The next morning, Ava woke up to a note under her doorstep.
I knew you would freak out. Stop worrying. It takes months to evict someone. Everything is fine. We’ll fix it. Call me. We’ve got work to do. (Sorry we got into a tiff, you know I love you heart heart kiss kiss, but seriously you were being a little unreasonable. Smiley face)
Ava didn’t call. She also didn’t answer the phone later when it rang. Unable to face Stephanie or the Lazarus Club, Ava decided to have the stomach flu. And every time Stephanie called thereafter, Ava told her she was puking and promptly hung up, despite Stephanie’s outraged sputtering. Ava spent the next few days in her apartment crying over her losses—her boyfriend, her apartment and her salon—and rearranging her bookshelves, separating the doomed love stories from the happy. In the end, the cheerful marriage plots outnumbered the death and despair shelves by so much that she demoralized herself all over again. Everyone could pair off successfully except her, apparently. The poster of Arthur Rimbaud lost its place of privilege above her bed, and Ava spent many long hours studying the blank space left behind. He had been there fluttering her heart for ten years, and now his pretty face was consigned to the darkness of the closet. Her heart had not quite yet closed around the loss, and she didn’t have the energy to shift all her other pictures around to disguise the visible reminder of what was now forsaken. She couldn’t even bear to think about the rest of it.
She considered calling her mom, but she was pretty sure nothing her mom was going to say would make her feel better. She even dug up A Room of One’s Own, thinking maybe she would find some vicarious maternal consolation in it, but at the last minute the gauzy picture on the cover of a lady looking sadly out of a window into a swirling pink cloud was just too unappealing; she was not that limpid creature.
The one bright spot that kept Ava from total despondency was that Constance Berger called and, since Ava was still mostly not answering the phone, left a message inviting her to tea. And then as if she knew, as if she could see right into the heart of Ava’s timid equivocations, told her not to bother calling back, she would just expect her the following Wednesday at three. What a gift that brisk directive was, and Ava listened to the message over and over just to hear her say that wonderful, absolving phrase again.
* * *
By the time that day arrived, Ava was sick of canned soup, tired of hiding from Stephanie and very glad to get out of her house. She washed and set her hair. She found a nice tweedy dress that didn’t make her look too lumpy. She wound her pocket watch. The front door of the Lazarus Club banged behind her as she left.
When she came out of the subway, the Upper West Side was filled with sunshine. Ava was drinking a cup of peppermint tea, trying to calm her nervous stomach, but it was scalding hot, and each time she tilted the cup, a little burst of liquid welled up through the small plastic hole in the lid and burned her lips. She winced, wiped her mouth, and minutes later, when in anxious anticipation of where she was going, she forgot and nervously took another sip, the unhelpful lid did the same thing again. She gingerly touched her tender lip and threw the full cup of tea into a garbage can where it landed with a wet thud. A dog walker passed, a stern charioteer behind a web of leashes, the dogs all wearing coats. She looked up at the numbers, searching for Constance Berger’s building.
In all her time in New York, she had never really been called to the wide avenues near Riverside Drive before, and she was surprised at how grand and vaguely French it all seemed. She had never been to France, but in so many of her favorite novels, these were just the sorts of buildings she imagined adulterous lovers and governesses and courtesans hurrying in and out of. The decorative stonework erupting over the doors and around the parapets of the heavy square blocks of apartments called to her mind just the mix of frivolity and bourgeois virtue that she associated with Second Empire Parisians. When she finally found it, the building impressed Ava with its stateliness, and she lurked outside for a minute trying to remember the name of the main character of Sentimental Education. He had been another of her nineteenth-century heroes, and from what she remembered he had walked down a lot of unfamiliar streets like these; she was surprised that she couldn’t think of his name; it was unlike her.
It seemed that, like reading, she had also lost the habit of daydreaming, staring at her bookshelves, invoking the phantoms of the past and her imagination. Life had rushed in, her books had receded. Now trying to summon the characters and situations she would have previously used for guidance, she found them distant and immaterial. It was a little terrifying to be out in the world and feel so unequipped. Life felt strangely indistinct. But at least here she was far away from the Lazarus Club and the terrible troubles looming there.
The doorman of the building watched her indifferently but steadily enough to make her feel guilty, and it was the desire to prove that she had legitimate business in his dominion that finally pushed her into the lobby. It would have been nice if the elevator had been older. She imagined in a building like this that she would have the satisfaction of slamming a metal cage before being whisked upward, but it was sadly modern and nondescript. Ava wiped her sweaty palms against her skirt and then tried to remove the little strands of gray wool that came off on her fingers. Eventually, released into a mint-green corridor, she hesitated by the call buttons, admiring an old brass mail shoot. An eagle struggled to free itself from a profusion of ribbons on the cover that she lifted and let fall with a clang. With a slow rattle, the elevator cast off on its next trip.
