The first striking thing about Barcadero is how high-end it is. Given its location, this shouldn’t come as any surprise, but it does. On my way there, I look it up and find out that it’s been open for more than two years. And that’s the second thing. Restaurants open and close all the time in New York, but if you pay attention to this stuff a joint like Barcadero would at least be on your radar. And it’s definitely not on mine.
Though who am I kidding? Not only have I been out of the loop for months, it’s not as if any loop I ever was in would mean I’d be hearing about a place like this. Anyway, with executive chef Jacques Marcotte running the kitchen, I’m guessing that Barcadero is conservative and pricy with the kind of atmosphere that food critics feel compelled to call ‘rarefied’.
One of the kitchen guys lets me into the vestibule area, and, as I’m waiting for Stanley to appear, I look out over the main room. Turns out I’m not wrong, and I quickly conclude that I’m wasting my time. I was happy to get the referral, and maybe it’ll kick-start something else, but I can’t see it – they’re not going to hire a guy whose last job was working at a military chow hall. Jesus. I mean, Mouzon was a nice place, okay, but it was small and very casual, and before that . . . ‘Danny?’
I turn. The man approaching me is short and wiry, though I’d say it’s more kettlebells than pills. He radiates such an immediate and intense energy that I’m almost afraid I’ll get electrocuted if I shake his hand.
‘Stanley Podnick,’ he says.
We shake. I survive.
‘Come on.’
He leads me into the dining area, pulls out a chair at the nearest two-seater and sits down. He indicates for me to do the same and places a cloth-bound notebook and a fountain pen in front of him. He looks at his watch.
‘Okay, Danny,’ he says, opening the notebook, ‘we have a situation this morning. A callout.’
I lean forward slightly, and swallow. ‘A callout?’
‘Yeah, one of my prep guys, Yannis, he says it’s an ulcer, peptic, perforated, I don’t know . . .’ He looks at me quickly, rolls his eyes, then goes back to the notebook. ‘What am I going to do, call him a liar? Anyway, I’ve tried all my covers, and no dice. Bottom line, I’m in a bit of a pickle.’ He looks at me again. ‘So how about it?’
‘I . . . I don’t—’
‘What? Is there somewhere you have to be?’
‘No, it’s just, I thought there’d be more of an interview process.’
Stanley Podnick looks at his watch again and picks up the fountain pen. ‘I don’t have the luxury. Besides, you come highly recommended.’ He taps his pen at the open page of his notebook. ‘Two years at Mouzon, the DFAC stuff. It’s clear you know your way round a kitchen.’
What the fuck? He’s got my résumé?
‘Yeah,’ I say, ‘it’s about the only thing I do know.’
‘So?’
I shrug. ‘Just like that?’
He leans in towards me, and whispers. ‘Danny, I’m in a bind. Plus, like I said, you come recommended.’ He pauses, holding my gaze. ‘What do you want? This is above my pay grade. For now. You fuck up in my kitchen, though? That’s a different story. Anyway, seeing as how you’d be prepping here but you worked the line at Mouzon, this would actually be a step down for you. In theory.’ He makes a sweeping gesture with his hand, indicating the grandeur of the room. ‘Though not in reality, of course. In reality, this would be a fantastic opportunity for you.’ He flips the notebook closed and puts it under his arm. Shifting sideways in his chair, he looks at me and raises his eyebrows. ‘Well?’
‘Yeah,’ I say. ‘Okay. Great. And thanks.’
‘Let’s just hope I’m the one thanking you in ten hours.’ He hops up. ‘Come on, I’ll show you around.’
The kitchen at Barcadero is pretty big, not chow-hall big but bigger than any regular place I’ve ever worked in. When I see the expanse of stainless-steel surfaces, the long station racks, the vent hoods, the enormous ovens, burners, gas ranges and cooling units, I realise that this is as close as I’ll probably ever get to my dream of working at a place like the Four Seasons. Stanley gets me an apron, a jacket and a pair of clogs. He conducts a lightning-fast tour of the kitchen and then introduces me to Pablo, one of the other prep guys. The place is still pretty quiet, so I have a chance to get my bearings.
I’ve met a hundred guys like Pablo – he’s late twenties, handsome in that chiselled, unshaven way, and barely speaks any English. But it becomes apparent within minutes that he’s not an asshole, which is good news for me. Because he easily could have been – protective of Yannis and ready to pound my balls non-stop for the whole shift. Instead, he lends me some knives and sets me up at a station peeling veg, easing me into it. And in his broken English he gives what turns out to be a pretty funny running commentary on the entire place as it slowly comes to life – as the dishwasher moves about, turning on all the equipment, as the sous chef arrives, followed by the line cooks, then the garde manger, then Jacques Marcotte himself, as the tasks multiply and the real cooking gets under way, and finally – too busy after that – as actual service begins.
