Among Other Things, I've Taken Up Smoking Read online

  Before I knew it I had picked up a dripping bouquet and brought it to the counter inside. The man behind the register tore a huge piece of purple paper from a roll next to him and wrapped it in an enormous paper cone.

  “Everything?” he said, as he rang it up.

  I nodded piously, as if they were a gift, and carried the flowers back to the institute like a torch.

  A few of the students were leaving as I came up the steps.

  “Who are those for?” said a tall one with a face round with baby fat.

  “None of your business,” said Nate from the top of the steps, holding open the door. The boys giggled and rushed off, racing down the sidewalk.

  “Did you buy those for Walter and Robert?” Nate asked as he followed me inside.

  “They’re for my room,” I said reluctantly.

  “The place looks great,” he said, as if I was going around trying to spruce everything up. “I think Robert’s afraid you’re taking over.”

  “I know,” I said. Suddenly I didn’t want to have any more conversations. “I’m just going upstairs,” I said.

  “See you Saturday?”

  “Yeah,” I said, trying not to sound too exasperated. “See you Saturday.”

  Such a performance, my father used to say every time he got back from town. I always used to picture him standing on the dock, the whole town applauding. It was impossible to imagine him in this city, I thought, as I unwrapped the flowers and set them in a glass on the desk. Even with Mr. Blackwell, before it was just the two of us, I could remember nothing but the pleasure of concentration, each of us at our own tasks, in our own quiet rhythms: sketching, homework, the kettle for tea, preparations for dinner.

  I sharpened a pencil and first I drew just the starry outlines of the lilies, trying to get the way that the petals worked, coming in and out of space. Gradually the layers of voices and sirens and brakes outside the window began to fade, and I crawled further in, tracing the tiny pink veins under the soft, shining surface. The petals were so firm they seemed almost tropical: Soon I was digging into the centers, until the stamen swelled with definition, making the petals come lapping out at me. They opened in front of me, wide as a magician’s gloved hands, their centers ripe with pollen.

  My favorite stories, in Ovid’s verse, describe metamorphosis as the culmination of a relentless, heedless desire: Salmacis, a yearning lover who is folded eternally into her beloved’s embrace; Arachne, whose ambitious designs become her own spider’s web; Cyane, the grieving nymph transformed into a pool of her own tears. Too often, though, metamorphosis is only a whim of the gods: Juno turning Io into a cow in her jealousy over Jove, Diana turning the hunter Actaeon into a stag to be chased by his own hounds because he chanced upon her bathing.

  I disliked, for instance, the story of Narcissus, the boy who had fallen in love with himself. In Ovid’s version it is inseparable from the story of Echo, though in more popular versions it stands on its own. Echo was a talkative nymph, whose only sin was that she made the mistake of trying to distract Juno during one of Jove’s dalliances. In her jealous rage, Juno had taken away the nymph’s power of speech, but she had not simply turned her into a mute—she had taken from her the power to speak first. Condemned only to repeat what she heard, Echo took to hiding, it was said, in woods and mountain caves, where she grew gaunt with loneliness until, at the even crueler whim of Fate, she laid eyes on Narcissus.

  Narcissus was the son of a water god, and was said to be more beautiful than the nymphs themselves. Echo fell madly in love with him, and followed him in silence for days, until at last he turned and looked behind him. Is anybody here? he asked. Here, she answered, joyfully echoing back. She must have thought herself, in that moment, beautiful again, for she stepped out into the open, and Narcissus saw the wretched, elusive creature she’d become.

  He turned away in horror and Echo withered from that day forward, consumed with shame, until only her voice remained. The other nymphs, long sympathetic to her plight, demanded of the gods that Narcissus meet a similar fate, but Narcissus was too beautiful for any to spurn him the way he did Echo. His end was much more gentle: drinking from a pool of the water he was born from, he is said to have seen his reflection and, believing it was another water spirit, fallen in love with himself. Though the water spirit seemed to return his affection exactly, he would not approach, and Narcissus, paralyzed with longing, was riveted to the spot and turned into a flower bearing his name.