Ava pressed the bell and hoped she had misunderstood the invitation and would have to leave after just a few minutes of polite apologies with promises to return some other time. Instead the door opened, and Ms. Berger stood in front of her as wild and strange-looking as before. Ava felt she could almost see herself reflected in the black, glassy, slightly convex eyes. Just as her gaze was giving Ava the terrifying impression that she could see into the depths of her soul, she smiled and turned, waving at Ava to follow. “So glad you came,” she said. “Call me Constance.”
Hunched and frail, she swayed on the points of another pair of very high heels, an unsteady gait that made walking seem like an impromptu imitation of the common activity, one she was trying out for a lark. Ava felt an impulse to put a supportive hand under one of her elbows, but refrained.
They entered a living room lined with bookshelves and filled with stacks of books on every surface. The disorder gave the impression that these were objects of utility to their owner, as if a system of organization would betray a purely decorative or superficial cast of mind that Constance Berger had no time for. Instead these books stood waiting to impart their knowledge as practical as a sandwich or pencil, casually functional. It made her own newly ordered shelves feel very superficial in comparison.
Despite the clutter, the room was peaceful. There were no sounds of traffic. Faint squares of March sunlight traced the high windows on a faded carpet. Ava accepted a seat on a blue velvet sofa and sank much lower into the cushions than she expected to. She felt a strange urge to lie back among these overstuffed cushions and take a nap. She imagined she would wake up with that same calm that comes at the end of an illness, when a fever has finally broken and the world feels cool, filled with ease like a glass of cold water.
They sat in silence for a moment while Constance smiled a friendly, slightly unfocused smile. “Were you able to find the place okay?” she asked.
Ava nodded. “I’ve never been to this neighborhood much.”
“I like it, reminds me of Europe.”
“That’s what I was thinking,” Ava said, excited, and then wanted to talk about Flaubert and Zola and government building projects of the Second Empire and the triumph of the haute bourgeoisie and whether demimondaines were as tragic as they seemed. But she didn’t. “Although I’ve never actually been,” she clarified for fear of sounding presumptuous.
“You should, a girl of your temperament. The whole continent is practically the Lazarus Club, antiquated, fusty, totally delightful. May I get you a cookie?” Constance crossed one leg over the other. “My neighbors have been on an entrepreneurial frenzy, and I figure Girl Scout cookies are the tithe I pay for being childless on the Upper West Side.” She smiled again, self-effacing and apologetic, but then looked at Ava with a glance so quick, but so piercing, Ava had the impression she was enacting these dowdy mannerisms like a shield, a defensive scrim behind which Constance was a much sharper woman. The perception gave Ava a tiny thrill that she didn’t quite understand, and disarmed by her own observation, she nodded. Constance rose slowly as though climbing tentatively into her own center of gravity. Seeing her standing, poised and delicate on the tiny points of her heels, it struck Ava again that this awkward fragility was some sort of a deliberate affectation; Constance wasn’t actually very old, and she was very self-possessed. Ava was fascinated. “I’ll fetch us some. The Samoas are particularly good.”
While she was gone, Ava scanned the bookshelves, pleased to recognize many of the spines. There was something thrilling about this alignment of tastes; it seemed to imply a possible intimacy just waiting to erupt, an established structure of kindling awaiting a match. She wondered if that were the sort of thing it was acceptable to say. I have a lot of the same books as you do, therefore we should be friends. She suspected it wasn’t, and yet wasn’t this exactly why she was here? How did one establish a connection with someone when conversation seemed so stilted, so ill-suited for sharing important things? She wanted to run her fingers along these stacks of books, to establish even just a tactile connection with this woman whose mind ran along similar currents but whose breadth of experience, judging from the variety of these shelves, made Ava’s own well of inspiration seem a meager stream in comparison.
Constance returned with a pile of cookies spread out on the blue-and-white figures of a plate of Delft china. Ava took one, glad for something to do with her mouth and hands.
“Take a couple, one is just torturing yourself. Indulgences are for the young, and you’re so very young.”
“Thank you.” Ava clutched a stack of gooey circles and felt the chocolate stripes immediately start to melt across her palm. “Although, if you’ll excuse me, you don’t seem that old.”
The high arch of Constance’s brow lifted only slightly, but it was enough to cast her smile as an inquiry. “You’re very polite. And I love people who still abide by a code of manners.”
