Five Days Page 11

  ‘The wine is good. Pinot noir. I have to remember that.’

  ‘Is that a way of telling me you’re not going to say anything about your first boyfriend?’

  ‘Exactly.’

  ‘Well, then I certainly won’t push the point. But when it comes to your love affair with The Synonym Finder . . .’

  ‘I actually saved up two weeks’ babysitting money when I was fourteen to buy it. It was about twenty dollars, a small fortune at the time, but worth every penny.’

  ‘What made it so valuable?’

  ‘The fact that I could lose myself in it. Have you ever seen The Synonym Finder?’

  ‘I actually own two.’

  ‘You are a fellow geek.’

  ‘Absolutely. But you are not a geek.’

  ‘Actually I am. But getting back to The Synonym Finder – you know that the great pleasure of that book is that it’s not as formalized or rigid as a normal thesaurus; that it has real depth and breath when it comes to equivalent words, and that it really is geared towards semantical junkies.’

  ‘“Semantical junkies”. I like it.’

  ‘Well, that’s me. In fact, it’s always been me.’

  ‘Even though the sciences were your real métier?’

  ‘Are sciences a “métier”?’

  ‘Isn’t everything a métier?’ he asked.

  Again I found myself looking at this man with care – because it was so rare to run into somebody who could utter such an eloquent phrase in the midst of normal conversation. Richard saw me considering him differently, and reacted with a shy smile, then a quick bowing of the head to avoid my gaze. This immediately made me think: Oh God, were you projecting interest or – worse yet – infatuation? I felt myself blushing again. And then – now this was really compounding things – I registered the fact that he was registering the fact that I was blushing. So I tried to mitigate things by saying:

  ‘You have a nice turn of phrase . . .’

  ‘And I seem to have embarrassed you . . .’

  ‘No, it’s me who’s embarrassed me.’

  ‘But why?’

  ‘Because . . .’

  I couldn’t say what I was thinking: Because you’re clearly smart and I find that attractive and I shouldn’t be finding you attractive for about ten obvious reasons.

  ‘Well, nobody has ever told me that before,’ Richard said.

  ‘Told you what?’

  ‘That I have a nice turn of phrase.’

  ‘Surely your wife has . . .’

  As soon as those words were out of my mouth I regretted them. Because I realized I had overstepped a boundary.

  ‘Sorry, sorry,’ I said immediately. ‘I shouldn’t have implied that . . .’

  ‘You implied nothing. It’s a reasonable question. I love words. I love using words. I love painting with words – even though I don’t get much of a chance to do so in my normal day-to-day work. And yes, it would be lovely if my partner in life, my wife, appreciated the way I use words. But when does your spouse ever really appreciate you the way you think you should be appreciated? I mean, that’s asking a little much, isn’t it?’

  He said this with such lightness, such high irony, that I found myself giggling.

  ‘I don’t think it is asking much,’ I said. ‘Still, my father used to say that one of the problems of being smart at something is that you unintentionally show the other person up. It really gets under their skin, the fact that you have an ability, a talent, a way of looking at the world, that they so clearly believe they lack.’

  ‘Having a thing about words is hardly a talent. It’s more of a hobby. Like collecting model trains or stamps or old fountain pens.’

  ‘It’s a little more cerebral than any of those talents.’

  ‘So you consider yourself cerebral?’

  ‘Hardly.’

  ‘See! We’re cut from exactly the same Maine cloth. We might love things semantical. We might have both spent long involving hours exploring the world of synonyms. We might both have this love affair with language. But that doesn’t make either of us intelligent, now does it?’

  Again I found myself smiling and nodding my head.

  ‘Bull’s-eye,’ I said, raising my glass. He picked his up and clinked it against mine.

  ‘Here’s to low self-esteem,’ I said.

  ‘Better known as – the insidious art of undervaluing yourself.’

  ‘Do you write?’

  Richard seemed taken aback by that question.

  ‘Why do you ask that?’

  ‘Just a hunch. The way you use language, love language.’

  ‘I’m hardly a published writer . . .’