  I always thought Narcissus, wasting his youth in vanity, had committed a worse crime than Echo, who was only trying to protect another nymph from Juno’s wrath. Ovid never says that Echo lies to Juno, only that she distracts her. But in the end it is Echo who is punished, doomed to live the rest of her life in the shadows, while Narcissus becomes a perennial flower, as immortal as springtime.

  The next day I woke up early and left the institute before Walter and Robert came down for breakfast. I went by the coffee cart but there was a line and Ana looked busy; I waved at her and went to get an espresso instead, determined to explore. I went down into the subway and asked the token booth clerk how to get to the one museum my father had mentioned. The stations all looked the same, but at the end of each sooty staircase another city waited aboveground. The Upper East Side buildings are stately and upright, the streets are wide and straight. The Metropolitan Museum of Art was set off from Fifth Avenue by a wide set of marble steps, fountains on one side and Central Park spread out like a garden behind it, as far as the eye could see.

  Inside it was cool and vast. The shrieks of schoolchildren in front of me echoed harmlessly off the high marble ceilings, fading as I went in one direction and they went in another, like we were venturing across the ice. I went into the Egyptian tomb, and then through what seemed like endless cases of bowls and cups and little stools; finally the room opened again into a gallery of marble statues. It was full of strong men, straining at things, naked men, looking young and dreamy. They were beautiful, the stone as smooth as liquid, impossibly ancient and perfect but somehow enervating. My father, I knew, would be disappointed that I did not like it more. Suddenly it felt like a test, and I wanted nothing more than to simply go outside, where people were on the steps, sitting and lifting their faces to the sun.

  I missed him, I suppose, I thought as I left all the miles of paintings upstairs and went back outside. I went down the steps and onto the sidewalk and kept going, until I found an entrance into the park and headed up a path where the trees were more dense. But on the other hand I wished he was gone, gone from my head, and letting me into the museum on my own. Maybe I just don’t like cities, I thought, looking at the dusty undergrowth, the carefully placed rocks. More than once I noticed someone walking furtively into the thicket. They were doing something secret—everyone here was busy, full of their secrets. My father had been busy too, and here I was, wishing I were somewhere else. Narcissus, at least, had had a kind of focus. He was beautiful, and had found purpose in that, while the rest of the nymphs and water spirits could do little more than play and chase themselves. And what was I, after all, but one of those silly creatures, waiting for change to take hold?

  17

  By the time Nate came to pick me up I’d switched my outfit three times. In the end I had decided on Julie’s pink dress, now the only one I had that wasn’t stained. He was late, he told me, because he was working on a paper that was due on Monday—but the party would only have just started, he said. As we walked through the West Village the sidewalks were teeming with people. Groups of students called to each other across the streets, chatted idly in front of bank machines, made plans. All the way along Eighth Street shuttered gates covered the shop windows, but when we got to the East Village everything was open again, blinking with noise, cluttered with handbags and hats. We turned down one street and then another until we saw a doorstep with a small cluster of people outside the building where the party was, and when we crossed the street they turned to look at us, their eyes
flashing with the city lights. “You know what the apartment number is?” one of the women asked Nate humorlessly.

  He had it written on a piece of paper, which he got out of his pocket, and read it aloud to her. We waited while she rang the buzzer, and then the intercom crackled unintelligibly and we followed the unfriendly group inside. A woman in a tiny tank top and frosty lipstick took a contemptuous look at my dress.

  The noise of the party was leaking out into the hallway above us, and the girl I had seen at the gallery with Liz stuck her head out over the banister. “Sooo—zanne!” she called excitedly. “What took you guys so long?”

  “We stopped at Derek’s,” the girl who’d rung the buzzer called back.

  “Well, hurry up,” she screeched, “I’m just about to turn on your CD!”

  “That’s Yvonne,” Nate said.

