Kyra Read online

  Andreas looked up. He had come to the part about the question, the part he had been waiting for. In the final act, Melisande is dying in childbirth. Golaud besieges her, he has to know about Pelleas: was theirs a guilty love? Leave her alone, the blind old king, Arkel, says. Leave her alone, she is dying.

  Tears ran down Andreas’s face as he read. And then he stood up and closed the book.

  Anna said that on the night of the fight, when she was sitting with Abe at the kitchen table, Andreas suddenly stormed back into the room and picked up the phone. He was calling British Airways to make his reservation. She tried to say something, but he cut her off. “It’s better if you stay out of this,” he said.

  Later, Anna and I picked over the entrails, the endless argument, the tired explanations. What was the name for what he had done? We went over and over the metaphysics of relationship, but underneath all the words, all the names, there was a sickening feeling that in the end it didn’t matter, because the physics, the reality, was clear. He had left. He hadn’t told me first, himself.

  “He’s in love with you,” Anna said.

  I didn’t believe it. I wanted to believe it. Maybe it was true, because, after all, he had to go, it was like keeping a promise, he had said. That wasn’t the point. He said that he had tried to tell me, there was no realistic alternative on the horizon. Peter had not been able to raise the money, the plans for Boston had fallen through. Words, it was just words.

  Anna and I were walking down Mass. Avenue. Nashawena had become unbearable, and I thought it would help to leave for a few days. Now I had to go back. The builders had questions. They were waiting for me to return.

  Without speaking, we headed for Au Bon Pain, a place both of us hated. But at least we could sit. The conversation was dizzying. “Come,” Anna said, her face creased in concern, “let’s sit here. What do you want to have?”

  “What are you going to have?” I asked, distracted before I even finished saying the words. What do you want, what do you want to have, what do you think, how are you feeling? I felt numb. That was a solution: I would become numb. I had read that people in shock often go numb. I would will myself to have no feelings. Put them away, in cold storage. I shivered.

  Anna returned carrying a red tray with two cups and two croissants. Orange juice and spinach and feta?

  She waited. “That’s fine,” I said. “Thank you. That’s really fine.”

  “Do you understand what I am saying?”

  I wasn’t sure.

  “I don’t think he has left you, he has just left. I think his feelings for you are real.”

  Real, reel, reeling. I was reeling. Here, with you. But not. The hard knot of reality. Not here. Literal-minded. I worked with concrete, with the concrete. It was my nature. That’s why I’m an architect. We had lived together as husband and wife. I thought that meant. But then he said. Was he a guest, short stay-over, small romance, bittersweet, orange berries in the fall. The fall, after the fall is the winter. Traitor. That sharpened things, brought them into focus. I picked up the croissant and took a bite. It was slightly overdone. The ends where they circled around were charred. I decided not to care. A beginning. I bit through to the spinach and feta. It was hot. And surprisingly good.

  4

  I STAYED ON NASHAWENA WITH ANNA, THE ISLAND QUIET IN LATE fall. Greens and blues had given way to browns and reds. I discovered a bog of cranberries on the far side of the marsh. Construction was winding down. The first phase of the project was completed. The structure of the weave was becoming clear, warp and weft accommodating a range of surfaces and functions, open spaces and enclosed. The enclosures on the south side had a lived-in look, a warmth enhanced by the low, horizontal sun. The second phase would start in the spring. Some of the infrastructure was already in. Practical problems beckoned. For the island settlement to inspire a different way of inhabiting spaces, this was only the beginning. The permeable boundaries, the mesh of materials, and the porosity of sight and light and space, were designed to encourage an interweaving of activities, changing conventions of public and private, art and industry, shifting categories as well as boundaries. Some artists had come at the end of the summer. The fishing community would be moving in. The experiment was under way.

  The letter came in late September. At the end, Andreas had said he would write. Emmanuel Santos brought the mail from the post office in Cuttyhunk, and he must have noticed the long white envelope with Hungarian stamps, because he hovered after handing me the assortment of letters and bills. “Is everything okay?” he asked. He was the caretaker, a person who takes care.

  I took the thin envelope to my room and closed the door. I stood for a moment, my pulse speeding up, a feeling of trepidation. What would he say? I settled myself on my bed, bracing myself with the pillows. A single sheet of paper, typewritten on both sides. Breathe, I told myself, but in the end it didn’t help.

  Kyra, kyra, kyra, kyra,

  I never knew before how much your name is music until I have been saying it over and over all through this time, and it means opening, the beginning of the mass: Lord have mercy. Which is what I would ask for if I could still believe in a merciful God.

  It has been almost an hour since the first paragraph. I have been sitting here listening to Brahms, the sextet you liked, seeing your face, looking at the things in the apartment which are touched with you, the books you read, music we listened to, seeing you not just here but everywhere, your laughing face turning suddenly to me while we’re walking along the beach, the back of your head on the boat, your hair catching the sunlight, the particular grace of your step hurrying down the path to meet me. Yes, well…

  I have found this last month how strongly true it is that a drifting relationship between us is impossible. We have both said it countless times, and it is inescapably true. I am not even remotely tempted toward it. All my fantasies and considerations and concerns are centered around the question of a marriage. And in my current state, marriage seems very distant and unreal.

