City of Strangers (9 page)

Fully awake now, and constructively energized by irritation, he goes to his office, intending to use the next few hours to work. Most urgent is the review of a political history of Islam. The deadline is next week. Of late Paul's habits of productivity have been desultory, almost to the point of vanishing: he finished reading the book ten days ago; the filaments of thought have grown cold, and if he doesn't return to it soon, he will lose the thing altogether. The subject interests him, but, in Paul's opinion, the author overlooks a fundamental aspect of faith, considering it as a symptom of culture and failing to see that the belief in God is a basic urge, like hunger or sex, and that like those things it sinks into the mind and touches all the other objects there – that it has the power, like superstition, to alchemize otherwise unremarkable moments, when because of an evolutionary misprint the human mind presses mystical importance from mundane coincidence. A given mind is either ready for these moments or it isn't. Paul's was, once. But the religion of his youth has receded so far into his past that it is difficult for him to resuscitate the heat of it, the ardor, that firm, unironic sincerity.

He has a limit of eight hundred words. After reading through his notes for fifteen minutes, Paul feels the crackle of a headache once more tuning up between his temples. He goes to the kitchen for a glass of water and swallows three aspirin. This time the headache doesn't go away. It has the character of divinely induced punishment. After a while it becomes so painful that he leaves his chair and paces the apartment, then returns and extinguishes all the lights. His mood improves somewhat. Still, he doesn't want to work on the review; he pulls out the draft of an unrelated magazine piece – light, on a book about cocktail recipes based on famous novels and films – and spends an hour tidying it up. When he puts it aside, he realizes how heavy his eyes feel and, shutting them, leans back in the chair.

Claire is the obvious subject for thought, and though she does occur to him – in a short, pornographic reel that leaves him feeling empty and unsavory – surprisingly it is his father who comes to mind. Recent months have allowed him to spot an inheritance from Frank that prior years, with their run of professional and personal success – which he now readily admits was luck as much as anything else – had obscured. It is a matter of temperament. He should be working, and he isn't. From Frank he got this penchant for idle mental occupancy and this comfort with drift, the use of one's mind as a deck chair rather than an engine. In his father it always appeared to be absentmindedness, mere procrastination, but this masked something else, Paul realized later: a belief that the brute calculus of the world – you work to live – did not apply to certain individuals, his father among them. This tendency of Frank's was a shell of what it must once have been; for the duration of Paul's early childhood he put in his hours at the insurance company, and he retired with a pension. But when he came home with 'a little work to do,' Paul would invariably find him leaning back in his chair at the dinner table, chewing a pencil, staring glassily at some far corner of the ceiling, and, embarrassingly, not doing what he said he had to do.

Frank must once have had an entrepreneurial instinct. His actions as a young man were contemptible, but they did not lack for energy. This zeal survived in his later life, his life as Paul's father, only as an ember of sociability, one that flickered when he was at the restaurant, or during their walks through Greenpoint, when he adopted the ambient purposelessness of the flâneur. He just wanted to be out of the house. This instinct would die, too, as one by one Frank shut down his social outlets and shrunk his life to that of a man alone in a room.

Paul feels a fresh gust of frustration, one that indicts Ben, who constantly swells with the vanity of moral sentiment. There's no evidence that Frank fully appreciated what was happening in Germany, not in '37 and '38; few did. A man cannot be made to suffer the indignity of blame into the last chapter of his life for the acts of his youth, even the in defensible ones, even those for which naivety isn't an excuse. He doesn't believe that Frank should be forgiven, not in the strict sense of the word. For one thing, he never asked to be. Paul simply thinks that his father isn't, that no one is, a single, fossilized thing.

Feeling a soft, magnetic tug, he opens his eyes and pulls out a fresh sheet of paper. He uncaps a pen and presses two sentences onto the empty page: 'My father had it in him to strike me only once. I was thirteen.' He sits back in the chair and studies the words: already it feels a betrayal, not of his father, but of himself, of the version of himself who resisted Bentham, who said no. Yet before he can stop he falls again toward the paper and more pours out:

It was a small thing – five dollars I stole from his wallet to see a movie with some friends. They talked me into it, after I told them I didn't have the money to go. When I got home he drove a hand across my face. Before hitting me, he used the other hand to keep my head in place, cradling my chin in his palm, a gesture both gentle and practical, bluntly paternal. My lip was split. He assumed I knew the reason. I did, but I didn't understand his reaction; I'd done worse in the past, or at least it seemed I had.