  By the time we reached the top the music was blaring. The group ahead of us had melted into the doorway and disappeared into the kitchen. Yvonne was crouched at the stereo, her back to us. Most of the crowd was clustered in the airless kitchen: tall thin women with shining clavicles, men pushing back damp bangs. The women from the doorstep moved purposefully toward a table laid out with chips and salsa. One of them had a tiny ring in her belly button, showing just under her shirt; she dug a chip into the salsa and a loose glop of it fell onto the floor. She touched her friend’s shoulder and pointed to it, and they both squealed with helpless laughter.

  “Nate, God, how are you?” a wiry brunette said, approaching us with an amazed expression. “I didn’t know you knew Yvonne.” She had evidently gone to college with Nate, but knew Yvonne strictly from the summer. Nate turned to introduce her to me but I couldn’t hear her name.

  “We went to college together!” she shouted at me.

  I could see Liz beside the sink, holding the hand of a large, bored man with glasses and talking to a woman who was making drinks.

  “You want a beer?” Nate asked me, prompting the college friend to look me over again.

  “That would be great,” I said. As soon as he left the college friend said something inaudible and went into the living room. I watched Liz grab Nate and pull him into the tight group in front of the refrigerator. I thought of Ana, in the cart, and just as I was thinking that no one at the party looked at all nice, Nate turned to point me out, and Liz gave me a little wave.

  It didn’t take much for things to realign: I was at a party, in New York, and had someone to wave to. She came out of the kitchen with Nate, carrying two massive red cups.

  “I hope you didn’t want a beer,” she said. “I told Nate you had to try Yvonne’s cosmos. They’re obscenely strong.”

  I put the massive cup to my lips, and an involuntary shiver ran through me at the harsh smell of the alcohol, not quite masked by the sweet red liquid it was mixed with.

  “Geoffrey, come meet Miranda,” Liz said, reaching out for the man she’d been leaning against in the kitchen. He had dark sideburns and a large chin, which gave the impression that he was leaning backward.

  “Geoffrey Waters,” he said.

  “Nice to meet you,” I said.

  “Geoffrey’s finishing a novel,” Liz said, pulling his arm around her.

  “Emphasis on finishing,” he said, for no apparent audience. Even as he was being nuzzled up to he managed to keep his expression aloof, as if he was holding a drink he didn’t want to spill. “I’m going to go say hi to Stephen,” he said.

  “He hates talking about his work,” Liz confided over her plastic cup when he was gone. “I want him to finish it before the wedding, but I know he never will.”

  “That’s less than a month away, Lizzie,” Nate reminded her.

  “I know.” She let her eyes skim lightly around the room. “It’s not impossible, though.” She grabbed the arm of another tall man who’d just come in the door. “Woody!” she said, turning away.

  “How’s your drink?” Nate said.

  “Strong,” I said.

  “I can get you a beer, if you want.”

  “That’s okay,” I said, taking another gulp. He was nice, I decided, even if no one else was. It felt good to stand beside him—I felt safe. When I looked around the room it seemed that none of the other men would give me the same feeling. They didn’t have his obvious kindness, his broad shoulders, his attentive smile. I watched the self-consciously pretty gestures of the girls dancing and I could see they did not feel as safe as I did; they were drawn to each other in small laughing circles, as if for protection.

  “Want to go check out the fish tank?” Nate said, close to my ear.

  We went over to the tank, which was casting a weird green light over the dancers. Several fish hovered uncertainly in the china castle, at the bottom, as if they were listening to the music. I put my poisonous drink on a nearby chair, and was thinking that all the people standing up looked like the plastic plants, swaying in the tank. I felt like the fish, swimming in sound, and I was getting ready to explain this to Nate when Liz came over to ask why we weren’t dancing.

  Nate looked at me and must have seen the panic on my face. “We’re looking at the fish,” he said.

  Liz rolled her eyes. “Can you believe I’m getting married?” she shouted, before she left us again, dancing back into the crowd.

  “Do you want to go get something to eat?” Nate asked me. “I didn’t think this party would be so loud.”

