Extremely Loud & Incredibly Close (7 page)

I walked into a bakery seven years later and there he was. He had dogs at his feet and a bird in a cage beside him. The seven years were not seven years. They were not seven hundred years. Their length could not be measured in years, just as an ocean could not explain the distance we had traveled, just as the dead can never be counted. I wanted to run away from him, and I wanted to go right up next to him. I went right up next to him. Are you Thomas? I asked. He shook his head no. You are, I said. I know you are. He shook his head no. From Dresden.

He opened his right hand, which had NO tattooed on it. I remember you. I used to watch you kiss my sister. He took out a little book and wrote, I don't speak. I'm sorry. That made me cry. He wiped away my tears. But he did not admit to being who he was. He never did.

We spent the afternoon together. The whole time I wanted to touch him. I felt so deeply for this person that I had not seen in so long. Seven years before, he had been a giant, and now he seemed small. I wanted to give him the money that the agency had given me. I did not need to tell him my story, but I needed to listen to his. I wanted to protect him, which I was sure I could do, even if I could not protect myself.

I asked, Did you become a sculptor, like you dreamed? He showed me his right hand and there was silence. We had everything to say to each other, but no ways to say it. He wrote, Are you OK? I told him, My eyes are crummy. He wrote, But are you OK? I told him, That's a very complicated question. He wrote, That's a very simple answer. I asked, Are you OK?

He wrote, Some mornings I wake up feeling grateful. We talked for hours, but we just kept repeating those same things over and over.

Our cups emptied. The day emptied.

I was more alone than if I had been alone. We were about to go in different directions. We did not know how to do anything else. It's getting late, I said.

He showed me his left hand, which had YES tattooed on it. I said, I should probably go home.

He flipped back through his book and pointed at, Are you OK? I nodded yes.

I started to walk off. I was going to walk to the Hudson River and keep walking. I would carry the biggest stone I could bear and let my lungs fill with water.

But then I heard him clapping his hands behind me. I turned around and he motioned for me to come to him. I wanted to run away from him, and I wanted to go to him. I went to him.

He asked if I would pose for him. He wrote his question in German, and it wasn't until then that I realized he had been writing in English all afternoon, and that I had been speaking English. Yes, I said in German. Yes. We made arrangements for the next day. His apartment was like a zoo. There were animals everywhere. Dogs and cats. A dozen birdcages. Fish tanks. Glass boxes with snakes and lizards and insects. Mice in cages, so the cats wouldn't get them. Like Noah's ark. But he kept one corner clean and bright. He said he was saving the space. For what? For sculptures.

I wanted to know from what, or from whom, but I did not ask. He led me by the hand. We talked for half an hour about what he wanted to make. I told him I would do whatever he needed. We drank coffee.

He wrote that he had not made a sculpture in America. Why not?

I haven't been able to. Why not?

We never talked about the past. He opened the flue, although I didn't know why. Birds sang in the other room. I took off my clothes. I went onto the couch.

He stared at me. It was the first time I had ever been naked in front of a man. I wondered if he knew that.

He came over and moved my body like I was a doll. He put my hands behind my head. He bent my right leg a little. I assumed his hands were so rough from all of the sculptures he used to make. He lowered my chin. He turned my palms up. His attention filled the hole in the middle of me.

I went back the next day. And the next day. I stopped looking for a job. All that mattered was him looking at me. I was prepared to fall apart if it came to that. Each time it was the same. He would talk about what he wanted to make. I would tell him I would do whatever he needed. We would drink coffee. We would never talk about the past. He would open the flue. The birds would sing in the other room. I would undress. He would position me. He would sculpt me.

Sometimes I would think about those hundred letters laid across my bedroom floor. If I hadn't collected them, would our house have burned less brightly?

I looked at the sculpture after every session. He went to feed the animals. He let me be alone with it, although I never asked him for privacy. He understood.

After only a few sessions it became clear that he was sculpting Anna. He was trying to remake the girl he knew seven years before. He looked at me as he sculpted, but he saw her. The positioning took longer and longer. He touched more of me.

He moved me around more. He spent ten full minutes bending and unbending my knee. He closed and unclosed my hands.

I hope this doesn't embarrass you, he wrote in German in his little book.

