a certain angle, I was able to see the Empire State Building. I could also see that our three potted plants had withered. Patrick was the one who usually remembered to water them.
I opened the door, letting in air, the faint sounds of the city below, and a chilly streak of reality that passed through me.
Why the hell was I thinking of doubting his love? I’d made him a promise, back when I’d suffered one of my first attacks of jealousy, convinced that he was going to leave me. I was not the sort of person who could hold onto anyone. They always left me.
‘But I love you,’ he’d said. ‘I’m the one who can’t understand why you want to stay with me.’
I took in a deep breath. Crisp and fresh September air. The skies had cleared during the evening, the stars had faded and vanished in the lights of the city.
I couldn’t believe my ears when he proposed to me. I stared at him while all sounds stopped abruptly and a chasm opened up beneath the floor of Little Veselka.
Little Veselka isn’t exactly what most people would call a romantic setting. A smoky, noisy deli in the East Village that has stood on 9th Street since the 1950s. It has an open kitchen, so you can hear the Ukrainian cooks screaming at each other as they grill their steaks in full view of all the customers.
It was there we met for the first time.
I was with a bunch of people from La MaMa, one of the little theatres down on 4th Street, off-off-off-Broadway, where I was working at the time. My whole life took place in that neighbourhood. I ate take-out from the Indian restaurants on 6th Street, and I lived in my mother’s old apartment on the corner of 4th. Rumour had it that the building was due to be torn down soon, to be replaced by twenty storeys of luxury apartments, but those sorts of rumours about old buildings were always rampant in the East Village.
I noticed him as soon as he came in. He was with Arthur Nersesian, an Irish-Armenian writer who knew everybody. They sat down and he introduced Patrick as a freelance journalist who was writing a story about the last Bohemian in the East Village, meaning Arthur. All the others had been driven away by the rising cost of housing. They now lived in Brooklyn.
If Bohemians even existed at all. A heated discussion ensued at the section of the table where I’d ended up with Patrick, and a director who was practically horizontal, his arm around an eighteen-year-old student actress. Wasn’t there a better name for people who loafed about and did no work? Who were incapable of pulling their life together and feared responsibility? Or were the so-called Bohemians the vanguard of the future, the first truly free human beings?
From a purely statistical standpoint, Patrick said, it was possible to ascertain that in the Bohemian belt, which extended straight across Manhattan and eastward into Brooklyn, there were more of those types of people than anywhere else in the world. People who worked freelance and had no permanent jobs, who had chosen to live that particular lifestyle.
He explained that he was actually a reporter of social issues, and he believed that words could change the world. ‘Words are more powerful than most people think,’ he said, and looked me in the eye after we’d finished off the seventh or eighth or God knows how many bottles of wine at the table, while the director was in the process of drowning between the breasts of the student actress.
‘Plenty of people have no idea what a responsibility it is to be a writer. They think it’s all about winning fame and respect, but for me it’s about taking full responsibility for the world we live in.’
I was fascinated by his serious demeanour. He wasn’t trying to show off; he actually believed what he was saying. There was also something so extraordinary about the way he was dressed. He wore chinos and a shirt and a blazer — which was extremely unusual in that district, where everyone worked so hard to present a unique style.
When he walked me home and took my hand, he did that too with the greatest seriousness. ‘Never would I allow you to walk home alone in the middle of the night.’
‘But I’ve walked this same route thousands of times and survived.’
‘I wasn’t here then.’
Outside the shabby entrance on First Avenue he kissed me gently, and after that I simply had to take him upstairs with me and roll around with him in the bedroom that was so small it held nothing but a bed within the four walls. I wanted to penetrate deeper into that alluring seriousness, all the way to its core to find out if it ever ended.
The next morning I didn’t want to get out of bed. I couldn’t remember that ever happening before. On similar mornings with other men, I’d made a point of fleeing as soon as possible. I didn’t want them to start groping for my soul.
But lying next to Patrick, I stayed in bed. I ran my finger over his cheek. ‘Are you always like this?’ I asked.
‘Like what?’
‘So serious. Genuinely serious. Are you like that all the way through, or is that just your way of picking up girls?’
That made him laugh. ‘I had no idea it would work so well.’
A year later he proposed. At Little Veselka.
He must be teasing me, I thought at first. Then: I’m not the sort of person anyone marries. Then: Help. This is really happening. What do people do when this happens?
I said yes. Then I said yes two more times. He leaned across the table and kissed me. ‘Hell,’ he swore as his lips touched mine. He jolted back in his chair.
‘What’s wrong? It’s OK to change your mind, if you want.’
Patrick covered his face with his hand and groaned.
‘The ring! I forgot about the ring. What an idiot I am.’
He’d been so preoccupied with mustering his courage that he’d forgotten that little, classic detail. Could I forgive him? Could I give him another chance to do it over, according to the rulebook?
I took his face in my hands. I ran my finger gently along his jaw line. I said that I didn’t want any other proposal. This was the best one I could have imagined. If he was so nervous that he’d forgotten the ring, that meant something. It was something I could believe. It was far more important than any bit of metal that existed on earth.
‘But if you insist,’ I went on, ‘the shops are still open on Canal Street.’
On the way we stopped to buy a bottle of champagne and paused to kiss in a doorway, taking so long that some bitch started yelling for the police. When we reached Chinatown, the jewellers on Canal Street had all closed up for the day. ‘Why do I need a ring?’ I said. ‘Who decided that?’ And as night fell, we staggered deeper into the red glow of Chinatown’s knick-knack shops, tattoo parlours, and disreputable clubs. I had only a vague memory of how we made it back home that night.
One year later, to the day, we were married, but it was the evening of our engagement that meant the most. Because it was only the two of us, I thought. After that his parents and all the traditions and the wedding magazines and the whole bridal package came into the picture.
Patrick’s desk chair softly moulded to my body, faintly redolent of leather. Oddly enough, I’d never sat in his chair before. I ran my hand over the dark surface of his desk. In front of me lay a desk calendar bound in leather, a Christmas present from his father, who shared Patrick’s passion for intellectual luxuries.
The page for 17 August held only a brief note.
Newark 21.05. That was the departure time for his plane. No hotel name. We always used our cell phones to call each other, never the hotel phones. It hadn’t seemed important to know where he was staying.
I took a deep breath before I pulled out the top drawer. I was reluctant to start rummaging through Patrick’s things.
Everything was in meticulous order. There were stacks of receipts. Postage stamps, insurance policies.
In the next two drawers he kept articles that he’d written,