The City of Mirrors
Page 233

“Do you think that’s possible?”
She considers the question, looking out the windshield. “I think there is one. Life means something. It’s not just going to work and making dinner and taking your car to the repair shop. Wouldn’t you agree?”
They are passing through an outer neighborhood: tidy houses set far back from the road, mailboxes standing at attention at the curb, dogs barking from the yards as they drive by.
“I think most people would,” Logan says. “At least, we hope so. It can be very hard to see, though.”
She seems pleased with his answer. “So you have your way, and I have mine. Some people go to church. I write stories. You study history. They’re not really so very different.” She glances over at him, then returns her gaze to the passing world. “I have a friend who’s a novelist. He’s rather famous—maybe you’ve heard of him. The man’s a total mess, drinks a liter a day, barely bothers to change his clothes, the whole cliché of the tortured artist. I asked him once, Why do you do it if it makes you feel so awful? Because seriously, the man’s not going to make it to forty the way he lives. His books are thoroughly depressing, too.”
“What did he say?”
“ ‘Because I can’t stand not knowing.’ ”
They arrive. The door stands open in welcome; the road in front of the house is lined with cars. Parents and children of various ages are making their way up the path, the youngest ones dashing ahead, bearing the presents they cannot wait to see opened, their magical contents revealed. Logan hadn’t realized the party would be so large; who are all these people? Companions of the boys from play school, neighbors, colleagues of Race and Kaye and their families, Olla’s sisters and their husbands, a few old friends Logan recognizes but in some cases hasn’t seen for years.
Olla greets them as they enter. She is wearing a willowy dress, a large, somewhat clumsy necklace, neither shoes nor makeup. Her hair, gray since her early forties, falls unmanaged to her shoulders. Gone forever is the barrister in a polished suit and heels, replaced by a woman of simpler, more relaxed habits and tastes. She kisses Logan on both cheeks and turns to Nessa to shake hands, her eyes bright with barely concealed surprise; never did his ex-wife imagine that her dare would be accepted. Nessa goes to the kitchen to fetch drinks while Logan and Olla carry their presents to the spare room off the hall, where a huge pile of gifts rests on the bed.
“Who is she, Logan?” Olla says enthusiastically. “She’s lovely.”
“You mean young.”
“That’s entirely your business. How did you meet her?”
He tells her about the interview. “It was kind of a shot in the dark,” he admits. “I was surprised she said yes, an old codger like me.”
Olla smiles. “Well, I’m glad you asked her. And she certainly seems to like you.”
In the living room he moves among the adults, greeting those he knows, introducing himself to those he doesn’t. Nessa is nowhere to be found. Logan exits through the patio doors onto the ample, sloped lawn, which is flanked by elaborate gardens, Bettina’s handiwork. The children are madly dashing around according to some secret code of play. He spies Nessa seated with Kaye at the edge of the patio, the two of them locked in animated talk, but before he can go over, Race grips him by the arm.
“Dad, you should have told me,” he says with mischievous delight. “Holy moly.”
“Blame your mother. It was her idea, me bringing a date.”
“Well, good for her. Good for you. Boys,” he calls, “come say hello to your grandfather.”
They break away from their game and trot toward him. Logan kneels to gather their small, warm bodies in his arms.
“Did you bring us presents?” Cam asks, beaming.
“Of course I did.”
“Come play with us,” Noa begs, tugging at his hand.
Race rolls his eyes. “Boys, let your grandfather catch his breath.”
Logan glances past his grandsons and sees that Nessa has already joined the children. “What, do I look too old?” He smiles at the boys. He is full of memories of other parties, when Race was small. “What are the rules?”
“You freeze when you get tagged,” Noa explains, wide-eyed. It is as if he is announcing a discovery that will change the fate of mankind. “When everybody freezes, you win.”
“Show me the way,” he says.
The party roars forward, riding the children’s energy, which seems inexhaustible, an engine that can’t run down. Logan allows himself to be tagged as quickly as possible, though Nessa does not, dodging and weaving until, with a shriek, she succumbs. A pair of ponies arrive by trailer, swaybacked and balding, like moth-eaten clothes. They are so docile they seem drugged; the man in charge looks like he slept under a bridge. Never mind: the children are thrilled. Cam and Noa take the first rides, while the rest form a line to wait their turns.
“Having a good time?” Logan, approaching Nessa from the side, hands her a glass of wine. Her brow is damp with perspiration. Parents are snapping pictures, hoisting their children onto the backs of the mangy ponies.
“Loads,” she says with a smile.
“Fun comes so naturally to them. Children, I mean.”
Nessa sips the wine. “Your daughter-in-law is adorable. She told me about their plans.”
“You approve?”
“Approve? I think it’s marvelous. You must be thrilled for them.”