Fare Forward (27 page)

The weight of history and experience permeates the office. There is an intimacy to the furniture, the walls lined with books, framed art, and articles from his years of teaching and correspondence with students. Signs of gratitude and accomplishment, honoring the past and believing in the future. Everything about being here is a connection to my grandfather: the lack of compromise, the intense quality of exploration, and the desire to shed light on the darkest parts of our world, be it the cosmos or the secrets of the human heart and mind.

Hamilton Hall has been in use for over one hundred years, witness to the turbulent student protests of Vietnam and the Civil Rights Movement. The same wooden desks are here, sat in by those who have passed through these rooms, retaining the vibrations of questioning and intellectual challenge. It was as if the walls had absorbed the potential, the atomic energy that waited to be released by the interaction of professor and student and the workings of their imaginations. Just like the architecture studios.

We are quiet, and I look down at the treasured book in my hands:
Four Quartets.
The same one that had fallen out of my bag in the cathedral. I could relive the moment Benjamin had handed it back to me as he watched me in the most arresting, unforgettable way.

"You're here, Gabriella. Quite amazing isn't it, how time plays with us?"

I notice that it has started to rain and lighting flashes outside his windows. The trees sway violently and mark the empty spaces between our words. He looks down at my small book, recognizing this older out-of-print edition and reaches for it.

"May I?" he asks, looking at me with a certain sadness in his gray eyes.

"Of course."

"You know, Gabriella, I almost thought you had changed your mind about joining us this semester. Students taking my class know about the tradition of the first lecture. I looked for you. Since you were absent, I thought you were not coming."

The memory of the day in Hamilton Hall and what had occurred comes flooding back to me, and I am almost knocked over by the force of it. The first time I met Benjamin and the fateful error in my schedule.

"I had been on my way. I was
intending
to be there, of course, and something very unexpected occurred. I'm so sorry. I still don't know how it happened."

He looks at me and raises his eyebrows as if he wants to respond, but instead, changes the subject. "There are many ideas that we explore, ones that might be helpful to you, Gabriella, in your
other
work. In your life. Your grandparents and I had many debates about this."

His words cling to me, the distant memories they evoke. Their weight anchoring me into the space across from him as the relevance of his teaching to my work and personal life is mentioned.

"I am familiar with the authors we are studying, especially T.S. Eliot. My grandmother loved his poems. She said she could find so much in his words."

"And you? What is it that you are looking for?"

I think for a moment. "Answers?" I continue slowly, taking a deep breath to try to calm my nerves. "The truth, in painting or architecture." I shrug my shoulders. "I really don't know."

"Or a scientific proof as your grandfather might say?"

"I have so many doubts now. Things are becoming
less
clear to me, more confusing."

"Think about T.S. Eliot, Gabriella. He celebrates the courage of which the human spirit is capable. I know you understand; I can see it in you. Courage, then clarity."

I sit in silence and look deeply into the eyes of Professor Gray, feeling the energy of the space we occupy. The years of student's questions that have been investigated right here. The ideas that float like thick clouds in the room. I feel his passion, his desire to address fundamental questions, a force that has driven me to him now. I think about what he said, "Courage then clarity." The words remind me of my family.

"Have you talked to my grandfather lately? I mean, I know you speak to him regularly." This is the reason I've come to his office, to find out what, if anything, he knows.

"Yes, of course, why?"

"I'm worried about him."

He pauses and frowns as he creates a single line of his brows. He chooses his words very carefully. "He is looking forward to the trip with you and the conference, Gabriella. I talked to him about it the other day. He called me from China. You know, he's been waiting a long time for this moment."

I try to convince myself that this is all it is—excitement and anticipation. Presenting his life's work.

"I was just wondering whether he expressed any concerns to you at all. About his safety that is."

He squints his eyes to help them focus and pushes a cup of tea across his old wooden desk toward me. "Your grandfather has taught many people to believe in the pursuit of their deepest dreams. He himself has done it while maintaining a steadfast adherence to his convictions."

"He's taught me that as well."

"It takes great courage, to really look within."

"That's what he's doing."

"And this is what he wants for you."

"Yes," I hear myself say, "I understand."

"The search," he continues. "He is searching for the things that are timeless. Just like you. Remember when we discussed this in class?"

Of course I remembered.

I know that he is referring not only to this conversation, but to a fundamental belief at the heart of his teaching. His own original interpretation of the texts we study line by line. The same way my ancestors studied the old Testament, analyzing every word while searching for the secrets they held, looking for something new.

"Take
Four Quartets,
Gabriella. The poem is about doubt and resolution. The union of time and the stillness of what is eternal."

Both of my hands rest on top of my legs; my eyes are down. I am afraid to meet his gaze. "What is eternal?"

"Your grandfather's journey."

"He has already accomplished so much and inspired so many."

"Your grandfather is an explorer. This is how T.S. Eliot would have described him. I've told him this many times."

I listen intently and imagine the years of dialogue between these two friends. The scientist and the artist. Slowly, he leans forward, pushes off the arms of his chair, and stands up.

"There
is
something I just remembered."

At the rear wall of his office is a low cabinet that contains many well-used books kept safe behind locked glass doors. He reaches into one of the drawers in his desk and takes out a long brass key and slides it effortlessly into the lock on the cabinet. The latch releases and the door swings open.

"Where is that book?" he asks himself and bends over with effort as his eyes scan the shelves.

These are clearly his special treasures, kept separate from the hundreds of other manuscripts. Safe for private perusal and guarded under lock and key. He continues to talk to himself, muttering, clearly trying to locate something not looked for in a long time. Something remembered.

