New York Echoes (22 page)

He continued at his
observation post for the next few days, slightly embarrassed by this sudden
obsession. Then he saw her, the woman he had seen a few days ago. He
contemplated her for a moment. Was she or wasn't she? Her identity was too
vague for certainty. She moved swiftly through the oncoming crowds walking
uptown from the direction of Columbus Circle.

Watching her coming in
his direction, he saw enough old markers to spark his interest. Or was it his
imagination playing memory tricks? The shiny, black, curly hair showed now as
gray and the alabaster skin had lost its porcelain sheen. The narrow face had
widened and softened. She wore a longish dark skirt and a beige shirtwaist and
her heels were medium on plain black shoes. Yet her profile had the outline of
familiarity.

When she moved within
a few feet of him, he felt his pulse quicken and beads of sweat roll down his
sides. He got up from the table and moved behind her, keeping an appropriate
distance, still unsure and unwilling to approach her directly.

He continued to follow
her. She moved uptown for a few blocks, then crossed 79th Street, moving toward
West End Avenue. She continued in the direction of the river where she
entered a large apartment house on Riverside Drive. After a brief interval, he
entered the lobby. The building, long past its glory days, had a doorman and a
desk in the lobby. There appeared to be no posted list of tenants.

“May I help you?” the
man behind the desk asked.

James hesitated, then
blundered the only name that surfaced in his mind.

“Vasis.”

The man behind the
desk looked at him, perplexed.

“Nobody here by that
name. You must have the wrong place.”

He feigned confusion,
nodded apologetically, then moved out of the building. He felt foolish. Vasis
would be her maiden name. Surely, she would have married.

It was somewhat of a
victory, he decided. He did, after all, find out where she lived. Wasn't that
progress? To what end, he wasn't sure, although he did harbor a quaint idea
that she might be a widow herself with a yen to explore the memories of her
youth. Perhaps, like him, she, too, could be looking for a point of reference
to revisit her past.

Excited by the idea,
he went back to his apartment in a state of euphoria, impatient to return to
his investigation first thing in the morning. He had accomplished enough for
one day. The idea that he was close to connecting with this piece of his early
history sparked his mind to dig deeper into his past. Then the memories, like a
Polaroid, slowly began to emerge and the old feelings returned. He loved her.
They were inseparable. Then why had they broken up?

He was up early in the
morning and headed immediately to her apartment house on Riverside Drive,
posting himself on a bench that lined the strip now known as Riverside Park. It afforded a good view of the entrance to her apartment house. Expecting a
long stay, he brought with him a danish, coffee, and a copy of the
New York
Times.
There was, after all, a minimum comfort level to his investigation.

Interrupting his
reading sporadically, he would glance upward to be certain he did not miss any
activity in front of the apartment house. He felt no sense of impatience or
anxiety in the process, relishing the mission, hopeful that he had guessed
correctly, although he hadn't yet come to any conclusions about the icebreaking
introduction.

About two hours into
his surveillance he spotted her. She moved with her usual alacrity eastward,
away from the river and into the more crowded areas of Columbus Avenue. Again,
he followed her at a safe distance as she crossed Columbus Avenue, moved to
Broadway, turned south, and headed in the direction of Columbus Circle.

By then, James had
determined that her carriage and gait were indeed similar to his memory of Vera
Vasis but he couldn't make it to certainty. Keeping up with her at a distance,
he followed her into the Hearst Building on Seventh Avenue where, gathering
courage, he followed her into the elevator. Naturally, he avoided all eye
contact, but standing closely near her in the elevator, he was able to observe
her with greater detail, although from the rear.

Her hair, although
gray, seemed to have the same texture and curl of her memory image. She was
thin as the young Vera had been, with narrow shoulders, but an erect posture
that emphasized her height. The elevator moved slowly, stopping frequently to
discharge passengers. When the door opened on the 18th floor she got out with
three other people. In a split second decision, he intruded his hand on the
closing door and it opened again.

She was just turning
the corner of the floor when he followed, noting that she had gone into a door
marked “Production.” Well now, he thought, he now knew where she worked. He was
proud of his progress. He proceeded down the elevator and headed to the
sidewalk café where he had spent long hours searching the crowd for a glimpse
of her.

He could assume her
weekday schedule now. She would pass the café where he had posted himself about
four in the afternoon, the implication being that she worked from ten to three,
then headed back to her apartment. Pleased by these perceived revelations he
allowed himself more questions about her life. Was she living with her husband
in the Riverside Drive apartment? Did she have children?

His mind seemed to
slip back and forth between memory and contemporary deduction. There was a
sense that what his memory dredged up about their encounter years ago was a
kind of foreshadowing of what destiny had in store for him in later life. Was
she, despite the happy years with Sally, the true love of his life? James
dwelled on that idea, surprised at the romantic notions that surfaced in his
mind.

This concentration on
recalling the time when he loved Vera Vasis began to expand exponentially in
his mind. Apparently it had exercised a powerful hold on his emotions. He
remembered, above all, being jealous, not just mildly jealous, but painfully,
obsessively, perhaps insanely jealous. The recall was palpable, bringing with
it the familiar sensation of hurt. Was it a trick of memory? Had he been
tortured by the idea that Vera might be attracted to other boys? And, if so,
was it possible to feel such anxiety after five decades?

The sense of blind,
raging jealousy returned to haunt him. Then, as his memory recorded it in
retrospect, it had become so powerful that it soon dominated their
relationship. Had they argued, he accusing, she protesting? Was it all coming
back now, the fierce possessiveness of his love for her, the craziness of his
jealousy? Had arguments always ended in profusions of apologies and
pronouncements of eternal love? Had he written her passionate notes pledging himself
to her forever? 