Not until he was fifteen or sixteen did Paul ask any questions. He was upset that he hadn't seen his brother in several years and aware that this was somehow his father's fault. Frank sat there in his chair, where he almost always was; then he nodded to himself and, with a sputtering grunt, rose. 'Stay there.' When he returned he handed Paul a large envelope. It was full to bursting, and when he tried to open it the brittle metal fastener broke off in his hand. He pulled out a lump of crisp, delicate newsprint. He read one page after another before becoming self-conscious at reading about his father in front of him, and stole away to his room to finish. The articles were ordered chronologically, from the earliest days of the Long Island meetings right up until the end. He'd kept everything, even the stories about the trial. Paul returned to find his father sitting exactly where he had left him.

He said, 'That really was you?'

With visible effort Frank unglued his lips to speak; he might have shaken his head, too, but the gesture was ambiguous. He opted for silence. He was seventy-five years old by then, and he had nothing else to say about the matter.

Tuesday. On his way to the hospital Paul passes a pharmacy. Red and pink crêpe paper festoons the eaves and an arc of cardboard hearts hangs in the window. Similar displays have filled the city for weeks, but only today, the holiday itself, does Paul become aware of the date. For a divorced man of thirty-six Valentine's Day ceases to mean much. That's for lovesick teenagers. Even in the wake of recent events, he's too old to find in such scenery the stuff of sadness or self-pity. By tomorrow it will have vanished. Easter takes its place, the next page on the calendar that dictates the pace of American life, the natural seasons replaced by forces that apportion the year into blocks of commercial time, occasions for spending.

A pair of orderlies stands at the main entrance, slouched like scarecrows, sucking down cigarettes. They don't wear jackets over their scrubs and shiver a little; one turns out his mouth in a cursory smile. Ambulances wait in a silent row for work to be called in. A slow morning.

Nothing's changed in the familiar room. Machines beep softly; drops of clear serum make the slow journey down a tube into his father's blood. Above all, Paul is aware of the emptiness, the austerity. Shouldn't a man be surrounded by flowers and weeping relatives – the evidence that the world will suffer in his absence? Not this man. His departure from this room will alter almost nothing about it. Paul has never thought to bring flowers; then again, his father wouldn't want him to. Frank has always been an unsentimental man, unconcerned with the decorative, the ephemeral.

Color has drained from the face, though it wasn't a face with much color in the first place. In the last decade Frank spent as much time as possible indoors, preferring that kind of loneliness to the loneliness of crowds, of walking among people who don't know you and don't care to. Not that Paul was keeping much track. His visits, always sparse, had become even more erratic, although the trip to his father's apartment was a matter of taking the F train to Bergen Street and then transferring to the G train. He packaged his father as a set of practical problems – dealing with the insurance company, managing a fixed income from dividends on his pension. It gave them something to talk about, and was easier than trying at that late hour to forge anything more complex.

After Paul's divorce it was even more difficult to visit his father, to witness the crushed, compacted state of his existence. He hardly moved, he never wrote or read. Paul once hunted through the apartment for a journal, a stack of letters, any evidence of an interior life, but came away empty-handed. His visits lasted for an hour or so, during which he and his father would sit together and watch television, whatever came on, and then Paul would leave, a little queasy. Without his wife he came to understand, in a way he hadn't before, that a person's life is comprised of and defined by the relationships he has – that a self-sustained existence, however worthy and pure that idea might once have sounded, is a fraudulent one. That sort of life is for monks and saints, not actual human beings.

During their last conversation, in the hospital before he slipped into the coma, Frank said nothing of regret, of final wishes, of love or fear or loss. He only made sure that Paul had called the private nurse he'd hired and told her not to show up that week at the apartment.

And now, his father unconscious, Paul continues to come, a few days a week, because there isn't anyone else who will. It does not feel voluntary. It is the kind of thing one does because it is, as they say, a good idea.

A shape sweeps in and out of the room. The nurse. Perhaps she believes she's come at a bad moment. Paul stands to go, but, as he makes his first steps toward the door, a swell of nausea upends him. He tries to ignore it, he'll feel better once he's outside, away from this place. But he staggers and has to brace himself against a chair. The onrush of illness and lightheadedness brings a thick, ponderous sensation into his limbs, a headache brutalizing the middle regions of his brain, sudden thirst burning on his tongue like frost. He sits. The room seems almost to tilt. Control leaves him: he closes his eyes, unbuckles himself from consciousness, and lets his head fall lightly upon the foot of his father's bed.

