Garbo’s Faces

a Novel — Part 26: New York

I flew from London to New York on October 1st, 1962. This was a Monday and a light day for air travel — the TWA Boeing 707 was nearly empty. In fact, I think there were more flight attendants than passengers. As usual I had a window seat, on the port side this time. My attendant folded down the seat next to me which then became a large and very functional table, and although I flew in the main cabin (not first class — I still could not match Harriet’s budget) I found I had the room and space worth twice the money.

The flight was uneventful (as I’ve mentioned before, a good thing) and very long. Made even longer, I am sure, by my unease at showing up uninvited. I knew that on a fundamental level I was violating my mother’s privacy, son or no son. She was a very private woman, I had come to know that, and I was planning to do what she abhorred the most, to force a presence on her. But what choice did I have? And didn’t I do it for the right, that is to say unselfish, reasons?

That was one of the questions I debated in the silence (the hum of jet engines tend to fade into a silence of sorts on long flights) of the Atlantic crossing: Did I do this for her benefit or for my own? Was my need, or was my feeling somewhat like a jilted lover, the real reason I was now sitting by the window in seat 14A, or was it to comfort my mother? I kept telling myself, over and over, that it was for her sake I was coming, but I kept feeling, over and over, that it had as much, if not more, to do with me.

To be honest, I never fully resolved that issue, and have not to this day. The point is, though, that there I was, approaching her, uninvited, at 550 miles per hour, and I did not feel good about it.

I tried to sleep a little but could not, and I knew I would have jet lag trouble at the far end. I tried to read but could not. Amidst much comfort, this was a long, uncomfortable flight.

I made it through immigration and customs without incident, and I exchanged my Sterling for the much smaller Dollar. Outside, taxis galore, all lined up, and here came the next in line for me. The driver stepped out and around the front of his car to give me a hand with my luggage but stopped short when he saw I only had my carry-on. He looked around just to make sure. Where had I come from, he wanted to know. I told him. And no luggage? He shook his head. Nice guy though, from Jamaica, Queens, he later informed me without being asked, lived not far from the airport, also volunteered. Where to, then? he wanted to know and I gave him Harriet’s address. As we pulled out from the curb and into traffic I felt worse than ever.

I don’t know if it is on the universal taxi driver application form that you must be able to sustain a one-way conversation for at least an hour, non-stop, but if it is, and this driver answered yes, well, he was not telling an untruth. Flying colors. As I said, nice enough guy, but I was not in a listening mood and stopped hearing after a while, could not keep up, my mind on the end of the drive, on the small elevator that rattled a little going up, on the brown door, so closed to me, and on my finger on the doorbell buzzer, pressing, violating.

And so we arrived. I tipped him well, took my shoulder bag and went in.

Where was I going, asked the doorman. Harriet Brown, I said. Did I have an appointment? No. But I’ve come from London, just to see her. She’s not in, he informed me. Returning when, I asked. Couldn’t say, he said. Today? I asked. Couldn’t say, he repeated. Is Claire in, I asked. This seemed to make it past his doorman shield, I obviously knew the housekeeper. Perhaps, he said. Could you ask, could you call and ask, I wondered. Which, yes, apparently, was possible, and which he did, very put out. Claire answered.

“Wants to know who you are,” he said to me, hand over the mouthpiece.

“Nachiketa,” I said.

“Nachiketa,” he repeated. “From London.”

Then he listened for a long time, for much longer than Claire could have spoken. Or maybe, I realized later, Claire didn’t say anything for some time, confused, perhaps panicked, I don’t know. Finally she must have said something, for the doorman hung up and nodded in my direction and said, “Okay.”

“Fifth floor,” he added, and glanced toward the elevator. I was cleared to enter.

“I know,” I said.

“Ms. Brown is not at home, though,” he said.

“You told me that,” I said.

The ride up to the fifth floor was the slowest elevator ride of my life. I was simply overcome with the feeling that I was doing something terribly wrong. That no matter how justified I was in arriving, I was doing so against her wishes, and her wishes (as I had discovered) were strong and paramount.

Finally it was just me and the doorbell. I hitched the shoulder bag higher up on my shoulder, as if that would boost my courage. It didn’t. Well, there was nothing for it, I pressed the bell. Once. The gong I remembered sounded deep inside. The door opened nearly immediately, and Claire looked worried.

“Nachiketa,” she said.

“Claire.” I wasn’t sure whether to shake hands or embrace her. I offered my hand, and she shook it.

She looked at me and then at my carry-on, and then back at my face. “You’ve come,” she said. But nothing more.

“I’ve come,” I confirmed.

“She is not at home,” she said finally. And still she had not stepped aside to let me in. She was as aware of my violation as I was. And she would not be a party to it. At least that is how I read it.

“Can I come in?” I asked.

To which she said nothing. And said nothing some more. Then, as if by sheer act of will, she stood aside, and I entered.

Claire was so uncomfortable about this that it stood like a mist around her. I literally had to pass through her unease to enter the living room. Claire had not moved, and the door was still open to the landing outside. I put my shoulder bag down.