Every time he does a pass through the kitchen, Stanley checks up on me, but there’s never a problem. If I’m finding it a challenge, it’s only in terms of volume and pacing. There’s a clear rhythm here, like in any kitchen, and you just have to learn it. But there’s nothing I can’t do, no task or procedure I’m unsure of or have to ask about.
At one point, I get a ten-minute break and go outside to the loading dock, where I turn on my phone and send a text to Kate: ‘Hope the assignment’s going well. Good news. Found work. Already halfway through my first shift.’
I stand there for a while and listen to the hum and roar of the city. I haven’t had time to think about any of this, about Phil Coover and the referral and Stanley Podnick having my details, or about the fact that I’m working. But it’s fine. I’m tired, and relieved, and there’ll be plenty of time to dissect all of this later on.
Kate replies: ‘Amazing!!! Can’t wait to hear x.’
Back inside, I go along the narrow hallway and into the kitchen. As I walk by the pick-up window, I glance out at the dining area, which is slammed at the moment, a sea of business suits, tanned faces and mostly grey hair. What are they all talking about? The food? I doubt it. It’ll more likely be money, how you get it, how you multiply it, how you keep it, a hundred variations on that conversation – a hundred out of the million that take place in restaurants all over the city every day.
Back at my prep station, I realise that from where I’m standing I have a direct line of sight into the dining area. It’s only a sliver, the rest of the view is blocked by a large vent hood on one side and a bank of refrigerators on the other – but still, it’s a welcome distraction. I hadn’t noticed it earlier, because I was concentrating so hard. It’s an angle on the room, a corner of it, one table, three people at the moment, but it could be four, a static shot, medium close, without sound – not much, but something to play around with when the monotony kicks in.
By the time my shift ends, I’m destroyed, mainly because I’m out of the habit – three and a half weeks of idleness is a long time in this game. Without Pablo, it would have been a lot harder, and I thank him.
And then Stanley thanks me. ‘That was impressive. You fit right in.’
I nod.
‘So, you up for this again tomorrow?’
‘Sure.’
‘And after that I guess it’ll depend on how Yannis is doing, but . . . you know, I have your number.’
I nod again and tell him I’m available.
Outside on the street, Pablo suggests going for a drink, but I know how that one usually plays out, so I pass and take the subway home.
*
When I come through the door, I see Kate at the table, laptop open in front of her, papers everywhere. She’s slumped forward a bit, her eyes are red, and she looks pretty much the way I feel.
But as I’m closing the door, she pulls her chair back and moves towards me. We meet halfway for a quick hug. Then she sits down again, I stand by the refrigerator, and we talk. For the first few minutes it’s all about my day – the work, how I came by it, Barcadero, what kind of place it is, what the prospects are.
Tell me, tell me.
And I do.
But not having mentioned anything yesterday about Phil Coover, I decide not to mention anything about him tonight. I have to improvise a detail or two, but I manage to pull it off and once I’m at the restaurant it’s easy: there’s the rarefied atmosphere to describe, there’s energetic Stanley, Yannis’s ulcer, the kitchen, Pablo, the routine, the food, plus the fact that this could turn out to be what Stanley called a fantastic opportunity . . .
Then I ask how her day went, how she got on with the coding assignment, and, when she looks up at me, I see that she’s got tears in her eyes. ‘Kate? What is it?’
She clenches her fist. ‘Nothing. It’s—’
‘Kate.’ I go over, pull out the chair next to hers and sit directly in front of her. ‘Kate, what’s wrong? Is it the assignment?’
‘No, I gave that up after twenty minutes—’
‘Well look, who cares, it doesn’t—’
‘No, I could do it, I will do it. I just couldn’t concentrate. Not today.’ She uses her sleeve to wipe away the tears. Then she looks straight at me. ‘I couldn’t get it out of my mind, Danny, that image . . .’
‘What—’
‘Those two guys lying dead on the floor of a freezer. With their heads smashed in? It’s . . . it’s insane.’ Her face crumples again.
‘Oh Jesus, Kate. I’m sorry.’
She takes a deep, gulping breath. ‘It’s not your fault. And you had to tell me. It’s just that . . . I don’t—’
She stops here, uncertain how to proceed, and looks away, over my shoulder, as if the rest of her sentence might be somewhere behind me, on a Post-it note stuck to the fridge, or scrawled across the wall. In blood.
‘Kate,’ I say, feeling sicker with each passing second, ‘what?’
She looks back at me. ‘I don’t think we can just . . . unknow this. It happened. You saw it. It was covered up, and that’s wrong.’
‘Kate . . .’
‘Kate nothing. I mean, you didn’t invent it, did you?’
‘No, of course not.’
‘Well, then. We have to do something.’
‘I thought we had this conversation yesterday. I don’t have any—’
‘Danny, look,’ – she reaches for a sheaf of papers beside her laptop – ‘I’ve been online all day, looking stuff up, printing articles. It’s crazy, I know, but just bear with me.’
