Garbo’s Faces

a Novel — Part 9: Snow

At four-thirty that Christmas morning, the doorman, muttering that there would be no cabs about at this hour — especially not today — nevertheless went through the motions of hailing us one; but, of course, he was right: there was nothing to be had at this hour, not on this day of all days.

Also, he informed us, all the streets were heavy with snow. Undrivable, was the word he used, twice, then a third time — to himself — as if to underscore it. Should have ordered one the day before, he suggested, with a plow. Don’t worry, Harriet told him, we’ll find something. Oh, I doubt that, he replied, to which she said nothing, just left, me trailing, still surfacing — a little off center from the glogg and not enough sleep. The first few breaths of frosty air did much to bring me around, though.

Into the frozen predawn. The wind had died down and the snow had stopped falling too. The stars were out in a pitch black sky, forming a brilliant and glittering roof to the giant buildings that loomed around us like dark sentinels, only the occasional lit window — embers of parties, I thought — relieving their gloomy presence.

It was bitterly cold, but fortunately my new jacket was up to the challenge.

The wind had cleared the sidewalk of all but the last inch or so of new snow, but had formed tall drifts against the cars parked on the other side of the street, some even reaching their roofs.

“Stop,” she said suddenly. “Listen.” She took another step. “Listen. Hear that? That’s what we call knastra at home. It means crackle. Do you hear the crackle when I step down?” She took another step, slowly.

Yes, I heard it: her foot, as it came down, pressing snow into crackly protest.

I then tried it myself, a deliberate step, and yes, the snow was so cold that it crackled when you stepped down on it.

“That’s the way it should be,” she said. “We finally have a proper Christmas.” All alive. She certainly was more awake than I was. The image of a girl returned to me.

She took a few more steps, listening to each one, then stopped and looked up. She turned, looking for something in the sky, but didn’t seem to find it. Too many buildings in the way, I thought. “Come,” she said.

She set off toward the river. At the end of the block she surveyed the sky again, and now she found what she was looking for. “There,” she said, and pointed. “Look. There. Orion.”

I looked up in the direction she pointed into the spangled eastern sky and recognized the sword. “You rarely see Orion in Stockholm,” she said. “We’re too far north for him.”

“He’s a friend and protector of Indian children,” I said, and as I spoke I could see my own breath escape in dark little clouds against the stars. I took him in: Orion, barely clear of the eastern horizon, majestic; and I recalled one of the many tales Madhuri used to tell me at night. “His sword is strong and can sever the strongest chains, even Time itself, the strongest chain of all.”

Harriet watched me watch Orion, then turned again towards the proud hunter, son of Poseidon. “He’s a friend of Swedish children, too, though he rarely visits.”

There we stood, quite still, at the very end of 52nd street, gazing at Orion. No hint of morning anywhere. “Ingen dager synes än, stjärnorna på himmelen de blänka,” she said, or sang, to herself.

I recognized the Swedish. “What does that mean?”

“It’s a line from one of our Christmas songs and says: There’s no hint of morning, the stars twinkle in the sky. It’s about this farm hand who is up very early on Christmas day to see to his horses. Everybody knows the song.”

And she began to sing softly.

Staffan var en stalledräng.

Vi tackom nu så gärna.

Han vattna’ sina fålar fem,

Allt för den ljusa stjärna.

Ingen dager synes än,

Stjärnorna på himmelen de blänka.

She sang with a surprisingly light voice, not as deep or husky as when she spoke. The image of a girl returned. And her breath, too, formed clouds as she sang, that rose darkly against the stars. Then she fell silent, still looking skyward. And for a moment the world consisted only of stars, my mother and the cold morning.

“We’d better get going,” she said suddenly. “Did you see any cabs?”

I think she was joking, but I answered her anyway. “No.”

“I much doubt we’ll find one.”

Then she turned and walked back up 52nd Street towards 1st Avenue. I quickly caught up, then looked around me as we made our way through the crackly snow. I saw no one else.

At the corner of 1st Avenue, I got the odd feeling that someone was turning out the lights — one by one or thousand by thousand — and when I looked up I saw clouds gathering again, obscuring the stars, not quite done snowing perhaps. I looked back toward the river, where the sky was still clear and starry.

1st Avenue was as abandoned as 52nd Street. No sign of life on the street and only the occasional flicker of candle in a window here and there. The light sprang on in a third story window, quite brightly, very awake. Other Swedes, perhaps. Early risers too for the Christmas morning service. But that was it. No cabs, no busses, no engines. Nor sounds of any kind. No one moving about. And everything covered with snow, even the street lamps wore thick white hats.