“I cannot live without
you,” seemed a mantra in his memory. “You are my whole world.”

Perhaps the reason for
their adolescent breakup had been his smothering attention. Words returned. He
imagined . . . or did he really remember long, tearful confrontations as they
sat on the darkened stairs of her parents' apartment building.

“I can't live like
this anymore. I can't. You're making me crazy,” her teenage voice hurtled
through the mists of time.

“I love you. I can't
help myself.”

“And I love you, too.
But your jealousy is killing me.”

He might have cajoled.
She must have pleaded, but again and again he apparently could not control
himself and finally, in a monumental scene that seemed to go on until dawn, she
told him she did not want to be his girlfriend anymore.

The rejection most
certainly must have been a challenge to his pride and his manhood. It cut deep,
a Greek thing. Nor did it end there. He must have spied on her, followed her
doggedly, like now.

Anger and jealousy
consumed him, he supposed. Surely, he been too worked up to sleep, had become
listless and depressed. Did he become morose and unfocused as well? There had
to be a denouement to all this angst and pain, and that was the part that came
back to him with fury, like a dam breaking.

One night he had
followed her. She was with her new boyfriend. He saw them enter her parents'
apartment building. Pacing the street, inflamed with jealousy, consumed with
anger, he tried, unsuccessfully, to repress his rage.

Soundlessly, he slipped
into the entrance and padded up to the landing that had been their old trysting
place. He had no idea what he intended. Then he saw them. He remembered with
horror how his gut had congealed at the sight. He had blinked his eyes, hoping
the image would disappear. It didn't. Vera Vasis was pinioned against the wall
of the landing, spread eagled, as her new boyfriend pumped away inside of her.

They were too absorbed
in what they were doing and didn't see him approach until it was too late. He
lashed out with his fists, striking the boy in the back of his neck. The boy
crumpled to the floor and James kicked him in the ribs with all the strength he
could muster. Vera looked at him in horror. Their eyes locked. She did not
scream, said nothing, and dropped to the floor beside the boy who writhed in
pain. He too did not cry out, perhaps fearing discovery.

For a moment, he
watched them, felt no remorse, not then. Had he felt victorious? Manly? He
would never know. Both the boy and Vera stayed out of school for a week or so,
and when they returned not a word was spoken between them ever again. It was as
if the incident had never happened.

So he had tucked this
away in memory all those years, isolating it, fencing it off, never recalling
it until this moment. After a brief flurry of remembered fury, he calmed. Then
it was gone. High school ended and he went on to other entanglements, but never
with the angst and passion of his experience with Vera Vasis.

He began to follow the
woman with some regularity, starting early, routinely placing himself on the
bench on Riverside Drive. She was always punctual and would move swiftly along
the streets until reaching her destination at the Hearst Building. As he
followed her, he studied her gait, her posture, her bearing, but always
postponing the confrontation, telling himself that he required one more review,
one more look, one more assurance.

He speculated, given
that the Greek immigrant milieu of his youth was centered on ethnicity, that
she might have married a Greek boy. To this end, he perused a cross-indexed
directory found in the New York Public Library. At the address of the apartment
building, he found only one Greek name, Nevius. Back in his apartment, after an
agonizing debate with himself, he called the number. A woman's voice responded,
but he had not found the courage to engage her. Had the voice sounded like Vera
Vasis? He could not be certain. Even voices aged, he supposed.

But when he called the
production house the next day asking for Mrs. Nevius, they had no knowledge of
her. Thinking quickly he asked for Ms. Vasis. Women often used their maiden
name in the workplace. Neither name rang a bell to the receptionist who
answered.

Day after day, he
followed the woman, always on the verge of confrontation but never quite
finding the courage to accost her. He wasn't certain what he feared more,
disappointment or positive identification. His life took on a routine. He
watched, waited and followed, never losing patience. It had become an
occupation.

On weekends, he sat on
the bench in Riverside Park, across from her apartment. When she emerged, he
followed. After a month had passed, James's life became totally dominated by
this search for the truth of her identity. It took on a mythical aspect. Was he
waiting for some sign? He no longer took long walks, except to follow the
woman, and he eschewed lectures, movies, or those other amusements that had
taken up his time when he had first come back to New York. Nor did he visit his
children and grandchildren on the weekends. Usually he called, making some
excuse or other, discovering in their tone that they seemed relieved.

He told himself that
he needed to overcome his reluctance and eliminate his nagging fear of either a
negative or unwelcoming reaction. His waking thoughts had become a mental
search for a precise recall of the events of his relationship with Vera Vasis
more than a half century ago.

When he was not in
conscious recall mode, he dreamed these events, the reality of it so
compelling, that even in that state, he felt he was “there.” Every sense was
tuned in. He had gone back in time. There was something miraculous in it.
Perhaps, he realized, he did not confront her because he did not want the
curtain to go down in what had become the movie in his mind.

One morning, he was
sitting at his usual post on what had become “his” park bench in Riverside Park. When he saw her emerge from her building, he rose as usual and prepared to
follow. Suddenly, two men rushed out of a car, grabbed him under each arm, and
roughly pushed him back to the bench.

“Where are you going,
buddy?” one of the men said flashing a badge. He was beefy and bald, his voice
rough.

“Going?” James
replied, baffled by the question.

“Yeah where?” the
other man said. He was younger, his hair slicked back. He took something out of
his pocket and began to read. “You have the right . . .” it began, droning on.
But James wasn't listening.

“I don't understand,”
James said.

“We're taking you in,”
the beefy man croaked, lifting him roughly from the bench and beginning to drag
him forward in the direction of a waiting car.

“Where?” James asked.

“You'll see,” the
other man said.

“Are you arresting
me?” James said, dumbfounded. He had never been arrested in his life.