Of the many complaints her former husband had levelled at her, being ‘distancing’ was the most frequent.
Photograph: © Clare Strand from Clare Strand co-published by Steidl & Photoworks
Prelude by Katri Skala
When Elisa found herself waiting for a self-declared anarchist called Mike in a fashionable restaurant downtown, she unexpectedly found herself thinking about politics. She had abstained from voting in all elections except her first, and even after the devastation of 9/11, the ongoing wars in Afghanistan and Iraq, the snipers, anthrax scares and oil prices she remained ambivalent about where her convictions lay.
On their first date, Mike had taken her to a dark bar on the lower East Side where shots of vodka were served under an array of Lenin posters. It was almost empty. She accepted his choice of venue as a good-humoured challenge.
'Neo-con crap. Crypto-fascists. All of them. Democracy, shit, who do they think they're kidding. I ask you. Guantanamo. Iraq. Civil liberties? The constitution? What about them? Fascist propaganda. Democracy my ass.' Emphatic and confident, Mike regaled her with his view of the political world. She downed another ice-cold shot of bison vodka.
'I'm a capitalist', she offered, aware of the barely concealed note of irony in her voice. He grinned. 'How did a nice girl like you end up with the bad guys?' He was flirting of course, and she moved closer to him.
'Who says I'm nice?' She had been married once briefly. Of the many complaints her former husband had levelled at her, being 'distancing' was the most frequent. Why can't you be nice? He used to say. So goddamn analytic. And shake his head. Mike didn't seem to mind her not being nice.
Later in the evening, when they were fuggy with alcohol and playing with each other's hands, Mike had picked up her comment about being a capitalist, 'You're interested in money, aren't you?' 'Really?' 'Aw, come on, gotta be. Admit it.' And she'd conceded gravely that, yes, maybe, in fact, she was. These words had the unexpected feel of a confession.
Elisa excelled at her job: she was a partner in a small investment company whose main trade was in corporate stock & bonds. She prided herself - if anything - on a focused objectivity. She had shown a startling aptitude for maths from an early age, a surprise to her and her artistic family, as well as a canny sense of the unpredictable. Her rise in the financial sector had been smooth and uncalculated. Because, she would say to an enviously questioning friend or ambitious young graduate, she was living a future she had never set out to create. Luck and timing, she'd muse, with a shrug of her elegant shoulders. Hard work and stamina, she'd add, with a warning in her voice.
And now, here she was, about to embark on a third date with anarchist Mike, thinking about her interest in money and his interest in her. He was in his fifties, more than ten years older than Elisa but he seemed very youthful. Buoyant. He clearly found her, as he said to mutual friends, a 'knock-out'.
She slept with him on their second date. He had taken her to the screening of a digital media installation about the local effects of the Patriot Act on a third generation Asian family from Calcutta who had arrived in New York in the fifties, via the Caribbean, and were now being mistaken for Arab terrorists by neighbours because their sixteen year old son had set off a firework in the street at dawn as a dare. Mike was a friend of the artist, and though he made a living by running a small catering company (we specialise in locally grown organic produce from New York, Pennsylvania and the New England States!), he spent most of his leisure time taking part in protests or attending political gatherings. After the screening, she had invited him to her airy loft in Tribeca. She made coffee and suggested they go to bed.
The crowd in this downtown bistro was a mixture of office workers like herself; SoHo fashionistas; and a sprinkling of out-of-towners who had read about it in Zagats, which promised an 'authentic neighbourhood' atmosphere and good value burgers. Elisa glanced at her watch: 7.20 pm. Mike was late, and, unusually, Elisa found herself not minding either his lateness nor the fact that she was squeezed on a banquette alone between two chattering young women who were already quite drunk, and a group of French men on the prowl. They looked at her often, and clearly were discussing the merits of her physical appearance: 'Jolie, non' 'Pas mal' 'Entre deux ages?' 'Une femme serieuse!' Amid chortles and grins.
