The City of Mirrors (93 page)

“How does it feel?” Olla asks.

“How does what feel?”

“Logan, don’t be modest. You’ve made quite a splash. You’re
famous.
”

He changes the subject. “By any chance, have you talked to Race lately?”

“Oh, that,” Olla sighs. “I wasn’t really surprised. He’s been hinting at it for a while, actually. I’m surprised you didn’t see it coming.”

Just one more thing he has missed. “What do you make of it?” he says, then adds, jumping the gun, “I think it’s a huge mistake.”

“Maybe. But he knows his own mind—Kaye, too. It’s what they want. Are you going to sell it to them?”

“I didn’t really have a choice.”

“There’s always a choice, Logan. But if you’re asking my opinion, you did the right thing. The place has been sitting there too long. I always wondered why you didn’t let it go. Maybe this was the reason.”

“So that my son could toss his career away?”

“Now you’re being cynical. It’s a nice thing, what you’re doing. Why not let yourself just look at it that way?”

Her voice is even, careful. Her words, not rehearsed exactly, are nonetheless things that have been imagined in advance. Logan has the unsettling sense, yet again, that he is a step behind everyone, a quantity to be managed by those who know better than he does.

“Your feelings are complicated, I know that,” Olla goes on, “but a lot of time has passed. In a way, it’s not just a new start for Race. It’s a new start for you.”

“I wasn’t aware I needed one.”

A pause at the other end of the line; then Olla says, “I apologize. That didn’t come out right. What I mean to say is that I worry about you.”

“Why would you worry about
me
?”

“I know you, Logan. You don’t let go of things.”

“I’m just afraid that our son is about to make the worst error of his life. That this is all some romantic whim.”

In the silence that follows, Logan thinks of Olla standing in her kitchen, telephone receiver pressed to her ear. The room is cozy, low-ceilinged; copper pots and dried herbs, tied into bunches with twine, hang from the beams. She will be twirling the phone cord around her index finger, a lifelong habit. Other images, other memories: the way she pushes her eyeglasses up to her forehead to read small print; the reddish spot that flares on her forehead whenever she is angry; her habit of salting her food without tasting it. Divorced, but still the keepers of shared history, the inventory of each other’s lives.

“Let me ask you something,” Olla says.

“All right.”

“You’re all over the news. You’ve been working toward this your whole life. The way I see it, you’re getting more than you ever could have asked for. Are you enjoying
any
of this? Because it doesn’t sound as if you are.”

The question is peculiar. Enjoying it? Is that what one is supposed to do? “I haven’t thought about it that way.”

“Then maybe it’s time you should. Put aside the big questions for a while and just live your life.”

“I thought I was.”

“Everyone does. I miss you, Logan, and I liked being married to you. I know you don’t believe that, but it’s true. We had a wonderful family, and I’m very proud of all you’ve accomplished. But Bettina makes me happy. This
life
makes me happy. In the end, it isn’t very complicated. I want you to have that, too.”

He has nothing to say; she has him dead to rights. Does he feel hurt? Why should he? It is only the truth. It occurs to him suddenly that this is precisely what Race is asking from him. His son wants to be happy.

“So we’ll see you Sunday?” Olla asks, steering the conversation back to firmer ground. “Four o’clock—don’t be late.”

“Race told me the same thing.”

“That’s because he knows you the same as I do. Don’t be insulted—we’re all used to it by now.” She pauses. “Come to think of it, why don’t you bring someone?”

He’s not sure what to make of this curious suggestion. “That isn’t the province of ex-wives, generally speaking.”

“I’m serious, Logan; you have to start somewhere. You’re a celebrity. Surely there’s someone you can invite.”

“There isn’t. Not really.”

“What about what’s-her-name, the biochemist.”

“Olla, that was two years ago.”

Olla sighs—a wifely sound, a sound of marriage. “I’m only trying to help. I don’t like to see you like this. It’s your big moment. You shouldn’t do it alone. Just think about it, all right?”

The call over, Logan broods. The sun has set, darkening the room. “Like this”? What is he like? And “celebrity”: the word is strange. He is not a celebrity. He is a man with a job who lives alone, who comes home to an apartment that looks like a suite at a hotel.

