The Metropolis Case_ A Novel - Matthew Gallaway [44]
Yet after a few minutes, when he was in every way purged of his desire for her, he was struck by the idea that however torturous and ugly the route had been, she had in fact guided him to a certain truth; granted, it was ugly and rough, but it was his to own, and his relief at finally admitting this—of finally grasping this most basic idea, i.e., that he was incapable of loving Amanda—made his tears feel almost hopeful as he allowed himself to be comforted by the cool porcelain against his cheek. His head stopped spinning, and for at least a little while the future seemed ordered and attainable, even when he returned to the kitchen and found Amanda gone, having left only a note with instructions to call her lawyer.
MARTIN’S ELEVATOR STOPPED and his legal colleague exited, leaving him alone with his memories. He had not seen Amanda since the divorce settlement—a dreary session in which they signed documents in her lawyer’s conference room and did not once make eye contact—but from periodic reviews of her art had gleaned that she subsequently married a prominent dealer and otherwise appeared to lead the life she had always seemed—if not quite professed—to want. Although the settlement had been financially punishing for a few years, as he thought of her now, he could only admire the manner in which she had eviscerated him, exactly in the way—he could now admit—he had always hoped she would. If she had not appeared, he would have needed to invent her; otherwise, he might have languished even longer in the purgatory he had fashioned for himself. In the silver reflection of the metal doors, he saw an image of the two of them at an outdoor café on Bleecker Street, where they used to go for espresso after shopping for used records. She was sitting across from him, her legs crossed and one elbow resting on the table, a cigarette dangling from her fingers as she looked past him at nothing. He was pleased to detect a continuing resonance in her angular beauty and indifference, the way her placid expression betrayed just a trace of exasperation at the poor service delivered by the world around her.
14
The Experience of Our Generation: That Capitalism Will Not Die a Natural Death
PITTSBURGH, 1976. If Maria, once she joined Kathy Warren’s chorus, did not consider her voice to be particularly beautiful—or at least not as beautiful as Kathy’s—its sheer size and agility in comparison to the wobbling, scooping efforts of other students was obvious, and so she was not surprised when Kathy began to ask her to demonstrate certain passages for the rest of the class. In contrast to how she felt about speaking, Maria never felt any anxiety about singing; she opened her mouth and her voice appeared. But as much as she tried, she inevitably failed to summon this fearlessness on those rare occasions when she was called on in her other classes, or when talking to a boy, or doing anything else that made her nervous, all of which left her feeling at odds with herself as she tried to understand why she could be so able in one respect and so limited in others. Because singing was so easy—and because those who heard her regularly expressed their appreciation of her talent—it often seemed that in the rest of her life, she was just acting and—judging from the audience—not doing a particularly good job of it, either.
At the end of the semester, Kathy rewarded her with a solo at the school’s graduation. For the student body at large, this was the first chance to hear Maria, and when they realized it was Morticia on the stage, singing with an impassive