Chang-Rae Lee - A Gesture Life

But as she is talking I sense in the air a lean, tight scent, almost chemical, and then it turns softer, into the fat odor of smoke. I don’t see any, but when I crane around to the doorway I see the section of carpet in front of the fire starting to smolder. The heavy logs in the fireplace are crackling, roaring. Liv Crawford is mentioning times we might meet, and I am still listening to her, actually thinking about what she is saying about a lunch, even though a burst of flames is imminent.

“Doc?”

And then it happens, the fire, miraculously appearing from the deep pile of the rug where it meets the marble flooring. The flames are not high, or fierce; they are not spreading, and the whole sight, somehow, is a disappointment. It all seems perfectly controlled, the way fires burn in the movies and at theme parks, with a shut-off quality, and very colorful. But what there is volumes of is smoke, which now bellows and rises up in great flumes against the ceiling. Upstairs, I hear the piercing ring of the smoke alarm.

“Oh Doc…” Liv Crawford says in a singsong voice. “That sounds like your smoke alarm.”

“Yes,” I say, trying to find the doors out to the patio. “The family room is on fire.”

“What?”

“I better get off now,” I tell her, suddenly dropping to my knees. I hear Liv Crawford’s voice, now tiny and bleating, the cordless phone somewhere behind me. The smell is awful, and I feel as though I am underwater again, my eyes closed, holding my breath, gliding in the abyss, and I try my best to move, in my own measured crawl, my only flying.

HOW GOOD IT IS to see old friends and colleagues again. Even here, in the gray-green corridors of the adult ward of the county hospital, one finds that fellowship has not been forgotten in the shifting rush to efficiency and profits. There is Connie Kalajian, the head nurse of the adult unit, who seems to do all she can to make sure her young staff is attentive to me, and Ryka Murnow, the hospital administrator, whose father had terrible disc problems and came to my store quite often before he died. There is Johnny Barnes, the head pharmacist of the hospital and also a rising-in-the-ranks semiprofessional bowler, who has played in tournaments upstate and in Ontario and in the Midwest. And of course, there is Renny Banerjee, the hospital purchasing manager, who comes by my room every few hours to see if I need anything. He chain-smokes, so he stops by after his many breaks. He appears now at breakfast time, bearing a foil-wrapped plate containing a bacon-and-cheese omelette and toasted bagel from the neighboring diner. He looks severely at my hospital tray, which I have only begun to pick at.

“Don’t ever touch that stuff again,” he says without levity. “You have no idea what goes on in Food Services.” He peels off the foil and hands me a plastic fork. He pulls up a chair next to the bed while I eat. I’m not hungry, but I feel I’m able to eat because he’s brought it along, because he is with me. “I used to date someone who worked there, a Puerto Rican girl named Julia. She was very sweet, but she told me how they really operate. They call it ‘Jai Alai,’ because you can use any surface for preparing the food — the floor, the walls, whatever. For entertainment they form hamburger patties by flinging ground beef up against the ceiling, then catching it on the way down.”

Renny Banerjee, though East Indian of blood, is what I often think of as a very American sort of man — barrel-chested, tall, with an easy, directive way of gesturing. There is the feeling when he speaks to you in his lilting accent that he’s addressing others in the room, who must be listening intently. Except that Renny is also polite. “My secret word to you, Doc, is that you get out of this place as soon as you are able. Or even before. I’ll have a word with the attending, if you like. Better to be in your own home, in every respect. I’ve heard the damage wasn’t very severe.”

“Not at all,” I answer, my lungs itchy, heavy-feeling. “Some carpet was ruined, and curtains. The family room and the kitchen need repainting. There is general cleaning to be done. A realtor is taking care of things right now.”

“You’re selling the house?” Renny Banerjee asks, a note of concern in his voice.

“No,” I say. “She’s just looking after the repairs for me. She lets in the workers. She’s been a great help, really.”

“Liv Crawford,” he says, as if there could be no one else.

“You know her?”

“We dated,” he answers matter-of-factly. “Long time ago. And we’ll probably date one day again. I have a terrible weakness for that woman. It’s quite specific. Something in me wants to hand over all my money to her. I hate the feeling, but it’s true.”

“She has a strong presence,” I say, in way of support.

“You ought to be careful yourself, Doc. I mean with your house, of course. Make sure you know what you want. I know Liv’s the one who pulled you out. Her picture was all over the paper. But what if you didn’t live in such a pretty house? You have to wonder….”

We have a hearty laugh at this, and though I start coughing and hacking, it is a pleasant feeling, to be talking with someone like Renny Banerjee. The circumstances are not ideal, yet it seems to me that life’s moments don’t have to be so right or not right anymore, so fraught and weighted with “value,” but just of themselves, what they are, which in this case is myself and Renny once again sharing light times and jokes and notions. Since I retired from the medical business, neither of us has called the other (having nothing specific to call about), but none of that seems awkward or straining now, and lying here in this largish room (courtesy of Ryka Murnow), I feel as fortunate as a man my age should rightly be able to feel, who’s had smoke inhalation and a racing heart and a good part of his house badly damaged by smoke. Liv Crawford did, with danger to herself, pull me out, while her frightened clients called emergency services on her car phone, and yesterday she sent a large bouquet of white roses, which sit on the windowsill in the brassy autumn light. They are beautiful, and I’m very grateful for them, even though in the Japanese tradition white is the signal color of death. But I don’t mind even this, and perhaps it’s right that Liv Crawford should be the bearer of these tidings, the mercenary angel who has saved my life.

“Sometimes I actually find myself missing that damned woman’s company,” Renny Banerjee says, looking over at the flowers. “Can you believe that? And I was the one who broke things off, Doc. I practically had to throw her out of my apartment. I changed the locks, though it didn’t do any good.”

“Is that so?”

“Absolutely, Doc. The local locksmiths love her because she makes sure to send them business. She can get into any house in the county. Truly. But it doesn’t matter now. She doesn’t bother me anymore. I never find her in my bed when I get home.”

I nod at this, for lack of a better answer. Then we sit quietly for a moment, as I finish the breakfast he has brought me. One of the qualities I have always admired is Renny’s unflinching forthrightness, more intimate than emotional, which the long hiatus in our friendship doesn’t seem to have dulled. Of course I never knew that he and Liv Crawford were in a relationship, but even just the idea appeals to me; I know they say opposites attract, but in this case I imagine that their similarities in character made for an exciting and volatile mix, ready fuel for the fire.

“Who was that woman you used to spend time with, Doc?” he says, walking around the bed, to the window. “I remember you strolling around the village with a fine looker on your arm. Am I right?”