As she flicks through the pages, I catch a glimpse of the Gideon logo on one of them, and my stomach sinks. She pulls a single page out and studies it for a second.
‘Okay, get this,’ she says. ‘Over the past fifteen years there have been nine separate whistle-blower cases involving Gideon – and we’re talking everything: fraud, contract violations, falsifying accounts, whatever, but also instances of sexual harassment and even human trafficking – nine, and those are just the ones that have come to trial. They’ve got pretty damn good at defending them too, because with the first couple they ended up incurring huge fines, but after that—’
‘Kate, stop.’
She does, but only for a second. ‘These people are unbelievable, Danny, and they’re getting away with it. I mean, Jesus, from what you told me, they’re literally getting away with murder.’
‘Kate . . .’
She turns to the laptop and clicks something. ‘Look at this.’
I look. It’s a YouTube video. She hits play, and as we wait the standard one or two seconds of dead time for it to start, I sigh loudly. But it comes out sounding more like a deep shiver. Of dread. Which is also how it feels. Kate doesn’t notice because she’s too intently focused on what’s about to appear on the screen. This turns out to be a talking head on some studio panel, a middle-aged guy, beardy, academic, bifocals on a chain.
‘So, these defence contractors,’ he’s saying, ‘they’ve developed quite an attitude. I mean, it’s not just that they think they’re above the law, which they often are, it’s that by aggressive lobbying, by packing government advisory committees, and by other frankly less than ethical means, they think they can actually make the laws, shape them, customise them to their own requirements. We’re talking about billions of taxpayer dollars being funnelled into a sector that isn’t accountable, that isn’t part of any chain of command, a sector that operates outside the jurisdiction of the United States and is therefore free to formulate what effectively amounts to its own foreign policy. So real reform is needed here, you know, and I think people should start demanding that reform, they should contact their elected representatives, they should get on the phone—’
‘Kate, who is this guy?’
‘—they should send emails, texts, tweets, whatever it takes, in order to—’
She taps the space bar to pause it. The beardy man freezes, silenced mid-sentence. Without looking at me, Kate says, ‘It’s Harold Brunker, he’s a law professor at NYU. He represented some of the Occupy people after that thing on the bridge. He’s—’
‘A law professor?’
She looks at me. ‘Yeah.’
‘And what’s this?’ I nod at the screen. ‘What’s he on? Some kind of news show?’
‘It’s . . . I don’t know, it’s just . . . a clip I came across, it’s—’
‘Great. A clip on the Internet.’
‘Excuse me?’
‘A clip. On the Internet.’ If I wasn’t so tired, I’m sure I’d be able to do a better job of muffling the contempt in my voice. Shit, if I wasn’t so tired, I’m sure I wouldn’t even be talking.
‘What’s that supposed to mean?’
‘It means . . . learn how to code on the Internet, Kate, fine, that makes sense, maybe, but the law? You think you’re going to learn about the law by looking up random websites and watching fucking YouTube clips?’
‘What?’
‘You heard the professor there. This is a private corporation that gets to make up its own foreign policy. So you can be damned sure that at the very least all of their lawyers went to actual law school.’
The look I get for this is one of momentary incomprehension. It’s as if my statement has to be translated from another language. Except that it doesn’t.
‘Jesus,’ she whispers, after a long silence.
I’m immediately sorry and want to say so, but I know if I start, the words will catch in my throat.
‘Anyway,’ she goes on, a little shakily, ‘my ignorance of the law is hardly the point.’ She turns and flips the laptop closed. ‘Man, they really did a number on you over there, didn’t they?’
She walks past me and goes into the living room.
*
The next morning things aren’t any better and we’re giving each other the silent treatment. I don’t know what I can say without making the situation worse. Because the thing is, I really want this job at Barcadero. It’ll be a chance to claw our way back a little. But taking it will effectively preclude me – preclude us – from voicing any criticism whatsoever of Gideon Logistics. And after last night, how do I break that to Kate?
Though maybe the job won’t work out – maybe this Yannis guy chugs down a bottle of Pepto-Bismol, shows up for work, and I’m back at square one. At least in that case I’d no longer feel the need to be so defensive. And hypocritical. And like an asshole.
On the subway, I stare vacantly across at my reflection as it flickers in and out of visibility. I know it’s just a job, but I’d like the regular pay cheque, and I guess I wouldn’t be unhappy with the step up in prestige either. At the same time, I briefly imagine how I’d feel if Stanley were to tell me this morning that Yannis is fine, that he’ll be back tomorrow, that two shifts is all I’m getting.
Actually, I’d probably be okay with that. I might even be relieved. It would mean I could look Kate in the eye again. It would mean I could stop lying to her. So, as I walk the three blocks to the restaurant, I convince myself that this is what’s going to happen, and that when it does I’ll make the necessary adjustments – I’ll express disappointment, but be professional about it, I’ll use the momentum (and maybe some of Stanley’s goodwill) to try and find a new job elsewhere. And then I’ll go home and patch things up with Kate.
