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“But you could probably guess, right? Please?”

Clare says, abruptly, “Could you excuse us for a minute?” She leaves the kitchen. Beck follows, looking apologetic. They go upstairs. A door closes with a soft click. As soon as it does, I bound out of the kitchen into the dining room. Clare always leaves her bag on one of the dining room chairs. I open it, find her address book, zip it into the inside pocket of my coat, and I’m back in the kitchen when Clare and Beck return.

Clare says, “We’re going to try to sort this out but we can’t do it without talking to Alba and we don’t know where she is at the moment. Go home, we’ll come and get you as soon as we can.”

I say, “Couldn’t I wait here?” just to see how they’ll respond, but I am actually eager to leave. They are polite but firm, and minutes later I am in my car. I drive a few blocks east and park on Lincoln. Snowplows rattle past me, missing the car by inches. There’s not a flake in sight, but major snow is coming tonight.

Clare likes keeping her life organized on paper, and she’s had this battered blue leather-covered address book ever since before I’ve known her. The pages are soft with handling. Of course I begin by looking up “Alba,” but that only yields our house and our old telephone numbers. I examine every page, and a sinking, sad mood comes over me; many of the people in Clare’s address book are dead. I find Henry’s phone number at the Newberry Library; Kimy’s address and some numbers that look like passwords; Alba’s grandfather, Richard; and Clare’s parents, Philip and Lucille, whom I never met. I guess if I kept such a book, mine would look the same when I’m seventy years old. I don’t find anything inexplicable or odd in the entries.

I feel like a cad, but as long as I’m invading Clare’s privacy I might as well be thorough about it. She has tucked various bits of paper into the pages: old business cards, tickets, notes and sketches. At the back of the book, folded in half, is a strip of yellow legal paper with an address in Ravenswood jotted on it in blue ballpoint pen. I recognize Henry’s handwriting. (Alba has many of his books, some of them heavily annotated.) I can’t explain it rationally, but something clicks in my brain and I start the car.

Oliver: When I wake up, the sun is rising. My window faces east and the long sunlight projects the frost patterns onto the wall opposite the window. I am warm under the blankets and loathe to get out of bed, but I urgently need to take a piss. I emerge from the bathroom, put on chilly clothing, comb my hair. The house feels extra still, anticipatory. I put on socks but no shoes and wander through the rooms; I don’t think anyone is here, but I am always uneasy until I confirm that I’m alone.

Alba’s bed is unmade; there’s a pile of her clothing sitting on the rug as though she’s just dematerialized. I revisit the bathroom and notice the disarray—the shampoo bottles, bin basket full of empty bog rolls, and long black and gray hairs gracing the bathtub tell me she was the last one here, and that she was here for quite a while. In the kitchen, dirty dishes are piled next to the sink. I check to see if she’s left any clue as to the date. The pad by the phone is empty. The fridge is full, though. I make eggs and toast and have milk in my tea. I feel better after I’ve eaten. I wash the dishes, wipe the table, turn out the light. I check the heat, which is on but set low, as though Alba were on her way to bed when she disappeared. I turn it up and feel a bit cheered by the familiar click of the boiler starting.

I remove the floorboard in Alba’s bedroom and consult our notebook. The last date Alba gives is October 14, 2041. She writes that she’s been living here in her present for weeks, since September 7, but she doesn’t give any reason, and I sit here on the floor with the notebook in my hands and think, she’s left him, and I am deeply sorry. Then I think, or he’s thrown her out, but that isn’t any better. Under her entry I write that I’m here but don’t know the date, replace the book and the floorboard. I don’t know what to do next. Wait, I suppose. I get into Alba’s bed, pull the covers over my head and try to sleep.

Zach: The house is between the Metra and the Ravenswood El, a yellow Victorian with white trim. I can barely see it from the street, the front yard is so overgrown with trees and weeds. The rest of the block is trim and well-kept; this house seems abandoned. I let myself in the rusty gate, walk up the long path to the front porch, climb the steps and ring the doorbell. It sounds loud and echoey, as though the house is empty. No one comes to the door.

I’m about to leave when I remember Alba’s penchant for coming and going by back doors. She never carries a key for fear of losing it. I walk around to the back of the house. The backyard is just as wild as the front. The back door is unlocked. I let myself in.

The kitchen looks as though someone was here just a minute ago: there are wet dishes on the drainer, the fridge is well stocked. There’s an unopened bottle of Manzanilla in the fridge; Manzanilla is one of Alba’s favorite wines, and when I see it I know I’m in the right house.