“She is not at home,” she said again. Five words repeated on pain of death.

The apartment was very still. I left Claire standing in the hallway, and went to the kitchen. All silent. Nothing on the stove. No dishes being prepared. Every sign said no Harriet.

I went to Harriet’s bedroom. The door was ajar. I could see the made bed, unslept in. I forced myself to push the door fully open. The room was empty. I took in the book shelves, her night table, her alarm clock, her chair. All spoke of no Harriet. I backed out and returned the door to its not quite closed.

I stood very still and just listened. The absence of sound spoke of only Claire in the apartment. Of only Claire dusting or polishing or whatever she came to do when Harriet was not in town. Spoke very clearly of absence.

Claire had not moved. She would not ratify my breach of protocol by closing the door behind me.

“When,” I started from just outside Harriet’s room. Then realized she might not hear me. I crossed the living room and returned to the hallway and the waiting Claire. “When,” I said again, “will she come back?”

“I don’t know,” she said. “I am not even sure where she is. She must have gone out of town for the weekend. I don’t know where.”

“Did she mention…?”

“No.”

Still, I could not shake the terrible, terrible feeling that Harriet was in the apartment. Hiding from me.

“Could I wait for her, do you think?”

“I don’t think that would be a good idea,” she answered. Then, after letting her silence make sure I really understood how much of a not good idea that would be, she added, “She may be gone for weeks. She does this sometimes.”

“Yes,” I said. Mechanically. Nodded. Picked up my shoulder bag and crossed the miasma of unease that now filled the entire hallway, and returned to the landing.

“I will find a hotel nearby,” I said. “I am very tired, I need to get some sleep.”

She did not reply.

“I will come back tomorrow.”

She nodded. “Yes. Maybe she will be back by then.”

“I hope so,” I said. “I certainly do.” Then I remembered. “Perhaps I should call first. Do you have her new phone number?”

“No,” said Claire. “No. She just had it changed again, and she has not told me what it is yet.” And this, terribly, rolled off her tongue like something rehearsed.

Standing guard — and in retrospect, there’s no other image that comes to mind, she was standing guard — I saw that her loyalties lay with Harriet and not with me, whatever the truth. “Well, then,” I said. “I shall find myself a hotel.”

“I’m sorry,” said Claire. And she meant it. She looked it. She also looked relieved.

I found a hotel, a not very nice one, which as far as I remember had no other name than Hotel. It was not a nice room, and the bed was too soft. It was also very hot in the room. I had to open the window to let some cold air in, something the window wasn’t used to, for it fought me all the way. Finally it gave in a crack, and I breathed the fresher air. I left it that way and lay down on the creaky bed, closed my eyes, and fell asleep.

And dreamed:

Claire stood by the open door and would not move. Her unease had grown into a terror so palpable I could break off pieces of it and put it in my pocket. I entered the apartment.

It was very still inside. Too still. The still that echoes of the recent non-stillness. The still you feel when all motion has been ordered stopped. Silenced.

I looked around the living room for signs of her, any sign. A cigarette, a glove, a newspaper, anything. For I knew — and this was my nightmare — I knew that she was in the apartment. She, at that very moment, was watching me from behind a door, from behind a curtain, from within a closet. I didn’t know from behind what, or which closet, but I knew she could see me. And she could move, soundlessly, unseen, from hiding place to hiding place, so no matter how many closet doors I yanked open with sudden violence, there was always another place housing her, a shape, slipping away unseen like a footless ghost, for although the curtain fluttered and bulged with its secret there were no feet to be seen by the floor. And all the while Claire stood by the open door, a panicked guard.

Everywhere I looked, I was always a heartbeat too late. In the end I had looked everywhere. And perhaps she was laughing now, a silent and not very nice laugh. Why did she hate me this much? A shadow of a mother, dim and cruel.

I sat up suddenly and the bed protested loudly. I had no idea what time it was, only that I was parched and still fully dressed and very uncomfortable. I swung my feet onto the floor and staggered to the window. I had to get more air into the room. Perhaps it noticed my condition and sympathized, for this time it allowed me to slide it fully open and I drank the air like water. I looked at my wristwatch, which said six o’clock. London time, I realized. Here, the middle of the night. I listened to the traffic outside, then noticed the drizzle. Strangely, it cheered me. Cool and moist. I undressed and made it back to bed. This time I did not dream.

I returned to Harriet’s apartment building the following morning. Another doorman, equally inhospitable — do they come this way or does it take years of training? — informed me that Harriet was out and that the housekeeper had not yet arrived. Would I please come back later.

I returned after lunch. Claire was in the apartment now, and the doorman called her. Suddenly I realized that he must have Harriet’s number in order to call and for a moment I felt at least one problem was solved.

That is, until I realized that he was using an intercom. He had dialed only two digits. I remained none the wiser.

Claire answered and I spoke with her briefly. Harriet was not back yet, and no, there was no word from her. Maybe tomorrow. I said fine.

I tried again the next day and the day after that and then I flew back to London.

© Wolfstuff