Fare Forward (12 page)

"You know the New York police. They're the best. Take this stuff really serious. But they found nothin'. So you girls are good to go."

E
MILY THROWS OPEN the car door, grabs my arm, and pulls me out. Our eyes meet as she nods to me in encouragement. "No fear, Gabriella." She speaks my grandmother's words.

"Right."

"This night is about celebrating. Achievement, promise, and science. The accomplishments of the leaders blazing the trail."

"And my grandfather—"

"It's going to be a great night."

We make our way to the front of the line as Emily forces her way through the crowd to the VIP entrance. I can see the back of my grandfather's head in the distance, accompanied by the president of Columbia University and several other dignitaries from the city of New York.

"I see him, Gabriella. Come on!" Emily shouts as she points her finger above the heads of everyone in front of us.

He is surrounded by his personal assistants. The current lucky few graduate students whom he selected from the thousands who had applied to work with him. I am overwhelmed by the flashing lights of the press, the crush of people, and the massive tent we are entering where the reception and ceremony will be held. I try to concentrate and follow behind Emily's steady, confident lead, but my thoughts are everywhere, pulling my emotions along in their wild tow. They rush back to the night in Paris four years earlier and to the recent conversation with my grandfather about his safety.

I force myself to think about something good, wonderful—and especially to earlier in the day: Benjamin and our indescribable connection. The powerful energy I felt in the cathedral with him.

I can see him, the beauty of his face in the dim light of the nave, the music he played, the shape of his shoulders, and the way he said my name. I think of the strange recognition I had felt when his arm grazed mine and the unexplained power he seemed to have over me. I wanted him to move closer as I watched him exhale. I had looked at his mouth and imagined it on me, his hands, his face, his skin next to mine. "I am a student of your grandfather's work," he had said. Well, these days, who wasn't.

"Gabriella!" Emily pulls me in. "Are you okay, honey?"

She links her arms through mine and with the determination of an athlete completing the last leg of a race, guides us past the crush of curious onlookers, protesters, and photographers. We enter the giant white tent on the lawn outside of the museum. Its peaks point into the illuminated sky and enclose fountains, gardens, and cobblestone areas to create an otherworldly venue.

"Wow."

"Amazing isn't it?"

We both stand and take in the scene. This community of scientists seem slightly uncomfortable in their formal attire. Dressing up, moving in a world of flashing lightbulbs, if only for a night.

I look up at the glowing cube, the glass and steel architecture of the Rose Center for Earth and Space, and think this a fitting backdrop for the science awards. The event planners had brought in an array of LED lights and lasers, picking up the theme of space and planets that were rotating on a regular basis, illuminating the partygoers and attendees.

"This place is perfect for tonight," I say to no one in particular.

It's as if the venue had been chosen specifically to honor a man whose theoretical work was about the universe. The strength and power of possibility proudly reflected in the architecture of the place. I had spent countless hours as a child in the Hayden Planetarium's four-hundred-seat Space Theater, one of the world's largest virtual reality simulators, staring up at the map of billions of stars and galaxies. I could remember, when I was a little girl, the sound my shoes made on the polished floors, the faint echo as I ran from the different displays, looking for something. Clues. Answers.

"Come on, we're almost there." Emily looks quickly at me as she follows the usher who leads us to our table at the front of the room.

I can feel the many eyes on us as we hurry to the table. I recognize the burning sensation in the pit of my stomach, reminding me that I have not eaten all day and credit my dizzy and lightheaded sensation to this fact. We manage to arrive at our seats just as the lights are dimming. Our table has place cards that show me seated next to my grandfather and Emily, a few chairs down. She winks happily at me conveying her pleasure at sitting next to the two mysterious young men on either side of her.

"Brains," she mouths as she points her index finger to her own temple.

The master of ceremonies clears his throat at the podium. The lights dim.

"I would like to welcome all of you to the National Medal of Science Awards. Tonight is testimony to the creativity and vision of men and women who are not willing to simply accept the status quo. They won't rest until they have found answers to the questions that have been asked since the beginning of time. Their fearless voyage into the unknown is an attempt to ask the deepest questions that face mankind."

The silence of the room is filled by the counterpoint of the descriptions of mind-boggling achievements. There is a palpable energy to this world, driven by the force of possibility. The full glass of red wine that I clutch is helping to calm my nerves and the rocky condition of my empty stomach, as well as my keen awareness of the many eyes that are on our table and the whispering about my grandfather.

"I guess I'm next." He must have noticed that my eyes were down and lifts my chin so he can look at me.

"Yes, Papa, of course."

I want to be happy, to stay in the present and enjoy the moment, but I'm trying to push away the familiar feeling. The room starts to spin slowly and the voices from the podium seem to be deepening, slowing down.

"Are you all right?" Across the table I see Emily's concerned gaze locked on me as she mouths the question.

"And finally, I would like to present our guest of honor, Dr. Sydney Vogel!"

My grandfather pushes back his chair to thundering applause, and I force myself to stand and help him navigate to the podium. The words of praise continue as does the standing ovation.

"Dr. Vogel is being honored tonight for his groundbreaking work in theoretical physics. Finding proof for the theories he has held for so many years, he has said that he will show the world the unfathomable. Make known the un-knowable. And we have no doubt that he will."

I try to concentrate on what is being said but I have the familiar and distinct feeling that I recognize. It's unmistakeable. I need to pull myself out of the dark zone and back into the present. I see my grandfather at the podium speaking, pointing his finger in the air, then smiling and pausing as everyone claps in response to what he is saying.

