“YOU SEEMED A MILLION miles away when I called yesterday.” Jack reaches for Renata’s hand in happy couple walking mode, but his grip is tentative, as if he’s afraid she might resist. She doesn’t. “What were you doing?”
“It’s hard to talk at work. I was deep into Arabic. Remember? To see what kind of press we’re getting, find clues, God knows what. Can you believe, there aren’t enough people in the government who can read the newspapers. Maybe if I’m good, later on I can get to see secret documents. Maybe I can be a spy.”
The afternoon air is balmy and wonderfully clear. On the Promenade, the Saturday strollers in their bright colors are out in force, with skaters and bikers darting among them. The trees sway in full regalia, flaunting their abundance before the leaves start to turn and fall. The river carries blotches of sun and miniature patches of rainbow on the underside of wavelets.
“You’d make an excellent spy. I’ll vouch for you. So how’s it going. Are you fluent yet?”
“No, speaking is another thing entirely. But I can read some, if I use a dictionary.”
One of the important words she’s learned is shahid, which means “martyr.” Once a suicide bomber has pledged to carry out his mission, once he’s written the letters of farewell to his loved ones and maybe made a videotape with greetings, he’s called al-shahid al-hai, which means “the living martyr.” At that point he is considered, for all practical purposes, dead already.
“Say something, anyhow, so I can hear how it sounds.”
“I lost my niece when she was seven,” she says haltingly in Arabic, “and now I’ve found her. So many dead and one brought back to life.” This is not only badly pronounced but contains several grammatical errors. It doesn’t matter, since Jack can’t tell the difference.
“What does that mean?”
“We will fight the evil ones to the death to preserve our sacred way of life.”
“That sounds familiar. Didn’t we hear something just like that recently?”
“We hear it all the time. But I think you mean what we heard at Coney Island last weekend. In that coffee shop. ‘What this war is about is our way of life and our way of life is worth losing lives for.’ ”
“Right, I remember now. You have total recall?”
“Well, no. Actually I wrote it down after we got home.”
“So I’ll see it hanging on the wall soon. Listen, Renata, I called you at work because you were sleeping when I left. Then on the phone you were so quiet, I thought maybe you were still mad and you’d...you know. Call it quits.”
It’s a novelty to see Jack uncertain, awkward. “I was busy, my first day back. Anyway, this is no time for major decisions. It’s like when women get their periods. Not a time to decide to break up. Especially when everyone else is looking up long-lost friends.”
“Good. I’m glad you feel that way. But I know you. You’ll never forget, even if you never say another word about it. It’ll go into the permanent file.”
“That’s probably true,” she says lightly, and rewards him with a smile. “I’m not good at forgetting. Why don’t we drop it? Isn’t it a gorgeous day?”
A few sailboats drift idly by; two kayaks glide and bounce. Just ahead parades a large family returning from a birthday party, to judge from the balloons that bump overhead. A typical late September Saturday, Seurat’s dotty paradise transplanted to the Brooklyn riverbank, and if not for the gaping hole in the scenery—the Manhattan skyline—everything would be perfect. Well, not quite perfect. It’s not just the absence of the buildings, the two tall, thin rectangles the promenaders knew intimately: heads keep turning to the empty space. It’s the impromptu memorials, the chaotic little shrines sprung up along the railing, with candles, ribbons, scrawled messages, bunches of wilting flowers, some already twelve days old, pathetic, touching, hopeless. It’s the mood of the crowd, subdued, slow, a bit dazed. Yet the old habits of trust persist. The kayakers are bundled in lifejackets, the bikers helmeted, the skaters armored in knee and elbow pads. As if those could keep them safe. Meanwhile the ubiquitous posters lure the eye with smiling photos, happy faces posed on the beach, holding up a bowling trophy, standing in front of the Eiffel Tower. Missing, our brother, our father, our daughter: Movado watch, long dreads, dark birthmark at left breast, scar from left ear to chin, brown hair with frosted tips....Let’s not look, Renata said when they began their walk. We look all the time. Let’s take a day off, okay? Jack was willing. So they don’t join the others in contemplation; they merely glance at the posters in passing, the breath that sticks in their throats already an accustomed ache. What they can’t control is gazing every few moments at the blank parallel bars in the sky, like everyone else. Just checking, in case the buildings might suddenly reappear.
“Didn’t you ever do anything like that?” Jack asks. “I mean, hurt someone you love?”
