A Window Across the River (20 page)

It was important to her to write that night. She didn’t want to let the Gabriel story float away.

She had the story with her on a floppy disk—160 pages of unconnected scenes. She hadn’t brought her laptop: she hadn’t turned it off in a month, and she didn’t want to risk turning it off and turning it on again. She asked Isaac if she could use his computer.

“Writers are crazy,” he said. “But of course you can.”

It was a good night to stay in; it was storming. Standing at Isaac’s window, Nora thought the storm was beautiful, but Isaac was unhappy, because it meant no one would go to his exhibit. Though the woman from the
Times
had miraculously
appeared at the opening, none of the other writers or buyers or gallery owners he’d invited had been there, and he’d been hoping some of them would show up on the second night.

As they were finishing dinner, he got a phone call. When he came back to the kitchen he was beaming.

“Nadine Lyle is in town.”

Nadine Lyle was the curator of the photojournalism exhibit at the New York Public Library, the woman who’d selected one of Isaac’s old pictures.

“I’ve never actually met her. She’s in the city for the weekend and one of her engagements fell through. She asked if I could come in there and meet her.”

“Tonight? But there’s a twister out there. You’ll never make it back alive.”

“I know. But still. I think I should. She’d be a good person to cultivate. She’s connected to everybody who’s anybody in the photography world, living or dead.”

She was surprised to hear him talk like this. She thought of Isaac as more pure than that; she didn’t think of him as a networker. It sounded like something Benjamin would say.

The funny thing was that whenever Benjamin talked about networking, it used to send her into a funk of disapproval, yet now, when Isaac was talking about it, it didn’t seem like a bad thing.

“I’d love it if you’d come too.”

She didn’t want to. She wanted to spend the evening concentrating on her story.

“I could really use your support,” he said, and this made up her mind for her. If he needed her there, she wanted to be there. She could work later, when they got back.

They drove into the city. It was raining so hard that it was
difficult to see. It was like a Hollywood rain. There were stagehands dumping buckets of water from all the rooftops of the world.

They met Nadine Lyle at a restaurant in a hotel in Tribeca. She was at the bar, smoking a thin brown cigarette.

She was an older woman, probably in her late fifties. She kissed Isaac, softly, on both cheeks. There was something sexy about the way she kissed him.

“I’m so happy to meet you,” she said. “For weeks I’ve been trying to picture the man who took that photograph. And here you are.”

She had a soft French accent and a kind of insinuating charm. She seemed like an aging seductress whose skills were still intact.

They found a table and ordered drinks—wine for Nadine and Nora, club soda for Isaac. Nadine said she was in New York because one of her artists, a Spanish painter, was having a show at the Whitney. People had been lining up down the block to get in.

“But I don’t think most of them will understand his work,” she said. “They’d be afraid to. They wouldn’t be able to contemplate the meaning of his work and then go back to their lives. It’s very dark. Even dangerous.”

Nora was trying not to smile at how silly this sounded.

She didn’t quite know what this woman
was.
A curator, but also an agent . . . ? She’d have to ask Isaac when they got home.

Nadine and Isaac talked about the photojournalism exhibit.

“Did you know there’s going to be a book as well?” Nadine said. “Very lavish. You’ll be in it—if you give us your permission—and everyone else who’s in the show.”

“That’s wonderful,” Isaac said. “When does it come out?”

“Very soon, we hope. But we’re looking for someone to do the text. We almost have a commitment from someone—someone very, very brilliant, and very known. You would be surprised by the name if I told you. But I can’t mention it before we’re certain.”

Phil Mushnick, Nora thought. I bet it’s Phil Mushnick. She almost said it, but she stopped herself.

Phil Mushnick was a sportswriter for the
New York Post.
She was feeling hostile toward this woman. She didn’t know why. She hoped it wasn’t just because she envied her Continental style.

“And you, Isaac Mitchell,” Nadine said. “What are you working on now?”

“I’ve been working on a series of portraits of people after their lives have changed drastically.” He said this thoughtfully, slowly. “Cartier-Bresson speaks of capturing his subjects in the decisive moment. I want to photograph people in the moment
after
the decisive moment.”