He pours himself a glass of wine and walks to the bedroom. In the closet he finds his suit coat and, in an outer pocket, Nessa’s card. She answers on the third ring, slightly breathless.

“Miss Tripp, it’s Logan Miles. Am I disturbing you?”

She seems unsurprised by the call. “I just came back from a run. Give me a moment, will you? I need to get a glass of water.”

She puts down the phone. Logan listens to her footsteps, then hears a tap running. Is he hearing anything—anyone—else? He doesn’t think so. Thirty seconds and she returns.

“I’m glad you called, Professor. Did you see the article? I suppose you must have.”

“I thought it was very good.”

She laughs lightly. “You’re lying, but that’s all right. You didn’t give me very much to work with. You’re a secretive man. I wish we could have spoken longer.”

“Yes, well, that’s the reason I called, you see. I was wondering, Miss Tripp—”

“Please,” she interrupts, “call me Nessa.”

He feels suddenly flustered. “Nessa, of course.” He swallows and wades in. “I know it’s short notice, but I was wondering if, perhaps, you’d like to join me for a party this Sunday at four o’clock”

“Why, Professor.” She sounds coyly amused. “Are you asking me on a date?”

Logan knows it at once: he is making a fool of himself. He has no idea if she is even available. The invitation is preposterous.

“I have to warn you,” he says, backing away, “it’s a birthday party for a couple of five-year-olds. My grandsons, actually.” How smooth of you, he thinks, telling her you’re a grandfather. With every word, he feels like he is digging his own grave. “Twins,” he adds, rather pointlessly.

“Will there be a magician?”

“I’m sorry?”

“Because I’m very fond of magicians.”

Is she making fun of him? This was a terrible idea. “Of course, I understand if you’re not free. Perhaps another time—”

“I’d love to,” she says.

Sunday arrives, sunny and bright. Logan passes the morning buying presents for the boys—a hop-a-long for Noa; for his brother, Cam, the more cerebral of the duo, a construction set—takes a swim to settle his nerves and waits for the hour to come. At three o’clock he retrieves his car from the garage—undriven for many weeks, it is, to his dismay, rather dusty—and drives to the address Nessa has provided. He finds himself in front of a large, modern apartment complex three blocks from the harbor; Nessa is waiting by the entrance. She is dressed in white slacks, a peach-colored top, and low-heeled, open-toed sandals. Her hair is loose and freshly washed. She is holding a large package wrapped in silver paper. Logan disembarks to open her door.

“That’s very thoughtful of you,” he says of the parcel, “but you didn’t need to bring a present.”

“It’s a tether ball,” she says, pleased. She places the box on the backseat with the others. “You don’t think they’re too young? My nephews plays with theirs for hours.”

This is the first mention of her family, which is, Logan learns, quite large. Raised in a northern suburb, where her parents still live—her father is a postmaster—she is the fourth of six children. Three of them, her older sisters and a younger brother, are married with families of their own. So, Logan thinks, she is alone but not unacquainted with the life he has led, that customary life of children and duty and never enough time. Logan has already explained that the party will be held at his ex-wife’s house, a fact on which Nessa has made no comment. He wonders if this is a reportorial habit, withholding her thoughts so that others will reveal more of themselves, then chastises himself for being suspicious; maybe it makes no difference to someone of her generation, raised in a more ethically malleable world of constantly changing partners.

The drive to Olla’s takes thirty minutes. Their talk comes easily. Little mention is made of the conference. He questions her about her work, if she enjoys it, which she says she does. She likes the travel, meeting new people, learning about the world and trying to shape it into stories. “I was always like that, even as a kid,” she explains. “I’d sit in my room and write for hours. Silly stuff mostly, elves and castles and dragons, but as I got older, I got more interested in real things.”

“Do you still write fiction?”

“Oh, once in a while, just for fun. Every reporter I know has a half-written novel in their desk somewhere, usually pretty awful. It’s like a disease we all have, this wish to get below the surface somehow, to find some kind of larger pattern.”

“Do you think that’s possible?”

She considers the question, looking out the windshield “I think there is one. Life
means
something. It’s not just going to work and making dinner and taking your car to the repair shop. Wouldn’t you agree?”

