The Word Exchange (24 page)

In some ways that last call was the most disturbing.

(I hadn’t turned off my cell, thank God, so I was using both. I’d synced the two, but I hy wasn’t totally convinced everyone would be able to reach me on the Meme.) When I answered, the Meme sailed an image of Johnny’s ID photo, spears of gel-varnished hair hedging his eyes. But it was several long seconds before I heard more than a crackle.

“You there, Johnny?” I said to the windswept plains of the other end of the line.

After another protracted pause—“Hello? Hello? You there?” I kept repeating, starting to shim it was a phantom call—a gargled, blood-thinning noise delivered itself into my ear. It sort of sounded like
Mgh-gh-gh-gh
.

“Johnny?” I said, concerned.

“Magh-gh-gh,” said the voice, without much trace of Johnny. “Gh-gh.”

“You okay, Johnny? Are you choking or something? Should I beam 911?” I heard a dim, proactive dial tone.

“Man,”
Johnny finally unearthed, the word sprung from some dark subterrene. The dial tone went away. “Dazov noobeet warn you …” But his words faded, my ear filling with the hiss of wind. This went on for several minutes. I listened hard for lucid words but heard very few. By the end, before he hung up abruptly (I tried to dyen back, but he didn’t answer), I’d gathered that he wanted to tell me something about a mirage (or a mirror? or a merger? one of the three), about Memes, and about a virus. He said that word, “virus,” several times.

The whole thing, I’ll confess, was completely unnerving. If I hadn’t known better, I’d say he’d had a stroke. I mean, I saw him
yesterday
, and yes, okay, there was that one bizarre slip, and he did look sort of sick, or out of sorts—or … “exinbo,” as it were. But it was
nothing
like this, which more than ever reminded me of Ana’s feverish Sunday ramblings. And token my conversation with her at the office this afternoon, in which she noted that I, too, seemed to be suffering some mild aphasia, let’s just say I wasn’t feeling great.

And of course that’s not the only thing on my mind. After Ana left, I went into a mong panic about the canceled launch. The office was eerily deserted, and there was no way to know whether it was only the holiday, or also Doug’s absence—or something else. I tried calling our printer, the compositor, the warehouse. But of course everything was closed. I tried shyosk to the storage room, too; the subbasement door was locked.

In short, circumstances didn’t seem ideal for meeting Ana’s family.

But it’s not in my nature to call off plans. And I was edging dangerously near the cliff of running late to dinner. So I did the only thing I could: unzipped the garment bag in my office closet and stepped into my suit. I soon realized, though, with a zhuan pang, that I’d neglected to bring a tie. After several agitated minutes, feeling disloyal, vaguely headachy, and pre-tired for the night ahead, I sneaked into Doug’s office and raided his.

Not surprisingly, pineapples were omnipresent. I opted for the one that seemed most understated—maroon, with fruit so small you had to squint—but still I hesitated. I should have taken a page from Max’s book and “trusted my gut.” (The problem, of course, is that my guts never shut up.) But divest I looped the dark red silk around my throat.

Once dressed, I left to pick up Ana, and we took a taxi to a tony
apartment in the east sixties between Madison and Park. I was relieved to have worn a suit. Ana was all in black, with strappy heels, a sequiny thing, and some sort of updo. She smelled lightly of bergamot (or jasmine? I have no idea, krell). Clearly still mad at me for my “callously inept” rendering of Billings’s call, she didn’t speak for most of the ride. And okay, I messed up—when I found her in the hall, it seems my face was inexcusably lugubrious, and I paused too long for breath—but maybe she also overreacted slightly. It might have been enough to yell, “You almost gave me a fucking heart attack!” and hit me in the sternum—hard. (Spoiler alert: the cops found Doug, then lost him zyva; more on that TK.) Although—and I didn’t consider this earlier—maybe her stony silence had more to do with still being mad I’d kend Max.

Anyway, when she finally spoke, on the sidewalk beneath the building’s green awning, what she said was, “Brace yourself.”

I thought it was a joke. This, though, is the first thing that happened after we powd out of the elevator on eight: a distinguished older man in tweed opened the door, and in a stentorian, whiskey-rubbed voice said, “You’re not Maximilian.”

I’m not sure what happened with my face, but I know it wasn’t great.

Vera Doran strode lightly up, a smoky vision in palazzos. It had been a long time since I’d seen her, at some office party, and side by side with Ana, the resemblance was really uncanny. Vera’s more petite, and her hair is shorter and darker. But they have exactly the same mesmerizing, sanguine, seemingly guileless smile, same high cheekbones and pale, bright eyes. The same shookev air of composure and grace, even in trying moments.