Nora was surprised. She was pretty sure that Isaac hadn’t picked up a camera in months.

She’d been puzzled, during these last few months, by the fact that she never saw him take his camera out. It disturbed her. She wasn’t sure why she hadn’t asked him about it. It was as if she sensed, somehow, that he didn’t want to be asked.

What he had just said—Cartier-Bresson, the moment after the decisive moment—struck her as familiar. She wasn’t sure, but she had a feeling that she’d heard Isaac say it before, a long time ago.

She hoped it was an old idea of his that he’d never pursued, but that he was intending to pursue now. She hoped it wasn’t just a line.

Maybe this is the kind of thing you have to do to make your way through the professional world, she thought. You have to pretend you’re in the grip of a grand idea, even when you aren’t.

Seeing Isaac play this game made her uncomfortable. But she didn’t put much stock in her own discomfort. The standard of integrity, of indifference to worldly success, to which artists, in her opinion, should adhere, was probably, professionally speaking, suicidal.

“And what do you do?” Nadine said to Nora.

“I work in puppet repair,” Nora said, before she could stop herself. “Mostly marionettes.”

Nora wasn’t pleased with herself. This was someone who could be important in Isaac’s professional life! She couldn’t bring herself to look at him.

“Fascinating,” Nadine said. She took a slow, sultry draw on her cigarette, and as she released the smoke she looked at Isaac appreciatively.

“Isaac Mitchell,” she said. “I have a favor to ask of you. I want to ask it, but I feel a little shy.”

Nora wondered whether this woman had ever felt shy in her life.

“This exhibit, this show, is one of a series. There is going to be a show on the art of portraiture in Washington, at the Folger Library, this winter. I was wondering if I might ask you to take a trip down to Washington and moderate the panel discussion on the opening night. The very best people in the art world will be there. Only the very best. I think you would be perfect.”

“I’d love to,” Isaac said.

“Wonderful. I am very pleased. I think you will be perfect.
I’ve only just now met you, but I feel as if I know you well. You are soft-spoken, but you are not soft. You are articulate, but you know when it is best not to speak. You are a presence, but you give other people room, to allow their presence to be felt.”

This was all true, Nora thought, and she was impressed that Nadine had seen all this so quickly. But she also thought she was laying it on pretty thick.

“It will be a wonderful event,” Nadine said. “We have Richard Avedon, we have Sally Mann, we have others—a very great French photographer, who perhaps you don’t know.” She smiled sadly. “It was my dream to have Yehuda Landau on this panel, but I can’t even discover his telephone number. It’s like trying to get the telephone number of God.”

“You know,” Isaac said, “I might be able to help you with that.”

“You can help me get the telephone number of God?”

“I know Yehuda Landau. I studied with him. I won’t say we’re close, but . . . we’re in touch. I can’t give you his phone number, but I can call him for you. I doubt he’ll say yes, but I can ask.”

Landau was little known outside the photography world, revered within it. He was a sternly private man. He never went to parties or openings; the Guggenheim Museum had staged an exhibit of his work in the early nineties, and until the last minute no one was sure he was even going to show up for that. A mutual friend, a man who’d been Landau’s student and Isaac’s teacher, had introduced them years ago. Landau and his wife had taken a liking to Isaac, and he still saw them for dinner once or twice a year. Nora had met him once; he was a formidable man.

“Isaac Mitchell. If you can persuade God to take part in our discussion, I shall think of you as a god yourself.”

Nadine had to leave; she had another appointment. When Nora and Isaac were alone, Isaac raised his eyebrows.

“Puppet repair.”

“I’m sorry,” Nora said.

He didn’t seem mad. He seemed to think it was kind of funny. He was probably in too good a mood to be mad.

They left the restaurant. The rain was still coming down in clumps.

“Isaac Mitchell,” Nora said. “If you can drive us home through this rain, I shall think of you as a god yourself.”

They finally decided to go to Nora’s place. They drove up Tenth Avenue slowly in the battering rain. It was only ten o’clock, and Nora was happy that she’d still have time to write. It was important for her to know that she could support Isaac and do her work—that she didn’t have to sacrifice one for the other.