I arrive at Barcadero and the place doesn’t seem as frenetic as it did yesterday. The atmosphere is a little muted. There’s none of the usual banter going on. With Pablo I’m guessing it’s a hangover, but they can’t all be hungover. So maybe it’s that someone is in a mood and the whole kitchen is affected. I’ve certainly seen that happen, though I’m not familiar enough with everyone here to be able to read the signs with any degree of confidence. Nevertheless, things grind into gear and before long I’m totally focused on precision-dicing some pork for a ragù.
After a while, Stanley shows up, catches my eye from across the kitchen and indicates for me to follow him. I wipe up around the prep station before taking off down the dimly lit hallway that leads to the cramped office at the back. It’s clear that Stanley is just as downbeat as everyone else is, and when I see him slumped at his little desk I get a weird feeling.
Without looking at me, he says, in a quiet voice, ‘Nadine, our accountant, will be in later and you can talk details and stuff with her, but I’m just going to go ahead now and slot you in for all of his shifts, okay?’
When I don’t respond, Stanley eventually turns to face me. Up close like this, I can see that his eyes are red and slightly raw-looking.
‘Stanley, no one has said a word to me this morning. I don’t know what—’
‘Yannis died,’ he says, and his face contorts a little. A tear runs down his cheek.
‘Oh shit, Stanley. I’m sorry.’
‘Yeah.’ He wipes his eyes with his sleeve and sighs loudly. ‘Two years he worked here, almost from the beginning. He drove us all crazy with his stupid jokes . . . but he was a real sweetheart. Everyone loved him.’
I swallow. ‘Was it . . . the ulcer?’ I can’t believe I’m even asking him this. People don’t die of ulcers these days, do they? ‘Perforated, you said?’
‘We don’t know. His boyfriend found him last night, in their apartment. He was just . . . lying there.’ His face contorts again. ‘It’s fucking awful.’
I stand in the doorway for a moment, but it’s clear we’re done.
My walk back along the dim hallway to the kitchen is a long one. Yesterday I was covering for Yannis. I was anonymous, invisible. Today I’m replacing him. Today I’m the new guy.
I feel like I should be sending a text to Kate or something, but what would I say?
*
And so begins this new work regime in my life, which is not unlike the one I had before I left for Afghanistan – better restaurant, okay, and slightly better pay – but basically the same. It’s still kitchen hours, still kitchen work . . . nicks, burns, high heat, tempers, ego, shouting, mind-numbing repetition. A bit like a war zone. Unless, that is, you’ve ever fought in a real war zone.
At home, however, in terms of pre- and post-Afghanistan, things are markedly different. It’s my fault, but what’s going on between me and Kate is awful. The truth is, I’m losing her, and in a way I’m also losing me – losing that version of Danny that she allows me to be, the one who doesn’t have a label, who’s sane, who’s in control. That guy. So if I do end up losing Kate, what happens to him? Where does he go?
I have no answer, and with each passing day things just get more complicated. My final cheque from Gideon comes through, accompanied by a three-month unofficial severance payment, which is fucking great, but I find myself not mentioning this last part to Kate. My hours at Barcadero mean that I have fewer opportunities to mention anything to her, but when I do have a moment, my brain is usually fried and I’m not inclined to – which means it’s easier to just let things fester.
How this plays out on a day-to-day basis is that I get home from work in a sort of operational coma, and, depending on which shift cycle I’m on, early or late, Kate is either there at the kitchen table doing her coding stuff, or she’s out, or watching TV, or having a bath, or even already in bed. We talk, and are cordial, we deal with the small stuff – shopping for food, cooking, doing the laundry – but day after day the subtext gets buried that little bit deeper. Occasionally, a ripple of anxiety will surface. A violent item on the news will spark an unwelcome association, say, or a phone call from the debt-collection agency that now owns Kate’s student loan will detonate like an IED in the quiet of our living room. Or a simple sex scene in a movie we’re both watching late at night will serve as an uncomfortable reminder of how long it’s been for us.
The worst thing is that we don’t seem capable of going into reverse on any of this. I’m genuinely exhausted on a permanent basis now, and Kate has become more determined than ever to turn her coding MOOC into a job opportunity, so we are busy, we are preoccupied, we do have these brutal demands on our time – but how sustainable is all this over the long term? How compatible is it with the notion of our being in a serious relationship? And how corrosive is it to our periodically expressed desire to have a baby together?
*
As it turns out, things aren’t that much better at work. If I had a honeymoon period at Barcadero, I suppose it was just that first shift – those ten hours when I wasn’t the guy who was replacing the guy who died. But ever since then no one has been willing to see my presence in the kitchen as anything other than bad juju – snippy comments are routinely made, looks are exchanged, cooperation is withheld. This makes for a shitty environment. The work still has to get done, though, orders have to be filled. For my part, I can lock into an intense rhythm and hit a flow state.