  In one of the awful conversations, I said something about parting from each other and the possibility of a re-meeting, and you said there can be no re-meeting, that we have a relationship and that we will always meet in the context of it. I’m not saying any of this well but please allow for frenzy and piece out my imperfections in your mind. I have been trying to think about that and what I meant. I think what I meant was the possibility of meeting in the context of the same relationship but in the context of a new order in my head. I am saying all this incomprehensibly. I would tear it up and start again but it would be the same.

  Let me say what has to be said: I don’t know in what context I could see you. The drifting is impossible. I am past the point where I can accept your love on any terms other than permanently, and I am not at the point where I can accept it permanently. I must work out of this alone and in full recognition of the possibility that I may never succeed. It seems necessary to me that we not see each other. I believe that you must structure your world without me.

  I love you in more ways than I knew existed. I want your world to be full of beauty and joy. I love you with a terrible hunger, and tonight the world seems altogether unbearable. I don’t know how else to say it, Kyra, my darling, my beautiful darling love. a

  It made no sense: I love you, we cannot see each other. I read it over and over again. Still it made no sense. I love you with a terrible hunger, you must structure your world without me. A wave of vertigo, the world upended. I lost my bearings. I tore the letter into pieces, but by then I knew it by heart.

  I stayed away from Felicia and Peter. I think they stayed away from me. When my period came in October, the stain of blood seemed irrevocable. It’s over. Finished. Simon’s spirit returned. I wrote the paper for the journal, did the reading lists for my spring courses.

  The young fishermen from New Bedford had formed a collective. They were developing a more ecologically sustainable relationship with the sea. Richard Livingston had met w
ith them to discuss the move to Nashawena and becoming part of the new city. He would finance the move, help find support for their fishing project. There were practical issues to consider in relocating their families, but they were young and idealistic and willing to try. Plus the support was not inconsequential.

  We wanted a mix of commerce and artists in the town, and given the island setting, the fishing industry was ideal. The Wampanoags had planned to build a scallop factory on the Vineyard but had run into opposition there. I was urging them now to consider Nashawena. For the artists there was studio space and quiet. A Montessori teacher, an idealist with exquisite materials, came with the intention of setting up a school. Integrating the caretakers, the Santos family, was eased by the fact that the fishermen were all at least part Portuguese. Emmanuel and Grace donated kale from their garden, and kale soup, along with Portuguese sweet bread, became a staple of our Sunday night meetings, with discussions continuing until everyone’s heart-mind was at ease.

  Grant, the head of the building crew, had been in the navy. He had learned to shift his weight with the roll, and I sought out his company. His daily rhythms and attentiveness to detail steadied me. “Let’s go over to Cuttyhunk to eat,” he said one day, picking up my need for distraction. “How about we get lunch at Mandy’s down by the pier?” It was the only restaurant open at this time of year, but Mandy was a great cook. We took Grant’s boat across the channel, his blind black Lab riding with us. He never asked about Andreas, I didn’t say anything. But it was obvious that he knew.

  I thought I had found my sea legs. But then on the Sunday after Thanksgiving, it snowed during the night. I realized that I had to leave.

  I took the small ferry over from Naushon the next morning, leaving our boat there and picking up the car that we kept in Woods Hole. The gray strip of road led my eye to the vanishing point. Had Columbus wanted to sail over the edge? Had he imagined the moment of falling, ships tumbling, sails billowing, he and his crew sinking slowly into an abyss? White fields bordered the gray, wet road. Black-brown trees monitored my path. At school, the monitors’ faces were solemn. Keeping other children in line, they had become old before their time. I swerved to avoid a dead skunk lying in the middle of the road, its stark black and white startling against the white-grays of snow and sky. I breathed in and let the breath out slowly, reciting to myself the things of this world. Road, skunk, trees, morning. The car smelled of wet wool. It was Monday.

  I had left a note for Anna: “I’m going to Cambridge for a faculty meeting.” It sounded innocuous but I knew it would worry her. Why? What faculty meeting? Aren’t you on leave? The university prized money and distinction. My design studio had been bracketed for the fall. It would be offered instead in the spring. Still, I was needed. The department assistant had called to say that the chairman was hoping I could come for this particular meeting. The academic dean would be attending. It was important, she said, drawing out the word.

  I drove across the Bourne Bridge, passing the sign of the Samaritans offering help to souls tempted by a watery death. The canal sliced through the land. See what men can do. The snow deepened on the other side of the bridge, and the woods became denser, inviting. The road kept receding and reappearing. If I drove straight on, I would arrive in time to get coffee. The meeting would be an oasis of boredom.

  Ian sat at the head of the table. He was chair of the urban design department, a ceremonial position that suited his sense of formality. Like a tribal chieftain, he kept a distance, measured in inches as if he had swallowed a ruler. If you stepped one inch too close, he would move back. I tried it, fascinated by his precision.