  ‘But you have written, do write . . .?’

  Richard lifted his glass and downed the remaining wine.

  ‘I had a story published four years ago in a little magazine in Portland.’

  ‘But that’s great. What was the magazine?’

  ‘Kind of a lifestyle mag. Chic places to eat and shop. Designer apartments. Hotels in which to spend a romantic weekend. That sort of thing.’

  ‘And was your story about chic places to eat and designer apartments, with a romantic weekend in a coastal bed and breakfast thrown in?’

  Richard smiled. ‘I walked into that, didn’t I?’

  ‘You were apologizing for being in a lifestyle magazine.’

  ‘Well, it’s not exactly the New Yorker.’

  ‘That might happen one day.’

  ‘Wishful thinking.’

  ‘Positive thinking,’ I said.

  ‘Very Norman Vincent Peale.’

  ‘You’ve lost me.’

  ‘The Power of Positive Thinking by Rev. Norman Vincent Peale. Probably the first American self-help book.’

  ‘By a man of God.’

  ‘A 1950s man of God – who now seems positively secular compared to the Bible thumpers out there right now.’

  ‘But I thought you supported their “family values” sentiments.’

  ‘You have quite a memory,’ he said.

  ‘Well, at least you didn’t quote the Book of Revelations to me.’

  ‘I’m hardly religious.’

  ‘Then what’s with the support for the born-agains?’

  ‘I just don’t like knee-jerk liberal dismissal of all things Christian.’

  ‘Now speaking as a liberal – albeit a sensible one – I think what worries even the more sensible Republicans I know is the fact that the charismatic Christians have a political agenda that runs up against basic American ideas about separation of church and state, about basic human rights like a woman’s right to control her own body or a gay couple’s civil rights when it comes to having the legal protection afforded by marriage.’

  ‘You know I’m not against anything you just said.’

  ‘And I know I sound like I’m on a soapbox.’

  ‘That’s fine with me. You’re a sensible liberal, I’m a sensible Republican . . . though some people nowadays might think that a tautology.’

  He flashed a mischievous little grin at me. I couldn’t help but think: He’s smart. And he can argue smart, and can use language so incisively, and in such a quick-witted way.

  ‘So tell me about your story,’ I asked, changing the subject.

  ‘You mean, you no longer want to hear my views about the Almighty?’

  ‘A personal friend of yours?’

  ‘Hey. I sold him a Full Life Policy last year which pays out five percent above the deductible.’

  I laughed.

  ‘So God lives in Maine?’ I asked.

  ‘Well, there is a reason why they call it “Vacationland”. As such, He doesn’t answer prayers very often.’

  ‘Have you asked Him for a favour?’

  ‘Haven’t we all?’

  ‘But I thought you were a non-believer.’

  ‘I’m reserving judgment,’ he said. ‘Raised Presbyterian – but that was a family heritage thing. And I think my father approved of Presbyterianism beca
use it was so dour, so austere.’

  ‘And your mother?’

  ‘She went along with everything my father said. Then again, his authority was never to be challenged.’

  ‘Did you try?’

  ‘Of course.’

  ‘And?’

  A pause – in which Richard looked down into his empty glass. Then:

  ‘I’m running his company.’

  ‘But you’re still writing.’

  ‘He couldn’t stop me from doing that.’

  ‘And if you asked God to get you into the New Yorker . . .?’

  ‘Even He doesn’t have that kind of pull.’

  Again I laughed.

  ‘But you believe in . . .’

  He looked up and met my gaze straight on.

  ‘I believe in wanting to believe in something.’

  Silence – as that statement hung in the air between us. Ambiguous. Perhaps charged with meaning. Perhaps not. But the way he was looking at me right now . . .

  A voice behind me curtailed the moment.

  ‘How you folks doing?’

  It was the waiter.

  ‘Now I wouldn’t want to speak for the two of us,’ Richard said, ‘but I think – just fine.’

  ‘I concur,’ I said.

  A smile crossed between us.

  ‘So are you ready for a second glass of wine?’ the waiter asked.