There is one thing that helps. It’s the partial but clear line of sight I have from my prep station out into the dining area. During service, when the atmosphere in the kitchen gets too weird or toxic, I’ll glance through the pick-up to see who’s out there. I’ll go around the table, rotating my attention, filling in imaginary details, names, job titles. I’ve done it once already this evening, and now, with service in full swing and tempers fraying all around me, I do it again. I glance out and this time see just two people sitting there – a youngish-looking couple. The guy, from what I can make out, is a business type in an expensive suit, but it’s she who catches my eye. Most of the women who come to this place have that brittle, moneyed look, too tanned and coiffed, too much work done. This woman isn’t anything like that. Even from a distance, I can see that she has an ethereal quality, a natural beauty so intense that she looks unreal, out of place, almost like an alien.
In fact, I’m so distracted by her that at one point, chopping asparagus tips, I nearly slice off the top of my left index finger. There’s a tiny spurt of blood, but I manage to conceal it. I go over to one of the fridges where we keep a tin of Band-Aids. Taking cover behind the open door, I quickly stick two on my finger in an x-formation. On the way back, avoiding eye contact, I decide I’m an idiot and should just keep my head down in future. Because another slip like that – a more serious one, time spent at the ER, someone having to cover for me – all of that could jeopardise my position at Barcadero. But once I’m over at the prep station again, standing there . . . I can’t resist.
I raise my head and look through the window.
She’s not there any more.
That’s the second thing I notice. The first thing I notice is that I am.
The woman’s seat is empty, and the guy is sitting at a slightly different angle, looking in my direction, more or less. I have a clear view of his face, and . . . it’s the weirdest thing . . . I’m still chopping asparagus tips, but it occurs to me that I should slow down, that I’m not in full control here, that unless I want to lose a finger for real I have to actually pay attention to what I’m doing. So right now that’s what I do, I look down at my cutting board, at the kinetic blur of wrist and hand and knife. I slow my pace, eventually bringing the operation to a complete halt. After a moment, I glance through the window again, but I can’t believe my eyes . . .
Which I close.
At this point I become hyperaware of every sound in the kitchen, of Pablo to my left, slicing duck breasts and muttering continuously in Spanish; of Alex, our Australian sous chef over to the right, crucifying one of the line guys for putting too much seasoning in the soubise; of every whoompf and sizzle, every plate clattering, every unit humming and shuddering – and it’s in this simultaneously heightened and almost paralysed state, like some partial form of locked-in syndrome, that I open my eyes again, just a fraction, and look out . . .
And holy shit . . .
He’s still there, the guy in the suit, still alone, still facing this way. He’s not looking at me, not directly, but I’m looking at him, and I can see his face, which is just like my face, remarkably so – the face that I see when I look in a mirror, or at a photograph.
It gives me a sick, dizzy feeling, and I turn away.
‘Danny?’
I glance down at my hands, which are shaking slightly. I’m still holding the knife. I tap the edge of it gently on the cutting board.
‘Danny?’
This is Alex. He’s standing by the pass now, next to Chef, but staring back at me. ‘The fuck, mate?’
I ignore him and look out again – I can’t not. The likeness is uncanny. I’m a little scruffy and need a shave, I’m pale, I could do with some proper nourishment, whereas this guy is tanned and chiselled and healthy-looking . . . not to mention that suit he’s wearing . . . but still—
‘Wakey, wakey, over there. Jesus Christ. Someone slip you a fucking roofie?’
It suddenly strikes me – because of the angles and where people are standing – that no one else here can see what I can, that no one else here is looking at what I’m looking at. And I’m glad. I wouldn’t want them to. Because this feels very personal.
Tapping the edge of my knife on the board again, I reach for the next handful of asparagus stalks. I then tear my eyes away from the pick-up window and glance over at Alex.
‘Quaalude,’ I whisper, mouthing the word very clearly for him to see. As I start chopping again, I hold his gaze. I wait for him to roll his eyes and turn his attention back to the production line. When he does, my eyes dart back out to the dining area.
But the guy in the suit is standing up now, facing away, and moving off to the right. The woman appears from the left, obviously back from the bathroom. She glides across my line of vision, and the two of them disappear.
I feel something next to me, a sudden movement, then hear a sharp intake of breath. I turn to Pablo, who’s staring bug-eyed down at my hands.
‘Pero ché coño?’ he says.
I look down. There are tiny speckles of blood everywhere, not only on my cutting board, but all over Pablo’s as well.
*
It’s a measure of the shit storm this causes – shouting, name-calling, a tricky sequence of refires, the ceaseless animosity that ripples down the line at me all night – that it’s not until my shift is over and I’m on the subway heading home that I remember the guy in the suit, the guy who . . . who what? Who looked just like me?
