The Unfortunates (22 page)

“I screamed,
‘Putain!’
—the only French I have from my mom comes out when I’m in trouble. She never spoke it with me. Anyway, I panicked and I turned the wheel. I heard Victor brake.”

All she could see, another and another russet fringe of wing bursting in and out of the mist.

“Drove right into a ditch. One tire sunk, the other plastered with blood and feathers. Horrible.”

Victor and Bill pushed while she steered the car—a silver Range Rover she’d chosen because it seemed to be what she was supposed to choose, a popular model in town, both showy and restrained—backward out of the ditch. She began to cry only when Bill set about making sure the tire wasn’t damaged or off the axle. The way he was kicking the tires—this, inexplicably, was what did it. “What’d you think you’re looking at?” she said to Victor, in her best wiseguy voice, to stop him from consoling her. “Wild turkeys, dumb as rocks!”

He nodded and left her alone to stare angrily into the trees. That morning, as she’d dressed for the closing, rain dripped through a crack in the skylight and rolled down the mirror, onto her glasses, where they sat beside the bed.

“I was so embarrassed.”

“You should never be embarrassed,” Bob says, his hand a thick crescent around his glass, “to have a feeling.”

“Why didn’t you call? Why didn’t you text?” George asks.

“You forget to turn off the sound. I didn’t want to interrupt. I was fine.”

“Dumb as rocks. They are, indeed.” Martha says.

“I can see you on the road, you poor girl,” Bob says, “with all those birds.”

George can see it too. Not too,
better
. There she is, dabbing at her lashes with the knuckle of her index finger, the birds lumbering past her into the misty shroud of the woods. It was a premonition he had had in the theater. He
knew
. Nothing separates them. Not even the usual impossibilities of time and space.

Iris looks at Martha’s prim outfit. “Oh, God, I’m super overdone,” she says, in the same affable, self-deprecating voice with which she’s been telling her story, gesturing to the short, sequin-dotted meringue she changed into after the closing. “It made sense at home.”

“It’s lovely,” Martha says.

“Bill drove my car and Victor drove me home. I called the car service and, George, it was that nice man, the nice older man, who keeps his hat on?”

“I knew something was wrong!” George cries.

“We were worried about you,” Bob says.

“No, no, the salad’s for me, over here.” Martha waves. “And I’ll have a look at the wine list now, please.”

“Doesn’t wine give you a headache?” Iris asks.

“No, you?”

“Maybe?” Iris answers, confused. “If I drink too much of it.”

“Now, George,” Martha says. “Your opera. It’s about—is it about the end of civilization?”

“That’s right.” Happily, modestly, he studies the glistening mound of steak tartare that’s appeared before him.

“And what were those blinking things on wires?” asks Martha. “Towards the end? During the battle?”

“Nano-drones. Weren’t those neat? Operation Tinkerbell, in the annotated version.”

“No whiplash?” Bob asks, looking at Iris. “Nothing like that? You’re sure?”

“I’m fine. I want to hear about rehearsal. I bet the music was”—Iris tries out a word she wouldn’t have used a year before—“glorious.” She regrets it immediately.

“You mean, you haven’t heard it?”

“He’s very secretive.”

“I didn’t want her to hear bits and pieces of it until I was satisfied. I want her to experience the full effect. Tonight was to be, but … There are as many chances as we like from here on out.”

“That’s why I couldn’t stand I was missing it!”

“There was some Spanish or Italian?” Martha asks.

“
Cazzo
, Monkey. My money’s on George doesn’t speak either,” Bob says.

Iris laughs. It seems to be what’s expected.

“You know what that word means?” Bob asks, surprised. “Where’d you pick that up?”

“Oh,” she says. “Oh, no, I don’t know what it means.”

Bob and Martha smile at her in the warm light. They look alike, Iris thinks, though Martha is thin and Bob is not. Mineral-blue eyes, turtled and almost lashless; translucent skin; chinless as pilgrims. Expensive teeth. Hairlines high up their foreheads, alien, royal. Though Bob has the scrambled nose of a gin man and Martha’s is as long as the fingers tapering around her fork. Odd that Bob’s fingers are delicate too, considering his thick, square palms and the plump, womanish ferocity of his big frame.

George clears his throat noisily and leans back in his chair.

“Please, go on, George.”

“Well, it began with the harem—I thought, Wouldn’t a harem make a good chorus. Fooling around, but Iris urged me to take myself seriously. So I found a composer. Sometimes I set the text to the music Vijay sent me, sometimes I wrote the text before I got the music. The point is, it’s not a story laid over a sound, you see? Our bid, Vijay’s and mine, was to make the union in-di-visible.”

“They were e-mailing each other for months before George told me,” Iris says.

“She wasn’t even jealous when she found out.”

“Why would she be?” Martha asks.

“I suppose—well, what Vijay and I came to understand was, how to put it, in a foreign country you hear the language all around you
like
music. Right now, you understand what I mean, so you don’t hear the sounds. But when you can’t use a language, its color, its chroma, appears—my partner’s phrasing is a bit romantic—he says that the ‘language undresses for you,’ it reveals its sounds and rhythms, its form. Its innate musicality. To write, at least parts, anyway, in a language I don’t know for a score I haven’t heard—the mystery may be returned. We are writing about a fractured world, after all. The process reinforces that. We tried to keep the meaning from each other as we went, so we might have a shot at—how can we return the sound, how can we put sentiment, real sentiment—by divesting the creator of the ability to create! So he—I should say, I, would have to be smart enough to know—an expert, but not in what he is doing—so he stumbles in the dark, so he may experience the revelation—if the right hand does not know what the left hand is doing, it is only in the dark that we may—” He circles his hands in the air.

“What a load of shit,” Bob says, pointing his fork at George. “High concept, why not? One day Martha and I will be at a party and your name will come up and we’ll say, That edgy fuck? That guy? That guy used to be our friend.”

“Thank you,” George says, genuinely moved.

“Bob, language!” Martha cries. “George, that portion when the harem women were attacked by the gypsies was striking. Is that how you meant it, for the treatment of the women to be so degrading?”

“You are thinking of the chorus in Italian where the women sing
yes
? Because they’re enslaved, so that’s all they can say, sure. And when they go up and down the octaves,
s
í
, s
í
, s
í
—”

“Is that your mother’s name?” Martha asks.

“Where?” He glances around at the adjoining tables.

“And that,” Bob says, “is what you get when you’re married to an analyst.”

“I’m not an analyst. I’m a professor of clinical psychiatry.”

“How clever,” George says.

“But that’s not why,” Iris prompts. “Tell them like you told me.”

“Okay, as we see it, after so many iterations, the word becomes a pure color wash of sound. In this way, the women are freed. Metaphorically. By accepting their yes. That’s Vijay’s. I can’t take credit. Try it:
s
í
, s
í
, s
í
.
Say it again.”

The three sit silently looking into each other’s face, mouthing the words.

“Still, I wonder—” says Martha.

“God, yes,” Bob says. “Another bottle, the same.”

There’s a long pause, punctuated by the rigorous motion of silverware.

Iris laughs, suddenly and without precedent. “What does
cazzo
mean?”

“Cock,” Bob says.

“Tell us something about yourself, Iris,” Martha says.

“Oh, hum. I’ve got nothing. I like hearing about George’s opera.”

“Iris also has a musical background,” Bob says.

“You do? What kind?”

“Not any real thing. A couple of bands. Punk. Glam, for a second. Ridiculous. The glam wasn’t—it was mostly about the makeup for us, so it didn’t work out. Turns out glam on women is just women.”

“You were the singer?”

“No way. Too shy, no pipes. I played bass. Shitty bass.”

“Wait.” Bob puts down his glass. “Tell me you were into the Pist.”

“Yes! I worshipped the Pist. I wrote this extremely bad song that was a total rip-off of ‘Threat.’ Remember ‘Threat’?”

“What’s Pist?” George asks.

“Best band,” Bob says, “ever.”

“We played CBGB’s once.”

“You’re breaking my heart,” Bob says. “What were you called?”

“That was when we were the Peepholes. But we were booked to play so early, like five people were there.”

“How’d you trick it up? Eye makeup and a serious belt? Everything else shit? Shit jeans, shit T-shirt?”

“Yes, yes, yes.”

“Record deal?”

“Not really.”

“I bet you signed your rights away to some slug. If I go buy your album on Amazon or whatever, you wouldn’t see a dime, right?”

“Not a dime. But we never had a real album. I don’t think the slug made much off us.”

“CBGB’s,” Bob says, shaking his head.

“Was that the coffeehouse?” George suggests.

“I don’t miss it,” Iris says. “Stage fright.”

“When does the opera open?” Martha asks.

