Next Life Might Be Kinder (27 page)

I attended a two-thirty matinee at the Oxford Theatre on Quinpool Road. I sat in an aisle seat, second row from the back. The movie had already started: Elizabeth and I were meeting for the first time, at the Robert Frank exhibition. (There was Istvakson's research; or had I carelessly mentioned, during one of our conversations at Cyrano's Last Night, how Lizzy and I had met?)

I stayed for only a few minutes. Without belaboring this, I didn't last. I went out to the lobby. That's when I saw Dr. Nissensen, leaving by one of the glass doors. Clearly he had lasted about as long as I had. He stood out front a moment. He wrote something in a notebook and slipped it into the inside pocket of his overcoat. Then he lit a cigarette, checked his watch, and walked down the street.

When I drove back to the cottage, I found that the Victorian chaise longue had been delivered. It was in the front hallway. (I never lock my door.) An invoice was taped to its frame. I'd finally had the wherewithal to have it shipped from storage at the Essex Hotel. Mr. Isherwood had kindly seen to the arrangements. I maneuvered the chaise longue inside, rearranging the living room chairs to accommodate it. Sitting on it, I again admired Mr. Kaufner's repairs. There was scarcely evidence of a tear in the fabric, though when I got on my knees and traced my fingers over it, I felt its presence. I closed my eyes and heard Elizabeth laugh. I saw her lindy dress fall to the floor.

This life has seemed a touch kinder. I cannot say all the reasons why. Maybe because of late I'm sleeping upward of five consecutive hours a night. Cynthia says my bouillabaisse keeps improving. She makes no comment that it's the only thing I cook for them. I am able to distinguish one shorebird from another, with lapses and exceptions. It's freezing out. I'd better bundle up for the beach. Half past eleven, stars everywhere over a moonlit sea. Beautiful night, really. But I overslept my nap on the Victorian chaise longue, so I hope I'm not too late. Because I want to tell Elizabeth I've settled on a favorite sentence written by Marghanita Laski.

I am not here; touch me.

 

H
OWARD
N
ORMAN
is a winner of the Lannan Award for fiction. His novels
The Northern Lights
and
The Bird Artist
were both nominated for a National Book Award. He is also the author of the novels
The Museum Guard, The Haunting of L.,
and
What Is Left the Daughter
.