The Love of My Youth_ A Novel - Mary Gordon [11]
“I’m taking Miranda back to her apartment,” he says to the old woman, who is holding in her hand a half-eaten cracker.
“Such a shame,” she says. “I was looking forward to the evening.”
Miranda and Adam don’t speak or look at each other in the brass cage of the elevator. Silently, they walk to the massive door leading to the street. It slams behind them like a door in a room constructed for the Inquisition. They press on the outer door. It doesn’t open. They press again. Nothing.
Miranda begins to laugh.
“I remember what Valerie said now. In order to open this outer door you first have to press a button outside the inner one.”
“So we’re here for the rest of our lives?”
“Or until someone comes in.”
“Jesus, poor Valerie,” he says.
“And here I was imagining her living la dolce vita. And I was irritated by her chirpiness. Now it seems heroic. Is there such a thing as heroic chirpiness?”
“And the mother. Dear God.”
“Do you think she’s evil? Or just batty.”
“We always disagreed about that, whether things were signs of madness or wickedness.”
“Which side was I on? I can’t remember now.”
“I can’t either. And now I have no idea which side I’m on.”
“If I ring the buzzer, we’ll get Valerie’s apartment and she can probably buzz us out.”
“No need, someone’s coming,” he says.
A young mother pushing a stroller puts her key into the door. She is model thin and model surly in black jeans, high heels, and a leather bustier. She looks at them impatiently and moves aside to let them out.
“I’ll just get a taxi here,” she says, lifting her arm.
He takes her arm and lowers it. “No,” he says. “I want to talk to you. I want to know about your life.”
The touch of his hand on her arm is shocking. She’s disturbed by it, yet it would be absurd to show any sort of reaction.
“My life,” she says. “My life is fine.”
“I’d like to see you at least once more. There are things I’d like to tell you. And to ask. Perhaps we could go for a walk. Where are you staying?”
“Near Piazza del Popolo. The Via Margutta.”
Ah, he thinks, so she is wealthier than I. Then he remembers: she always was. He wants to indicate that this is of no importance. So he whistles. “Ritzy,” he says, purposely using a joke word to suggest that no one can take money seriously.
“A little too upmarket for my comfort,” Miranda says. “You’d think Val would have been able to figure that out.”
“It was always remarkable what Val seemed not to be taking in. Perhaps that’s how she’s got herself into this situation.”
“Are we fated to always be the people we were? Always making the same mistakes?”
He assumes she knows this is a question with no answer.
“Where you live is near my daughter’s school. I walk her there every morning. She has lessons from ten to three. Are you free in the morning?”
“My meetings begin in the afternoons.”
“Well, then, shall we meet at the top of the Pincio at ten tomorrow morning?”
The request alarms her. She’d wanted to see what he looked like; she told herself it would be just a glimpse. But to see him again: that takes things out of the realm of accident, and curiosity and chance. But to refuse: that, almost, suggests that she is frightened of something, that he is important in her present life in a way that he certainly is not.
“Just for a short walk,” she says.
He is ridiculously pleased that she’s agreed to it.
“A short walk in the Borghese Gardens. Just as long as you like.”
“All right,” she says, not knowing what it is that she’s agreed to.
Monday, October 8
THE PINCIO
“Now We Are Both Orphans”
They both slept badly, and, looking at herself in the bathroom mirror, Miranda is distressed at the toll the sleepless night has taken. She can no longer be unmarked by sleepless nights; bruise-colored pouches form below her eyes; it’s impossible that she enjoy the sight of her face. She showers; the hot water helps. She opens the red quilted bag that holds her cosmetics: it is larger than she would ever have predicted, particularly since she prides herself on wearing very little makeup. She wouldn’t dream of wearing