“No. Or not in that way.” That’s the truth. She never loved anyone, is why. “Let’s not talk about it anymore.” She has another agenda in mind. She can’t go on keeping Jack away or sending Gianna to Cindy’s. Even at the best of times he needs attention—high-maintenance, Linda would call him. If she keeps putting him off he’ll have Pamela back in bed in no time. Bad news all around. She’s got to tell him. Not about the lost child, never; not after the other night. But about this new Gianna, risen from the rubble, living in her apartment for the past week, like old times.
You can hide lots of things, as Renata well knows, but it’s hard to hide a real person. Gianna is very real. She likes Mister Softee and pizza with extra cheese, she watches far too much television, especially MTV and Nickelodeon reruns, she reads mysteries and concocts fruit drinks in the blender. She still doesn’t speak but sometimes mouths “Yes” or “No” or “Thank you,” which Renata considers fine progress for only a few days. She wanders around the neighborhood while Renata’s at work, drops in on the bookman and perches on the ledge, watching his customers come and go, or hangs out at Henry and Gerald’s shop, maybe sits in Starbucks with a movie magazine and Renata’s Walkman wrapped around her absurd brassy hair, evened out by Cindy into a semblance of order. This can’t go on indefinitely. A girl needs a real life. And yet time, under the forever blue late-summer sky, seems held in abeyance, freighted with uneasy expectation, the way it felt when she lived in the shabby room down the street from the bar, barely older than Gianna herself. And while they wait for the unexpected, she’s safe and cared for, maybe safer than she’s been in years. Renata takes good care of her. They listen to music, they play cards, they rent videos. Gianna has a taste for fluffy romantic comedies, just like her aunt. When Harry Met Sally. You’ve Got Mail. Sleepless in Seattle. Harmless little tales, from before.
“Are you missing Julio?” Jack says out of the blue.
“No. Maybe a little. It’s okay, though.” She feels a pang of guilt—she’s hardly thought of Julio in days, yet when Jack speaks his name the warm feel of him in her arms comes back, the smell of laundered terry cloth and baby spit and talcum powder. He and Gianna are alike in their lack of words. And Renata, with all her languages, has become a devotee of silence these past twelve days, when so many of the words spoken, read and heard are meaningless. Right now she’d be content to walk holding hands in silence, but as they approach the northern tip of the Promenade, strains of music drift into the air.
A horn, the rich, juicy wailing of a jazz trumpet. The melody is familiar but she can’t place it. Each time she tries to predict its path, the tune veers off on a detour. Where’s it coming from? She and Jack turn to each other, smile, and keep moving toward the sound, an elusive, bluesy music, luscious music Letitia Cole could dance to. Then she sees him sitting alone on a bench, facing the river and the lopped skyline opposite: a stolid, paunchy man with a gleaming brass trumpet. Everyone nearby stops to listen. Everyone understands this is music that can’t be ignored or interrupted. But they don’t dare get too close. He’s playing for all of them, but he’s playing in solitude, too, sending his furling riffs through the bluish-gold air like a gift, like water to the parched. If they get too close he might stop. So they move quietly, the way you move so as not to disturb a deer or a rabbit. The player looks somewhere between fifty and seventy-five, it’s hard to tell, just as it’s hard to tell whether he’s black or white: his skin is the color of tea, or old pages in forgotten books that never see the light. His face is as impassive as a buddha’s, a buddha in dark glasses and a New York Mets baseball cap, only his expression isn’t mild. Concentrated. He wears a short-sleeved white shirt that strains at the donut of fat around his belly, checked rayon slacks, white socks, and shiny black shoes, supremely respectable shoes. Nothing about him could intimate the wry, apocalyptic music he makes. He’s not playing for small change, no hat or open leather case at his feet; he’s no student or beggar. He’s playing for the pleasure of it, but he’s also a thickset herald, playing to announce what’s happened to all of them, playing for the blue glory of the sky that Tuesday morning and how it broke apart, playing the beauty of that day and the horror, oscillating them like figure and ground. He’s playing for the city in mourning, for the lost and for those remaining, an elegy and an appeal, playing an antidote to the ugly, nonsensical words that have been the public response. His feet are firmly planted on the ground, and one glossy black shoe softly taps the beat.
No one is walking now; even the pair of armed soldiers in camouflage have stopped their pacing. Everyone is still, stopped in place. Renata squeezes Jack’s hand. The music lasts a long time, but it can’t go on forever, much as they’d like it to. One last wail of a cadenza and it’s abruptly over. The trumpeter lets the hand holding his instrument descend, and he gazes out across the river. Then he puts the trumpet in its case and gets up and walks away toward the streets. A mass holding of breath is released and people start moving again. Renata and Jack go over to sit on the bench the musician occupied. He rests his hand in her lap.