  ‘Well . . .’ I said, thinking of at least five excuses I could give for an early night.

  ‘If it’s too late or you’ve got stuff to do in the morning . . .’ Richard said.

  I knew the simplest way to end the evening would be to say something along the lines of: ‘Alas, the first group conference – Advanced Bone Marrow MRI Techniques – is scheduled for ten . . . and the radiologist back at my hospital will want to know all about it.’ (Not true at all – we always send bone marrow cases to Portland.) And yes, fretting about a second glass of wine while driving would be a good exit strategy. Because I was finding this interesting conversation a little too interesting. And because, moments earlier, when Richard looked up at me and said: ‘I believe in wanting to believe in something,’ I couldn’t help but think that his hesitancy was due to the fact that he stopped himself from saying ‘someone’. And also because, as his eyes met mine when he uttered that sentence, I actually found myself disconcerted by the fact that the insurance salesman I first saw as gray and just a little drab was now holding my interest.

  So yes, there were sensible reasons why I was about to tell Richard: ‘You know, I really think it’s getting a little late for me.’ But instead, something else – something hitherto unknown to cautious little me – kicked in. And I heard myself saying:

  ‘I’m up for the second glass of wine if you are.’

  Richard looked momentarily taken aback by this – as if he too would have found it easier if I had called it quits and let us both go our separate ways back to the hotel. But instead his moment of disconcertion was replaced with a smile. And five surprising words:

  ‘If you’re in, I’m in.’

  Five

  THE SECOND GLASS of wine lasted two hours. I didn’t realize that so much time had evaporated until someone else informed us that it was indeed late. All right, I am being a little fast and loose with the truth. Once or twice I did ponder the fact that we were talking, talking, talking – and the conversation was so surprisingly spirited, so free-flowing and smart (I feel like such an egoist noting that), that, though a voice in the back of my mind occasionally annoyed me with a reminder that it was getting late, I chose to ignore it. Just as I carefully nursed that second glass of wine, worried that if it was drained too quickly it might spark a nervous exchange about perhaps ending the evening there and then, especially as we were both driving and both had things to do tomorrow morning.

  But I’m getting ahead of myself here. We agreed on a second glass of wine. When it arrived Richard let the waiter know that he shouldn’t trouble us again by simply stating: ‘We’re good now.’

  The waiter nodded acknowledgment, then left us alone. As soon as he was out of earshot Richard said:

  ‘I bet he’s an MIT PhD candidate in astrophysics who really wishes he didn’t have to get dressed up four nights a week in that gendarme uniform and work for tips.’

  ‘At least he knows that, all going well, he’ll be in some high-powered research or academic post in a couple of years and will be able to use his year as a part-time waiter at the Cambridge Casablanca as a sort of party piece.’

  ‘If astrophysicists actually have party pieces.’

  ‘Doesn’t everybody?’ I asked.

  ‘OK then, what’s yours?’

  ‘I doubt I have one.’

  ‘But you just said . . .’

  ‘That’s the problem with a witty retort. It always lands you in trouble.’

  ‘All right, let me put it this way, if I asked you to sing something . . .’

  ‘I have a terrible voice,’ I said.

  ‘Play something?’

  ‘Never learning an instrument remains one of my great regrets.’

  ‘Recite something?’

  I felt myself momentarily clench – and, in the process, foolishly give the game away.

  ‘So you do recite things?’ Richard asked, all smiles.

  ‘What makes you think that?’

  ‘The way you’re blushing right now.’

  ‘Oh God . . .’

  ‘Why get embarrassed?’ he asked.

  ‘I don’t know. Maybe it’s because . . .’

  ‘Yes?’

  ‘Poetry,’ I said, sounding very direct – as if I was spitting out a confession. ‘I recite poetry.’

  ‘Impressive.’

  ‘How would you know? You’ve never heard me recite anything.’

  ‘Do so now.’

  ‘No way.’

  ‘Why not?’

  ‘Because . . . I don’t know you.’

  As soon as I said that I had a fit of the giggles.

