Call Me Brooklyn Read online

  It’s a hot afternoon. Since mid-September, the weather has been consistent: an anomalous, cancerous extension of summer. After dropping by McGraw-Hill, I walk up Sixth Avenue, and on reaching the southern edge of Central Park turn left toward Columbus Circle. I like this route because on the side that borders Central Park there’s a long line of carriages hitched to horses. I love passing near them, feeling the uncanniness of their presence, not even bothered by the acrid smell of their feces. I turn up Broadway, approaching Lincoln Center. It’s been a long time since I’ve been there. Right after it opened, I used to go frequently. When it appears at 62nd Street, the sheer audacity of its concrete and glass architecture surprises me as if I were seeing it for the first time. I go up the steps facing the stone pedestal with the fountain in the central plaza. The noise of the city doesn’t seem to reach in here, as though it’s been absorbed along the way. I stop to watch the play of the clouds in the sky, a procession of elongated patches that travel slowly westward. The light has acquired an intense metallic blue that adheres tightly to the edges of the buildings. In the lobby of the Met, up front, hanging on the walls, I see the Chagalls, two gigantic canvases in which strange beings float weightlessly in an impossible space. A uniformed doorman comes out from between the columns of Philharmonic Hall. He must have seen me smoking and asks for a light. A Hispanic with a trimmed beard, he speaks to me in English and I respond in Spanish. On hearing his language, he smiles and leans forward, stretching his neck. He puts his cigarette to mine and inhales deeply, stealing the fire.

  Gracias. It’s a beautiful day, no? he says after taking a drag, and bringing a hand to the visor of his cap, he disappears in between the columns of the building.

  I go in toward the northern square to the right. The two rectangular spaces might as well be separated by an imaginary wall. When I walk from one side to the other, I feel as if I’m crossing an invisible barrier and that everything on the other side, even the air, is different. In the area by a pool is a patch of trees. Marble pots rest on the cement grid floor, a young tree planted in each. Their leaves are changing color but all are still hanging on. The treetops are brilliant with the colors of fall, a blaze that runs the gamut of ochre, red, and yellow. The entrance to the public library is in the back of the square, boxed in between the side of the Met and the entrance to the Vivian Beaumont Theater. To the north, on a higher level, is the Juilliard School of Music. I imagine an invisible thread connecting these two places where Nadia Orlov spends so much of her time. I walk along one side of the pool at a measured pace. The surface is a perfectly smooth gray sheet that takes in the reflection of the trees, the buildings, and the clouds whose inverted shapes seem to plunge into the depths of the water. The two pieces that make up Henry Moore’s reclined figure, partly submerged, sit in the middle of the pool, at once peaceful and restless. I go up the stone steps that lead to the conservatory and the first thing I see when I reach the landing is the library. Groups of students mill near Juilliard. I lose myself among them, watching with special interest those who are Nadia’s age, trying to imagine what their lives are like, what secrets I would uncover if I decided to hire an army of Queensberrys to investigate their everyday comings and goings.

  At ten to six, I decide to go down again. At the top of the stairs, a girl hugging a violin case smiles at me as I pass by her. The sun has started to set and the north square is beginning to fill with shadows. When I reach the edge of the pool, I lift my eyes and see the last embers of the day’s light floating in the air. I sit on a bench by one of the trees. From there, I can see the entrance to the library, but as soon as I sit, I see her appear. Instinctively, I get up and step behind one of the potted trees, as if the trunk, hardly thicker than my arm, could hide me. She walks off quickly. I follow her. As we approach the main square, I lose her for a few moments. When I get there, I realize they have turned on the lights of the fountain. On the other side of the plumes of water, I make out her figure. I wait until she disappears and decide it’s enough for the day.

  I return to the library to familiarize myself with the place where she works. The entrance hall is very spacious. Toward the back is a group of people waiting for the elevator. I go up with them. I slowly explore the three floors of the building, going down the stairs from one landing to the next. In the mezzanine, I look for the music archives where, according to Queensberry’s report, Nadia works. There’s a counter, a few empty chairs, and a door with a sign that says: Employees Only. I cross between the stacks and reach a reading room. There are a few people reading at the desks. I sit in one of them, at random, deciding I will return the following day. That was all I needed, just enough time to catch sight of her. Now that I’ve managed to see her again, I realize that the unexplainable restlessness that came over me when our paths first crossed at Port Authority hasn’t settled in the least. Tomorrow I will come out the other end of the spiral down which I’ve been plummeting. There is no sense in leaving the wound open any longer.

  That night, at the Chamberpot, I show Marc the pictures. He looks through the stack, studying them with interest.

  Nadia! Nadia! Nadia! Always her! he exclaims. And what about my friend Zadie Stewart? She’s not in a single one of these.

  He looks at me, smiling, and continues to flip through the pictures. When he’s done, he pulls out the same one that had initially caught my attention and looks at it more closely.

  What do you think? I ask.

  He puts out his cigarette in a metallic, triangular ashtray.

  The truth?

  The truth.

  He turns the picture toward me and says:

  It’s like she was designed for you.