Isaac went to bed and Nora got ready to write. First she strapped on her Polar Pack. She didn’t usually wear it while she was writing, but it helped a little if she wore it for a few minutes just before she got started. Then she spent ten minutes sitting with her eyes closed, letting the day recede. Then she made two cups of coffee with a lot of sugar and a lot of milk, and finally she sat down at the keyboard. She was feeling buoyant and alert; she thought she’d be able to concentrate for three or four hours.

On the table next to her computer she kept an index card with a quote from Henry James: “To live
in
the world of creation—to get into it and stay in it—to frequent it and haunt it—to
think
intensely and fruitfully—to woo combinations
into being by a depth and continuity of attention and meditation—this is the only thing.”

Yes, she thought. This
is
the only thing.

The phone rang; she let the answering machine take the call. She didn’t need any distractions.

She’d forgotten to turn the volume down. It was Billie. All she said was, “Hi, it’s me. Call me,” but Nora could tell from her voice that she had bad news.

“I
‘M REALLY SCARED ABOUT
my operation,” Billie said.

Nora was sitting in her aunt’s hospital room.

“You don’t have to be scared. You know how good Dr. Kanter is.”

Billie was having surgery. She’d been having stomach pains, and had gone to Dr. Cyclops for a CAT scan—she hadn’t mentioned this to Nora because she didn’t want to alarm her—which had turned up a malignancy on her gallbladder. The surgeon, Dr. Kanter, was going to remove it and examine the surrounding organs. She had explained to Billie that, luckily, we don’t really need the gallbladder: other organs can compensate if it’s gone.

“You’re right,” Billie said. “I like her. Dr. Candy.”

She reached over to her night table for her plastic glass of water, but she couldn’t reach far enough because of the IV in her arm. “But I have a bad feeling about it.”

Up until she said this, she’d seemed as calm as she ever was, but in saying this she seemed to spook herself. “I have a bad feeling,” she said again, louder, and she reached out for Nora’s hand. “I don’t think I’m going to get through this.”

“Of course you will. She’s just going to take the thing out and you’re going to be fine.”

“They’re going to find something else. They always find something else. They’re going to find something bad.”

Nora didn’t know how to comfort her. What do you say to someone who’s sick and might get sicker? Do you offer false comfort? Is that the kind thing to do? The question was academic, because Nora didn’t know how to offer false comfort. She didn’t say anything, and held on to Billie’s hand.

Nora had a feeling of powerful protectiveness, not quite like anything she’d experienced before.

If Nora had believed in reincarnation, she would have found it easy to think that she’d known her aunt in many previous lives. When she asked herself why she loved her aunt so much, there wasn’t a reason. Billie was kind, but it wasn’t because of her kindness; she was generous, but it wasn’t because of her generosity. The love wasn’t there because of anything Billie had done. It was just there. Certain people are given into our care, and we have no choice but to care for them.

In a little while a nurse came in pushing a gurney. “Time to get prepped,” she said, grinning, with a ghoulish excess of good cheer. She winked at Nora. “If you could just leave us alone for just two minutes, me and your auntie can get to know each other.”

Nora was annoyed by her manner, but tried not to be, since this woman was here to help her aunt. She went out into the hall.

After a few minutes the door opened and the nurse wheeled Billie out. Nora walked with them toward the operating room, holding Billie’s hand.

Dr. Kanter met them outside the operating room. She was a woman in her early fifties with a manner that was both confident and gentle. Nora had met her two years ago, when Kanter
had removed a growth on Billie’s spleen, a growth that had turned out to be benign.

“Good morning, my friend,” the doctor said to Billie. “Any last questions before we take a look and find out what’s going on in there?”

Billie looked up at her with an expression of childlike trustfulness and hope. “Is there any chance it’ll be like with the spleen, and it’ll be all clear?”

Nora was surprised by this question. Billie didn’t seem to realize what was happening to her. She didn’t seem to realize that they already knew this new growth was cancerous, and that the only question that remained was whether the cancer had spread.