One evening in late August Lydia had retired early and alone, citing a headache and fatigue. Henry, wending his way thoughtfully slow in the evening made limpid with the first cool touch of late summer tilting toward autumn, considered with mild amazement the simple fact that it had been over two months since he’d been separated from her for more than a few hours and only a handful of nights and those early on. And so cast back over the past few days and cautiously allowed that now in hindsight perhaps she’d been a bit less engaged, mildly distracted at random, inauspicious times. He made his way along what he considered his lovely canal and climbed those three flights, let himself in and opened the windows both in front and the two small ones in the bedroom that looked out over a dormer ledge of the building next door, where several times he and Lydia had spotted what they first thought was a neighborhood cat but when Lydia had tried to seduce it with a tidbit of cheese it had fled and later they saw it with the remains of a pigeon, a feral cat. But it would sit and watch them, grooming itself with its tongue as long as neither approached the window.
As he sat too, now, alone and wanting nothing, full from a good dinner and not interested in tea or a drink, the smack of comprehension coming upon him not as a single large wave but a rapid succession. Constant companions who rapidly and without guile became more than that despite resistance from both, an inescapable lovely magnetism that he utterly trusted, and trusted even more as her stories slowly had come forth—a woman who had embraced solitude on a deeply personal level, her guard against further damage, for despite her independence, and face-into-the-wind take on life, wariness was as much a part of her as a necessity. And how she moved through the world, unattached and yet surrounded by and surrounding herself with an array of people she clearly valued but would only let so close. Henry, pausing, wondered how many of those people considered Lydia a dear close friend and guessed the number was considerably more than her own tally. Although he now understood her tally was marked in a book unlike that of others. Which brought him neatly to the contradiction central to not only his knowledge of her but his experience, not only of herself but himself as well.
They were inseparable. And if he’d failed to consider the meaning of this condition, the ramification upon not only his heart but hers, he understood that also. She hadn’t encouraged him to edge sideways a bit at a time back into life but allowed him, without his even knowing it, to partake fully. And he forgave himself. It had been simply the most wonderful time, the summer swift and fleet as if the years had dropped away from him. A gift, lovely, pure and true.
What he’d missed was how she might view all this. Especially the lengthening time. Which, beyond the pleasure and those murmured endearments of passion, the constant touch, the ease of reaching down or across a table for her hand, he’d offered nothing. Because he was content and enchanted. As she appeared to be but then again, the question. What was he offering her?
It was a short argument, neither won nor lost but nevertheless revealed what was called for, and then a palpable exhilaration—he would strike out now, just past dusk, surely she must be awake, wrestling no doubt with her own version of this same question. But then stopped himself. Let her have the night. Most importantly, let him give her the night, so when he went to her in the morning she’d accept his gravitas, his sincerity and the depth of his intent.
In bed a light wash of guilt over Olivia came to him, that he could find new love so effortlessly, so quickly it still seemed in some ways, a literal lifetime in others and then she came to him. No specter but the direct voice of long knowledge. A younger woman, she might say. You rascal! But he knew she would want this for him, knew his essential nature so well as to know he was not a man to live alone. And Lydia was not so much younger, well beyond the point where those few years made any great difference.
In the morning he rose and bathed and as slowly as he could made his way to the Dam, one hand in his trouser pocket, his jacket pushed back as he fingered her key. Up the broad busy steps of the Kras and through the grand foyer to the elevators and waited with silent glowing satisfaction as the elevator boy rode him up to her fifth floor. Then down the narrow hallway with the rococo plaster ceiling to her door. Where he stopped, the key in his pocket stilled. There, hanging by a braided silk cord over her doorknob the small placard in Dutch, French and English. Please Do Not Disturb. She’d never done this before, even when they’d stayed up most of the night and intended to sleep past noon—the hotel staff knew Lydia Pearce would call down when she was ready for coffee and breakfast—the beginning of her day. The maids would be alerted only after she’d left for the afternoon. So there could only be one person this message was intended for.
