Dinaw Mengestu - The Beautiful Things That Heaven Bears

By 15th Street the trees are fully grown. Massive elms and oaks shade the gray-and-white four-story row houses. On opposite sides of the corner sit two hulking gray temples. The wife stops at the corner and pulls out her guidebook. She shakes her head and points north. They march on one block farther until they reach the corner of 16th and P. You can see the White House from here. The street unfurls from its gate like a massive concrete carpet rolling straight for several blocks before dipping into a tunnel and rising up once again. I used to think that there was some great metaphor in this. I used to walk to this very corner after I closed the store so I could watch the cars, buses, and people head toward the White House as if that alone was their final destination. A slow day or bad week didn’t matter as much then, not as long as I could believe, however foolishly, that just a stone’s throw away was a higher power that I could appeal to. I imagined all of those people clamoring to get into the Oval Office, where the president sat waiting to hear their complaints and woes, their solutions and ideas. A great Santa Claus and father for adults.

I watch the couple as they pause at the corner and the husband points south to the White House. I can hear him saying, “That is where our president lives.” For some, it’s still enough to walk up to the metal gates and south lawn and gaze into the halls of greatness.

Spring is riding high on 17th. The sidewalks are crowded with outdoor seating. The men are holding hands and kissing each other gently on the lips. The bolder ones are already wearing tank tops and black spandex shorts. There’s a scent to the air here that you can’t find anywhere else in the city. A mixture of fresh sweat, blooming flowers, and coffee. I want to take the couple gently by the hand and lead them down the street to Samuel’s café, where we could sit under the green awning on a busy corner and watch the crowd. This, I would tell them, is all I want out of life, to sit here on these plastic lawn chairs and watch the parade of skinny and muscular men, old and young, as they flirt and fight with each other. Joseph loves it here as well. He says it reminds him of France, with the cafés, the air, and the pretty boys with nothing to do. According to him, “It’s the only civilized place in the city.” I caught him here once, standing drunk against a light post, his hands tucked deep into his pockets, a scarf flung around his neck. It was early in the evening, before the sun had set, and he was watching the procession with a distant, nostalgic look spread over his face. This was as close as he was going to get to that better life, the one that had him stomping through the streets of Paris with the perfect French phrase waiting on the tip of his tongue. I didn’t say anything to him. I just watched him from across the street as he nodded his head, stamped his feet to a song blaring from a moving car.

Dupont Circle is only a few blocks ahead. I can see from here that the white marble fountain in the center has been turned on. A fine mist spread by the breeze is spraying the people sitting on its edge. Admiral du Pont would have been proud to have this scene named in his honor. The office buildings are clearing out for lunch. People are taking their food outside, picnicking on the fresh grass that surrounds the outer perimeter of the circle. Almost everyone is dressed casually. Some people are lying on the grass with a book suspended in front of them. No harm can happen here. The man and woman join hands as they cross the street and enter the circle. I’ve begun to think of the couple as old friends whom I’m admiring from a distance. I can see their children, slightly estranged but still loving, and their home, a split-level ranch in the suburbs of some midsize city: St. Louis, Kansas City, or Tulsa. The wife has a habit of lifting her arms too high as she walks, as if at any moment she’s ready to break into a sprint. Occasionally her husband catches her by the elbow and settles her arm into place. I wonder what this means. I picture early-morning power walks in matching Nike track suits, frequent visits to the doctor that always end in disappointing news, blood pressure medication, a daily aspirin and glass of red wine. “Breathe,” he tells her.

Together, we walk around the fountain twice. A spot opens up on one of the benches surrounding the fountain. A few feet away, I can see a clearing in the grass. The couple turn toward the bench, while I head toward the grass. I give them an enthusiastic wave good-bye as we part.

The morning after my dinner at Judith’s house, I waited anxiously in my store for her to come in. I had prepared myself for anything from a warm, deep embrace to a casual, indifferent air that said all too plainly not to expect more than just that one brief kiss. I kept the invitation that Naomi had folded up and left in my mailbox buried in my pocket. I rubbed my fingers across it from time to time, and with each rub I came to a new conclusion: that the kiss was merely an accident; that the kiss meant nothing; that the kiss had been deliberate and planned. Judith didn’t come to the store that day, though, and neither did Naomi. When I closed the grates at the end of the night, I did so feeling dejected and suddenly abandoned. I told myself that I had no right to expect more, but that was hardly consoling when in fact more was precisely what I wanted.

The next day was even worse. I turned my abandonment into anger and my anger into pity. I cursed myself for my silly expectations. I thought I saw the situation now clearly for what it was — a case of mistaken identity. I had forgotten who I was, with my shabby apartment and run-down store, and like any great fool, I had tried to recast myself into the type of man who dined casually on porcelain plates and chatted easily about Emerson and Tocqueville while sitting on a plush leather couch in a grand house. The second day passed and still there was no sign of either Judith or Naomi. I lay awake in bed and vowed to forget that night had ever happened.

I didn’t have to wait long to test my resolve. The following evening I saw Judith, by chance, as she walked up the steps of her house. I was less than a block away when I saw her, and instinctively I began to rush toward her, ready at any moment to yell out her name. I had covered half the distance separating us when I saw Mrs. Davis standing in front of our house, cocooned from head to toe in a blue coat, watching me as I nearly ran to catch up with Judith before she vanished into her home. I slowed down as soon as I saw Mrs. Davis watching me. I took a deep breath and silently exhaled Judith’s name. Had I been saved from making a fool of myself? Perhaps. I didn’t need Mrs. Davis or anyone else to tell me what I looked like chasing after Judith as she walked up the steps of her house. I knew that already, and yet still there it was, regret, fully formed and ready to wash over me as soon as I realized that I wasn’t going to take one more step.

Abruptly, I stopped walking and fixed myself into a square patch of concrete that forced the crowd of people around me to split as they approached. From there, I watched as Judith fumbled through her purse for keys. I noticed that at that moment, she lost all of the grace with which she usually carried herself. She could have been anybody, I told myself. She could have been a stranger. Both of her hands scrambled desperately through her purse, which was large and heavy enough to throw her slightly off balance. It was cold outside and her frustration was visible even from where I was standing. She had no gloves on and her fingers must have stung with every stab she made. I knew enough about Judith to know that she carried as much of her life with her as possible everywhere she went. She had shown me the contents of her purse once while she was in the store searching for loose change to pay for a package of gum.