  We spend a couple of hours drinking and chatting. I don’t like playing pool, but Marc loves it. Every once in a while, if someone’s up for it, he challenges them to a game, but today he doesn’t find any takers. Neither one of us notices when Claudia comes in. She has a whiskey in her hand and is writing her name on the board, which is completely unnecessary, because no one else is waiting to play. We say hello from afar. She winks and comes toward the bar. There’s almost no one left in the place, just the two of us and a pair of shady characters near the door. Marc suggests that we go to Keyboard, a new place they just opened on 46th Street.

  I finish my drink and say:

  Not me. I have a lot of work to do tomorrow.

  Like all of us, Marc says. Claudia laughs.

  It’s an urgent job for McGraw-Hill. They need it by noon, I can’t be late. It pays really well.

  Whatever you want, Marc says, shrugging. And then: So? Are you going to play me? he asks Claudia.

  Yes, but only one game and then we go to Keyboard and check it out.

  Marc looks me in the eyes, makes an exaggerated bow, doffing an imaginary hat, and heads for the pool table. Claudia remains at the bar with me for a moment.

  Everything all right? she asks, reaching out and caressing my cheek.

  I smile. She goes to the pool table and blows me a kiss. I watch the beginning of the game. Marc pulls the lever. I hear the rolling of the balls inside the pool table. When Marc finishes rounding them up with the rack, he gestures to Claudia who leans over the table and strikes the cue ball hard. The colorful triangle shatters with a dry crack that reverberates across the room.

  Outside, the streetlights are reflected on the road as if it’s just rained. At a distance, I see the rear lights of a garbage truck. There is no one on the streets. On the corner of Ninth Avenue, there’s an old man covered by a blanket inside a cardboard box. He’s awake, talking to himself in a low voice. When I pass by, I take in the nauseating stench and move on, not even looking at him. There’s quite a bit of traffic heading toward Lincoln Tunnel. It’s a moonless clear night, a cold wind blowing in from the Hudson.

  I spend Tuesday morning finishing my urgent assignment. At noon, I go to McGraw-Hill, turn in my work, and from there head for Lincoln Center, taking the same route as the day before. I cross the streets
at the same spots, turn at the same corners, as though following my own tracks. I like the ritual of retracing my steps, although today everything happens faster, because I know that I’ll see her when I get there. After I make the twists and turns through Lincoln Center and before going into the library, I sit on the same bench as yesterday by the edge of the pool and try to imagine what will happen. But I can’t imagine anything. I shake my head and move toward the library with a determined step. I go directly to the archives. The same employee as yesterday is at the counter facing the readers. My desk, however, is taken. I look for another spot, near the back of the room, next to the large windows facing Tenth Avenue. More than half an hour goes by without a single sign of her. Perhaps she decided not to come to work today, I think, but the thought has barely crossed my mind when I see her appear between two rows of bookshelves carrying a folder full of papers. She sets it on top of a table near the counter, sits down, and begins to separate the files, arranging them in different stacks. For a long time, no one approaches her with a request. From the moment I saw her at the end of the hall, I haven’t taken my eyes off her.

  I watch her movements so closely that I don’t even realize how tense my body has become, twisted into an absurd posture, neither sitting nor standing. I am watching her so intensely that it’s a wonder no one has noticed how weird I’m acting. Nadia herself hasn’t noticed a thing. She’s so absorbed in what she’s doing that she has no clue that in the back of the reading room someone is scrutinizing her as if his life depended on remembering every detail. One of the other people here, a man of around fifty wearing a denim jacket, approaches the counter then and blocks my view of her. It’s only now that I feel the tension in my body and fall back down on my chair, trying to relax. Above the exit door, the clock says five twenty. Today the library closes two hours earlier than usual, at six, exactly when her shift is over. I decide to kill some time browsing through a book I pulled out arbitrarily from one of the shelves. I didn’t even notice the title till this moment. Silence by John Cage. I browse through it distractedly and, when I finish, I close it, put it aside, and take out the book and notebook I always carry in my bag. It’s a futile gesture—I know it’ll be impossible to write or read anything. The man in the denim jacket returns to his desk and Nadia stands up. I fix my eyes on her again. She goes to the back wall and climbs a stepladder to get a book from one of the top shelves. I see now that she’s wearing the same skirt as that day at Port Authority, and there’s a flash of naked thigh. After a few moments, she returns with a bundle of documents bound with a red ribbon and sits back down at her desk.

  The sound of a high-pitched bell warns readers that it’s closing time. I haven’t been able to read much. As if in a dream, I look up to the counter and I realize that she’s looking at me. I feel out of place, ridiculous, like a child caught doing something wrong. The hands of the clock make a perfect, straight line. The second closing bell rings. A security guard walks between the desks ringing another little bell, hurrying the readers lagging behind. Nadia and I are the only ones left. We look at each other across the room. Then, she turns abruptly, picks up her things, and rushes out the door. I throw my book and notebook back in my bag and jump up. At the door, the security guard asks me to open my bag. I wait for him to give me the okay, and hurry outside, afraid to lose her. I cross the length of the northern square but don’t see her. I continue, almost running, but just as I turn the corner of the Met, I come to a dead stop. She’s there, at the foot of the fountain, with her legs slightly apart, waiting for me.

