Andre Aciman - Eight White Nights

“Was wearing bathrobe, now in bed.”

My heart, which was already pounding, was going like mad. I hated this, but I also loved it, as though part of me were staring at a river from a very tall bridge, knowing that I was securely fastened to a bungee cord and that fear, more than jumping, was the thriller. Still, the silence was unbearable, and I found myself saying the first thing that came to mind so as not to say what I wished to say.

“You remember, the striped blue-and-white bathrobe hanging on the back of the bathroom door?”

It took me forever to utter this one bland, halting, breathless, complicated sentence.

“Yes, I remember. Old, thick terry cloth — it smelled good.”

Same one, I was going to add.

It smelled good, she had said.

What made her smell it?

“No reason. Curious.”

“Do you do this often?”

“I grew up with dogs.”

An intentionally makeshift excuse. She must have sensed I was groping for a quick comeback.

“If I knew you better, I’d go down forbidden grounds.”

“You know me more than anyone I’ve known in my life,” I said. “There’s nothing you’re thinking that I haven’t already thought of.”

“You should be ashamed of yourself, then.”

“You and I enjoy the same shame.”

“Maybe.”

“Clara, I can be at your front door in less than ten minutes.”

“Not tonight. I like it like this. Maybe it’s my turn to say — what was it? — too soon, too sudden.”

It thrilled me to know she remembered.

“Besides, I’m supermedicated and zombified and fading,” she added.

“I can take rejection.”

“It’s not rejection.”

Had anything ever gone better between us? Was this Clara speaking or was it the medicine? Her breath was on my face again. I wanted the wet of her lips on my face.

“Why didn’t you come for drinks?” I asked.

“Because you gave me the silliest reason to.”

“Why didn’t you say so, then?”

“Because I was angry.”

“Why were you angry?”

“Because you’re always so slippery, always avoiding things.”

“You’re the one who can never be pinned down.”

“I don’t turn off my phone.”

“Why didn’t you give me a hint, then?”

“Because we’ve run out of hints, because I’m tired of double-talk.”

“What double-talk?”

“Printz, you’re doing it now.”

She was right.

Long silence.

“Clara?”

“Yes.”

“Tell me something nice.”

“Tell you something nice.” She paused. “I wish you’d been there when I called out your name in the theater.”

She was breaking my heart, and I couldn’t even begin to say why.

“Were you going to come for drinks tonight?”

“I had hoped to, Mister-I’ll-turn-off-my-phone-to-show-her-who’s-who.”

This time she took my breath away.

Without warning, tears began welling in my eyes. What on earth was coming over me? This had never happened to me, and certainly not on the phone, naked.

“Sometimes I’m terrified you’ll know me long before I know you.”

“I’m no different. It scares me too.”

Silence.

“Why are you letting me do this?” I asked.

“Because tomorrow when I see you I don’t want us to be like today.”

“What if you’re different again tomorrow?”

“Then you’ll know I don’t mean it.”

“But haven’t we been through this already?”

“Yes. And you should have known it then too. Are you thinking of me now?”

“I am. I am,” I repeated.

“Good.”

•

The sky was overcast once more the next day, the last day of the year, giving the morning light that luminous, bleached quality we’d been having all week long and which skimmed the surface of the city like the inside fleece of a white shearling coat draped munificently around the sun. It made you long for more snow and for wintergreen and wool-lined gloves and the delicate scent of waxed gift paper lingering all during Christmas week. I couldn’t have been happier. I got out of bed, put on old clothes, and headed off to my Greek diner around the corner, hoping it might be full, or empty, it didn’t matter which, because in the mood I was in, drafty, stuffy, grungy or not, all were good and welcome. When I opened the door and was greeted in Greek by the usual hostess cradling a giant menu in her arms, everything felt lithe and buoyant, as if a weight had finally been lifted and I was allowed to love the world again. I liked being like this. I liked being alone like this. I liked winter. I’d been yearning to do this for a whole week. Breakfast without cares. I’d have buttered Belgian waffles first, orange juice, then a second cup of coffee; then I’d get back home, shower, change — or was there any point in changing before heading uptown to her lobby, where we’d arranged to meet before going to shop for extras for tonight’s party?

But I also knew there was another reason why I was happy. As if something had been finally cleared between us. A few hours before that, the year was hurtling to a dark and ugly finish. Now, merely a phone call later, life seemed to have been restored to me and things seemed so promising that, once again, I found myself refusing to look over to the brighter side for fear I’d dispel its magic or be proven wrong. How long before she and I found yet another way to bring back the darkness that had shrouded me all day yesterday and then sat on me till two this morning? How long before despair again? Lauren in the bakery, laughter in the kitchen, the walk with the dogs, sundown in the park, and dinner, during which I kept thinking, A plate, a spoon, a knife, why isn’t Clara with us tonight? — all of it so very dark.

But even these enforced reminders of yesterday’s gloom were little else than a smoke screen I was putting up between me and the crowning moment I meant to revisit ever since going to bed last night. I’d been saving this for later, putting it off each time I seemed about to give in to the thrill of opening the surprise package I was taking my time unwrapping.

Now, with my head resting on the steamed windowpane as I watched people and children trundle along the narrow strip of shoveled snow on the sidewalk, I let my mind drift awhile. “Why did you let me do this, Clara?” I’d asked. All she’d offered was an evasive “Me?” I’d fumbled for words and could tell I was blushing, yet I’d struggled not to lie to her or cover up or deflect the truth or do anything but stay in the moment. Weren’t these her words, in the moment? All I had thought of saying was How do we end this conversation? Or: How do we never end this conversation? But I’d spoken neither sentence.

“Printz?” she’d finally said.

“What?” I blurted out to mean, What more do you want from me?

“In case you’re wondering.” There was another moment of silence: “I didn’t mind.”

“Clara,” I said, “don’t go yet.”

“I’m not going. On second thought, aren’t you supposed to turn over and fall asleep?”

It had made both of us laugh.

In the end, what made me happier was not just how close we’d suddenly grown to each other but that I’d heeded the impulse to call her. Another second and the year would have ended abysmally. Bravo, Printz, I wanted to say, as if what thrilled me now was less the woman on the phone than kudos for finding the courage to call her.

But just as I was thinking of her, the conversation between us began to pulverize, like an underground mummy exposed to air. By tomorrow, will this be nothing or will this be the best we’ve ever had? Tonight’s party seemed hours away, and Lord knows, a nothing could undo everything. Undo what, I thought, undo what? I kept asking, as if resolved to see that nothing had changed for the better since last night, and that perhaps it was time to stop banking on a moment of heat caught in mid-sleep. Will she even remember, I thought, or would I be back to pitiful ?