They are passing through an outer neighborhood: tidy houses set far back from the road, mailboxes standing at attention at the curb, dogs barking from the yards as they drive by.

“I think most people would,” Logan says. “At least, we hope so. It can be very hard to see, though.”

She seems pleased with his answer. “So you have your way, and I have mine. Some people go to church. I write stories. You study history. They’re not really so very different.” She glances over at him, then returns her gaze to the passing world. “I have a friend who’s a novelist. He’s rather famous—maybe you’ve heard of him. The man’s a total mess, drinks a liter a day, barely bothers to change his clothes, the whole cliché of the tortured artist. I asked him once, Why do you do it if it makes you feel so awful? Because seriously, the man’s not going to make it to forty the way he lives. His books are thoroughly depressing, too.”

“What did he say?”

“ ‘Because I can’t stand not knowing.’ ”

They arrive. The door stands open in welcome; the road in front of the house is lined with cars. Parents and children of various ages are making their way up the path, the youngest ones dashing ahead, bearing the presents they cannot wait to see opened, their magical contents revealed. Logan hadn’t realized the party would be so large; who are all these people? Companions of the boys from play school, neighbors, colleagues of Race and Kaye and their families, Olla’s sisters and their husbands, a few old friends that Logan recognizes but in some cases hasn’t seen for years.

Olla greets them as they enter. She is wearing a willowy dress, a large, somewhat clumsy necklace, neither shoes nor makeup. Her hair, gray since her early forties, falls unmanaged to her shoulders. Gone forever is the barrister in a polished suit and heels, replaced by a woman of simpler, more relaxed habits and tastes. She kisses Logan on both cheeks and turns to Nessa to shake hands, her eyes bright with barely concealed surprise; never did his ex-wife imagine that her dare would be accepted. Nessa goes to the kitchen to fetch drinks while Logan and Olla carry their presents to the spare room off the hall, where a huge pile of gifts rests on the bed.

“Who is she, Logan?” Olla says enthusiastically. “She’s lovely.”

“You mean young.”

“That’s entirely your business. How did you meet her?”

He tells her about the interview. “It was kind of a shot in the dark,” he admits. “I was surprised she said yes, an old codger like me.”

Olla smiles. “Well, I’m glad you asked her. And she certainly seems to like you.”

In the living room he moves among the adults, greeting those he knows, introducing himself to those he doesn’t. Nessa is nowhere to be found. Logan exits through the patio doors onto the ample, sloped lawn, which is flanked by elaborate gardens, Bettina’s handiwork. The children are madly dashing around according to some secret code of play. He spies Nessa seated with Kaye at the edge of the patio, the two of them locked in animated talk, but before he can go over, Race grips him by the arm.

“Dad, you should have told me,” he says with mischievous delight. “Holy moly.”

“Blame your mother. It was her idea, me bringing a date.”

“Well, good for her. Good for you. Boys,” he calls, “come say hello to your grandfather.”

They break away from their game and trot toward him. Logan kneels to gather their small, warm bodies in his arms.

“Did you bring us presents?” Cam asks, beaming.

“Of course I did.”

“Come play with us,” Noa begs, tugging at his hand.

Race rolls his eyes. “Boys, let your grandfather catch his breath.”

Logan glances past his grandsons and sees that Nessa has already joined the children. “What, do I look too old?” He smiles at the boys. He is full of memories of other parties, when Race was small. “What are the rules?”

“You freeze when you get tagged,” Noa explains, wide-eyed. It is as if he is announcing a discovery that will change the fate of mankind. “When everybody freezes, you win.”

“Show me the way,” he says.

The party roars forward, riding the children’s energy, which seems inexhaustible, an engine that can’t run down. Logan allows himself to be tagged as quickly as possible, though Nessa does not, dodging and weaving until, with a shriek, she succumbs. A pair of ponies arrive by trailer, swaybacked and balding, like moth-eaten clothes. They are so docile they seem drugged; the man in charge looks like he slept under a bridge. Never mind: the children are thrilled. Cam and Noa take the first rides, while the rest form a line to wait their turns.

“Having a good time?” Logan, approaching Nessa from the side, hands her a glass of wine. Her brow is damp with perspiration. Parents are snapping pictures, hoisting their children onto the backs of the mangy ponies.