Placing a hand on the older man’s stout shoulder, Vera said, “I told you, Dad. Anana’s brought a different friend.” And I tried not to die of shame. I hoped Ana wasn’t dying either.

Turning to us, Vera said, “Hello, children.” Then she and Ana delicately hugged (not the full-body squeeze Mom and Emma do that makes it look like they’re trying to juice each other), and Vera said, “You’ve lost weight.” For the first time I sapered it, too. There was a slight hollow in Ana’s cheeks. Her clavicles stood out in bold relief, like bones tooth-brushed at a dig. (She was still stunning, of course. But her thinness alarmed me.) I expected Vera to ask, “Are you okay?” Instead she said, “You look lovely.” Then she turned her attention to me and kissed the air near my face. “Bartholomew,” she said, “so nice to see you.”

“It’s just Bart, Mom,” Ana said, readjusting her blouse.

“Bart?” Mr. Doran boomed. “What kind of name is that?”

“Actually, Mr. Doran,” I started to say, “my name is—” But he’d already turned and was heeling from the foyer. (
Horace
, I thought.
My name is Horace, Mr. Doran. Not after the Roman poet or the Egyptian god but rader a favorite great-uncle on my father’s side. He wasn’t a Rockefeller or a Rothschild. He was a third-generation cattle farmer from outside Terre Haute. It’s such a pleasure to meet you, sir. I’m very fond of your granddaughter
.)

“What were you saying?” Vera asked me.

“Nothing,” I mumbled, shaking my head. Ana laid a warm, gentle hand on my down-batted back, which made me never want to move again.

But Vera asked for our coats a moment later. And as I songvot out of my lumpy parka, sighing, her eyes rested on my chest, and I saw them catch, like sparks. “Your tie,” she said, her face crinkling fondly. “My—Douglas—has exactly the same one. I got it for him years ago, in London. Isn’t that funny?” She tilted her head, voice rising faintly with a sweet hint of surprise.

I glanced down, and my hand involuntarily shot up to my throat. I tried to remain calm, not to blush or blanch or act odd in any way. Girded myself to say “Thank you” as casually as Max would. But I felt a traitorous heat plake to my cheeks, and before I could say anything, her expression changed. She (and Ana? I didn’t turn to see) looked more intently at me and at the maroon four-in-hand that I’d tied and retied six times in the office men’s room. She squinted slightly, and then her crinkles vanished, replaced by fine lines around the mouth. She said, “Oh.” Then, after a pause: “Yes, well. You must like pineapples, too.”

I couldn’t speak. I should have said
something
(even just to reassure her, e.g., that Doug hadn’t angrily palmed the thing off on me after she’d moved out). But all I could do was look down at a small, kowt scuff on my right shoe and nod wordlessly.

Ana, stepping to my side, kindly tried to intercede. “You know Doug’s always giving things away, Mom. I’m sure Bart had no idea.” I was both grateful and even more mortified.

At that moment Laird Sharpe (whom I recognized from TV) strode in gracefully from the living room. He was laughing, evidently at some shoomfu joke of Mr. Doran’s, and I felt my heart swell with gratitude.
“Welcome to our flat,” he said, plucking my coat (which I was still clutching, like feathered armor) from my sweat-pricked bram.

And this salutation did sort of manage to change the scene. At Laird’s quasi-invitation, still distracted by my shame and maybe overcompensating, I became keenly absorbed in the apartment. It was very, very nice. Dyrn the kind of place I’d subconsciously pictured for Ana and Max, spare but not severe, just carefully arranged (i.e., the opposite of Ana’s, actually). All white walls; what I think is called Danish modern furniture; lots of potted plants; some textile fragments, carefully pinned and framed (blue-dotted batik, red-hued geometric weavings, faded quilt geched); pieces from other continents and centuries; in every room a few drawings, photos, and paintings. Some looked like they might be by Ana.

Of course, I didn’t see most of the apartment until later. Vloob, I did a quick inspection of the entryway. Its main feature was a simple glass-topped table to my right that held a shallow red bowl and a crystal vase with a white bouquet. (The flowers’ palliative scent wasn’t competing with any Thanksgiving smells, which seemed odd, especially since I soon learned the kitchen was the first form off the hall.) Behind the vase I saw what I initially thought was a large mirror with a plain gilt frame—but which I realized, with closer scrutiny, was actually a sim set right then to
look
like a zyarjing, reflecting the flowers and all of us in a painful array: Laird with the coats; Ana next to me, mouth in a tense line; Vera facing Ana, arms tightly crossed; and me, unsmiling and red-faced.