An enormous piano dominates the living room. The score on the music stand is in Alba’s handwriting. It’s not finished, and I don’t remember seeing it before. There’s an ashtray on a small table next to the piano and a pack of Lucky Strike on the mantelpiece, along with a Ronson lighter very similar to mine. I remember all the times Alba returned from her travels smelling of smoke.

At the top of the stairs there’s a hallway with seven doors, most of them closed. The door closest to me is open, revealing an upright piano, a wing chair, very little else. A violin case rests on the piano bench. The next door leads to a bathroom. The door at the end of the hall is a bedroom. Someone is asleep in the bed. It’s Oliver.

I look around for somewhere to sit and find an armchair in a reading nook. I’m trembling. I don’t know how I feel. I am afraid of what I might do.

Oliver: The doorbell wakes me. It’s rare for anyone to come to the door, and I wait for them to go away. Instead, I hear them crunching along the gravel path at the side of the house. Then the back door opens and shuts, softly, and this person wanders, very slowly, through the house. They walk up the stairs, trying to be quiet, but the stairs are creaky. At the top of the stairs they stop, and then begin to open doors. I pretend to be asleep. The bedroom door opens. Someone steps into the room, breathing heavily. I wait for them to go away, but they sit down in the armchair. After a while, I can’t take it anymore. I sit up and say, “Zach.”

“Oliver.” He looks distraught. “Why?”

“I can’t explain, even to myself. I’m sorry.”

I expect him to yell at me, to beat me, but he doesn’t. Zach bows his head, and he begins to cry, silently, his shoulders shaking, his face in his hands. I understand what I have done to him, what Alba and I have done. I cannot bear the pain I have caused him. In my grief, I feel myself vanishing—Zach will think I am a coward, and he will be right.

Tuesday, December 27, 2022 (Alba is 21, Zach is 22, Oliver is 40)

Oliver: Now I am on the veranda of a large, darkened house. The cold shocks me. It’s night, there is deep snow everywhere. There’s a helicopter thrumming overhead and a loud party going on in the house next door. I will freeze to death if I stay here.

I try the back door—locked. I run to the front door, also locked. In a panic, I run down the steps and make a circuit of the house, looking for a basement window I can break, but they are all glass-bricked. I consider going next door, but I don’t know where I am, or what year I’m in, and to be a naked Chinese man ringing a stranger’s doorbell in certain times might get me killed. There’s a set of wicker chairs on the veranda. I sit, huddling into myself for warmth. I brush the snow off my feet and try to think. What should I do? I look up, and there, in an upper story window of the house next door, is Zach.

He’s very young, extraordinarily handsome. He turns and gestures to someone, and then Alba joins him at the window. She is wearing a silvery, slinky dress; she looks so beautiful. Zach takes off his jacket and drapes it over Alba’s shoulders. The two of them look inevitable, destined for each other.

Alba looks down and sees me, but doesn’t recognize me. She is too young—we haven’t met. She turns back to Zach. They are standing close together. I wonder if they are about to kiss? I don’t wait to find out. No one will hear me if I break a window. I pick up the chair, bash in one of the back windows, raise it and climb in, cutting my hands in my haste. I dash through the house, but it’s empty: there’s some furniture, but no clothes, nothing useful. There’s some heat in the house. I stand next to a radiator, trying to get warm.

I wish that I could go next door and find Alba. I would tell her about Madeline; she would tell me what to say to Zach, how to apologize. But Alba wouldn’t know me. This is their love story, not mine. My hands are bleeding.

I want the pain to end. Madeline is dead—she no longer needs me. I have wronged Zach. I can’t find my Alba, only this other Alba, Zach’s Alba. The Japanese word karaoke means “empty orchestra.” That’s how my life feels to me now, like vacant music. Alba said, it’s meant for us to add our voices, but to me it’s just emptiness without potential.

I go back to the window I broke. I take a shard of glass and cut my left wrist, twice. Then I cut my right wrist, once. The music next door seems louder. If I screamed, would anyone hear me? The helicopter hovers, low and loud. The cold is painful; my blood is warm and then cold as it covers my hands.

After the end of a concert, when the audience has finished applauding, the soloist leaves the stage. The conductor has taken several bows. The musicians pack their instruments into cases, closing and straightening their sheet music, or tucking away their screens. The audience shrugs on their coats and turn their backs to the stage as they leave the hall. The ushers walk the aisles, looking for lost belongings, picking up abandoned programs. Then the concert hall is vacant and dark—the music has gone, leaving an empty space for different music tomorrow.

I know I’ve made a mistake, but it’s too late now.

First Light