"Here it is. I've been wanting to pull this out for some time, and now here you sit calling it forth." He looks at me over the top if his glasses.

"Incredible."

He hands me a copy of what I recognize clearly as the same slender version of
Four Quartets
that my grandmother had given me, but this text is bound in a leather embossed binding. An original edition.

"It's the same as mine."

"Go on, read," he instructs me. "The pages that are marked."

I open it and see why he wanted me to find these particular passages. They were her favorite parts, the words of the poem my grandmother had often spoken.

We shall not cease from exploration
And the end of all our exploring
Will be to arrive where we started
And know the place for the first time.

Not farewell but fare forward
Voyagers.

I want to understand why these words encourage and yet terrify me at the same time. Why they feel so very personal.

"Endings and beginnings, the nature of time." Concepts that speak directly to me.

"One of his favorites."

"My grandfather?"

"He loves to talk about it. Always looking for new meanings and interpretations in the words. Especially how the poem relates to his work. To what he believes."

"I never knew that about him."

"Now, look inside the front cover, Gabriella," he says deliberately.

I hold the fragile copy in my hands and open it to the first page and immediately recognize the handwriting. It belongs to someone I love deeply, the unmistakeable lettering that had penned so many notes to me, held safe in a small cherished box of my treasures. The handwriting belonged, of course, to my grandmother. As if the prophetic words predicted the moment that I would be in this room holding the book she had given him.

"Go ahead, read what she wrote."

To My Dear Friend Wallace,

May we always remember not to be burdened by the past, nor fear the future.

We have far to travel. Teach this well, to those I love.

SV, 1962

My eyes fill with tears, as if reading the words is like sitting in her presence, feeling her arms around me in encouragement. I look at Professor Gray, realizing that I understand for the first time, so many things I've been told. What she always wanted me to believe. In what she had whispered to me over the years, the many silent messages of my heart. As recently as this day.

"My grandmother gave this to you?" I look carefully at the initials and the date. So long ago, before I was born. And now I am here with him, holding it. once again the fateful intersections of my life.

"Your grandmother was a true artist, ahead of her time. She would have been very proud of the woman you've become." Then, as if he can hear my thoughts, the endless questions that still remain in my head, he puts his hand over mine in encouragement. "You will find what you're looking for."

"How will I know?"

"You will. The answers are inside of you. They reside within the spacious architecture of your mind. Fare forward, my voyager."

“G
ABRIELLA, THIS IS
ridiculous.
I haven't seen you at all." Emily, as always, is a force to be reckoned with. "And this time, I'm not taking no for an answer!"

There's no use trying to make excuses. I hold the phone several inches from my head to insulate my eardrum from her enthusiastic diatribe. I look out the large window next to my desk at the dark December sky. Another day has passed quickly, bringing me closer to the trip with my grandfather—and Benjamin. I know that everything in my life is about to change, and it is good to be absorbed in my work.

"Where are you right now? Are you still in Avery, in that architecture studio?" I can tell her eyes are rolling by the tone of her voice.

"Yes, Emily, of course I am. We all practically live here."

"Well, I'm coming to get you for dinner."

"The final review is just a few days away. No. But thank you."

"Please? I really miss you. Besides, we have a special surprise for you."

"We?
Emily what are you talking about?"

"Meet me downstairs. I'll be right there."

The business school was right across the courtyard from Avery Hall, and I knew she was right. We had spent so little time together and with the semester ending and the holidays approaching, we needed to see each other. The marathon of deadlines were taking their toll on everyone and tensions were incredibly high. I was pushing forward, mechanically moving through the motions of my life. Concentrating on each day to not let the overwhelming anticipation stop me completely.

"Please, I really can't do this right now. Em?"

"Gabriella, Philip's coming too." Her voice seems serious. "This is important. Just for once, can you please go with it?"

"Okay, I'm sorry." I look at everything on my desk and then at my watch. "One hour—that's all I have, but I would love to see you. I'll meet you in the lobby in ten minutes."

I start to organize things on my desk. I know that she will want to talk about everything. My concerns about my grandfather and the development of my relationship with Benjamin. If that was what it was. I hope that by articulating my feelings they might become clearer in my own mind as well. Try to assign words to the many things I cannot define.

It is cold and raw outside, and I tuck my goose-down coat under my arm and pull on my hat. I run down the circular stone stairs that wrap around the elevator shaft two at a time. It seems ironic that the inventive design atmosphere that is encouraged at the school is contained within a building defined by its symmetric and classical proportions. The ultimate intersection of old and new. These iconic forms of architecture are clearly understood to express the early American formal values of order, what a historic university campus of importance should look like. However, I know that on the drafting tables and computer screens in the studios above, there is not a single student trying to emulate these classical forms. Nor would that have been encouraged. We were expected to read, absorb, and understand the past. Then reject it all.

As we try to invent the future.

With a blast of ice-cold air, the door opens, and I see Emily, smiling ear to ear as she strides confidently toward me through the lobby. She reaches out and holds me for a few moments. As always, she looks magnificent, dressed in a long belted black wool coat, and perfectly coordinated. Unlike me in my frayed jeans and mismatched outfit. We make quite the odd pair.

I hug her back so tightly I surprise even myself. "I'm so happy you're here."

"Let me see you." She takes a step back to look me over. She beams from the warm greeting I've given her while I stand still, eyes at the ceiling, like a child being inspected by a parent. "Actually, I thought you'd look worse—with the hours you claim to be keeping here." She grins as she throws her arm over my shoulder. "You're perfect, sweetie, you could wear a paper bag on your head and still look good. Actually, you're practically glowing."