The heave of mistrust. Was she alone? And then profound disappointment in himself—perhaps she truly was sick. But no, as he was even then backing quietly on the thick carpet down the hall. The message, the exact message was superbly clear: She was very serious and wanted him, trusted him, to know that.
Because he didn’t know what else to do he wandered among the shops along the north side of the big square and picked up his usual newspapers and found a bakery with a handful of mostly empty tables and settled in with coffee and almond-paste pastries. The air was cool off the cobbles from the night but the morning sun was up enough to warm him. He scanned the papers which might as well have been printed in Sanskrit, even the Tribune. But it was fine sitting and the coffee was rich and strong and as he watched the flow and flurry of human activity grow on the square as the day truly came on he felt more and more he was in the right place at exactly the right time, on a mission imperative and fundamental to his life. There were no further refinements to be made, no bother to go over what he must say, what needed finally to be said. He was waiting. For how long he didn’t know, or what the signal that the wait had ended might be. But Henry Dorn had thrown himself over to the fates if not God and so was certain all that was required was vigilance and staunchness.
A little later, scattering people and heedless, three trucks rolled in and made a small semicircle across the Dam from where he sat. More men then he’d thought possible swarmed out of the cabs and pulled tarpaulins off two of the trucks, revealing steel and wooden trusses in several assemblages of like size. The men were dark—Spanish or Mediterranean, in rough trousers and sleeveless undershirts stained with sweat and grease and they began unloading the trucks, arranging the multisided pieces in groups. Then in teams with heavy wrenches and hammers they went to work and began to construct large V-shaped segments, the steel trusses making the legs of the V and the wide tops joined with lightly arched wooden connectors, the men swarming fast and without extraneous motions, handrolled cigarettes clamped between their teeth and as they worked he could hear their short barked calls to one another and whatever language was being spoken was far different than any he might have even a passing knowledge of. Finally the Vs were laid out in a circle about the square, the bottoms all pointed in. He bought another coffee and paid his bill, leaving his unread papers, and moved a bit closer to the trucks to watch. Where the speech was even more strange and he realized these were gypsies. Then the tarpaulin was pulled partway back on the final truck and the men worked with cleated planks and block and tackle to gently bring to the ground a large single-stroke engine on a massive carriage and this they moved to just off center of the circle. Back under the final tarpaulin was a mound of curious rounded large objects. The men then began to work together fastening the constructed Vs together in sections and he began to see the outline as parts of a giant wheel. And began to know what he was witnessing.
As the sections were joined they also began to rise, lifted with much heavier ropes the thickness of a man’s arm and giant blocks the size of a torso and as the giant wheel took shape up against the sky some of the workers scampered along those high edges to meet and guide the two edges into place, to fasten the struts that bridged the twin wheels to one large one. It might have taken an hour, a bit more, but there looming against the sky was the skeleton of a Ferris wheel. Then back on the ground the men worked again and suddenly there was a popping backfire as the engine came to life, a pause for it to settle and the men, now with most off to the side, lounging and smoking and passing small clay bottles among them, while closer to the wheel were two groups, most clearly the operators and the mechanics, as both moved back and forth making adjustments and then, finally, some peering up, others intent on the drive mechanism, one man pulled back a lever. There was a grinding as the engine labored and the wheel remained still and then slowly, ever so slowly, the contraption began to revolve. Sometimes halting and other times pitching forward and around too quickly as the mechanics darted in and out about the engine and the drive and twisted or loosened connections, one man crouched by the side of the engine, a cap tilted back on his head, his face ever skyward as his hands worked to gain control over the thrust and momentum of the engine and then, almost a miracle, the giant wheel began to revolve in a stately sedate fashion. The man with the lever halted the progress completely and then started it up again several times until the whole operation was as smooth and consistent as any orbit could be.