Later, when the nurse wakes him, he asks how much time has gone by. She isn't sure. Outside, the afternoon light is fading, the sky the color of oyster shell; it has been perhaps half an hour. The nurse asks if he often goes to sleep like this in the middle of the day. Feeling unsteady, he answers that this isn't the first time it has happened recently. She asks if he has headaches; he nods. Can he walk? At this he stands and follows her out of the room.

Though the nausea and pain abate, Paul doesn't feel restored to health. He trails the nurse to a different room, where she leaves him; he doesn't know how long he waits before a doctor comes. Although he and Paul are about the same age, the doctor's tone and bearing immediately establish him as the elder: his questions are brisk, exact, professional. Eventually he asks Paul if he's hit his head in the last few days.

He nods. 'Sunday.'

'How did it happen?'

'A fall. On some ice.' Paul touches the fading mark on his neck. 'Right on the pavement.'

'Did you lose consciousness?'

'Maybe a little. Briefly.'

The doctor makes a note. 'Sounds like a concussion. It's not too serious, but these multiple episodes of fainting suggest post-concussion syndrome. You seem pretty lucid, so I'm not worried about bleeding. Aspirin will take care of the pain. The drowsiness should go away. If it doesn't, you need to call someone.'

Paul thanks him.

'You're still a little light on your feet. I'd feel better, Mr Metzger, if someone came to escort you home and get you into bed. Is there anyone?'

He thinks for a minute, then borrows a pen and dashes off a phone number. Handing it to the doctor, he says: 'Him.'

'I wasn't sure you'd come,' says Paul when they're free of the hospital. Ben makes no reply and merely nods in the direction of his car. He needn't; it is at once apparent which is his, the black Mercedes-Benz parked two blocks away, whose conspicuous expense and insistent glamour cruelly distinguish it from nearby vehicles. Ben seems not to register this aesthetic glitch. Instead, as they cross the street, he glances at Paul, as if trying to puzzle out on his own what happened. At the car he quickly unlocks the doors, slides in, and starts the engine. Paul supports himself against the passenger door and presses his forehead against the roof. The metal is punishingly cold and shoots straight through him, all the way down to his feet. He breathes deeply and hopes not to faint. Ben gets out.

'I'm just a little dizzy,' says Paul. 'Give me a minute.'

He anticipates an impatient reply from Ben, who must have left in the middle of work, but his brother says nothing. Around them everything is calm, benign, un interested. Paul starts to feel better, more stable. He looks at his brother. Ben is dressed casually – Paul always pictures a suit – and leans against the door, both elbows resting on the roof: his arms reach across the car, hands half open. These hands, filled with such power, are normally implements of threat, coercion, resistance. At the moment they project a milder kind of strength, an offer of protection. But Paul is still lightheaded and unable to evaluate his brother's appearance; he gave the doctor his number almost in a spirit of self-deprecation.

'Do you need to go back in there?' Ben jerks his head toward the hospital.

'No,' says Paul as he opens the door.

They have some trouble on the way to Paul's apartment, since Ben doesn't know the streets of Brooklyn and Paul isn't used to navigating the city in a car. In the end they have to drive south on Flatbush Avenue, whose long diagonal comprises an extended essay on the borough: bodegas, housing projects, storefront dentists, ethnic hair salons, check cashiers, liquor stores, real estate agencies, discount supermarkets, unused lots, auto body shops, gnarled construction fencing, junkyards. The hellish chaos of traffic at Atlantic Avenue. Walls and windows that over decades have accumulated a dense webbing of spray paint, an intricate knitting of stylized symbols and codes, warnings and boasts.

The presence of his brother makes Paul unusually alert to his surroundings. This is an exotic journey for Ben, who despite his temerity remains a man of caste, and who from day to day doesn't stray from the two poles of his life, home and office. Brooklyn is far-flung territory. Paul knows this not because he asks – they don't speak for the duration of the trip – but because he observes the small, almost surreptitious glances Ben makes out the window, the lines of his forehead traced with something softer than disapproval, a curiosity about what this place is, about where his half-brother has made a life.

Ben relaxes slightly as they drive down the west side of Prospect Park: the blocks of princely brownstones represent a palatable concept of Brooklyn. Ben, whose early impressions of Greenpoint must surely have the faint, benign color of childhood memory, has lived in the city now for decades of his adult life, even longer than Paul, beginning at a time when much of Brooklyn was considered uninhabitable, when even parts of Manhattan were still dangerous. He drives slowly through the roundabout, as if unconvinced of Paul's directions. They make the turn onto his street, empty at this hour. The winter sun is at the end of its dive; the waterline of its shadow has immersed all but the top floors of the west-facing buildings. Ben stops the car.

