Colum McCann - Thirteen Ways of Looking

— Would you like me to keep your son’s plate warm, Mr. Mendelssohn?

— That’s okay, Rosita.

— How’s your salmon?

— Oh, it’s good, very good.

Though he has hardly tasted a bite, if truth be told. Not a nourishing way to get through the day. Should have just had lunch on my own rather than invite Elliot along. So much better to sit in an accepted silence than have it enforced. That was something that Katya has learned no doubt: the power of silence. Broke her heart not to see peace. Came so close and then got whiskered away. What was his name? Arafat. To which Eileen once whispered: Ara-fat-lot-of-good-he-is-anyway. Always a woman for the fine Gaelic twist. Don’t put all your begs in one ask-it.

— Is it ever going to stop snowing?

— Doesn’t seem like it, Mr. Mendelssohn.

Oh, the way she rolls her m ’s, I bet she’s great with p ’s and q ’s. Should tell her the story of how I became Quinner, though I can’t quite even remember it myself. Was it simply the sound of the word? Dublin was a good place. Always reminds me of hats.

We leap from cliff edge to cliff edge. Falling occasionally to the ground, sometimes with a good smack, but that’s part of the bargain with age. The memories are still agile enough. Thank God above I never went the Alzheimer’s route. Couldn’t stand the thought of a nursing home. A dark little room at the end of the corridor, somewhere in Queens or the Bronx or Tobago. The heating on too high. The flowers wilting in a grimy little vase. The nurses with a penchant for a backhand smack. Imagine all life coming down to that. Though they say certain ones among them could be lively enough. All those younger widows still willing and able to disappear beneath the covers. He heard once that the incidence of disease is highest of all in nursing homes. One last hurrah. Any port in a storm. The welts and boils hardly matter at that stage. Odd to think that there could ever be another love affair. Wonder if Sally ever thought of it, alone there in her little room, her small TV set, her playing cards on her little table? Solitaire. The only game in town. Would make for a great Hollywood epic that, the Supreme Court justice and his housekeeping nurse, double duty, finally shacking up after all those years. Conflict, drama, resolution. Roll up, roll under. Get your tickets today. He could sign another portion of the will over to her. Her nephew would get a fine schooling then. Perhaps that’s what I should do? Go right home and take out the pages from the files and put that boy further in the will, to hell or high water with Elliot and everyone else. Wouldn’t really cost that much. What is it Sally gets a week? Five hundred with room and board? That’s twenty-five grand a year, most of which she probably sends back. Could save that boy’s life with an extra ten thousand dollars. A drop in the bucket really. A fine lot better than slinging it Elliot’s way, although Katya might bear some of the brunt, and those beautiful kids I seldom see. Still and all, she has enough, his Katya, and how in the world did I get here anyway? Alzheimer’s. That’s the thing. Don’t have it now, probably never will. Would forget about it if I did. Isn’t that right, Eileen? What an awful thing it would be to forget your own wife, though. Though, there are times when he opens a door, or wakes in the morning, and he’s sure she’s still there. Good morning, mo chroí . What am I doing out here on my own? Jilted by my own son.

Rosita, my dear, I lied to you. The salmon is rubbery. The dill sauce is too milky. I feel like I’m back in the Waldorf Astoria. And really I just want to go home to Eileen. Wrap it up there in two white cloths, Dandinho, let me go.

— Sorry, Dad.

Surprise, surprise. Kill the fatted calf. Elliot parks his large carcass in the seat opposite, his face engine-red. Just short of steam coming out of his ears. Tie a blood-pressure cuff around his arm and the needle might break the glass. He’s a certain candidate for a heart attack if he keeps this up. And why in the world would he be fooling around with his assistant anyway? Would he not go the way of that other Elliot, the Spitzer boy, with one l, destined for h-e-l — but he was bright enough at least to cough up a few shekels for a bit of companionship?

Elliot pushes his plate forward on the table top.

— Listen, I’m going to have to take care of a few things….

— Okay.

— At the office.

— You haven’t even touched your food.

— Just get it wrapped, Dad. Take it home. Give it to — whatshername?

— Sally.

— That’s right.

Elliot flicks another look at his phone.

— Is everything okay, El?

He hasn’t called him by the diminutive in years. The elevated track. Is everything okay? If that’s not the stupidest question I ever asked, I don’t know what is. But it doesn’t seem to register with Elliot at all, neither the question nor the name. The boy seems distracted beyond language. He turns in the seat and clicks his fingers, then rubs them together like he’s divining money. Dandinho stands over in the corner, looking straight ahead. Most certainly something on that man’s mind. And what was it about Ptolemy? The truth of sight. He darkened his room and set up a camera obscura on the balcony. The first man to successfully project an entire image from outside onto a screen indoors. That’s what Katya said. A ray of light could not proceed from the eyes. Rather, light was the thing that proceeded towards the eye. The outside world giving to the world inside. He’s never seen Dandinho be anything but polite, but here he is now, fuming in the corner, a light from his eyes looking like it could scorch a path through the restaurant.

— Tell me this, Elliot.

Clicking his fingers again, over his shoulder, like some Arab prince. No friend of Aristotle’s. He feigned madness to keep himself out of prison.

— Did you have words with Dandinho?

— Davido?

— It’s Dandinho. He’s Brazilian. The busboy.

— Never saw him before in my life.

— He looks a bit upset.

— Wouldn’t you be? A busboy at his age?

On a roll now. The anger all sharp-angled. Slapping his credit card down on the table.

— Where’s our waitress?

Was Ptolemy happy to know what he knew? Is Katya happy to keep on struggling? Is Sally happy to wake up in the morning? Not much happiness here in Elliot, that’s for sure. He has the wife, the car, the garage, the job, the kids, but there’s no joy there at all. Used to have it, long ago. A dark magician. Lost it up his sleeve.

— It’s on me, Elliot.

His son still clicking his fingers in Dandinho’s direction.

— Good place, this, to open a restaurant.

— My treat, I insist.

— Where the hell is she?

— Rosita.

— What?

— Rosita’s her name.

— I don’t need her name, Dad, I just need the bill. Sorry. I know, I know. I just, I have some stuff I really have to take care of. An hour ago. I called you. I should have—

Ah, the tremble in my pocket on the street. So the ringer is off after all.

— I told you, son, it’s my pleasure.

He watches as Dandinho passes along the back of the restaurant, carrying the water jug.

— Jesus, says Elliot.

Without the H . Or the A . No joy at all.

None and sweet fuck-all.

— Next week, Dad, I promise.

Finally she comes around the corner, her long blond locks bouncing. Thirty-two perfect shining white teeth. A pair of sharp blue eyes. A girl destined for the big screen, surely, but didn’t she tell him earlier that she was an artist? Or did he just surmise that? There was a touch of blue on the inside of her wrist, wasn’t there?