I’m a rational man. I know that worms have eaten men, and why—and also why not. I’m not without experience of women, of life, of what feels like—although it is not and never was—heartbreak. Grief and hope go together, like stocks and bonds. I almost hoped that Theodore Mondleigh would be a complete turn-off for her, that the chemistry would be all wrong, that their pheromones would jangle.
I had invested everything in my personal self, and it hadn’t been enough.
But there is always plenty to do. I went to movies, plays, concerts, readings, museums, and galleries. I read Barron’s with my morning coffee and altered some investments. In the evenings, after I had eaten and cleaned up, I went back upstairs to my rooms. My living area had a large plate-glass window, a double-glazed trapezoid that opened out to both a skyscape and a cityscape. Sometimes, under the tangential fall of sunlight at evening, it seemed that I looked out to a Renaissance city of towers and curved windows and stones as warm as flesh. I filled my rooms with music, the ordered inevitability of the Brandenburg Concertos for preference; I sat in a chair and divided my interest between Bleak House and the black buildings before me, pricked, like the nighttime sky, with light.
And of course I thought. You make a decision, then one road leads to another, way leads on to way, until you find yourself in some dark, pathless forest, when all the time you thought you were on your way home. I understood that.
And how what has happened apotheosizes into fate. The past is fatal, the future has possibility.
It was time for a change. I thought of the Southwest, with its vast barren spaces. I thought of the high-headed Rockies. I thought of New Zealand’s breathtaking geography.
I considered my financial position: I had invested and had an income a man could live off in comfort, if not splendor. Or a woman. I had a wardrobe that was likely to last a lifetime. A gentleman of independent means, I could be that.
I considered myself: school, a BA first, and then perhaps—I looked around my room—architecture, or interior design. There was museum curatorial work, which would require further degrees. Or I could return to my family.
They were alive and well, I knew that. I was alive and well, they knew that. I thought they would, with reason, be satisfied with my success. I wouldn’t have to stay there, I could just return, to mark the adventure’s end.
Meanwhile, I followed routines. I set the answering machine every day. “You have reached the Mondleigh residence. Please leave your name and number. A happy Bloomsday to you.”
There was no message. I wasn’t surprised.
“…on the anniversary of Victoria’s accession to the throne.”
Whirr, beep. “This is Alfred Jones at Domestic Services, Mr. Rostov. As I told you, we don’t ordinarily list overseas positions, but I have made some inquiries for you. There is an opening for a caretaker in New Zealand. I must tell you, however, that the owner is a man of dubious reputation. Let me urge you to reconsider. With your experience and recommendations I could place you next month in Hawaii, Chicago, Phoenix, Pittsburgh, or Boston. All of these are suitable positions for you, with generous salaries. I hope you will reconsider before our appointment next week.” Beep, beep, beep.
“A happy Walpurgis Night to you.”
Beep. “Dr. Bernham’s office calling, to remind Mr. Rostov of his appointment tomorrow, three p.m., for a cleaning.” Beep.
Whirr, beep. “Mr. Rostov, Mrs. Wallace at Ludovic’s calling. That’s two tickets you haven’t picked up. You must consider, Mr. Rostov, that others might have wanted them. Many people decide at the last minute, especially if they need only one seat. And it’s more than three weeks since Walpurgis Night, Mr. Rostov. I hope all is well with you?” Beep, beep, beep.
“…on the anniversary of Kafka’s birth.”
Silence.
I went out, I came in, I ate and slept, I made my decisions and laid my plans, I changed my mind and my plans. The only fireworks I saw were those that made their lonely way up into the sky above the horizon of buildings outside my window on Independence Day. It seemed to me that I didn’t know myself and that I might never have. It seemed to me that I had let myself make a terrible mistake.