'This is the place? It's not bad, Paul.'

Paul looks at his brother, who seems sincere. 'Thanks,' he says. 'And for coming to get me. I really hate to make you leave work.'

Ben's face has a hesitant, almost an addled look. 'It was a slow day.'

'How has it – I mean, are you okay?'

'I will be.' Ben pauses. 'It isn't as black and white as the papers like to make it. Parts of their case are shit.'

Paul scratches his throat. It is nearly dusk. 'I should let you go.' When Ben opens his door, he adds: 'You really don't have to come up. I feel fine now.'

'I'm already here.'

He feels an acute reluctance to allow his brother to see his apartment. His head is light, no longer from his condition but from the natural exhaustion at the end of a long day, a long series of days; he craves his own bed, the privacy and certainty there. Yet there's more than fatigue in his unease. It's the problem of gratitude. He's already unsure how to thank Ben for helping him and it would be easier if he left right now, if he hadn't found a willingness – all of a sudden – to play the part of the protective older brother.

At the door, Paul fumbles for his keys, then notices an approaching figure. The man stops and stands at a distance that leaves no doubt of his belligerence. Terence strikes a pose of insolence, vanity, arrogance. Nothing covers the head of trimmed blond hair, a horizon of near-white, a clean incision in the failing light; the hood of a sweatshirt hangs sullenly behind it. His hands are buried deep in his pockets. When he removes one, it has something in its grip; Paul flinches. But Terence has produced only a pack of cigarettes, which he holds outward, as if showing a card. With cool, wiry theater he shakes one free and lights it. The friend from the other night is missing. No one speaks, but Terence stands just within range of the body's intuitive sonar, close enough to play havoc on the animal nerves. Ben obviously feels it too.

Terence can do nothing here, outnumbered and in the open, and he seems to be waiting for someone else to speak. Paul takes a single step in his direction. 'Look,' he begins, in a level tone and, he believes, a sensible one, the much-needed voice of reason. 'Things got out of hand the other night. But I haven't gone to the police. I didn't know that boy and couldn't find him even if I wanted to. I think it would be better if we all just forgot about this.' He can feel Ben behind him, listening to his words, sifting them for an explanation, a narrative; he doesn't speak.

Neither does Terence. He stands, sucking at the cigarette, his posture a little bent now, almost sulking, and were it not for his eyes he wouldn't be especially impressive. His eyes, as dark as chocolate, are the source of his intensity. He aims them directly at Paul.

'I don't know what you want.'

'You talk too much,' says Terence.

Ben has heard all he needs to. He steps forward, so that he stands alongside Paul, who can feel the gravity of his presence, the comfort of it. He speaks crisply. 'I don't know who you are, but you have to go now.' Terence slides his gaze from Paul to Ben. Eyes lock. He takes another drag on the cigarette and wrinkles his nose, a gesture of both disgust and indifference. Ben cascades rapidly into the script, the formal composition, of masculine aggression: 'I said move along.' It is immediately clear that he has an ease in this realm, with the tempo of hostility, that Paul doesn't. He can't help but wonder how Ben, who takes a further step in Terence's direction, would have handled the situation two nights ago. Terence responds with a few paces toward Ben, but hobbles slightly, favoring his right leg. He doesn't speak. Paul senses the rising frustration in his brother, who is accustomed to obedience, especially from someone of Terence's age. Perhaps three feet now separate them; Ben is the larger man. The lit cigarette, pinched between thumb and index finger like a dart, flashes as Terence inhales. His eyes move in sharp flits between the brothers.

'Look at me,' says Ben. 'Not him. I'm the one talking to you now.'

Paul wants to stop his brother, both concerned for his safety and embarrassed at having unwittingly embroiled him in this situation. Ben takes another step. His right hand opens and closes with unspent tension. The space between the two men has become perilously tight.

'I got to see your friend a minute,' says Terence, speaking at last.

'Tell me why.'

'Me and him got some business. Ask him. He knows.'

'I doubt that.'

Terence cocks his head as if to ponder Ben. Then, in a quick, oily motion, as if on a hinge, his arm swings upward, and he looks ready to plant the cigarette's burning root in Ben's face. Paul's innards turn hot and sludgy. But Terence just takes a final drag before killing it on the sidewalk.