  Once he had told me a story about the Yoruba. We had been in the midst of a departmental crisis at the time, having hired someone whom no one could stand, who had been chosen to keep someone else out, who had slithered in past all procedures. He had promised to give, but instead he took: money, everyone’s patience and time. We had been crossing our fingers, hoping Northwestern would choose this man as dean. Recommendations were written, praising him highly. Phone calls were returned. We held our breath. Ian had said that when the Yoruba want to get rid of their king, they bring him a bowl of parrot eggs. Once the king receives the gift of the parrot eggs, he knows he is dead.

  The meeting was under way when I arrived. A streak of color in the room because Nancy had come, wearing a red suit. She was the new academic dean, responsible for overseeing the curriculum. She was known for her efforts to enhance the work of the faculty with an eye to improving the quality of instruction. When I entered, everyone looked up. Ian caught my eye, signaling welcome. I sat down to his right, in the empty chair. He moved over an inch.

  Doug was presenting the new curriculum, his red hair framing his fish-white face. He had taken the lead in designing the department’s new program. He was going to be the next chair. Erik sat next to Doug, Craig at the corner. The infield was ready. No one was out. Yet.

  I turned to Nancy. Did she want to play? The room reeked of tedium. Doug droned on.

  The new curriculum did not sound new. This was going nowhere. I caught Nancy’s eye.

  She glanced back, her short dark hair elegantly cut. I pushed my hair away from my face. Maybe it was time to cut my hair. Widow in mourning. I brushed away the thought.

  “Just a minute,” Nancy said. “I thought you guys had gotten the grant from our difficult donor by promising to integrate culture in an integral way.” Clumsy, but to the point.

  “Before beginning a new program, we have to figure out first how we will evaluate it,” Craig said. He was the doyen of research, a master of statistics. Evaluation his game. Evaluate what?

  I looked at him. Two could play.

  “I realize I’ve been away, but I don’t understand what you’ve said. I agree with Nancy. This doesn’t seem new.” My voice was guarded, steady, one word after another leading me into the discussion. Ariadne entering the maze.

  Ian was dozing, the dormouse at the tea party. In the face of conflict, he could be counted on to fall asleep.

  “I’m serious, you guys,” Nancy said, her red suit asserting her deanship. “The entire faculty voted on the revision. There was a consensus that we needed to broaden our offerings. I was counting on you to take the lead.” She scanned the room. It was like school. It was school. Everyone looked down. “You have the strength here to do it,” she continued, meaning all of us. I looked around, unconvinced.

  I brushed a white speck off the sleeve of my black sweater.

  “With the experience you have in cross-cultural design,” she said, looking at me, “you can lead the way in including the architecture of non-Western peoples as more than a slide show.” She meant sideshow, but had held back from implying that this was a circus. To call other cultures non-Western was problematic enough. It was like calling Christians non-Jews.

  Craig looked amused. A little action in the middle of the morning. A psychologist friend had made the observation that meetings were the academic equivalent of social life.

  Ian sank further into his chair, his head folded over his gray sweater. Doug looked at Nancy through unblinking eyes.

  I decided to become her ally. The girls against the boys. “It seems to me that we are only reinforcing a series of hegemonic assumptions,” I said, using the jargon, the word hegemonic having become a four-syllable way of saying bad. They stared at me.

  “I thought we had agreed,” Doug cleared his throat, “on the outlines of what seems to me an exciting new plan.” He was putting himself on the line. “We’ll begin with basic design and then add courses on the history of the city with examples illustrating how different cultures have approached the idea of the city or designed their villages, like you have done, Kyra, with the Akha.” He looked pleased.

  It sounded good. It’s just that it wasn’t true. What he meant was that I would teach a seminar on the Akha, and they would include a week at the end of the term on “different” cultures. It was like having the one woman in a
department teach a course on women and changing man to human in the rest. The city, which was after all our subject, was itself part of Western culture.

  As children, we had played a game: rock, paper, scissors. This was a variation: hut, village, city.

  Ian woke up. “Our goal is to integrate a cross-cultural perspective into the basic principles of design.”

  Doug nodded. “What we have worked on so hard last spring and this fall is to put together this program. Now we need to go ahead and teach it and evaluate whether or not it achieves our goal. Erik suggested that we use students’ portfolios for the evaluation. We can involve the students in this process, which would also be instructive.” It was as if I had never spoken.

  “There is something called the repetition compulsion,” I said.

  “As in all roads lead to…I may be missing something, I’ve been away, but this seems to me like window dressing or what some would call political correctness. The basic assumptions about urban design remain unchallenged. The focus on evaluation is a diversion, which is not to say that the students shouldn’t be involved or look at their portfolios with culture in mind. It’s like the reference to the Akha. It sounds exotic, respectful, but do you have any idea what it means to enter the Akha way of seeing the world?” I stopped. “You would have to experience it before you could teach it.”