  ‘Sorry, sorry,’ I said, ‘that sounded ridiculous.’

  ‘Or rather wonderfully old-fashioned – “I never recite poetry on a first date.”’

  I felt myself clench again.

  ‘This is not a first date,’ I said, sounding rather terse.

  Now it was Richard’s turn to express embarrassment.

  ‘That might be the stupidest thing I’ve ever said. And totally presumptuous.’

  ‘Just needed to get that clear.’

  ‘It was clear already. I just sometimes let my mouth work before my brain. And not for a moment did I think—’

  ‘Emily Dickinson,’ I heard myself saying.

  ‘What?’

  ‘The stuff I recite to myself. It’s frequently Emily Dickinson.’

  ‘That’s impressive.’

  ‘Or weird.’

  ‘Why is it weird? I mean, if you told me it was Edgar Allan Poe or, worst yet, H. P. Lovecraft . . .’

  ‘He didn’t write poetry.’

  ‘And he might be the most overrated writer this country ever produced – but I’ve never gone for High Gothic. I suppose the sort of writing I like most deals with the heart of the matter, the everyday stuff of life . . .’

  ‘As Emily Dickinson did.’

  ‘Or Robert Frost.’

  ‘He’s very underrated now, Robert Frost,’ I said. ‘Everyone always characterizes him as the old Yankee, the grandfatherly poet. And yes, there is “the woods are lovely, dark and deep, and I have promises to keep, and miles to go before I sleep” . . . which is always held up as American Pastoral and the sort of poem that even truck drivers can appreciate.’

  ‘Unlike Wallace Stevens.’

  ‘Well, he did sell insurance. In fact, he remained in Hartford – insurance capital of America.’

  ‘That’s some claim to fame.’

  ‘Ouch.’

  ‘Sorry – that was catty of me.’

  ‘But you’re right. Hartford has little to recommend it.’


  ‘Mark Twain lived there for a while . . . while he was selling insurance.’

  Richard paused for a moment, clearly taking me in.

  ‘Did I say something wrong?’ I asked.

  ‘On the contrary, I was just allowing myself to be impressed by all that you know.’

  ‘But I don’t know that much.’

  ‘Even though you can talk about the early non-literary career of Mark Twain and cite Wallace Stevens.’

  ‘I wasn’t citing Wallace Stevens. I was talking about Robert Frost.’

  ‘And your favorite Frost poem?’ he asked.

  ‘It’s probably the least traditional and the most disquieting of all his poems . . .’

  ‘“Fire and Ice”?’

  Now it was my turn to look at Richard with care.

  ‘You really know your stuff,’ I said.

  This time there was no shy smile, no turning away from my field of vision. This time he looked directly at me and said:

  ‘But the only reason I am talking about these things is because you know your stuff.’

  ‘And the only reason why I’m telling you all this is because you know your stuff. You know “Fire and Ice”.’

  ‘But I can’t recite it.’

  ‘I bet you can.’

  I took a large steadying sip of my wine. Lowering my head I gathered my thoughts, my memory flipping me back to senior year in high school, that day in assembly when I had been asked by my English teacher, Mr Adams, to stand up in front of the school and recite . . .

  No, no, don’t replay that again. Don’t remember how you . . .

  Why do we always seem to hark back to the bad stuff ? The moments when we were embarrassed, mortified, mocked. When the very thought now of reciting something and being rewarded for it tosses up the most anguished remembrances of things past. When . . .

  ‘Some say the world will end in fire

  Some say in ice.

  From what I’ve tasted of desire

  I hold with those who favor fire

  But if it had to perish twice

  I think I know enough of hate

  To say that for destruction ice

  Is also great

  And would suffice.’

  Silence. Richard’s gaze – which he held from the moment I looked up at him and began to recite the poem – didn’t waver from me. But having finished the recitation I found myself almost looking at him for validation. Then realizing that I was staring at him like a schoolgirl wanting to be told she had pleased the teacher, I turned away. Richard saw this and ever so briefly touched his hand against my left arm as he said: