Andre Aciman - Eight White Nights

“All I did was not sleep with her,” I explained.

“Because?”

“Because for once I didn’t want to rush it. Maybe I wanted this to be different. I didn’t want ordinary. Maybe I wanted the romance to last longer.”

Rachel listened.

“What comes after courtship?” I asked.

“Who ever knows. Besides, you’re asking the wrong person.”

I must have stared with a baffled look.

“We’re back together again,” she said. “We were friends, got married, got divorced, became friends again — now he wants to get married.”

“And you?”

“I’m not against it.”

Dangling the leash of her freed dogs, Rachel then crossed her arms and with her boot gave a gentle kick to a clump of clay. “It might actually be a good idea.” Rachel was not given to enthusiasm. This could have been a clamorous endorsement. Then, looking away, and just as I was about to put my two cents in, “What do you think our phantom woman is doing right now?”

“I don’t know. She could be with friends. Maybe another man. Who knows? One thing she is not doing is sitting waiting for my call.”

“Were you supposed to call?”

“No. We make a point of never calling. We’d just meet on impulse, kept it light and improvised.”

“What will you do?”

“I don’t know that there’s anything I can do.”

“But you must do something.”

I did not answer. I felt like shrugging my shoulders, but I knew she’d see through this too.

“It’s hard to tell what we had. At first I thought she wanted nothing, then that she wanted friendship of a sort, then that she might have wanted much more but wasn’t really sure, now we’re strangers.”

“And I take it you know exactly what you want.”

There was irony in her voice.

“I think I do.”

“You think you do. Put it this way: she’s probably not sure why you’ve been seeing her either. I think she’s very interested, the way you are. She wants friendship, she wants love, she wants everything, and nothing. No different from you. Nothing either of you does is wrong, even if you do nothing. But you should never have said no to her. Find a way to fix it before it’s too late.”

My smirk meant: And how do you propose I do that?

“Look. Perhaps she may not want to end it yet. Or she may want to end it before it sours. Either way, though, you can’t not call her.”

By then her two dogs had reappeared. The other guests were approaching us, Mr. Forsham had lit a pipe. “The phantom lady,” she repeated. “I like that.”

Then, on second thought: “Do me a favor. Go over to that tree where no one can hear you, take out your cell phone, and make the call.”

“And say what?”

“Say something!”

“Chances are she won’t pick up.”

“Why?”

“Because that’s what I’d do if she called.”

“Just call.” Impatience sealed her words.

She was tousling her collies.

Perhaps Clara had said nothing about me to anyone. Or perhaps she’d spent a good portion of the afternoon as I had, speaking to her friends about someone who was opaque, difficult, fractious, and transparent. Perhaps she’d taken a walk along the marina by the boat basin, where I pictured her with Pablo and Pavel today, discussing me with the same dismayed shrug I had shown Rachel after she’d asked me if I liked Clara and I said immensely, hoping Rachel might think I was probably exaggerating, which would allow me to think I was. Perhaps Clara too was being told that this thing between us was most likely leading nowhere, but that we were headed there with such locked steps that there was no telling where any of it was going. I saw myself taking a few steps on the hardened, cold earth and walking away from Rachel toward the very tree she had pointed out. Here, against my better judgment, I’d force myself to make the phone call as soon as I knew I was no longer within earshot of anyone. I just wanted to call, I’d say. A lapse of a few seconds. Agonizing silence. You just wanted to call? she’d repeat. Well, now you’ve called.

There’d be many voices in the background. Probably she’d be at a late lunch on the marina. Did I think she’d stay home knitting?

Where are you? How are you?

How am I? Is that what you’re asking? How do you think I am?

We’d have a hard time hearing each other. Or we’d pretend not to hear each other. Either way, the breakups on the line would help defuse the tension between us and give a flustered sprightliness to our words. She’d be in the boathouse. Where was I ? In the park. It’d be just like us, I’d say, one in Riverside Park, the other in Central Park. It might thaw the chill. I’m so bored. Are you bored too, Clara? I’d ask. Terribly. Was either of us honest, or were we simply exaggerating to show we wished to be together instead? Would I want to come? Did she want me to come? Only if I wanted. Give me an address. She did not know the exact address, but it was on the marina off Seventy-ninth Street. I’d have to call her once I got there, and someone would come out and open the gate to the houseboats.

•

“Did you at least leave a message?” Rachel asked when I told her I wasn’t able to reach Clara.

“Yes,” I said.

“So, if she doesn’t call back, we’ll know.”

“I suppose so.” I must have sounded too vague.

“Did you really leave a message?”

I looked at her.

“No, I didn’t.”

“You’re really something. Let’s go home. I’ve found this extra-scented tea from Sri Lanka. And we’ve got so many cakes.”

By then it had grown dark.

When Rachel unlocked the door, we were struck by the smell of beef stewed in wine sauce. Her ex-no-longer-her-ex was sitting in total darkness watching the History Channel, drinking bourbon. He thought we had arrived too soon. Bag the tea, we’ll have drinks instead, someone said. There was a rush to one of the closets by the bookcase, glasses were produced, bottles, mini-snacks, including my favorite, pistachios roasted in hot spices. Someone put on a CD, even the Forshams were pleasant to be with. I began to look forward to this evening. From a limping afternoon-evening that was headed into a deep abyss filled with the darkest scree below, this was turning into a night that could last into the wee hours and remain as pleasant and warm as if Clara had promised to show up and might any moment ring the doorbell. It would have been so good if Clara came. I suddenly thought of 7:10. Seven-ten was less than two hours away now. There was still time to decide. What if I did call?

No, I wasn’t going to call — never ask the question again.

But after downing a glass of Scotch, I couldn’t remember why I’d been putting off calling her or why I’d even hesitated. I went into the empty pantry and took out my cell phone. I had the best intentions, I thought. I was simply going to ask her to join us for dinner. Light and simple.

She picked up exactly as I’d imagined: “Speak!”

I told her I was with friends and that I’d love her to join us for drinks. I didn’t say anything about dinner, figuring it might scare her off.

“I can’t.”

It still caught me by surprise. I threw in my one and only trump card. “I’m so bored. I’m bored out of my mind. I’m dying to see you. Say yes.”

“I’m sorry you’re bored. But I can’t. I’m busy.”

No apologies, no explanation, not even feigned regret in her voice. Hard, glacial, petrous.

“Bummer,” I said — my way of coaxing a smile to her voice. But she didn’t respond. Her voice seemed drained of its warmth and humor. Everything came off deadpan, the silence of a cobra that had just bitten and is watching to make sure its victim has collapsed.