I gaze down at the floor of the subway car for a moment.
Did he, though? Really?
From this remove, it seems a bit implausible, the image less distinct now, the whole episode sort of blurry in my mind.
Except . . .
I remember the woman all right. She was gorgeous. So was it maybe a little wishful thinking on my part? Instead of peeping at her, undetected, from a distance, like a deranged creep, my mind decides it’d be nicer, maybe, to sit across a table from her, with a glass of wine, and admire those high cheekbones up close?
I don’t know.
But if so, it’s pathetic.
I look at my finger. At least that’s something I’ll be able to talk to Kate about. Maybe I could even get some sympathy. Though without going into the reason for it, of course. That I got distracted looking at this beautiful woman and then so caught up in a fantasy about having dinner with her that I slashed my fucking finger.
She’d love that.
But I needn’t have worried. When I get in, Kate is already in bed, asleep, or pretending to be.
*
The next morning, the Band-Aid on my finger is just that, a Band-Aid on my finger, not enough to stimulate an actual conversation. So in frustration – because I don’t know what Kate is thinking – I do something pretty awful. I scroll through her browsing history while she’s in the bathroom. Does it help? I don’t know. In amongst all the course pages, I find multiple searches for Gideon Logistics, for whistle-blower cases, and for Afghanistan. There are also a few for PTSD.
Is that, after all, what she thinks I have?
It might explain why she’s been putting up with my various dysfunctions – emotional, social, erectile. But then again it might not. So I also listen in on phone conversations she’s having. I allow myself to overhear them from the next room. It’s a small apartment, and she can’t imagine there’s any real privacy when she’s on the phone, so on those occasions when she brings her voice down a notch or two, almost to a whisper sometimes, I have to wonder what she thinks she’s doing, if not inviting me to listen even harder. In which case, what am I supposed to think when I hear this? ‘. . . oh, I don’t know, Sal, he’s trying . . .’ Or this? ‘. . . they’re so manipulative, and they have very deep pockets . . .’
But who? Who has deep pockets? And in what way, I’d like to know, does she think I’m trying?
On my next day off, I take things a step further. Kate says she’s going out to meet a friend for coffee and I decide to follow her. I give her the impression that I’ll be hanging out in the apartment all morning, but the second she’s out the door I get dressed and skip down to the street. I know which direction she’s probably headed in, so it doesn’t take me more than thirty seconds to catch up and fall in behind her. We move in unison down First Avenue, half a block apart.
What am I doing, though? What is it that I expect to find? Evidence of something? Of what? I already have ample evidence that Kate is big-hearted and kind and extremely patient. So what am I looking for now, evidence that she’s conspiring against me somehow? Am I out of my fucking mind?
At 4th Street she turns right. I continue behind her, but slow down and let her pull ahead. I think I know where she’s going anyway, a place she likes on Great Jones. By the time I get onto Second Avenue and look left, I catch a glimpse of her on the southwest corner disappearing right onto 3rd. By this stage, I’ve had enough and stay where I am. I stand there for a few moments, a little tripped out, looking at people, traffic, yellow cabs – one of which, slowing down now for a light, comes to a halt directly in front of where I’m standing. It’s only there for maybe five seconds, and all I see is a profile . . . but fuck me if that isn’t . . . Harold Brunker, the guy on the YouTube clip, the law professor. It’s the beard, something about the – or am I mistaken?
When the light changes, and the cab takes off, I watch as it zigzags across the avenue, deftly manoeuvring itself for a right turn onto 3rd Street.
Fuck.
She’s meeting him?
I could go down there and . . . what? Storm into a crowded coffee shop? Start shouting? Make a scene?
But what if it’s not him?
Of course it’s fucking him.
I glance around, irritated now. For some reason, I’ve never liked this stretch of Second Avenue. It’s dark and airless.
I turn and make my way quickly back over to First.
*
Kate shows up at the apartment again around midday, by which point my irritation has mutated into acute sexual jealousy. Why was she meeting Harold Brunker? To reminisce about Occupy Wall Street? To discuss whistle-blower legislation? Over coffee? And that’s it?
Please.
Although the practical details of whatever else might be going on – the where, the how – resist coherent formation in my mind, I resolve to confront Kate about it the moment she gets in. But when the door opens, I see an equally determined resolve on her face.
‘Danny,’ she says, putting her bag down, ‘you remember that thing I showed you a while ago, the YouTube clip? The one you were so dismissive of?’
I remain silent and try to look puzzled.
‘Come on, you remember. The one of that guy, the law professor? Harold Brunker?’
I nod.
‘Well, I actually met with him this morning.’
Yeah? Really? This is where I might grab a kitchen knife, swipe the air with it and level insane accusations at her – instead of what I do, which is just offer a blank, ‘Oh?’