Ava wanted to tell her about all the Victorian etiquette books on her shelves at home, but shyness prevented her. “I haven’t had a Girl Scout cookie in a long time,” she said just to be saying something as she placed the first cookie in her mouth. Chocolate, caramel, coconut and vanilla cookie crumbled across her tongue, the combination almost forgotten but immediately recognizable.
Ava’s eyes rested on the shelf nearest her line of vision where she noticed a group of familiar spines, their common interest. “Which translation is your favorite?” she asked, pointing, her annunciation slightly marred by caramel.
Constance was snapping into a Thin Mint with brittle efficacy. She turned around. “Of the Proust, you mean? Oh, I think it’s hard not to love the first one you were exposed to. Although, it’s difficult to say, I think Lydia should have kept going. Then it would be fair to judge. Do you like Proust?”
The many years of hiding this affection made her small nod feel like the confession of a long-secret shame.
“How wonderful.” Constance’s smile was just a bit devilish, and she asked, “Which volume is your favorite?”
Ava thought for a moment. “The Captive.”
Again the dark, delicate line of Constance’s eyebrow rose. “Really? That’s an unusual choice. I feel like you can tell so much about a person from which volume they like best.”
Ava found she was blushing and wasn’t sure why.
“Poor girl, imagine having to put up with Marcel.” Constance took another Thin Mint, holding it up for contemplation as she spoke. “The idea that women can satisfy each other perfectly well without them has always driven men to distraction. But a girl has to eat.” She cracked the cookie with a sharp, pointed incisor.
Ava was starting to feel a little warm, and she pulled her blouse down from where it was creeping into her armpits. She had never really thought of Albertine this way, and she felt confused by this sudden opening of horizons like a curtain that had been pulled back too quickly, blinking in the unexpected infusion of light. “I thought she was just messing with him.” Ava realized how insubstantial this sounded.
“You should be wary of putting too much faith in a narrator’s point of view.” Constance smiled. “It’s not their fault, but they so often prove to be less than reliable. Especially if they’re clever and charming and such pleasant company.”
While they were talking, the back of one of Constance’s shiny shoes had slid free from her crossed foot and now dangled from the tip of her toes, revealing the narrow bones and high arch. Constance moved her leg, the shoe wavered, and just as Ava thought it was about to fall, with a twist of her ankle she brought it to sit firmly on the back of her foot again. “So you talk like a writer—is this why you started your project?” she asked, looking at Ava with a curiosity that seemed to have sharpened.
Ava wasn’t sure what to answer; everything felt filled with a flickering significance that welled up, flooding her with a confused elation, then subsided again beneath the flow of words. Finally, she had found someone to talk with about books in all of the ways she had always dreamed of. “Yes,” she said. “Well, not really,” she amended.
“Please, spare me the self-deprecation,” Constance interrupted her. “I understand why you do it, but I just can’t abide it.” Despite the sharpness of her tone, this impatience felt strangely loving. “That’s quite a club you seem to have put together.” Constance recrossed her legs in the opposite direction, and Ava found she was staring at the other shoe waiting to see if this one would slip, as well. She wanted to stay in this apartment and talk to Constance forever.
“Well, I’ve been working as a librarian for the last few years.”
“How orderly and quiet. I always had a fantasy of being a librarian. But maybe that’s just because I used to like the way I looked in glasses.”
“That might be why I took the job in the first place,” Ava admitted. A strangely expectant silence hung between them at this acknowledgment of their physical selves. They both probably did look good in glasses, Ava thought and flushed at the idea. She wondered why she had assumed Constance would be so much older. Was she in her fifties? Maybe, if Ava had to guess. She wanted to ask and then suddenly felt very confused and embarrassed that she even wanted to know. What could it possibly matter? “Do you wear glasses?” Ava asked, and her voice made a funny wobble, out of place in such an innocent question. But the slight incline of Constance’s posture shifted, as if the intimacy of the question seemed clear to her, and she watched Ava curiously. Ava realized she needed a plan. She had come in the excitement of finding a sympathetic acquaintance, but it now felt imperative that she have reason to come back, to yield to the strange magnetic force that circled Constance. She wanted to impress herself upon the material of Constance’s mind and see the shape of the image she left behind, to find a reason to return to this apartment that smelled of old books and bergamot. “I read your book and thought it was amazing and was wondering if you might want to do a reading at our space,” she said with sudden inspiration.
“It’s a pretty glorious space to read in,” Constance agreed.
Then remembering the precariousness of their position, Ava qualified quickly, “It would have to be in the next few weeks.” She apologized.
