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“Why was he at the Haymarket?”
“He said he saw it on TV, decided to drop by because I’d mentioned it.”
“His timing was impeccable. Who does that remind you of?”
“Us.”
“Us, guided by Alba. How likely is it that he’s never met Alba?” Caralora seems rattled.
“Yeah. All right.”
“Just—pay attention. You’ve been so checked out.”
“I know.” I’ve tried to make myself bear down on the problem of Oliver, but as far as I can tell he has no interest in my clandestine activities; we mostly talk about music, travel, everyday life, our wives; we talk about everything and nothing. I like Oliver, and I have long since given up probing into his reasons for hanging out with me. “He doesn’t seem like a cop.”
“I don’t think he is a cop. I don’t know what to think.” Caralora frowns. “Where does he live?”
“London. His wife lives here, he just visits.”
“Have you met her? What’s her name?”
“No. I don’t remember.”
“Have you lost your mind?” Caralora says, quietly. “You’re hanging out with someone you can’t research, who doesn’t seem to be known by anyone we know. You’re going to get us all killed, mister. They targeted you, too, not just Gomez. Let me try. Maybe he’s harmless.”
“He did save me. So there’s that.”
“How long have you known him?”
“A couple of years.”
Caralora just shakes her head. I deserve her incredulity; I should know better. We drop the subject, and talk of other things.
A few weeks later, Caralora asks me if I’ve seen Oliver lately. I haven’t. She says she got nowhere: Oliver is officially a phantom. For some reason this pleases me—not that she came up short, but that Oliver remains a mystery. When I eventually do run into him again, I avoid asking personal questions. We just hang out. If he’s a secret agent, I don’t want to know. He’s my friend. I want that to be enough.
Perfect Day
Wednesday, June 25, 1980, and Thursday, June 26, 1980 (Alba is 25, Oliver is 17)
Alba: Oliver is rehearsing for a Schubert lieder recital. He’s accompanying one of his classmates, a soprano named Alison, who has chosen the program. All afternoon, Oliver has been rehearsing “Gretchen am Spinnrade”; without the melody, the piano part is repetitive and hypnotic, as though Philip Glass had manifested briefly in 1814. I’m half dozing on the sofa, idly playing with the Schubert lied in my head, extrapolating on it, recombobulating it. In a few minutes I’ll have to go upstairs and write down some of these ideas, but right now I’m in the soft grip of lassitude. We have the windows open because it’s a warm evening, and I feel as though I’ve melted onto the sofa. Reverting to a solid state seems like too much effort.
Oliver stops playing, and the silence rings in my head. He says, almost whispers, “Alba?”
“Mmm?”
“How old were you when you made love with me the first time?”
“That hasn’t happened yet,” I say, now alert. “How old were you?”
“That also has not happened. To me. I wish it would happen.” He sits very still, his head bowed, his fingers resting on the keys. I get up and go to him, but he doesn’t turn. I place my hands on his shoulders. He is tense, trembling with the effort of sitting still.
Why do I hesitate? I am resisting something that has already happened. I won’t be succumbing only to the boy who sits here, now, the echoes of his restless playing still reverberating in the room; I will be opening myself to all the Olivers of my future. But I will also be creating another part of myself that is permanently closed to Zach. I am caught between wanting, and knowing better. He is so young.
Oliver reaches up and gently dislodges my hands. He rises from the bench and turns to me. He’s almost as tall as he’s going to be. It’s the expression on his face that undoes me: he looks so hopeful, and so humble. He would take no for an answer.
“Let’s go upstairs,” I say.
Oliver is a devoted student in all things, attentive and quick. His delight is contagious, his pleasure so pure that it almost obscures the pain of my heart splitting in two.