Finally the engine was idled back most all the way, the man who was clearly the crew boss if not the owner of the contraption took a seat up on the deck of one of the empty trucks and lit a cigar while all the rest but the operator swarmed to pull back the final tarpaulin and lifted down four by four the big wicker baskets and carried them over to mount them within the frame of the wheel. The baskets all had panel doors with a strap latch on the outside and all were mounted so the doors faced the operator. And so, bit by climbing bit, the empty baskets swaying gently as they rose, the Ferris wheel was completed.
And Henry Dorn had the most wonderful idea.
Intent as he’d been with this construction periodically he’d glanced up, not only at her window below the ranks of European flags flying along the face of the hotel, but also the steps and entry. So he’d seen when the shades on her windows had gone up and still he waited. And so also saw when she finally, late morning, ventured out and paused at the top of the steps, in an ice-blue summer dress, her hair buffeted by a breeze he couldn’t feel, a full whipping helmet atop and above her head, and saw her glance around, looking not quite toward him. And he knew she’d spied him from her windows sometime earlier. So slowly, his eyes never leaving her face, he made his way across the Dam toward her, waiting to see when she’d sense his coming. His feet striking the cobbles unevenly, his brain afire. And then as he lifted a foot for the first step up, she turned a quiver of a turn and her eyes lit upon him.
“You’re glowing this morning.”
“Am I?” Her eyes seemed to flicker, then held fast. “Was that you crept up to my door earlier then scurried away?”
“I didn’t scurry. And you had that sign on your doorknob.”
“Did you think that was intended for you?”
“I assumed it was intended for everyone. Have you had breakfast?”
She made a tossed-away gesture. “A bit. How’re you, Henry?” And laid a hand upon his arm.
“Well enough. I spent a good part of last evening thinking.”
She cocked her head, a gentle study. “And did you reach conclusions?”
He smiled. “A dose of introspection that was a bit overdue, I believe.”
She smiled also, without her usual vibrancy but with a seriousness that led him to believe he was ever more than before on the right track. “And would you care to share that?”
“I would. But Lydia—”
“I have my own, you know.”
“I wouldn’t expect otherwise. We seem to’ve reached a serious moment, and about time—well, that’s one conclusion drawn.” He’d taken her hand and was leading her down the steps and out into the Dam, she leaning gently against him as was her wont. He went on. “But sitting out here, an idea came to me, something that would be just the right thing, a perfect prelude to this discussion.”
“Is that so?” And he heard the rise, that lilt of curiosity and expectation.
“Indeed.” And with a small elaborate flourish he indicated the Ferris wheel.
“You’re joking.”
“Not at all. And Lydia?”
“Henry?” Her eyes narrowed a bit, reassessing him. Or revealing some unease—he didn’t know which but knew he was correct and pressed on, turning to stand before her, taking both her hands in his.
“Watching the men construct this, I have to admit it took me a little while to even see what it was, because at first it was all just so many pieces laid out on the ground, watching them put it together and then realizing what it was, I thought, much as I’ve been thinking, Yes, what you need is right in front of you. And I know what we need to talk about but what could serve us better then to ride those slow revolutions? Because, because, Lydia, it’s so much of what you’ve revealed to me. But knowing this takes nothing from it, does it? In fact, armed with such knowledge, wouldn’t it be the most perfect bridge between where we were yesterday and where we’re going today? I’m right you know. A small blessing is what it is.” He paused and finished, “Oh, Lydia, isn’t that what we’ve given each other?”
“Henry, I’m not sure—”
“No,” he interrupted. “You know I’m right. Now come along.”
There was a short queue of children loading excitedly into the baskets, nothing, he thought, like the crush that would no doubt soon appear. The alignment of events was impeccable, bolstering his notion that it was a day of portents and he gently placed a hand against the small of her back.
Lydia was red-flushed as she settled on the seat beside him. She squeezed his arm. “You,” she said.
