The Invisible Circus - Jennifer Egan [84]
Phoebe smiled, still unnerved by the laugh.
“In English I am not me,” Carla said, serious again. The strain of wanting to explain showed in her face. “I have only simple words, like baby.”
Wolf made some objection in German, but Carla waved him off. “In English I am …” Her eyelids fluttered as she groped for a word. She consulted Wolf in German.
He blustered in protest. “Colorless,” he finally said.
“Ja,” Carla said, nodding matter-of-factly. “Yes. In English I am colorless.”
Carla went to unpack the groceries she’d brought. “German food is very heavy, so we are making for you some Italians,” she told Phoebe from the doorway. The room felt deeply silent in her absence. Phoebe sensed Wolf wanting to say something, but when their eyes met, he looked away. An odd shyness overcame them.
“Look, Pheeb,” he finally said, “I’d rather you didn’t—I’d prefer we not talk about Faith in front of Carla.”
“Was I doing that?”
“No, no. Not at all. I’m just saying let’s not.”
The request seemed reasonable enough, yet Phoebe was stung by it. “Okay,” she said.
“It’s just,” Wolf said, “I hate inundating her with all that.”
“I won’t mention her,” Phoebe said, edgy.
Wolf idled at the door as if he’d meant to say something more, then left without a word.
Phoebe went to the window. Yellow light from the kitchen smeared the dark glass. She heard their laughter, the tinny sound of a radio, and it seemed to Phoebe that her sister’s life was entirely effaced, a shadow beside the vivid presence of Carla. Wolf’s fiancée reminded her of girls in high school who’d worn their boyfriends’ athletic jackets to smoke cigarettes outside on foggy days, sleeves reaching halfway down their slim, manicured fingers. They had seemed to Phoebe so dazzlingly complete, lockets tangled in their turtlenecks, a dozen rings, jade, turquoise; girls who didn’t hesitate, whose very thoughtlessness she longed to copy.
Phoebe began to explore the living room, listlessly at first, drawn to a stack of American board games she’d loved as a child, Candy Land, Life, Clue, but as she opened the latter box and fingered the tiny murder weapons, Phoebe began, as she had in Wolf’s bedroom, to feel an element of subterfuge. She imagined herself as an undercover agent posing as a dinner guest, with orders to search the premises by evening’s end. Like a cat burglar, she leapt to the stereo and flipped swiftly through an exhaustive record collection, ELO, Chicago, Journey, all bands she despised, though seeing their albums in German was amusing. Men at Work, the Bee Gees; having determined these records couldn’t possibly be Wolf’s, Phoebe left them, darting to a set of low, deep shelves filled with rows of books. She reached behind the books and found the space crammed with objects. Hands scuttling like crabs, Phoebe prised free a squeaky rubber mouse, a pincushion shaped like a tomato, a pair of seamed black panty hose still in their plastic. But all this clutter was the Lakes’, she knew; they’d thrown it back here to clear out the place for Wolf. At the sound of footsteps Phoebe jumped to her feet. “Dinner is coming,” Carla said.
Wolf and Carla served tortellini in a cream-and-peppercorn sauce, spinach and green-apple salad. They both ate quickly and efficiently, forks in their left hands. Still full from the sandwich she’d devoured at lunch, Phoebe struggled to finish her portion. Carla asked Phoebe about her travels: Where exactly had she gone? How did she get from place to place? Was her luggage heavy? Often she employed the present progressive—you are seeing, you are going—creating the eerie impression that she was narrating a voyage in progress. Behind Carla’s politeness Phoebe sensed real scrutiny, as if there were something specific she was trying to nail down. It made her nervous.
“You are living in San Francisco?” Carla said.
Phoebe looked up, surprised. She’d assumed this went without saying.
“Phoebe and I went to the same high school,” Wolf jumped in, “about a decade apart.” It sounded forced.
“Not a decade,” Phoebe said.
“No?