“Three months. Christmastime.”

“Get the tourists. Smart.”

“Will CeCe be hosting something?” Martha asks. “To celebrate?”

“I didn’t tell her,” Bob says, staring at Iris.

George explains. When he’s finished, Martha shakes her head and offers her condolences.

“We hope she’ll be coming home soon. But you understand, she doesn’t want the word out. Not until she has a sense of how she’s doing, one way or the other.”

“On the upside,” Martha says, “it’s good to hear her trial’s phase two. And that it’s open label.”

“I’m not clear what that means,” George admits.

“It means they’ve got a lot of money under it,” Bob offers. He lifts the lemon peel from his espresso saucer and chews it noisily.

“True.” Martha continues, “At this point, sometimes a drug’s already on the market for something else and they’re working on a different application. Label expansion. Viagra was like that. Sometimes regulatory submission is pending and they’re looking to see if benefit exceeds risk. These tend to run over longer periods of time, like your mother’s. But a fair shot at FDA approval. Phase three, the number of trial participants expands. Phase four is postmarket surveillance. Open label means you know what she’s getting. She’s not getting a sugar pill.”

“Pull a few strings, George?” Bob says. “Who’d you sleep with, business or medical?”

“That’s not how it works, Monkey.”

“Who’s developing?” Bob continues. “It’s called Astrasyne? Bad name. Come on, I’m curious.”

Iris notices a blotch flowering on Martha’s pale neck. “No,” Martha says. She flips her napkin onto the table. She stands abruptly, heads for the bathroom.

“Well, that was dramatic,” Bob says dourly. “Hey, how are those?” He points at the half-eaten profiteroles on Iris’s plate. “Good?”

“Do you want me to go check on Martha?” Iris asks, to get out from under Bob’s attention.

“Whatever.”

She finds Martha at the sink in the large, dim restroom, wiping her cheeks with her hands.

“I’m sorry to pry,” Martha says quickly, straightening up, “but is George doing all right?”

“George?” Iris dislikes both of them. She’ll make an excuse, next time.

“He seems like he’s under stress.”

“Yeah, he’s a wreck. The opera’s a big deal for him. Hey, are
you
okay?”

“Bob pushes my buttons.”

“More flowers, right?”

“Flowers?”

Iris has made a mistake. What mistake, she isn’t sure. “Isn’t that what they do, these jerks of ours, when they piss us off?”

The door swings open. A woman rustles past them into a stall.

“Are you suggesting Bob and I end fights with flowers? Is that how grown-ups resolve conflict where you’re from?” Martha looks at Iris through the mirror.

“Wow. Okay.”

They return to the table. Martha suggests that she has to get up early the next day.

“Hate to let the drinks go to waste,” Bob says, reaching past the coffee cups to swallow the warm remainder of Martha’s wine. He pays the check, waving George away. This pleases George. Yes, he treated them to his opera. Only right they pay for dinner. They’d loved
The Burning Papers
. They’d asked him hard questions and he answered impressively. They stride through the mirrored room. How sharp he looks with Iris by his side in her hot, crazy dress. People glance up as they pass.

In the car home, she holds his hands in her lap. “Martha seems unhappy. I’m glad we’re not like that. I’m glad
I’m
not like that. Bob is so gross.”

“He’s my friend.”

“He has his charm. But he’s a fucking pig to Martha. I mean, didn’t you notice how he was staring at me? Martha did.”

“Not pig.
Monkey
,” George snarls, lifting his hands to scratch his head like a cartoon primate. “And as far as I’m concerned, everybody’s hitting on you.” His naked wrist. When will he remember to pick his watch up from the shop? Tomorrow, tomorrow on the way home from work. He pushes up his nose with his index finger and makes his best snouting-pig sound.

She gasps and fixes her eyes on his. “No, Mr. Pig. Mr. Pig, no!” she cries, and as he leans toward her, she recoils down into the trough between the seats, disappearing into the glittering foam of her dress, laughing as she sinks.

21

The next morning, exiting the 8:42 into the rush of Grand Central, George pauses in surprise. The canvas tarps that hung like great dingy sails against the station’s east windows are gone. The terminal is filled with light. Gone too are the workmen in city coveralls, rigged to the ceiling. All summer they hung from the painted-blue sky, cleaning decades of grime. Sunlight beams through the scaffolding, still erected against the glass. He strides through the crowd, swarming its concentric circles under the ceiling’s constellations.