No, I said in German. No.

He folded one of my arms. He straightened one of my arms. The next week he touched my hair for what might have been five or fifty minutes.

He wrote, I am looking for an acceptable compromise.

I wanted to know how he lived through that night.

He touched my breasts, easing them apart.

I think this will be good, he wrote.

I wanted to know what will be good. How will it be good?

He touched me all over. I can tell you these things because I am not ashamed of them, because I learned from them. And I trust you to understand me. You are the only one I trust, Oskar.

The positioning was the sculpting. He was sculpting me. He was trying to make me so he could fall in love with me.

He spread my legs. His palms pressed gently at the insides of my thighs. My thighs pressed back. His palms pressed out.

Birds were singing in the other room.

We were looking for an acceptable compromise.

The next week he held the backs of my legs, and the next week he was behind me. It was the first time I had ever made love. I wondered if he knew that. It felt like crying. I wondered, Why does anyone ever make love?

I looked at the unfinished sculpture of my sister, and the unfinished girl looked back at me.

Why does anyone ever make love?

We walked together to the bakery where we first met.

Together and separately.

We sat at a table. On the same side, facing the windows.

I did not need to know if he could love me.

I needed to know if he could need me.

I flipped to the next blank page of his little book and wrote, Please marry me.

He looked at his hands.

YES and NO.

Why does anyone ever make love?

He took his pen and wrote on the next and last page, No children.

That was our first rule.

I understand, I told him in English.

We never used German again.

The next day, your grandfather and I were married.

THE ONLY ANIMAL

I read the first chapter of
A Brief History of Time
when Dad was still alive, and I got incredibly heavy boots about how relatively insignificant life is, and how, compared to the universe and compared to time, it didn't even matter if I existed at all. When Dad was tucking me in that night and we were talking about the book, I asked if he could think of a solution to that problem. 'Which problem?'

'The problem of how relatively insignificant we are.' He said, 'Well, what would happen if a plane dropped you in the middle of the Sahara Desert and you picked up a single grain of sand with tweezers and moved it one millimeter?' I said, 'I'd probably die of dehydration.' He said, 'I just mean right then, when you moved that single grain of sand. What would that mean?' I said, 'I dunno, what?' He said, 'Think about it.' I thought about it. 'I guess I would have moved a grain of sand.'

'Which would mean?'

'Which would mean I moved a grain of sand?'

'Which would mean you changed the Sahara.'

'So?'

'
So
? So the Sahara is a vast desert. And it has existed for millions of years. And you changed it!'

'That's true!' I said, sitting up. 'I changed the Sahara!'

'Which means?' he said. 'What? Tell me.'

'Well, I'm not talking about painting the
Mona Lisa
or curing cancer. I'm just talking about moving that one grain of sand one millimeter.'

'Yeah?'

'If you
hadn'
done it, human history would have been one way…'

'Uh-huh?'

'But you
did
do it,
so
…?' I stood on the bed, pointed my fingers at the fake stars, and screamed: 'I changed the course of human history!'

'That's right.'

'I changed the universe!'

'You did.'

'I'm God!'

'You're an atheist.'

'I don't exist!' I fell back onto the bed, into his arms, and we cracked up together.

That was kind of how I felt when I decided that I would meet every person in New York with the last name Black. Even if it was relatively insignificant, it was something, and I needed to do something, like sharks, who die if they don't swim, which I know about.

Anyway.

I decided that I would go through the names alphabetically, from Aaron to Zyna, even though it would have been a more efficient method to do it by geographical zones. Another thing I decided was that I would be as secretive about my mission as I could at home, and as honest about it as I could outside home, because that's what was necessary. So if Mom asked me, 'Where are you going and when will you be back?' I would tell her, 'Out, later.' But if one of the Blacks wanted to know something, I would tell everything. My other rules were that I wouldn't be sexist again, or racist, or ageist, or homophobic, or overly wimpy, or discriminatory to handicapped people or mental retards, and also that I wouldn't lie unless I absolutely had to, which I did a lot. I put together a special field kit with some of the things I was going to need, like a Magnum flashlight, ChapStick, some Fig Newtons, plastic bags for important evidence and litter, my cell phone, the script for
Hamlet
(so I could memorize my stage directions while I was going from one place to another, because I didn't have any lines to memorize), a topographical map of New York, iodine pills in case of a dirty bomb, my white gloves, obviously, a couple of boxes of Juicy Juice, a magnifying glass, my
Larousse Pocket Dictionary
, and a bunch of other useful stuff. I was ready to go.