The basket pressed them together, rocking gently as it ascended backwards so the great buildings of the Dam rose around them. And then those precious few moments when they were stopped, the basket swaying at the very top of the wheel and in the glassine morning the city spread out far as they could see, the spires of the churches and the peaks of ancient watchtowers and beneath these the dim haze of the lower levels—the vast concentric rings spreading out toward the horizon smudge, here and there the canals visible but mostly the leaf-lined bands of green of the trees and the four- and five- and six-story buildings, all as a joined plain far below, as if the city had not grown and extended by the usual enlargement of convenience but of necessity. As if the plans for this had been laid within that first small village thousands of years ago beside the intrepid bold flooding sea and the occupants had followed less a plan of men than one of the land, the only plan acceptable to that destroying sea. Because there had been no other way to build this city. And out of all this had come a considerable, near unfathomable beauty.
And so Henry Dorn was riding a Ferris wheel in the middle of Amsterdam side by side with a woman he loved. In a soft fusion of heat and light that took away all doubt of the grown man’s delight in riding this miraculous contraption with this woman that would, he knew, be with him all of his days. Let this day unfold. Let it burn itself, scorch itself into his memory, become a fusion of his being. The wheel had lifted them high above themselves.
He put his arm over her shoulders and drew her close but suddenly shy and yet committed he kept his gaze forward as he spoke.
“Lydia, where do I begin? I’m nervous and you know, I’ve never been nervous with you before and that’s as fine a place to begin as I can see. We’re comfortable and we’ve been comfortable since the beginning. The only hesitations I’ve had with you were bits of a guilt that had no place, that in fact I realized last night that my wife if she were able would be amused by—rather than honoring her with those bits of guilt I was failing to pay attention to you. So, yes, I’ve gone fairly head over heels and had a most wonderful damned time doing so and in the simplest sense of things that’s what I want to continue doing. But there’s something great, something vast that I’ve failed to take into account. We’re not children, Lydia, but for two and a half months I’ve been living as if we were. Oh, which is a roundabout way of saying that it seems to me, if I were in your place, I’d be rightfully wondering Where is this all going? What exactly does this man think of me, expect of me?” He looked at her. “Shall I go on?”
Her raised face seemed drained, pale but her eyes were large and just loud enough to be heard above the grinding and swoop of the wheel she said, “Yes. Please.”
“Are you all right?”
She pursed her mouth tight and nodded.
“I’d think you must be wondering if perhaps you’re a ladder that allows me to climb fully back to life again and once there, where does that leave you? I’d think you must be wondering what intentions or ideas I might have regarding you and the future. Your future, my future. Our future. Most simply put, not just where are we going but what might that we, be?”
“Henry,” she said, a mild plea he heard as her own nervousness.
“No,” he said. “I’m into it now and not going to stop. If I’m wrong I’ll learn that soon enough but let me finish. You told me yourself you’d stopped trusting love long ago, you’d closed a door for yourself. And I think it’s been opened back up and you don’t know how or why you should trust that, or me with that. And I’ve been heedless, even as you’ve told and even if you didn’t intend to tell me what I’ve now finally heard. But I’m right and I know I am. Lydia, if you want to get married this afternoon we’ll do it. If you want to wait a year or six months or if you’d prefer a formal engagement or if you want only these, words, this acknowledgement, until you want more or if you never want more than this, I just want you to know. That I love you. That I love you and want to spend the rest of my life with you—”
“Henry.”
“And that whatever that means, however you wish it to be, is how I also want it to be. It’s been a long time and I’ve only done this once before and don’t expect to ever do it again. But it’s clear to me that the time has come.”
And she was suddenly pulling away as he turned to face her, the words already out of his mouth, “For us to ...” and stopped. She was sweating and green and looked wretched, leaning against the side of the basket.
“My God,” he said. “What’s wrong? Is it that awful?”
“I’m going to be sick,” she said. And then was.