We turned left on 1st Avenue and now began walking in earnest, Harriet, much used to this, setting a brisk pace. The snow was deeper here, maybe as much as a foot. Harriet, familiar with the city and its weather, wore boots and didn’t seem to notice or mind. I, on the other hand, the opposite of familiar with the place, had only shoes to wear, and I did mind, for snow was already making its way into my shoes, where it quickly melted to cold, uncomfortable water. I slipped behind Harriet and tried to step in her footsteps to keep out as much of the snow as possible. It didn’t help much. Then the sidewalk suddenly cleared again of all but the most recent snow, traces of a fickle wind, to the delight of my feet.

We arrived at 51st Street, looked both ways: not a soul. A little more snow here, perhaps: it covered both sidewalks by a foot or two for as far as we could see. The cars, in white mostly past their wheels, seemed abandoned and forlorn. And cold.

“Can we make it there on time,” I asked. “Walking?” Hopeful I’m not sure of what reply. A change of plans perhaps. The cold was getting to me, especially to my Indian feet, who did not like the melting snow and who now were giving serious thought to turning numb.

“Sure,” she said. Not a doubt. “It can’t be more than a couple of miles. If that.” And set out again.

A couple of miles. I may have nodded, but I said nothing. Instead I focused on ignoring my increasingly offended Indian feet, as I trotted along after her.

The darkening overhead nudged me again, and I looked up. No stars at all now, only the black of thick clouds. As we crossed 50th Street I looked to my left towards the East River, and now that sky too was starless, smothered. A storm. And a fast one. It had covered the eastern sky in minutes.

“Harriet,” I said.

She didn’t hear me.

“Harriet.” A little louder.

“Yes.” She turned her head, if not all the way, at least in my direction, the better to hear.

“I think it’s going to start snowing again.”

“That’s fine. Let it.”

Not the response I had hoped for.

Ahead, and a little to our left, the UN building rose into the darkness like a tomb, stunted now by the lowering sky. A black rising. I could see no lights anywhere in that splendid building, which I found odd. Shouldn’t there be at least caretaker personnel, guards and such, lights somewhere? Night watchman in the lobby?

“That’s odd,” said Harriet, as if she had been struck by the same thought. But she had not. She was not even looking at the UN building. She had stopped, and was looking up at the street sign.

“What?” I took two quick steps to pull up beside her.

“This should be East 49th Street, but it’s not. It’s, it’s, can you make it out?”

As I looked up at the sign and tried to make it out, the first flake fell, chased by a million million others — a cloud of white locusts rushing down to crush us. I almost ducked. I may in fact have. Then I focused again on the street sign and managed to make it out: “It looks like Saraganda,” I said. “Saraganda Street.”

“I’ve never heard of Saraganda street,” she said. “Are you sure?”

I looked again, and she did too, but the snow, suddenly everywhere — falling, shifting, rushing — made it hard to see. “Yes,” I said as I managed to catch another glimpse, “Saraganda Street.”

She made it out as well. “You’re right,” she said. “How strange. We just crossed East 50th, back there. ” She turned and looked uptown.

But then she took my arm and nestled up, a little cold perhaps, or maybe even a little afraid — the pressure of her hand spoke of tension. “Come on,” she said, and we continued down 1st Avenue, leaning into the snow a little, heavier now with a fresh wind. There were no cabs. There were no buses. There were no cars. There was no one. Now there was only me and Harriet and snow.

After two more blocks we stopped. Not so much to catch our breath as to catch our bearings. The UN building should be just up ahead, but you could make nothing out now through the black whiteness.

We leaned into the wind again and made it one more block. This should be East 46th Street, but something told me it wasn’t. We stopped again and she put her head close to mine and said, quite loudly to be heard over the wind that was getting stronger, and over the muffling effect of a sky full of flakes. “I can’t see the UN building. Can you?”

I looked where she pointed, to where it should be, just to our left, but could make out nothing. No UN building. I could see the shapes of other buildings, lower, black, unfamiliar, unfriendly, silent sentries enduring the snow, but not the famous contour of the UN Plaza. “No,” I yelled back.

“It should be right here,” she said again, still pointing. “Right here.” She turned and looked all around her. Full circle. Then pointed to her left again, “Right there.”

Indeed. I looked again toward where the landmark building should have been, but instead caught a street sign. Clearly. Vaguely illuminated. As if it wanted to be seen, despite the snow.