On my way out, Stan said, 'What a day!' I said, 'Yeah.' He asked, 'What's on the menu?' I showed him the key. He said, 'Lox?' I said, 'Hilarious, but I don't eat anything with parents.' He shook his head and said, 'I couldn't help myself. So what's on the menu?'

'Queens and Greenwich Village.'

'You mean
Gren
-ich Village?' That was my first disappointment of the expedition, because I thought it was pronounced phonetically, which would have been a fascinating clue. 'Anyway.'

It took me three hours and forty-one minutes to walk to Aaron Black, because public transportation makes me panicky, even though walking over bridges also makes me panicky. Dad used to say that sometimes you have to put your fears in order, and that was one of those times. I walked across Amsterdam Avenue, and Columbus Avenue, and Central Park, and Fifth Avenue, and Madison Avenue, and Park Avenue, and Lexington Avenue, and Third Avenue, and Second Avenue. When I was exactly halfway across the Fifty-ninth Street Bridge, I thought about how a millimeter behind me was Manhattan and a millimeter in front of me was Queens. So what's the name of the parts of New York – exactly halfway through the Midtown Tunnel, exactly halfway over the Brooklyn Bridge, the exact middle of the Staten Island Ferry when it's exactly halfway between Manhattan and Staten Island – that aren't in any borough?

I took a step forward, and it was my first time in Queens.

I walked through Long Island City, Woodside, Elmhurst, and Jackson Heights. I shook my tambourine the whole time, because it helped me remember that even though I was going through different neighborhoods, I was still me. When I finally got to the building, I couldn't figure out where the doorman was. At first I thought maybe he was just getting some coffee, but I waited around for a few minutes and he didn't come. I looked through the door and saw that there was no desk for him. I thought,
Weird
.

I tried my key in the lock, but it didn't go in past the tip. I saw a device with a button for each apartment, so I pressed the button for A. Black's apartment, which was 9E. No one answered. I pressed it again. Nothing. I held down the buzzer for fifteen seconds. Still nothing. I sat down on the ground and wondered if it would be overly wimpy to cry in the lobby of an apartment building in Corona.

'All right, all right,' a voice said from the speaker. 'Take it easy.' I jumped up. 'Hello,' I said, 'my name is Oskar Schell.'

'What do you want?' His voice sounded mad, but I hadn't done anything wrong. 'Did you know Thomas Schell?'

'No.'

'Are you sure?'

'Yes.'

'Do you know anything about a key?'

'What do you want?'

'I didn't do anything wrong.'

'What do you want?'

'I found a key,' I said, 'and it was in an envelope with your name on it.'

'Aaron Black?'

'No, just Black.'

'It's a common name.'

'I know.'

'And a color.'

'Obviously.'

'Goodbye,' the voice said. 'But I'm just trying to find out about this key.'

'Goodbye.'

'But – '

'Goodbye.' Disappointment #2.

I sat back down and started to cry in the lobby of an apartment building in Corona. I wanted to press all of the buttons and scream curse words at everybody who lived in the stupid building. I wanted to give myself bruises. I stood up and pressed 9E again. This rime the voice came out immediately. 'What. Do. You. Want?' I said, 'Thomas Schell was my dad.'

'And?'

'
Was
. Not
is

. He's dead.' He didn't say anything, but I knew he was pressing the Talk button because I could hear a beeping in his apartment, and also windows rattling from the same breeze that I was feeling at ground level. He asked, 'How old are you?' I said seven, because I wanted him to feel more sorry for me, so he would help me. Lie #34. 'My dad's dead,' I told him. 'Dead?'

'He's inanimate.' He didn't say anything. I heard more beeping. We just stood there, facing each other, but nine floors apart. Finally he said, 'He must have died young.'

'Yeah.'

'How old was he?'

'Forty.'

'That's too young.'

'That's true.'

