The Metropolis Case_ A Novel - Matthew Gallaway [152]
He was about halfway down the block on Seventy-fourth Street when he edged between the bumpers of two parked cars on the south side of the street with the intention to jaywalk to the north side on the hypotenuse to avoid the extra distance to the corner—was there anyone, he wondered, who didn’t count every step in this heat?—and looked in the wrong direction as he stepped into the street. As soon as he realized what he had done—i.e., walked in front of a roaring taxicab only nanoseconds away from occupying the same space as his body—the mistake surprised him: he had lived in New York City for “only” twenty years. In his defense, he reconsidered, as he coldly observed the white glare of the approaching windshield, a tendency toward the delusional was understandable in his state. Mitigating or not, this excuse, along with the fact that he had been partially correct—to the extent that it was a one-way street—and that nine times out of ten it would have been of no consequence, did not alter the apparent verdict, which despite his lack of bad intention, or any intention at all, was imminent death. He listened to the distorted roar of the car’s transmission and knew it was too late—and way too hot—to escape. He braced himself and sighed; his life seemed so far away before this moment, yet he no longer feared death. As with everyone, he supposed, life had lasted for a little while and now it would end; uncountable others were being born at this very second, and in not very long they, too, would be gone, participants in the same tedious soap opera that Martin would not be sorry to miss.
Then the thought of leaving Dante pained him, despite the fact that Martin had provided for him in his will. He was filled with longing; to go to Sydney, to fall in love, to do something noble for the thousands of underprivileged groups in society—the elderly, the sick, the poor, the transgendered teens, the stray dogs and cats—to go back uptown and mourn with Dante, to watch L’Atalante, listen to music, read books, and chatter at the birds, just as they had done until Beatrice had gotten sick. He did not, he decided after all, want to abandon his garden, which would take at least three years to acquire the lush quality he liked to envision when choosing his plants. He did not want to miss a second date he had scheduled with his plant-loving friend, because they were planning to visit the beech trees at Wave Hill in the Bronx, said to be some of the most magnificent in the city. He wanted to confess to someone the extent of his grief for Beatrice—not on a second date, perhaps, but possibly on a third—and be that much more understood and absolved, which now struck him as an eminently reasonable goal in life. To die, he realized, could mean so many things, and the literal reality of it had not eliminated his desire for something new, a metaphorical death of the present. But with no choice, he regretfully closed his eyes and waited for the inevitable. Yet for all of his preparation, it was not going to happen; instead—and he could barely believe it—the car went right past him, missing by inches, leaving him as unscathed as a hologram. He looked up, more stunned than thankful; he had evidently willed it. For now, death was a great shark in the open sea, and more forgiving prey was apparently at hand.
42
Mrs. Stevens Hears the Mermaids Singing
NEW YORK CITY, 2002. On her way out of the apartment, Anna paused in front of a mirror in her foyer, where she ran a hand over her silver hair, tied up in a simple bun, and briefly examined her khaki pants and zippered black lamb’s-wool cardigan. She had sustained this uniform for enough years that those who knew her at Juilliard took it for granted, while to her former students she appeared most miraculous, as if she had somehow not aged while they had succumbed to the effects of a thousand intercontinental flights and opening night banquets. Whenever she met one of her exhausted protégés, she felt grateful to have worked when widespread