And it said: 20th Avenue.

“Look,” I said, pointing.

She looked up and read it too. “20th Avenue? There’s no such thing,” she said, or at least that is what I thought she said. She grasped my arm a little tighter.

“I don’t know,” I said, which was true.

“No,” she said. “If there were a 20th Avenue it would be somewhere in New Jersey, or in the middle of the Hudson.”

She looked back at where the UN Plaza should be. “I can’t see it,” she said again. “It should be right there.”

Again I sought the familiar outline through the dark and swirling air. Hints of buildings, yes, but that was it.

“Are you sure,” I said, even though I had seen it a few blocks back. “There’s something there, but nothing like the UN building.”

“I’ve walked down 1st Avenue a thousand times,” she said. “This should be East 46th Street, and the UN is right here.”

Only it wasn’t.

She gripped my arm harder and set out again. We made it perhaps another half a block, then simply had to stop. The snow was coming down even harder, and now made it impossible to see anything. It was as if we had vanished into some white underwater.

Harriet shuddered. The ripple leaped from her arm to mine and it sang of concern.

“Do you have any idea where we are?” she shouted into my ear.

Had this been London, perhaps, I might have been of some help. But not here. “No,” I said. “I’m afraid not.”

She faced me, only six inches away if that, her eyes bright, straining to see me. “This is crazy,” she said. “Crazy.” She turned again to look, or tried to anyway. Then shook her head and looked back at me. “I have no idea what’s going on. Do you?”

“No.”

She took two steps in I’m not sure which direction and brought me with her, then stopped again. One spot, in this amazing onslaught of snow, was as good as the next; there was no longer any difference between them. She looked around, and tried, like me, I guess, to find something to cling to, something familiar, but the bottom of a white ocean is just that: the bottom of a white ocean. It’s directionless, building-less. Whitely unreal.

There were just her and me and the snow, which still came down as if some angry weather god was determined to empty the sky upon us.

And then there was the white horse.

There was absolutely no telling where he had come from; all I can say is that there he was, huge and white and friendly.

He must have been running, for his breath stood like its own little weather system around his large, warm face, and his chest was still heaving hard with the effort of lungs. As he lowered his head toward us I saw his black eyes glinting with the faint light of street lamps, and perhaps another, deeper light too. His eyes were intelligent, inviting, and regarding us with interest. And while there was no rational way that he could even be there, I think both Harriet and I thought the same thing: he had been looking for us, running for us, to find and to fetch us lest we die here, buried in the worst snowstorm in this city’s history — in a New York where we could no longer recognize the street names.

Then he kneeled. Kneeled all the way down like horses cannot or will not do for anyone, and Harriet — knowing now, as well as I did, why he was here — managed, with a little help from me, to climb aboard. I followed, with a little help from her, and then the horse rose again. Slowly, effortlessly, smoothly. As if we weighed nothing. Just so much additional snow on his back.

He was very large, like a little planet with a mane. Harriet buried her hands and head in the long white hair and I embraced her waist to keep myself from falling. Then we were off.

The horse knew where he was going, that was clear. And if his task was to get us there, our task was to curl down as closely to him as possible to brace ourselves against the wall of snow we now seemed to fly through. Was there still street under his hoofs? I don’t know. I tried to but could not hear them strike pavement. This could have been for all the snow, and probably was, but it could also have been because he never touched it. Looking back at it now, I lean toward the latter.

Either way, he moved very fast, and I hung on for dear life. The wind sang in my ears, a speedy song mixed with the snorts of large and hard-working nostrils. Despite this, or perhaps because of this, I could, strangely, hear my heart, something no longer quite mine, beating its way out of my chest. It was beating so hard, in fact, that I feared I would hurt Harriet’s back with its violent pounding. She, however, was too busy holding on to notice or care; or perhaps she had similar heart problems of her own, afraid to hurt the horse’s back with its beating.

Then, after I have no clear idea how long — but it was minutes, not hours, surely — we arrived: out of the blinding snow and into a small clearing of warm, yellow street light. We stood on the sidewalk in front a church. Yes, it was a church, you could it see just fine. In fact, looking up, I could make out the thin, tall spire, pointing up, up, up very insistently up into a sky where, again, a star or two now looked back at us. The snow had stopped, and with the first hoof on the broad steps up to the heavy brown doors (which I heard quite clearly, by the way), the doors suddenly swung open and light, warmer still, fell out upon us and for a moment nearly blinded me.

© Wolfstuff