'Can I ask how he died?' I didn't want to talk about it, but I remembered the promises I made to myself about my search, so I told him everything. I heard more beeping and wondered if his finger was getting tired. He said, 'If you come up, I'll have a look at that key.'

'I can't go up.'

'Why not?'

'Because you're on the ninth floor and I don't go that high.'

'Why not?'

'It isn't safe.'

'But it's perfectly safe here.'

'Until something happens.'

'You'll be fine.'

'It's a rule.'

'I'd come down for you,' he said, 'but I just can't.'

'Why not?'

'I'm very sick.'

'But my dad is dead.'

'I'm hooked up to all sorts of machines. That's why it took me so long to get to the intercom.' If I could do it again, I would do it differently. But you can't do it again. I heard the voice saying, 'Hello? Hello? Please.' I slid my card under the apartment building door and got away from there as fast as I could.

Abby Black lived in #I in a townhouse on Bedford Street. It took me two hours and twenty-three minutes to walk there, and my hand got exhausted from shaking my tambourine. There was a little sign above the door that said the poet Edna Saint Vincent Millay once lived in the house, and that it was the narrowest house in New York. I wondered if Edna Saint Vincent Millay was a man or a woman. I tried the key, and it went in halfway, but then it stopped. I knocked. No one answered, even though I could hear someone talking inside, and I guessed that #I meant the first floor, so I knocked again. I was willing to be annoying if that's what was necessary.

A woman opened the door and said, 'Can I help you?' She was incredibly beautiful, with a face like Mom's, which seemed like it was smiling even when she wasn't smiling, and huge boobs. I especially liked how her earrings sometimes touched her neck. It made me wish all of a sudden that I'd brought some kind of invention for her, so that she'd have a reason to like me. Even something small and simple, like a phosphorus brooch.

'Hi.'

'Hello.'

'Are you Abby Black?'

'Yes.'

'I'm Oskar Schell.'

'Hello.'

'Hi.' I told her, 'I'm sure people tell you this constantly, but if you looked up 'incredibly beautiful' in the dictionary, there would be a picture of you.' She cracked up a bit and said, 'People never tell me that.'

'I bet they do.' She cracked up a bit more. 'They don't.'

'Then you hang out with the wrong people.'

'You might be right about that.'

'Because you're incredibly beautiful.'

She opened the door a bit more. I asked, 'Did you know Thomas Schell?'

'Excuse me?'

'Did you know Thomas Schell?' She thought. I wondered why she had to think. 'No.'

'Are you sure?'

'Yes.' There was something unsure about the way she said she was sure, which made me think that maybe she was keeping some sort of secret from me. So what would that secret be? I handed her the envelope and said, 'Does this mean anything to you?' She looked at it for a while. 'I don't think so. Should it?'

'Only if it does,' I told her. 'It doesn't,' she told me. I didn't believe her.

'Would it be OK if I came in?' I asked. 'Now is not really the best time.'

'Why not?'

'I'm in the middle of something.'

'What kind of something?'

'Is that any of your business?'

'Is that a rhetorical question?'

'Yes.'

'Do you have a job?'

'Yes.'

'What's your job?'

'I am an epidemiologist.'

'You study diseases.'

'Yes.'

'Fascinating.'

'Listen, I don't know what it is that you need, but if it has to do with that envelope, I'm sure I can't help – '

'I'm extremely thirsty,' I said, touching my throat, which is the universal sign for thirsty. 'There's a deli on the corner.'

'Actually, I'm diabetic and I need some sugar asap.' Lie #35. 'Do you mean A.S.A.P.?'

'Anyway.'

I didn't feel great about lying, and I didn't believe in being able to know what's going to happen before it happens, but for some reason I knew I had to get inside her apartment. In exchange for the lie, I made a promise to myself that when I got a raise in my allowance, I would donate part of that raise to people who in reality
do
have diabetes. She took a heavy breath, like she was incredibly frustrated, but on the other hand, she didn't ask me to leave. A man's voice called something from inside. 'Orange juice?' she asked. 'Do you have any coffee?'

'Follow me,' she said, and she walked into the apartment. 'What about non-dairy creamer?'

I got a look around as I followed her, and everything was clean and perfect. There were neat photographs on the walls, including one where you could see an African-American woman's VJ, which made me feel self-conscious. 'Where are the sofa cushions?'