‘Yeah, my friend Sally’s at NYU, she asked around, and it turns out he’s pretty approachable.’
‘Yeah?’
‘Yeah, he’s active in the whole protest scene and takes a special interest in, you know, the privatisation of the military, all the fallout from that, the human cost. He says it’s a form of moral Botox. He says—’
‘Jesus, Kate, he says. You didn’t talk about me, did you? You didn’t tell him about Afghanistan, about Sharista?’
‘No. No. I wouldn’t do that. Not without asking you first. I was going to maybe build up to it.’
‘Build up to it? What does that mean? What did you talk about?’
‘Oh baby,’ she says, visibly deflating, ‘I just . . . I wanted to talk to someone.’ She hesitates, a pleading look in her eyes. ‘I mean . . . you won’t talk to me. And I really want to help, I really want to try and understand all of this.’
I swallow, afraid to speak now. Stupid as it was, the jealousy is no longer there, but something else has set in, and I can’t quite place it.
‘And look,’ she goes on, ‘it’s okay that you don’t want to talk.’
From this, it’s clear that she has a worked-out and most likely Google-generated theory about why I don’t want to talk. It’s because I’m hurting, I’m traumatised, and the process of resolving that stuff takes time, it takes effort and commitment.
Nothing to do with how if I do talk, I’ll have to keep on lying to her.
‘Moral Botox?’ I say eventually. ‘Cute. Did he make that up all by himself?’
She stares at me, her big heart obviously weary now, her kindness and patience fraying. ‘I don’t know, Danny. Maybe he did. Maybe he didn’t. Maybe he heard it somewhere. Does it matter?’
*
That night, I dream about Iraq. It’s a rush of impressions, the heat and rumble and smell of a Humvee’s interior, the stark sound of an ammo feed-tray being slammed shut, the plume of smoke that rises from a distant bend in the road. On approach, this becomes a crash site, where an AH-64 Apache helicopter has just been downed. Strewn everywhere are battered sections of fuselage, and the person they’re pulling from the wreckage, it turns out – though I think we’re already somewhere else – is my father . . .
That wakes me up.
For a while, I just lie there, in shock, staring up at the ceiling. He was a drunk, my old man, bitter and shouty, and he died of lung cancer, too many Marlboro reds. It was actually my mother who got pulled from a wreck, but that was years earlier, after a car accident – a collision with an oncoming truck, apparently. Beside her was my half-brother, Tom . . . who I can’t remember any more, can’t even see in my mind’s eye . . .
I look at Kate, asleep next to me in the bed. I listen to her as she breathes, and I wonder how long it will be before I can’t remember her. In a way, it’s happening already, and she’s receding. Though maybe it’s me who’s receding. Or retreating, or . . . succumbing . . .
Eventually, I drift back to sleep, a dreamless one, and when I open my eyes again a few hours later, it’s time to get up and go to work.
It’s a long day at Barcadero, and a stressful one, but towards the end of my shift, it happens again.
This time the woman isn’t there – which punches a hole in my earlier theory. He’s there, though, with two older guys. I didn’t see them being seated, because I was in the walk-in at the time, but they’re definitely there now, and having an animated conversation. My guy is sitting in the middle, turning one way, then the other, like a talk-show host.
I go on working, glancing up every few seconds, but, unlike the last time, there’s no panic or sense of urgency – I’m not self-conscious or worried about who can or can’t see him. I just stare at this man who bears an uncanny resemblance to me – or, as he might see it, I bear an uncanny resemblance to. And who knows, maybe up close we’re different, maybe there are discernible variations in the size and spacing of our features, in our bone structure, in our complexion. But so what. For the moment, I’m happy to go along with whatever this is, to treat it as some weird . . . thing.
After work, though, the weirdness lingers, like a mood I can’t seem to shake, and maybe one I don’t even want to shake, because it has a dreamy, vaguely narcotic quality to it, an intensity that carries me along – through the streets and the subway tunnels, into my building and up the stairs, into the apartment, and all with only the slightest, gentlest ripple of anxiety.
Unsurprisingly, by the following day, the feeling has dissipated somewhat. I can’t quite summon it, but I know it’s there, in the background, submerged.
I wonder if it’ll ever resurface.
It takes three days. I’m coming back inside after a break, walking along the narrow hallway towards the kitchen. A bit further on is where the restrooms are situated. As I’m turning towards the kitchen, one of the dishwasher guys is on his way out, lugging a heavy black sack, and I stand aside to let him pass. Just then the door to the ladies’ opens and someone comes out.
It’s the woman from that first night.
She’s tall, with dark hair in a pageboy cut, and red lipstick. She’s in a short, chequered dress. It’s hard not to stare at her legs, and I do stare at them, but when I stop and look up, I see that she’s staring intently at me. She seems mesmerised for a few seconds – but then figures it out I guess, realises why she’s staring at me.
