Forty Rooms (34 page)

The old panic takes hold of me roughly.

How would I know, I think wildly, if I were not myself, but one of these other apparitions instead—and if so, how would I know which one? How would I know if I were only a footnote in a story that has gone on without me—if some other, braver woman has not led an entirely different, wonder-filled existence in my name, never even setting foot in this house, never even coming near all this? How would I know if I were the ghost of someone long dead within these walls, unable to leave, trapped here as punishment for my waste of a life—as failed at death as I was at living? And if this really is some kind of purgatory, how will I know when I am forgiven for my sins, when I am allowed to leave it all behind?

But quickly I push these dark thoughts away. Because of course I am going to leave, I am going to leave just as soon as Christmas
is over. In the meantime I continue whittling down my list—I have decided to take nothing but Celia’s one-eared bunny and the volume of Annensky, and soon the volume of Annensky seems superfluous too, as I find I remember his poems with perfect clarity, even as I can no longer recall a single line of my own. I recite his words for hours, for days, for months on end, sitting in the entrance hall, looking at the closed door.

Do you not imagine sometimes,

When dusk wanders through the house,

That here, alongside us, lies another plane,

Where we lead entirely different lives?

It is not a bad way to spend one’s time. It could have been so much worse. This morning, for instance, I heard a siren wailing outside. The next thing I know, the doors are being flung open, and two men in white burst in, a stretcher between them, and disappear at a run inside the house. I sit in the darkened entrance hall, waiting for them to return. After a while they walk back across the hall, slowly now, bent under the weight of the body on the stretcher. I glimpse a limp strand of gray hair, a dangling pink slipper, a hanging fold of a dirty pink robe. I do not look closely; I do not want to know what the matter is with her. I just whisper a quick prayer for the poor soul, and feel grateful for having been spared, and, as I hear the ambulance start, say to myself: There but for the grace of God go I.

The men in white, I notice with a sudden jolt, have left the doors standing wide open. I look at the glorious blue sky of April,
or is it July—the light pouring through is radiantly clear, a luminous invitation. I realize that I do not, after all, need to bring Celia’s bunny. As I stand up and walk empty-handed toward the shining rectangle of light, I think of all the secrets, all the marvels of the world I am about to see.

Part Five

The   Future

THE END

Acknowledgments

As ever, I am deeply grateful to Warren Frazier, my agent, and Marian Wood, my publisher and editor—without their friendship, judgment, and faith in my work, none of this would have happened. Thanks are also due to everyone at the Penguin Group who helped make this book a reality, especially Ivan Held, for all his support; Alexis Sattler, for assisting with so many details; and my indefatigable copy editor, Anna Jardine, who spared me many an embarrassment, among them the militant image of an elderly professor rifling, rather than riffling, through index cards. I would also like to thank Alexander Hollmann for his artistic input, and my first readers and oldest friends, Olga Levaniouk and Olga Oliker, for their immensely helpful insights—I couldn’t wish for better readers, first or otherwise.

Finally, special thanks go to my family—my mother, Natalia Kartseva, who was always there for me, and my children, Alex
and Tasha, who became so delightfully curious about all the stages of making a book. Eleven-year-old Alex helped with designing the sketches, six-year-old Tasha made a sign—“Do not disturb, I need time”—for my office door, and both of them tolerated their share of Chinese takeout dinners and pizza deliveries while I was busy describing the culinary accomplishments of Mrs. Caldwell. Thank you for letting me write, most of the time—and for making me happy, always.

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