15

In Pieter Brueghel’s painting of the Tower of Babel there is an open mountain like a volcano, except that it is not a true mountain at all. It is composed of the arches and spans of a magnificent unfinished edifice. This mount is, at its summit, streaked with cloud.

There is little sign of confusion—of babble—at all. The divine aphasia that has rendered language both nearly useless and multifoliate had either not taken place yet, or has had the effect of making the human beings present cautious rather than confused. The structure stands seemingly vacant, apart from both human aspiration and scorn. A few figures gather, others scatter, and it is plain that above all else in this landscape the building is most lasting, even unfinished as it is. Humans flee, or wander, or stand where they are. With that Flemish talent for diminishing human stature, the painter shows us that human beings are not terribly important, although human endeavors may be. It is the tower that endures.

It was this picture, Brueghel’s oil and wood reproduced in an art book, that fascinated me as a child, more than any of the Annunciations, more than any of Gustave Doré’s biblical nudes. This building was a marvel, even though its construction had begun so much human confusion. I believed, in my boyish way, that the polyglot citizens of the land must have found some use for such a great tower in the years yet to come, if not as a citadel then as a quarry for future cities. It is this painting, I think, which lay the first stone in my desire to be an architect, my aspiration to span the sky with sanctuary.

The reception was a crush of light and voices. Standing there, champagne flute in hand, surrounded by the murmur of so many lives, I remembered this painting. We need safe havens, strong buildings to act as theaters for our dreams because our dreams are fictions, as we are.

DeVere’s security men stood along a wall, beside a stairway, watching. DeVere found a place for himself where he could both greet well-wishers and watch the crowd. I had a bad thought: Fern is outnumbered.

Why did I think such a thing just then? Nona and I smiled at each other from time to time. She was speaking to a real-estate developer and a coffee heiress, no doubt explaining her work at the hospital, and describing the need for money.

Someone touched me. I turned. I took a step back, unable to speak.

She was pale, her hair a remarkable color, like moonlight. She was dressed in a silvery gown that trailed upon the floor.

She had touched my hand. The touch had been cool, and yet I lifted my hand and cradled it, as though I was in pain. She smiled, as though knowing exactly what I was thinking.

This was the woman who had entered the hall as I accepted the prize. I must have said something, some stammered pleasantry, because she shook her head, just slightly, to keep me from saying anything more.

She stepped close, and despite her beauty I involuntarily took a further step back. She swept lightly upon me, and touched my lips with hers.

Her lips were cool, and there was a fragrance in the air that warmed, as oil of cloves or essence of spearmint will both warm and numb the lips. I wanted to thank her for her congratulations. But I made no sound.

I have met many remarkable women, and a gentle kiss on an evening like this can communicate exactly the right sort of charm. This woman did look vaguely foreign, so perhaps her command of English was not equal to her poise.

But I looked into her eyes. It was not the usual moment in which one fumbles for words, embarrassed, distracted. This was something quite different. I knew this woman. But I could not guess how.

The woman left me. There was a swirl of gown upon the floor. There was a wash of light that followed her through the crowd.

I stood, my fingers to my lips, and people were talking to me. Familiar faces were beaming at me, and I had to say something. But I was aware that all the sounds, all the voices and gentle laughter, had been silent for a moment in my ears.

I found Nona and took her elbow, leading her to one side. After we had talked about the people she had met, the actor with the conservatory theater, the executive with Clorox, I stepped as close as I could to her, as though confiding a secret, and said, “Did you see that woman?”

“Which one?”

Nona was teasing me, I knew. She was being coy. Everyone here had to be aware of the pale woman in the silver gown. I described her, and Nona smiled and put her nose to mine, both playful and mildly mocking.

“I didn’t see this queen of the evening,” she said.

I persisted, and Nona put her hand in mine, the same hand the woman had touched. “No, Stratton. Honestly. I didn’t see anyone like that.”