I break away first. I head into the kitchen and make straight for my work station. It’s a while before I dare to, but I eventually look out, and there they are, huddled at the table together, talking and laughing. Dinner is mustard-glazed hamachi, fattoush, branzino, blood sausage, cider mousse, verbena ganache, and I wonder if at any point during it she tells him. ‘The strangest thing, sweetheart: on the way back from the bathroom, I saw this guy . . .’
As they’re getting up to leave, I contrive a reason to slip out of the kitchen. I rush along the hallway, yanking off my white jacket as I go. I make my way out to the street by a side exit, move a couple of doors down from the restaurant, and stop as though something in a window display has caught my attention. I glance to my right. This part of the street is quiet. A few people pass, walking slowly in either direction. Over by the kerb, there’s a young guy, no more than a kid, leaning against a parked low-slung sports car. He’s busy with his phone.
I look back at the entrance to Barcadero, and after a moment they emerge, gliding onto the sidewalk. The sports car, of course – I should have guessed – is theirs, or his. The kid looks up as they approach and quickly pockets his phone. There is an exchange of keys and what I assume is a fat tip.
The man holds open the passenger door of the car to let the woman get in. As he walks around to the driver’s side, I’m struck by how similar in height and build we are.
A moment later, the car hums to life. It’s sleek and curvy, shiny, a sort of ultramarine blue. As it pulls away, the woman turns her head slightly in my direction, and for the second time this evening, even if only for the briefest moment, our eyes meet.
*
I live off this for the next few days, the whole thing – her, him, the likeness, the otherness of it, the feeling it gives me. It’s not rational, and, if I were to talk about it, or look it up, I know things would go from mysterious to banal in seconds flat.
Hey, I have a cousin looks just like that Seth Rogen.
‘BuzzFeed’s 21 People Who Met Themselves.’
So I keep quiet about it. I certainly don’t mention it to Kate. What I do, in fact, is just wait for it to happen again. I even work on my day off in case I miss an opportunity to see them. Or to see him, really. She’s something else, no question about that, with the legs and the lipstick and all, but what am I, fourteen? No, he’s the source of interest here – whoever he actually is. And I try to find out. I make overtures to Stanley about maybe gaining access to bookings info, but he looks at me like I’m an axe murderer. I even try to chat up one of the girls who sometimes works front of the house, but that doesn’t go too well either.
After another few days, I begin to lose heart. Because something occurs to me. What if he’s been in the restaurant every single night for dinner but sitting at a different table? I’ve just been assuming that he always sits at the corner table, that it maybe has some significance for him. But what if I’m wrong?
A few more days pass, I keep a careful eye out, and he still doesn’t show. Then one morning I’m heading into work on the subway. Sitting directly opposite me is a large man in a crumpled suit who has a briefcase lodged tightly between his knees. He’s flicking through a copy of Business Week and chewing gum. I figure he’s a rep of some kind, or maybe an ad exec on the prowl for new accounts. Whatever. After a moment though, I glance down at the cover of the magazine. The layout is a grid of nine photos, each one a headshot, each one a face. I squint for a second, trying to bring the whole thing into focus. And then my heart stops.
Because one of the photos, the last one . . . bottom row, on the right . . .
It’s of him, of the guy . . . of me.
Fuck.
I’m about to lean forward to get a closer look when a lady with shopping bags shuffles along the car and blocks my view. The train is about to pull in at my stop anyway, and as I stand up to get off, I peer over the woman’s shoulder to try and get another glimpse of the cover, but it’s all too fast and I miss it. The next moment, I’m out on a crowded platform walking towards the exit, the train pulling away to my left.
Once I hit the street, I look around for the nearest news-stand. Ten minutes later I’m in Bryant Park with a triple espresso macchiato in one hand and a copy of Business Week in the other. I find a bench and sit down.
It’s definitely him.
The title of the article is ‘The Unusual Suspects: Nine Innovators with the Future in their Crosshairs’. I take a few sips of coffee, glance around at the bright, trafficky Midtown swirl, and then start riffling through the magazine, looking for the article. When I get past all the glossy ads for SUVs, watches, vodka, data storage and banks, I find it – and it is what it says on the cover, a survey of cool young business guys running cool, innovative companies. There is a two-page introductory spread, and then a page apiece for each of the so-called unusual suspects. I quickly flip to the one I’m looking for.
The first thing is the shock of the photo – this weird, dream version of me, posing, in a studio, in a suit . . . me looking handsome, confident, wealthy. And those differences I’d anticipated? Those subtle but significant variations in facial features? Not there, not visible, not that I can detect, not at all.
This really could be me.
In some fucked-up parallel universe.
I glance around me again, to make sure I’m still in this universe, and then I look back at the article. Scanning the text, I find it hard to concentrate, to process or retain what I’m reading, but two things stick.
His name is Teddy Trager.
And the company he runs is called Paradime Capital.