"So." His powerful voice has in it the seriousness with which he speaks about his research, practiced over the many years filled with valuing achievement and hard work, facing his many critics. "People have always assumed that just because we cannot see something it isn't there. We are now on the verge of proving the physics of the impossible and understanding the mind of God."

The room breaks into deafening applause as he is presented with the National Medal of Science for his expanded model of the Big Bang theory. But we all know what it really means.

He is going to prove that our universe is not alone, that other worlds exist connecting to ours through the wormholes that Einstein had first suggested.

"You only fear what you do not understand, what you cannot see. Soon we will show you—the proof!"

I am glad to have escaped the sensations I felt while he was speaking. I look across the table at Emily and see the pride, admiration, and respect on hers and everyone's faces as they stand to honor my grandfather. He looks so small standing on the podium. But, there is something else, something new in his eyes. It's a certain resolve. As if it no longer matters to him what others think. That what matters now is what he knows in his heart to be true.

What he has always known.

A cool breeze blows into the massive white tent; it circles me and stirs up the hem of my dress, pulls the hair across my face, and conceals my eyes momentarily. As I turn my head, I recognize a familiar face across the room, staring intently at me. It's the face that I could not get out of my mind. I blink and try to look out across the darkness, but when I attempt to find him again, he is gone.

"And so," my grandfather says, "I want each of you to remember that there is much light in the darkness of this world. Thank you so much for recognizing my team with this award. None of this is the work of one person. I cannot take credit without recognizing my peers and key collaborators."

He proudly names each of his research associates and assistants of the last few years. All at once, I know why I have felt the familiar sensation, the signs of my premonition. The last name he says, clearly and carefully, is Benjamin Landsman.

I
T WAS TIME for my life to begin.

You've saved others,
the voice inside of me whispered.
It's time, to save yourself.

Being in New York felt like standing in a doorway, a threshold to a turbulent sea of energy and strength, a blended collection of human qualities—wisdom and ignorance, suffering and joy. Architecture school was everything: an attempt at victory of the spirit over the forces of gravity and greed and an opportunity to lose myself in the limitless potential of the city. Escape the ghosts of my past.

Several weeks earlier, the architecture critic had stood in front of the room. She seemed much younger than I expected given her accomplishments and dense resume. A look of sympathy was subtly evident on her face.

She read the vague program of the first assignment out loud to the eager students. "You will face the challenge of developing a poetic sensibility in the translation of your ideas into architectural composition. This time of investigation is meant to be a bridge between the realities of real-world construction, and the limitless opportunity of your own imaginations."

My heart had accelerated in response to her words. The challenge of translating abstract ideas into something that could be
built
—out of bricks and mortar, steel and stone excited me. We were chained to our desks by the magnetic draw of the work and our passionate commitment to the search for meaning and knowledge. I observed with curiosity that the pursuit of physical pleasure and sexual experimentation was often used as an antidote to the emotional stress of the studio by some of my classmates. I had chosen not to partake in the potential opportunities, but maybe it was time for change.

Try something new.

My grandfather had prepared me for everything he knew lay ahead; the challenge of the curriculum and the power of my own questioning. He had his ways of encouraging me.

"Proof." I had looked down at his finger as he pointed to the yellowed page in the autobiography of the architect Louis Kahn, several weeks before I left for New York.

"Everything must begin with poetry and end as art." He read the words then stopped and looked right into my eyes. "You see, Gabriella, this is what you are doing."

I had leaned against his desk, squinting in the faint light of his library as I attempted to read the small print above his finger.

"You are looking for meaning, searching for answers. Creating architecture that expresses the spirit of this time. It is a worthy effort, Gabriella," he had said in encouragement.

"I'm not sure where this is all going, but maybe I can find something." I hesitated. "It's how I can understand myself, by creating things."

Architecture, paintings,
garbage
—at least I was trying.

He nodded and hugged me, filling me with love and encouragement. Sent me out into the world with those words.

Typical of the architecture student's way, the real work gets done in the middle of the night. I have been in the studio for more than twelve hours and look around. The floor is littered with evidence of time spent: empty coffee cups and paper, fragments of the wood and cardboard used to build our models. It's the night before the first major midterm review and the studio is glowing, charged by the energy of those working late into the night. The activity inside the studio contrasts the stillness of the campus outside.

Avery Hall, the school's neoclassical home since 1912, acts as the late-night incubator of a diversity of possible futures. Its starkly defined symmetrical proportions communicate to the world a recognizable iconography, the old belief that the secret of architectural quality is known, universal, and endlessly repeatable. Yet, the chaotic studio spaces within bristle with new ideas. The future of architecture evolves while the world sleeps.

We each have a desk, laptop computer, printer, and pin-up board filled with images and photographs, quotations, schedules, and reminders. The essence of our lives reduced to this small area of space. A world unto itself that reveals so much about its occupant. The first day of school, I had quickly staked my claim on a desk in the rear of the studio, as far from the social hub of the room as possible—concealed, safe in the intimacy of the corner.

It had been hours since I had taken a break, and I was working on a particularly challenging aspect of the current assigned project. I can feel the reduced energy in the room as students leave for the night. A song called
Dreamer
plays through my headphones, the words are insulation from the distractions of the studio. I stare at the symphony of lines on the page before me and feel the space around me disappearing.

"Gabriella!" The voice is muted by the blasting percussion boring into my eardrums.

I know it's Philip. He made quite a splash on the campus when he arrived bringing his paintings, his guitar, and his attitude of sexual freedom and challenge to our space. I don't turn around to meet his eyes. Instead, my hand reaches up and smoothes the hair on the back of his neck, the familiar shape of the curve down to his shoulder. I loved the reckless abandon with which he lived his life and always hoped that somehow it would wash off on me.