The Invisible Circus - Jennifer Egan [73]
The bathroom was full of spotless white tile. In the medicine cabinet Phoebe found a bottle of Estée Lauder perfume and several light-brown hairpins laid neatly in a pile. A pair of jade earrings shaped like tears, a bottle of coconut-smelling lotion; Phoebe stared at these items, trying to conjure up the woman who had bought them and worn them, placed them so carefully here. Their neat economy could not have been less like the bright jumble of Faith’s possessions, yet when she tried to picture Carla, all Phoebe saw was her sister’s face.
In the hot shower her hand began to throb. The cut from the mirror had become infected at first, but was healing now. Phoebe moved cautiously, as if the shower tiles were made of eggshell. I’m in Wolf’s apartment, she told herself, awaiting a jolt of elation at this spectacular good luck, but her feelings were dulled. Too much had happened; finding Wolf seemed the fulfillment of a hope she’d abandoned when her journey veered inexplicably from adventure into survival. Why had she come to Europe? Phoebe no longer felt sure; all she knew was that she’d barely survived a nightmare. The prospect of portraying a happy girl on vacation for Wolf exhausted her in advance, made her want to stay in the bathroom forever.
“What’s your fiancée like?” Phoebe asked as she and Wolf traversed the wide, regal streets of Munich. The churches looked like big armoires, the sky was flawless blue. Outdoor clocks were striking noon.
“She’s a doctor,” Wolf said.
“A doctor. Wow.” It made the fiancée seem old. “So you must be incredibly healthy,” she joked.
Wolf laughed, tipping back his head as if the laughter were a substance, like smoke, which might offend Phoebe. “Slowly but surely,” he said with affection. “I’m not an easy patient.”
He pointed out sights: the old and new painting museums, the technical university where he would teach a course in translation this fall. Phoebe gave them only passing attention. Mostly she looked at Wolf, filled with wonderment at the thought that he was the same boy whose shoulders she’d ridden down Haight Street, kicking his ribs to make him go faster. Perhaps Wolf, too, was remembering that time, for he asked suddenly how much San Francisco had changed.
“A ton,” Phoebe said. “You wouldn’t believe it.”
“How? I mean, what are the changes?”
“You never go back?”
“Oh, I do,” he said. “Occasionally. But my parents live in Tiburon now. I never go to the old places.”
“There’s no point,” Phoebe said.
“What about our high school? What I hear, it sounds almost like the fifties again, cheerleading, football …”
“Disco music,” Phoebe said. “Everyone goes dancing in discos.”
“It sounds healthy,” Wolf said, half laughing. “It sounds … innocent.”
Phoebe turned to him, amazed. “I can’t believe you’re saying this.”
“Age,” Wolf said, and smiled.
They had entered the Hofgarten, a large formal park filled with red and white flowers in soft rectangular beds, thigh-high bushes clipped to look like walls. At the far end a square-columned building rose from inside a ring of trees. It was capped with a dark metal dome like a bronze helmet.
“But something must still be there,” Wolf said. “From before, just—even if it’s nothing.” And Phoebe was struck by the change in his voice, a wistfulness. She told him about Hippie Hill, the empty Panhandle, Haight Street full of junkies; and strangely, as Phoebe described these disappointments, her bitterness over what she’d missed was eclipsed by a sudden, painful yearning for all she’d left behind—for home.
They had slowed to a stop. Sunlight poured over the bronze dome, turning it gold. It looked like a mystical, curative sphere. Wolf took a step or two back and held up a hand, his eyes fixed on Phoebe. “Wait,” he said softly. “Stay there.”
She glanced at the dome behind her, a shimmering hump of black-gold. When she looked back at Wolf, he’d dropped to one knee. Phoebe nearly laughed, but the noise caught in her throat. Wolf looked as vulnerable, as empty-eyed as someone asleep. “What is it?” she asked softly.
He rose to his feet, slowly