  Brooklyn, October 24, 1973

  I felt ridiculous. My behavior was absurd, considering my age. She was the only person in that section of the square. Behind her, on the other side of the curtain of water, tiny figures moved about. I advanced toward her. She was standing, her head tilted to one side, in a mildly defiant pose.

  Are you following me?

  No. Yes.

  Since when? I mean, aside from the library. She grimaced slightly.

  It’s not what you think, I said.

  What do I think?

  You must think . . .

  I remember you, she broke into a brief laugh.

  What?

  From Port Authority, a couple of weeks ago. I fell asleep on the bus.

  My hand drifted up to the spot on my cheek that had been cut by the buckle.

  Are you the guy who went to see Zadie?

  Zadie Stewart, your roommate? Yes . . . I mean, no.

  Are you Gal Ackerman?

  Did your friend tell you?

  Of course she did. But the person she described was different.

  Listen, I . . . I can explain.

  Just tell me what you want from me.

  I don’t know. Why don’t we go somewhere?

  Fine, where would you like to go? she replied.

  I suggested we go to Café Bordeaux, a place I’d passed by so many times without ever going in. As we started walking together, my thoughts and feelings began to settle down, clarify.

  What do you know about me? she asked.

  A lot.

  Like what?

  Well, you may not like this . . .

  What is it that you know? I have every right to ask, she said

  You were born in Laryat, Siberia. Your parents came here when you were very young, you study violin at Juilliard . . .

  She raised her hands in shock. Thinking that she was going to run, I grabbed her wrists.

  I’m sorry . . . Please, if you don’t yell, I’ll confess everything to you. Only then did I realize she’d had no intention of running. Promise me you won’t get angry, I said.

  She snapped her hands away. She was strong. I took out the envelope with the pictures. I asked her if we could keep walking. There was something going on between us that I’m having trouble putting into words. A sudden drunkenness of the senses. It felt as though I’d been waiting for ages for just this scene, just these words, just these gestures. She should have been mad at me, afraid of me, of what I might do, but instead of running or yelling for help, she just stood there, somehow as confused as I was.

  Now you’re going to have to tell me something about you, she said. She spoke without an accent, but her pronunciation was somewhat peculiar, sharp, as if having to enunciate the end of phrases made her impatient.

  I freelance, editorial work, proofreading, translations. I also write.

  What do you write?

  Everything, articles, some essays, stories, personal stuff. Have you published anything?

  I remembered the story that Marc had sent to the Atlantic Monthly without telling me.

  Not yet.

  We never made it to Café Bordeaux. I’m not sure that either of us knew what we actually wanted to do. When we passed in front of Coliseum Books, I couldn’t help but stop and look at the titles in the window. It was something I did mechanically. We were silent for a while, then we went down Broadway until we reached the cascade of lights at Times Square right at the moment when the sun had begun to set. We were at the edge of my territory, near the border of Hell’s Kitchen.

  I’m thirsty, she told me.

  I suggested we go to Eighth Avenue, where the dives that Marc likes to haunt are. Almost all of them we discovered together on nights when we went down looking for trouble into the caverns of Manhattan, as he used to say. I didn’t take her to any of those places, but to a Greek café I’d never been to before. It didn’t matter what we spoke about, words were unable to take us anywhere, but they were the only thing we had. She talked to me about music, about the piece she was rehearsing, the essays she was writing, about Bach’s violin sonatas. About her parents and her brother Sasha who lived in Boston. From the time they were very young, they had been inseparable. When they arrived in the United States, the world became unintelligible. He had been her only support, especially in school. It was impossible for her to put into words how much she missed him, she said. I asked her if she remembered Siberia. She said she did, but the
memories were very distant, as if, instead of having lived them herself, someone else had told her about them or she had read about them in a book.

  Tell me about yourself, she said. But I couldn’t.

  We sat there in silence for a while. Her hands were very white, her fingers thin and delicate, the nails small, covered in transparent polish that reflected the lights of the café. When she spoke again, she told me that she lived by music and for music, to play it, to study it. That it was the only thing that had given her the wherewithal to separate herself from her mother and brother. Listening to this, I thought that I would have loved to hear her play, but I didn’t say anything.

  What were you reading in the library? she asked.

  Oh, that. It’s not the type of book I usually read.

  Let me see it.

  I gave it to her. She opened it, pulling back the green silk bookmark from the page and reading for a few moments, in silence, to herself; then she recited the lines I had underlined aloud.

  The sweetheart sings one song; another, woe!

  The hidden, guilty River-god of Blood

  She closed the book, looked at the cover, and handed it back to me without a word. She kept her hand on top of the table, with the fingers slightly apart. I reached out with mine, the skin much darker, a trembling animal slowly approaching another. Once again, I asked the question that I had asked when we were standing in front of the fountain.

  What do we do now?

  Whatever you say, she replied again as quickly as she had before, smiling with her eyes.