worth? Nothing. Everything.

  “Don’t worry about the money,” he insists. “We’ll figure that out when the time comes.”

  The waitress arrives with the bill, which Race, in jocular spirits, insists on paying. Outside, a car is waiting to take him to the airfield. Race thanks his father again, then says, “So I’ll see you Sunday at Mom’s?”

  Logan is momentarily confused. He has no idea what his son is talking about. Race senses this.

  “The party? For the boys?”

  Now Logan remembers: a birthday party for the twins, who are turning five. “Of course,” he says, embarrassed by the lapse.

  Race waves this away with a laugh. “It’s fine, Dad. Don’t worry about it.”

  The driver is standing by the door. “Captain Miles, I’m afraid we really have to be going.”

  Logan and his son shake hands. “Just don’t be late, okay?” Race admonishes him. “The boys are excited to see you.”

  The next morning, back from his morning swim, Logan sees Nessa’s article in the paper. Page 1, below the fold; it is neutral, as these things go. The conference and his opening address, mention of the protestors and “the ongoing controversy,” snippets of their conversation in his office. Curiously, this disappoints him. His words seem wooden and performed. The article contains a perfunctory stiffness; Nessa has described him as “professorial” and “reserved,” both of which are true enough but feel reductive. Is that all he is? Is that what he’s become?

  For two days the conference occupies him utterly. There are panels and meetings, lunches and, in the evenings, gatherings for drinks and dinner. His moment of triumph, and yet he feels a growing depression. Some of this is Race’s announcement; Logan does not like to think of his son abandoning his accomplishments to eke out a living in the middle of nowhere. Headly cannot even be said to be a proper town. There is a mercantile, a post office, a hotel, a farm supply store. The school, which includes all grades, is housed in a single, ugly building made of concrete and possesses neither playing fields nor a library. He thinks of Race wearing a broad-brimmed hat, a sweat-sodden kerchief encircling his neck and insects buzzing around his face, shoving a spade into the unforgiving earth while his wife and children, bored beyond measure, fidget in the house. Scenes of provincial life: Logan should have sold the place years ago. It is all a terrible mistake he is powerless to correct.

  On Thursday night, his conference duties concluded, he returns to the courtyard apartment where he has lived since his divorce. It was, like many things in life, meant to be temporary, but six years later, here he is. It is compact, tidy, without much character; most of the furniture was purchased in haste during the confusing early days of separation. He makes a simple dinner of pasta and greens, sits down to eat in front of the television, and the first thing he sees is his own face. The footage was taken immediately after the conference’s closing ceremonies. There he is, microphones hovering around his head, his face washed to corpselike whiteness by the harsh glare of the television crew’s lights. “STUNNING REVELATIONS,” the banner at the bottom of the screen reads. He turns it off.

  He decides to call Olla, his ex-wife. Perhaps she can shed some light on their son’s perplexing plans. Olla lives at the edge of the city in a small house, a cottage really, that she shares with her partner, Bettina, a horticulturalist. Olla insisted that the relationship did not overlap with the marriage, that it began later, though Logan suspects otherwise. It makes no difference; in a way, he is glad. That Olla should take up with a woman—he had always known her to be bisexual—has made things easier for him. It would be more difficult for him if she were married to a man, if a man were in her bed.

  Bettina is the one who answers. Their relationship is wary but cordial, and she fetches Olla to the phone. In the background Logan can hear the chirps and squawks of Bettina’s collection of caged birds, which is voluminous—finches, parrots, parakeets.

  “We just saw you on TV,” Olla starts off.

  “Really? How did I look?”

  “Quite dashing, actually. Confidence-inspiring. A man at the top of his game. Bette, wouldn’t you agree? She’s nodding.”

  “I’m glad to hear it.”

  This light, easy banter. Very little has changed, in a way. They were always friends who could talk.

  “How does it feel?” Olla asks.

  “How does what feel?”

  “Logan, don’t be modest. You’ve made quite a splash. You’re famous.”

  He changes the subject. “By any chance, have you talked to Race lately?”<
br />
  “Oh, that,” Olla sighs. “I wasn’t really surprised. He’s been hinting at it for a while, actually. I’m surprised you didn’t see it coming.”

  Just one more thing he has missed. “What do you make of it?” he says, then adds, jumping the gun, “I think it’s a huge mistake.”

  “Maybe. But he knows his own mind—Kaye, too. It’s what they want. Are you going to sell it to them?”

  “I didn’t really have a choice.”

  “There’s always a choice, Logan. But if you’re asking my opinion, you did the right thing. The place has been sitting there too long. I always wondered why you didn’t let it go. Maybe this was the reason.”

  “So that my son could toss his career away?”

  “Now you’re being cynical. It’s a nice thing, what you’re doing. Why not let yourself just look at it that way?”

  Her voice is even, careful. Her words, not rehearsed exactly, are nonetheless things that have been imagined in advance. Logan has the unsettling sense, yet again, that he is a step behind everyone, a quantity to be managed by those who know better than he does.

  “Your feelings are complicated, I know that,” Olla goes on, “but a lot of time has passed. In a way, it’s not just a new start for Race. It’s a new start for you.”

  “I wasn’t aware I needed one.”

  A pause at the other end of the line; then Olla says, “I apologize. That didn’t come out right. What I mean to say is that I worry about you.”

  “Why would you worry about me?”

  “I know you, Logan. You don’t let go of things.”

  “I’m just afraid that our son is about to make the worst error of his life. That this is all some romantic whim.”

  In the silence that follows, Logan thinks of Olla standing in her kitchen, telephone receiver pressed to her ear. The room is cozy, low-ceilinged; copper pots and dried herbs, tied into bunches with twine, hang from the beams. She will be twirling the phone cord around her index finger, a lifelong habit. Other images, other memories: the way she pushes her eyeglasses up to her forehead to read small print; the reddish spot that flares on her forehead whenever she is angry; her habit of salting her food without tasting it. Divorced, but still the keepers of shared history, the inventory of each other’s lives.