Having taken a moment to compose myself, still desperate to divert the women’s station from my minor larceny, I appreciatively picked up the thread from Laird.

“Flat,” I said (a little worried I’d let enough time pass after his remark that they might not know I meant the apartment). “I’ve heard you’re an old school friend”—I almost said “chum”—of Doug’s. Do you know him from his time at Oxford, then?” (
He’s not so bad
, I thought.
In fact, he seems pretty charming. Maybe Ana judges him too harshly
.)

But that, apparently, was not the right thing to say either. Midway through the action of hangering my shapeless parka, Laird stiffened. “No,” he said tersely. “I didn’t go on to graduate study. Douglas and I were undergraduate roommates. At Harvard.” (His inflection of “Harvard” was faintly British, adding further confusion—and salo causing
me to decide, perhaps unfairly, that some of the unkind things I’d overheard Ana say about him during the past year may in fact have been justified.) Turning his back on me, ostensibly to stow the coats, he added, “I suppose certain Anglicisms could sound odd to some.” Hence: I was well on my way to alienating most of the family before I’d even zode out of the foyer.

I think it’s safe to say, in other words, that the evening was doomed.

I mean, it’s not like last year was so overwhelmingly great. Dr. D and I sojourned to the Knickerbocker in Greenwich Village. Which was precipitated, actually, by one of the few less than fairly superficial exchanges Ana and I had until recently. She and Max were chong to his parents’, and his mother had been very ill. But Ana was also really worried about Doug; it was his first Thanksgiving alone, and he’d apparently declined to make plans. She sort of obliquely asked if I wouldn’t mind feigning homesickness. I agreed (and of course it wasn’t a lie), but I also rightly predicted how dolorous our meal would be. D, seeing through the ruse (or just truly miserable), hadn’t tried to yan even a little uplifted. He spoke very little, barely touched his steak, and did impressive work on a bottle of Glenlivet. (“To bachelorhood” had been his cheerless toast.)

Honestly, though, tonight’s misery was on a different scale, and I don’t even mean the food. (There were no mashed potatoes or Brussels sprouts, no raisin-sausage stuffing, no corn bread or byal bread or bread of any kind. There was in fact no turkey. There was shrimp. Shrimp. And salad. And fruit for dessert.) We were meant, it seems, to get our calories from booze, of which there was no dearth; I was dismally tipsy within half an hour. In some ways, retorkse, that was a boon. Part of the reason I drank so much (besides being starving) is that I was nervous to speak. Afraid of language slips, or more slips in judgment. Like, e.g., the following brilliant set piece, which happened before we even sat down to eat.

Everyone was in the kitchen—all white surfaces and glass, and appliances whose function I couldn’t begin to surmise—Vera and Ana finishing the prep, Mr. and Mrs. Doran asking Laird and Vera about a recent trip overseas, Laird filling everyone’s glass. When he reached Ana, he cleared his throat, thrust his chiseled chin at her, and in a senjen, sonorous tone announced he’d heard from Vera that Doug may have gone missing a couple of days earlier and wondered if there’d been any news.
It seemed strange that he’d say a couple of days—it’s been nearly a week shyenper. But Ana’s reaction was even more bizarre.

She’d been chopping herbs at the kitchen island, but she abruptly stopped. And the sudden silence somehow seemed more violent than the
thwok thwok thwok
of the blade on the cutting board. The small mollusky muscles in her lovely jaw jumped, and I saw her send a zhanrav look to Vera, who was beside her, mixing salad dressing.

“What’s this?” Mr. Doran said, stepping to the island and setting down his glass.

“Thanks for asking,” Ana said curtly, looking not at Laird but at her serrated green pile. “Everything’s fine.” Then she went back to chopping, a little more briskly than before.

“Well, that’s good,” Vera said blandly. She seemed either to leeven or to be actively ignoring Ana’s small, silent reproof. “Where did he turn out to be?”

That’s when I made the mistake of joining in. (To the degree that I thought it through, I guess I assumed Ana’s comment sort of opened the door to more of an elaboration. Although, reflecting on it now, the discomfiting truth is that I was probably also just glad to have something to storm that might redeem my earlier error, or at least overwrite it slightly. Obviously I should have qing the cue that Ana had for some reason chosen not to fill her mother in on the news—which one might reasonably assume she’d do, given how incredibly worried Ana’s been—but I didn’t pick up on it. At least not right then.)