Now, she thinks. Now with the music suspended in the air, now is a good time. So she tells him about the speechless dark girl with the bleached blonde hair she found wandering on the street after the attack and brought home to live with her. Her hanai.
“A total stranger?”
Oh don’t, Jack, don’t get all social-worky on me. “Not anymore. She’s a good kid. You’ll see. I want you to meet her. You can come meet her right now.”
“But...Her parents must be looking for her. Someone must be looking for her. And she needs medical care. You say she’s mute. You have no way of knowing what—”
“Don’t do that just now, okay?”
“Renata, look, you’re upset. Everyone’s upset. Everyone’s doing weird things. But think—”
“Do you want to come over? We could get something to eat.”
“Sure. Okay.”
They’re no longer holding hands. The sky is as blue as ever, but the sun has begun its descent; the light is less glorious.
“Have you asked her,” Jack says, “what happened to her that day? If she remembers anything?”
“No. I’m not a member of the helping professions.”
“But that may be what she needs. Mutism is a common symptom of trauma. There are ways to treat it. It’s usually a sign of—”
“Jack. All I asked is if you want to have some dinner with us.”
“Right. Okay, not another word.”
At her corner they run into Henry, carrying two shopping bags. “Hey, Renata. How’re you doing? Jack, right? Say hi to Gianna for me. She’s a help in the store, did you know? Dusts, puts things back in place. Nice kid.”
“I will. Thanks.”
Jack looks puzzled but says nothing, as promised. Anyway, they’re distracted by a sidewalk runner bounding blindly forward, a lanky, bare-chested man in jogging shorts and an Indian-style head-band. This is Philip, the man whose wife was incinerated at her desk. He seems to have given up shaving and doesn’t notice them in his path. “Hi,” Renata says. They’ve never exchanged much more than that, but she’s got to say something, even if it’s trite. “Hi, we’ve met before. I live downstairs—” But he’s pushing ahead as if he’s gone deaf as well, arms pumping wildly.
“Who was that?” Jack asks.
“He’s the guy whose wife...”
“Oh.”
Upstairs, she turns her key, then knocks so as not to take Gianna by surprise. She’s curled up on the couch reading The World According to Garp, the Walkman installed on her head.
“Hey, Gianna. Everything okay? I want you to meet my friend Jack.”
Jack moves forward in his most charming manner, not condescending as some men are around teenagers, but with respect, as if she’s a real lady; his right hand is extended. Gianna looks up reluctantly, unplugs her ears, and takes him in. She tugs at her shorts, spreads the open book on her lap, and shakes hands as if she knows she has to. This isn’t the sweet, shy way she greeted the bookman, or Henry and Gerald. She’s suspicious, Renata can see. She may even be frightened. Of Jack, of all people! The self-appointed minister to the needy. Wouldn’t hurt a fly, far less a waif. But he’s a man, and Gianna feels the sex that radiates off him in waves as Renata first felt it, appreciatively, that winter day in the museum. She knows what it is and it scares her. Renata’s heart starts knocking against her chest but she can’t, not now, stop to conjure up what Gianna is scared of and why, what past misery she might be clinging to, or if she might even harbor a toddler’s shred of memory: Renata impaled on top of Joe, ignoring her impatient shrieks. There were never any men invited over after that.
These thoughts will have to wait. Later, in bed, she’ll have time to think about lives transformed, of Gianna’s lost years from age seven to now, and of God knows what was done to her to put that mute glaze in her eyes.
It’s okay, sweetie, he’s quite harmless. He can be a bastard, sure, he was just the other night, but not in any kinky way. Those, of course, are impossible words. Could the girl possibly be thinking...? Could she be taking fright at Renata as well, could she imagine she’s been set up? This is so appalling a notion that Renata gasps, dashes over to Gianna and hugs her tight.
“We just had such a nice walk on the Promenade. We heard the most fantastic music, a guy with a trumpet. Now we’ll get something to eat. That’s all. That’s all.”
Jack understands, too. He backs off and sits far away from her. He clears his throat. “We really like that Indian place down the block. Have you ever had Indian food?”
It’s no use trying. Gianna barely nods.
“We’ve known each other close to a year,” Renata says desperately. “We met in the Brooklyn Museum.” What is she doing, she thinks wildly, establishing his cultural credentials? Gianna sits impassive—nowhere to run.
“Look, you can read in the bedroom if you want,” Renata says. “We interrupted you. We’ll call you when the food comes.”
After she’s fled, after Renata calls for takeout, comes silence. Finally, “How do you know her name if she doesn’t talk?” Jack asks.