He cleaned her up best he could and put his jacket around her shoulders and got her back to her rooms in the hotel. Where he waited, nervous and worried, as she shut herself in the bathroom and bathed. She refused his insistence to call a doctor. She came out wrapped in a towel and climbed into bed, asking him to close the curtains. He did so and once again pressed her to let him bring a doctor.
She smiled, a wan effort and said, “No, no. I eat like a horse and can hold my drink with anyone but time to time this happens to me. Please.” Her smile thinly held. “I knew I wasn’t fully recovered but wanted to see you. And have to say, but for that damned Ferris wheel, you were very charming, Henry.”
“I wasn’t trying to charm.”
She rested her head back fully into the pillows. “I know that,” she finally replied. “Now, if you can bear it, come give my forehead a kiss and let me rest. I’ll see you later, probably late afternoon. And if I don’t feel better by then, I’ll send a boy around with a note.”
“If you aren’t better by then, you really should see a doctor.”
“I’ll be better. I will. I’ll bet you dinner.”
He bent and ignored her forehead and kissed her on the lips. “I’m going to worry about you.”
“I’ll be fine. I just need a little more rest. And Henry?”
“Lydia?”
“I do love you too, you know.”
Midafternoon, much sooner than he’d hoped or expected, brought a tentative knock on his door. Since leaving her, he’d gone over and over the events of the morning, trying to recall exactly what he’d said and as the day went on it seemed more and more that he’d made a mess of things. Even her final profession seemed in recall to be kindness more than full confession. Of course, he reminded himself, she was sick. And then the knock and his heart raced as he lifted from the chair where he’d been unable to read, thinking it certainly was a boy from the hotel, with either a message imploring him to stay away or that she’d had a doctor in or even been taken to hospital, and crossing in sock-feet he had a moment when he found himself hoping it was either of the last rather than the first.
But there she was, dressed for the pleasant afternoon beyond his windows, her face bright and glowing, all the health in the world restored to her.
“Oh my dear,” he said. “I was so worried. Are you all right?”
She leaned up and kissed him. “I’m so sorry, Henry. Yes, I’m feeling much better. And I was worried about you, also. Such a gruesome thing. You were so kind.”
“Are you sure you’re well? Should you be out? Have you eaten?”
She touched his cheek and said, “I had tea and toast with a poached egg some time ago and it’s sitting quite nicely. In fact, I’ve got quite an appetite again but am going to starve it for a bit. Hold out for a decent dinner.”
“Well, then,” he said, suddenly awkward. “Would you like to come in?”
She said, “Henry, you were quite magnificent this morning. You were quite correct in much of what you had to say—so right that in another man I’d think you’d been calculating that moment a long time. And I know you weren’t. But I’m all fluttery with it and so walking over I tried to decide how to respond and still be true to both of us.”
After a moment he said, “And?”
“You like boats, don’t you? At least, I know you’ve spent a great deal of time about them.”
He cocked his head, no choice but to smile even in his gathering confusion and he replied, “Not about them so much as upon them. But what are you getting at?”
“Very simple. I made a detour and engaged a man with a small powerboat for the afternoon. I thought we might tour the city that way. It’s delightful and something we haven’t done, although it has crossed my mind, all at the wrong times and then forgotten.”
He interrupted. “Do you truly think that’s such a good idea?”
“I’m perfectly fine now. Remember this isn’t the raging ocean I’m speaking of but a slow steady glide along the canals. And then I’d like very much to have dinner with you and the rest of the evening as well.”
He took his time and then said, “What you’re saying ...”
She nodded but also took one of his hands between hers and pressed it. “I want very much to be with you. And I’m not ruling anything out but what I don’t want is for you to expect me to respond to everything you said this morning. All I know is I’m not ready now.” Then she stopped and looked down and rubbed her fingers together, a wringing gesture. Her face came back up. “I ask too much, don’t I?”
“No,” he said. “You don’t.” Then smiled and said, “So where is this boat?”