  It took awhile to get to the door, but the minute we were spat into the hallway we were alone. We went down the stairs together without speaking. I could hear the voices and music filtering down to us, the way, on quiet nights, parties on the mainland used to carry across the water. I got to the door first and pushed it open. The air felt wide.

  “You okay?” said Nate, stepping out onto the sidewalk.

  “Maybe I’m a little drunk,” I said. We were just about at eye level, with him on the step below.

  “You’re tall,” he said.

  “So are you,” I said, and before he could lean forward and kiss me, I jumped down on the sidewalk too.

  We had been at the party longer than I’d thought, and the buildings looked slumped and exhausted as we walked back through the East Village streets. The sidewalks were empty except for two or three men lingering in the bright light of a grocery store on the corner. I felt brave, just walking along.

  “That was an okay party,” Nate said, slowing down to accommodate my disoriented pace. “I want to take you to my friend Jim’s sometime. My sister’s friends are a little weird—Yvonne was into coke for a while, and sometimes I get the feeling she still is. They like to go to clubs.”

  “Oh,” I said, surprised. “Do you like to go to clubs?”

  “Sometimes.” He looked at me. “I mean like dance clubs, not like the one Robert took you to.”

  “I know,” I said. Down the avenue a long white limo turned the corner and slipped out of sight.

  “Do you like to dance?” he said.

  “I don’t know,” I said, telling the truth for once. “Maybe.”

  He smiled. “We can go out sometime and I’ll take you to a club.”

  “Okay,” I said.

  He was watching me. “I keep thinking this must be so weird for you, being in such a big city.”

  “I was born here,” I said, suddenly taking heart in the fact. We had turned onto another avenue where there were more cars. Lights were on in the windows and restaurants and delis were open. I felt as if I might even recognize the street.

  Nate turned to hold open the door of the diner for me. The cool air-conditioning came rushing out toward us, and he put his hand on my back, as if to guide me into it. It was bright inside and the wash of fluorescent light over the tables and countertops gave the whole place a strange stillness, though it was nearly full. All of the customers seemed to be speaking in murmurs, along the counter and at the booths going back, alone or in cozy groups, hairdos collapsed and makeup unmasked by the bright light. The waitress walked us straight to the b
ack and put down two menus without a word.

  “Nothing like a meal in the middle of the night.” Nate said, scooting happily into the booth.

  The menu was filled with glossy illustrations of hamburgers and fries, pancakes draped with syrup, sundaes with cherries. I unrolled my paper napkin from my fork and knife and put it in my lap.

  “Know what you want to eat?” asked Nate.

  “Pancakes,” I said, thinking how we used to have them as a Sunday treat when Mr. Blackwell stayed over. “And coffee.”

  Nate got a hamburger. I watched him smile at the waitress as he gave her our order. For a brief moment I wished I were her and she was the one sitting at the table having to admire him and make conversation. She walked away, slipping her order pad into her pocket, and returned with a pot of coffee.

  The food came right away. Nate added ketchup to his hamburger and then replaced the bun on top and picked the whole thing up with both hands to take an enormous bite. “I could never be a vegetarian,” he said after he put it down, wiping at the ketchup left on his face with his napkin. “You’re not a vegetarian, are you?”

  “No,” I laughed. I had poured all the plastic tubs of syrup onto my pancakes and was just slicing into them. “I just haven’t had pancakes in a long time. My father always says he thinks they’re too sweet, but we used to have them all the time when I was little.” I glanced up at him, thinking that the story didn’t make much sense without Mr. Blackwell, who shared my sweet tooth, but he didn’t seem to notice. I took a sip of coffee, wondering if there were other pieces of my life I could leave out just as easily. He seemed to believe I’d gone to college, and there wasn’t much point in correcting him. He hadn’t asked about my mother, but Robert might have told him about that. I had never liked having to tell people my mother was dead, or having to explain the accident. What difference would it make if I simply left her in my life, had her making pancakes and baking cookies?