“That’s a little soon, but there’s a chance I could do it. Why such a hurry?”
“We’re having some complications at the Lazarus Club.”
“Honestly, I don’t know how you can stand that place. It’s beautiful, but those people are deranged. That president asked me if it was my habit to wear trousers, generally. I almost told him it was my habit to bed anything in a skirt, generally, but then I didn’t want his aneurysm on my conscience.”
Ava was trying so hard not to appear embarrassed at this revelation, she found she couldn’t decide where she was supposed to be looking.
“I’m sorry,” Constance said, just a little archly. “Have I shocked you, my dear?”
“Of course not,” Ava lied. “I’ve read The Well of Loneliness.” She had, by accident as a teenager, thinking that Radcylffe Hall was a man’s name. She had been mildly scandalized by the subject matter then and very impressed with what an intuitive, sympathetic author he turned out to be. She had actually read it twice.
Constance laughed. “I see.”
Ava was feeling very funny now, as if the air in the room had become very thick and hard to breathe, but she didn’t want Constance to notice anything, so she shifted again, accidentally bumping over a pile of books at her elbow. “I’m sorry,” she said, picking them up, glad for a moment to be able to turn her back. “I love this book,” she said, holding up a heavy volume. Again, this was the kind of thing she normally felt compelled to hide, and the thrill of confession struck her again, wild, liberating.
In order to read the title, Constance bent toward Ava, bringing with her the scent of gardenias. “Montaigne, I also always loved Woolf’s essay on him.”
Deciding this was getting ridiculous, Ava mentally committed to reading those books as soon as she got home.
She finished stacking the books and ate another two cookies. Still inclined to chat, Constance asked where Ava was from, and they had a spirited discussion of the virtues of raw oysters of which Constance was a fan. Eventually Ava knew she needed to go. She needed to leave before she did something to ruin this perfect afternoon. “I don’t want to take up too much of your time,” she said finally.
“It’s been a pleasure. I look forward to seeing you again in the full glory of your salon. Just give a call about the details when you have them.”
For one instant, the House of Mirth flickered around Ava, the glamorous, elevated endeavor she had intended. “Thank you,” she whispered. “I will. Soon, I promise.”
On her way out, Ava snuck a glance through an open door, a bedroom, another pair of high heels overturned on the floor. She wasn’t sure why, but it made her happy that this impractical footwear was an established proclivity. For someone who moved as gracelessly as Constance and whose bones were so tiny, the gesture seemed both a rejection of frailty and the heightening of it to a near aggressive act. The shiny talons seemed so sexual, so assertive and yet the fear she might topple over at any minute bespoke a vulnerability that filled Ava with a confused empathy. As one who had agonized over the various messages that could be read in the trappings of appearance, Ava couldn’t help but admire the contradictory, complicated, intriguing story bound up in these beautiful shoes.
Alone in the hallway, she stood for a minute in front of Constance’s door and waited, she wasn’t quite sure for what exactly, but the equilibrium of her world seemed to have rattled, and she needed a moment for it to settle.
Outside, the sun was still shining, and she stopped at a fruit stand on a corner and bought an orange. She dug her nails into the thick peel, ripping it free in large, satisfying chunks, and disposing of them conscientiously in a green wire garbage can. In the distance she saw the low, stone walls of Central Park.
The park was still bare, and high, spindly branches arched above paths lined with benches. A kid on a bike trailing pink streamers, a pair of runners in spandex, teenagers walking intertwined, their hands in each other’s back pockets—Ava felt surrounded by what seemed like creatures from another world. As if a pair of blinders had been removed, the narrow walls that enclosed her previous life seemed to have shattered, and she looked with surprise at a universe that seemed new and glossy and full of interest. She sat on a bench, not far from an old lady napping into a twisted scarf, and finished her orange, happy to admire this vibrant pageant that seemed to unfurl in proportion to her pleasure in observing it. A toddler stumbled by on unsteady legs, a tiny drunk chasing an unflustered pigeon. A pair of Havanese carried the ends of their leashes in their mouths, proudly rendering their walker superfluous. People flew past on Rollerblades, bicycles, skateboards, all manner of wheeled contrivances, and the thought struck her—people exercised—and the strangeness and simplicity of it only underscored the attenuated parameters of the life she had been living. She wanted to talk to all of these people, to ride a bike, to engage somehow in the spectacle of life that was taking place. Orange pips burst in her mouth, and she wished she could express to someone the wonderful particularity of sitting on this bench, on this afternoon, the taste of citrus bright against her tongue, and the obscure sense of possibility that bubbled up through all of these impressions.