William Bayer - Blind Side

"I'm sure you did."

He nodded.

"When I got sick, she started coming around. Not much lately, though. Lately she's been pretty busy." He stared at me.

"Guess she's been with you."

"Yeah."

"Anyway, she used to come by and talk. She was very loyal that way. Month or so ago she told me she might have to leave suddenly, and she wanted me to know so I wouldn't worry if one day she disappeared. Yesterday she came in. 'This is it. I'm off,' she said. Wanted me to know she'd be thinking about me, even if she didn't write. When she left"-his voice broke-"she kissed me on the lips.

Back out on the street I felt dizzy-hurt, confused, furious too. I felt the anger grow as I walked up Lexington Avenue in the heat. Kimberly Yates had been a liar, a fake-and me . . . well, it was pretty clear what I'd been: the biggest fool in all New York.

I think that's what angered me the most, not just her deception, or the way she had disappeared without a word-though those things were crushing enough. No, what infuriated me was the knowledge that I, a photographer, who prided himself on his ability to unmask and see, had looked at her so closely, gazed at her so deeply, and had failed so utterly to see what was there.

How she must have laughed, I thought, at all my talk about revealing character, when I had failed to penetrate even the most shallow layer of her disguise.

There I was holding a photograph and looking at it. And so far as I could see it didn't mean a thing. I knew it had to. I just didn't know why. But I kept looking at it. And in a little while something was wrong. It was a very small thing, but it was vital….

The days passed I felt increasingly haunted. I stayed inside, in my studio , surrounded by my images of her, spending hours contemplating them, trying to read her face.

There were times when I wanted to tear those prints off the walls. Times too, I think, when I wanted to be tortured by them. One thing I knew-I had to work her out of my system. If I could find a trace of her falseness in any of my pictures, then, I thought, I could begin to deconstruct my pain. But the pictures did not reveal her; they revealed me. they told me nothing . . . except that I had loved her.

Finally, in an attempt to relieve my stress, I called Frank Cordero in New Mexico. I told him everything. He listened sympathetically.

"It's like first she built you up," he said, "and then, almost deliberately, she tore you down."

"I know. That's what's so awful. It's as if she were two completely different people. So here I am pining for her. Am I crazy, Frank? Or what?"

"No, I don't think you're crazy," he said.

"But I don't think you're going to be free of her-not until you find out who she really is."

"Who is she? Jesus! I ask myself that almost every hour."

"If your pictures can't tell you, Geof, you'll have to find out some other way."

"Like how?"

"You've been a journalist. Check out her story. She gave you leads. Track them down."

I spent that evening considering Frank's advice. There a side of me that wanted to let her go, be done with her forever. She'd misrepresented herself, which, as far as I was concerned, was among the worst forms of betrayal. to lie to me, her lover, for whatever reason, and then to disappear without coming clean-by any rational standard she deserved no further attention or concern. But I wasn't rational. I was hurting. I was obsessed and I was confused. Frank's advice sounded right: follow up on my leads, track her down if possible, and then confront her. If I could do all that, then I might be able to rid myself of my obsession and get on with my life. There was another reason I wanted to find her. I wanted a conclusive parting. I've always been one for final ringing curtain lines. For all her deceptions, she had helped me break through my block. So, as much as I wanted to cut her, I also wanted to thank her, express my gratitude along with my contempt.

And there was still another reason, which, with a certain amount of shame I confess, had to do with sex. I longed one last time to look into her eyes, stroke her skin, feel her touch, breathe in her incredible scent. . . .

The next morning I began to work the phone. I called every acting school in New York. Not one had a teacher named Lorenzo, nor a student actress named Kimberly Yates.

I called directory assistance in Cleveland. There were three doctors named Yates. I called them all. Not one had a daughter named Kimberly. Not one had a wife who played the viola. Not one knew of any other person who filled that description.

I called the dean's office at the Cleveland Institute of Music. The school did have a female instructor in viola. I got her name, called her, and though she did not have a daughter named Kimberly, she was kind and tried to help. She said she knew almost all the serious violists in northern Ohio. She described several women to me. None fit Kim's description of her mother.

I called the registrar of Oberlin College. There was no record of a Kimberly Yates ever having been a student at Oberlin.

She had lied, it seemed, about everything. I felt as if I'd been turned inside out.

That morning I walked up to Spring Street, and rang the buzzer to the Duquaynes' loft.,The maid gave me a suspicious look, then had me wait at the door.

Amanda Duquayne finally appeared, slender and stunning in tan pants tucked into soft black riding boots. Her white silk blouse, open wide at the throat, exposed a galaxy of freckles.

She slowly and blatantly looked me up and down.

"This is a surprise," she said, in her best Social Register voice.

"Sorry to intrude," I said.

"You're unlisted or I would have called."

"We have to be unlisted," she explained.

"Too many cranks around."

She didn't offer me her telephone number, but she did invite me inside. As I followed her to the sitting area, I admired her straight and haughty back. She spread herself on one of the leather couches, then casually crossed her legs.

"Now, what can I do for you, Geoffrey Barnett?" For the first time in our acquaintanceship, I actually saw her smile.

"Kim has disappeared," I said.

She raised an eyebrow.

"Kimberly? Has she? Really?"

I nodded.

"No forwarding address."

She did some upper-class thing with her mouth to show feigned concern. "Oh dear," she said.

"I thought you might help me find her."

"Me? Whatever made you think of me?"

"Since you know her, since you're friends, I thought-"

"But really we aren't, you see. I really hardly know her at all."

I looked at her quizzically.

"The other night, when we came in, the way the two of you kissed-I just assumed-"

"A social kiss, Geoffrey. That's all it was."

I peered into her eyes.

"Maybe I shouldn't have come, Amanda. Maybe you're not supposed to talk to me."

She smiled.

"I'm very sorry, Geoffrey, but I have no idea what you're talking about."

We gazed at each other, with frozen smiles. Then I had the feeling she wanted to hear me beg, that it would turn her on to sit coolly with her legs nicely crossed while I squirmed in my seat.

It isn't my style to importune, but that particular morning I was desperate for information.

"I really need your help," I said.

"If you know anything, or know somebody who might know something, or can help me in any way-I'd be grateful, I really would. . . ."

A sudden coldness in her stare told me this was not the way to her heart, so I shut up and gazed at her, woefully and imploringly, and as soon as I did the ice began to melt. She studied me with such a searing intensity that I felt forced to lower my eyes. The moment I did, she spoke to me again, her way of telling me that silent submission was what she'd wanted all along.