Andre Aciman - Eight White Nights

I dashed out of the coffee shop with just my shirt on and, from across the street, called out the name of one and then the other. What was I doing here? What were they doing here? Hugs, kisses, laughter. They were each carrying bags of food. I didn’t have to persuade them to come in and join us for coffee. I am so happy, so happy to see you, I said to Clara once I’d introduced Orla to Olaf. That palm on my face, as it lingered on my face, and kept touching parts of my face, spoke all the tenderness I’d lived so many, many days and nights without. They still had tons of things to buy, she said. She ran down some of their unfinished errands. They couldn’t stay too long. Are you happy? I couldn’t help myself from asking when Olaf and Orla were busy talking. Are you happy? she echoed, her way of saying that, yes, she was — or was she parodying what I’d just said, which, in the end, might just have been her way of saying, Yes, I am happy. But we scarcely have ten minutes. Just sit down, take your coats off, I’ll get coffee. I had the strange feeling that I was fighting to keep her with me, struggling against strange odds that were determined to draw her into my life, only to pull her away, and I didn’t know whether these odds were in her will, or in the universe of unfinished grocery errands, or just simply in my head. Part of me couldn’t believe in the sheer luck of running into someone simply because I’d wished it. This could be taken away in a second. Play it light, keep it simple, lie low, you already told her you were happy.

A man almost my age who was sitting alone at the table next to ours had raised his head from his laptop and was staring at us. The women mantled in legend and swank, the errands, the party, the nicknames tossed left and right, those who’d been asked to buy this and that and who were probably busy running similar errands farther downtown, the light hysteria of bumping into each other on the eve of the New Year, the complicated coffee one ordered and the small-black-with-two-sugars-and-something-sweet-if-you-can — Oh, Clara, Clara, will I ever forget this day? — I looked at him and put myself in his place, trying to imagine what he thought of our lives: Were we ridiculous or were we indeed mantled in splendor and dreams? Women, party, New Year’s; suddenly our lives, my life, acquired an incandescent aura I wouldn’t have noticed but for his gaze.

I liked our little corner at Starbucks. I’d imagined something similar happening exactly a week ago on the afternoon of the day we’d met at the movies. Now, seven days later, it was being given to me. How punctual the soul, as if secret alignments between our flimsiest wishes and an obliging if sometimes fractious deity were constantly organizing things for us. There’d be awkwardness at the moment of parting, but I didn’t want to think about that right now; I knew Clara would figure out a way and choose the least difficult path when it came to resuming her errands. Perhaps it was better we didn’t have a moment to ourselves right now — too soon, too much to say, perhaps a hampered and oblique glance was all we needed to know we’d be back to where we’d left off last night on the phone. Once again I tried to stave off disturbing thoughts. Olaf was speaking to both women. I went back to get more sugar for Clara. I loved this.

When I got back, I saw that Clara was wearing the same sweater she’d worn at Edy’s. I wanted to rub my face against it, smell it, snuggle into it. Little lamb, who made you, Clara? Even now, I’d give anything to touch her face, push her hair back with the palm of my hand. I liked the way she spoke to Olaf or, rather, listened to him and nodded away, somewhat gravely, as his metallic voice rang in our little corner. I already knew that not a minute after seeing me tonight she’d make fun of his name and mimic his voice. Olaf goodenough, Olaf bellylaugh, Olaf, chuff chuff, had enough, and we’d laugh and laugh at Olaf’s name and draw closer because of it, though he was my best friend and she clearly seemed to like him. I caught her eyes once as she listened to him. I know, they said. We’re planning a character assassination, I responded with a glance, I just know you know I know. I know this too, she seemed to say. Oh, Clara, Clara.

I should have noticed her earlier. Someone was standing outside and literally staring at us — at me. The boy had stuck his face right against the glass window. When I stared back at him, it hit me that the little boy must surely be with his mother, and that his mother was staring in too. Rachel.

Once again I dashed out of Starbucks. She had just left the house and was going to buy a few things for tonight’s dinner. The sisters were doing their usual last-minute thing. I led her in, managed to grab two chairs from two tables nearby, and widened the circle at our table — introductions, introductions, my offering to get coffee, taking the little boy to the counter to have him pick something, his ice-cold hand in mine, perfunctory jokes with those on line, until it was my turn to order and give out my name to the cashier. Rachel, who was used to being at the center and always the one to make introductions, must have felt uneasy; she was among strangers. To compensate, I let the others infer that I’d known her long before meeting any of them. Perhaps I wanted her to feel that no one would dream of challenging her seniority or attempt to unseat her. But perhaps I also wanted to keep Clara mystified and on her toes. Who on earth are these people you’re with? said Rachel’s inquisitive gaze, not without a hint of irony aimed at them, or at me for knowing them. I shrugged my shoulders to mean: People, just people. Clara had stopped speaking to Olaf and was eyeing Rachel, as though searching for an opportunity to break the silence between them, or, as I instantly sensed while watching her size up Rachel’s ash green winter coat that I’d seen her wear for years on cold days, to find one good reason to dislike her. Two New Year’s parties, and I was invited to both and, before setting eyes on Rachel today, had never thought I’d have to decide between them. This could get very awkward, I kept thinking, hoping neither would bring up the subject of the evening’s festivities, though I’d already resolved to go to one party and then the other, except that if I went too early to one and left, any idiot would figure I was on my way to another. For a few years now, it was always at Rachel’s house that I’d watched the countdown on December 31. Was I already betraying her, casting her off?

Suddenly the barista called out “Oscar!” very loudly. Right away I stood up to pick up Rachel’s coffee. I was trying not to be too obvious about my nickname, but without looking, I already knew that Rachel was startled. Clara had scored a point and was at this very moment gloating over her victory, which she’d be dying to communicate with something like a wink in my direction. I also knew that, owing to her victory, Clara might stop looking for reasons to dislike Rachel and no longer wear her bored, slightly absent, glazed look that made you feel like a toad among giants.

I began to wonder whether I had given that nickname to the cashier to keep Rachel equally mystified — side with Clara after siding with Rachel, make Rachel think she’d lost me, if only to remind her there’d always been a side of me she never knew or ever cared to ask about and for which she was now paying the price for ignoring all the years I’d known her. Rachel, who may still not have suspected it was my nickname she’d heard, was in no mood now to make friendly overtures to Clara, nor would she be inclined to respond had Clara attempted any. Besides, there was nothing the two seemed willing to speak about, and my jump-starting a conversation to break their chill seemed futile. Had they decided to pick on me as a way of drawing closer to each other, I’d have been willing to play along. Watching Clara make fun of me for this, or for that, and hearing Rachel confirm the criticism and add something like “Don’t you especially hate it when he. .” to which Clara would easily agree, and just as eagerly add yet another zinger of her own — anything would have been worth the price if only they’d become friends, and in being friends close a circle around the three of us, like three toddlers winding a twisted belt round them. What I feared was that, to spite me for threatening to leave her out, Rachel might start dropping hints either about Lauren or about a phantom woman who had drawn everyone’s attention yesterday afternoon.