The Metropolis Case_ A Novel - Matthew Gallaway [84]
He went to the end of the street, where Leo’s property was situated behind a brick wall. He admired the deco motif in the wrought-iron gate and then peered through at the top stories of the house, which were just visible above the forested hillside. To see even this much filled him with longing and purpose, for already the house seemed to resonate with an aesthetic reminiscent of his prep school; it was, he noted, something his mother would have loved. He wanted his life to be marked by the same grace that allowed this house to erupt out of the cliff and to hover magically—presumably there was some sort of cantilever onto which it was built—above the river. As he walked down the steps, he looked up at the mottled brick exterior, which reflected the pink and orange tones of the western sun, and then kneeled down to touch the moss growing between the cobblestone pavers leading to the front entrance. He observed a lush wisteria growing up and over the southern façade, its woody vines wrapped around several of the drainpipes, before cascading over a railing that appeared to give way to an outdoor terrace.
He questioned moving so far uptown when he could afford to live almost anywhere on the island. He thought about how many hours he would be working at his firm, and how he could expect on many nights to arrive home at one or two in the morning, and then head back to the office after four or five hours of sleep, and whether he would regret not buying an apartment on, say, Columbus Circle, only a ten-minute walk to his office. No sooner were any of these arguments made than he dismissed them; just as he now intended to give increasing amounts of time to the lawyerly side of himself, he wanted to offer what remained something serene and contemplative, completely removed from the clubs and bars and bathhouses that had marked his life during the previous years.
He stood on a small stoop and rang the bell, reminding himself that he was no longer drunk and there was a good possibility that Leo had changed his mind. When the door opened a few seconds later, Martin looked into a shadowed hallway beyond which he could see the sky, azure and shimmering. He tried to speak and could not, and for a moment regretted appearing so weak in front of a man he barely knew and from whom he might be buying a house; it was not a good way to start a negotiation. Flooded with intuition, he didn’t care if a few coughs and tears weakened his position; he knew he would gladly pay whatever it cost. “I can’t pretend,” he managed, as he looked up at Leo. “I’m ready to buy.”
Nor did he protest as Leo invited him through the door, where he kissed each of his cheeks and in a whisper acknowledged his failure ever to be surprised.
24
The Motion of Light in Water
NEW YORK CITY, 1978. After a long bus trip, a harrowing walk through Port Authority, and a taxi ride across the neon extravagance of Times Square, Maria arrived on the Upper West Side of Manhattan, where she rang the buzzer for what she hoped was her new apartment. She had spoken briefly on the phone with her new roommate, Linda Pasby—another incoming singer, a mezzo—and was worried about meeting her. As much as she wanted to like Linda, if only for Anna’s sake, Linda’s cheerful demeanor—combined with the knowledge that she was from Beverly Hills—made Maria think they might not make the best match. She felt greasy and exhausted by the trip but forced herself to smile as the door opened and she was confronted by Linda, who just as Maria had pictured her was petite, with short blond hair and very white teeth. She wore a T-shirt with an iron-on decal of a horse, the widest bell-bottoms Maria had