Very smart. Renata’s stumped. He doesn’t push it.
Gianna comes out when she’s called and relaxes enough to eat her share, but the meal is not a success. She seems less frightened now than sulky; there’s even a perverse provocation in the way she gives Jack sidelong glances or reaches past him for another helping, as though safety might lie in using what she knows. If Jack notices, he doesn’t let on. He makes conversation about school, his high-school days, how he was so hopeless at languages while Renata here is such a whiz. His best subject was history. Casting about for a way to put her at ease. Gianna eats quickly, then moves to the couch and turns on the TV, a rerun of Bewitched.
“I think I’ll walk Jack home,” says Renata. “I’ll see you later. We can finish our game of Hearts. You were winning, remember?” She hopes she’ll see Gianna later, hopes she won’t have fled for good. Yet she can’t simply dismiss Jack. If she sends him home alone, he might call Pamela for company. Besides, she doesn’t want to send him home alone. She’s seen him anew through Gianna’s eyes, and what scared the girl is just what Renata wants.
It’s growing darker outside. Behind them the buildings are becoming silhouettes against a pink sunset. Ahead, the sky is turning a pewter color.
“You haven’t said a word all this time,” she says when they reach his apartment.
“I thought that was what you wanted. You know what I’d say and you wouldn’t like hearing it.”
“You think I’m nuts, is that it?”
“I wouldn’t say nuts.” His tone is maddeningly judicious. “Just not acting entirely rationally. Like a lot of people.”
“You think she’ll murder me in my bed?”
“That didn’t occur to me. What I think is that she needs to be taken to a doctor to see why she’s content to sit around watching TV in a stranger’s apartment for a week. What exactly happened to her that day and why she doesn’t talk. People who turn mute—there’s usually something they’re too terrified to say.”
It’s not so unusual, Renata thinks. There’s even a verb for it in Arabic, tabakkama to be struck dumb. If there’s a word, it can’t be so rare.
“I think somewhere her parents must be frantic,” Jack goes on. “I see people like that every day. You can’t imagine what they’re feeling.”
“I can so imagine. How do you know what I can or can’t imagine? And what makes you so sure she has parents? Maybe she’s been wandering the streets for a while. Maybe she ran away.”
“Maybe. In that case she might need foster care.”
“Foster care!” she bursts out. “You, the rich anarchist do-gooder, recommending foster care! I thought you were the sworn enemy of bureaucracy. Shit. She doesn’t need foster care. She needs me.”
“Look, I didn’t start this. You asked me. I didn’t think you came back here to fight. Can’t we—”
“All right, I’m sorry I blew up. I just wanted you to—”
“Support you in this? I can’t. I don’t believe what you’re doing is the right thing. For her, anyway. I can’t say what’s right for you.”
So reasonable, so sensible, and she hates him for it. They’ve been standing up in the living room all this time, Jack puttering around, straightening things up. “Sorry about the mess. I wasn’t expecting you.”
“Don’t bother,” she mutters as she sinks into a chair, deflated. Was it Pamela who left this clutter of newspapers, books, coffee cups and ashtrays? Things were neater when she was here with Julio. “I don’t think I’ll stay long.”
“No?” He comes over to sit beside her. “ ‘I’m in the mood for love,’ ” he hums.
“Oh, Christ, you are so corny.”
“Come on, Renata. We can’t always agree. It’s not the end of the world.”
But it is. Or something close to it. Just walk a few blocks and look across the river. Take the subway to Chambers Street, as she’s done twice on the way home from work, and look through the chain-link fence at the mounds of rubble guarded by soldiers.
“I think I’ll go home,” she says. “We had a nice walk, anyway. We heard that music.”
“If that’s the way you want it. I’ll walk you.”
“You don’t have to.” I want to.
“In Hawaii,” she says when they’re back on the street, “people take in kids all the time, informally. Relatives’ kids, friends’ kids. Anyone who needs a home. It’s an old custom. A good one, don’t you think? They have a word for it. Hanai.”
“But only if the parents can’t take care of them, I bet. You don’t know if that’s the case here.”
“Okay, have the last word.”
“The last word is, I’ll call you tomorrow,” he says, and kisses her lightly at her door.
“The last word is, is it okay if I use your car tomorrow? I’d like to go see my mom.”
“Sure. You still have the keys, don’t you? I haven’t used it since you went last week. Nice not to have to keep moving it for a change.”
Is he really one of those people who believes there’s some good in everything, even tragedy? That out of the ashes will rise wisdom and compassion, even mere common sense? No, Jack doesn’t deserve cynicism right now—he’s so generous with his car, after all.
“Thanks.”