She was surprised Mike found her attractive. She thought he would have gone for a very young, zealous leftie. That he was immediately taken on handing her a mug of fairtrade coffee had been obvious to everyone that Sunday brunch two weeks ago when they'd met. She, however, had been startled by his proposal of a date because she felt she looked very much what she was: an early middle-aged banker with a taste for solitude. She had inherited some of her parents' artistic flair, and this was expressed in her stylish wardrobe and her small collection of fine art. Other than that, she felt quite neutral. As if everything about her had been tempered to a fine hue. What she was unaware of then was that Mike also saw a compelling mixture of yearning and disdain, which led him to feel, instinctively, the tug of a challenge. This would prove to be his mistake.
'Sorry, big job last minute, had to get the guys organised.' He slid onto the chair opposite and grabbed her hand. Yes, Elisa thought, he is attractive, it's the easy charm, the self-centredness, and a touch of stupidity. He reminded her of the jocks she had dated in college. It had been a long time since she had been able to relax into an uncomplicated bout of fucking. Their first sexual encounter last week had been awkward, the lovemaking more tentative than she would've expected from someone so seasoned. But, oh! - so very sweet too. He'd exclaimed several times, 'Wow, this is amazing' as if he really meant it. What a good beginning!
'Another drink?' He looked at her empty wine glass. She knew she earned more than him by an extra figure, but was happy to let him play the courtly gentleman. One thing she had learned in her many years of dating was not to upset the gender cart: it confused an already confusing ritual. Yes, she would like more, 'Please, one more, then perhaps we might go somewhere more private.' 'You bet,' he said, winking.
It was on their fourth date that everything happened. What many remember about that evening was the rapidly shifting mood.
Her computer went berserk at some minutes past four. Damn. She threw open the sleek door of her private office on the 14th floor to cast an exasperated glance at the open plan in front of her. Desks lay in orderly lines, each equipped with a triptych of computer screens and consoles exhibiting numbers and connections and calculations in a continuous state of flux. What immediately assailed her that August late afternoon was a loud clattering cacophony. A room usually so industrious, so smoothly run was alive with the chatter of electrical appliances. The staple machine was firing bits in all directions, the photocopier was chundering, the phone system flashing colours in an alarming display. And the computers - those magnificent machines - well. **!!??What the fuck - oh, SHIT - my screens are going CRAZY - Jeeezz...!** The small number of her fellow workers, men with ties askew and shirt sleeves rolled up, a woman in tailored suit, froze in amazement at the chaos around them.
Then all of a sudden, everything fell silent.
Her assistant nodded at her. 'On it,' and banged the phone box. 'Not working either, the electrics. Not a problem.' She dug into her bag for a cell phone.
Elisa looked out the large glass wall of her office to the world beyond. People were leaning from open windows in older neighbouring office blocks, craning down and up, left and right. What the hell was going on? Her stomach tightened. Traces of the plume, the below-earth smouldering from the disaster of the collapsing towers only two years ago, had been discernible for months in the air around Wall Street. Sometimes, when winds gusted through the urban canyons, the acrid taste was stronger and triggered her small cough; at other times, the stillness was disturbed only by a hovering alien pall.
She was due to meet Mike at 6pm on the corner of Brooklyn Bridge. 'Special dinner at my place,' he had purred in her ear last week after a night of exuberant sex, all shyness overcome. 'Come on, baby,' he had cooed, pulling her naked body towards him, 'OOooo... baby, light my fire!'
Her assistant stood at the door, fear in her voice. 'Can't get through. Lines are overloaded. The elevator bank is out.'
Employees were exchanging anxious murmurs as they scanned the sky, just visible above and between crowded city buildings...all ears pressed to cell phones. Pushing again and again the call button, hoping for a connection. An eerie silence settled in the air high up above the increasing confusion of traffic far below. Waiting.
The strong force of testosterone that drove the daily engine of this office had been replaced in the space of minutes by raw fear. Elisa could feel it wash over her. Keep calm, always calm, she whispered to herself.
Suddenly the silence was broken. 'Let's get the hell out of here,' shouted a young man, Julio, the newest member of the team, a tough wiry character who had yet to make his mark but had come with excellent credentials from Goldman Sachs and a rippling network of contacts. There was a surge for the emergency exit. The silence was replaced by thumps, scraping chairs and small yelps.
Elisa never knew if they all managed to get out and down the many flights of stairs without mishap. Workers crammed into the stairwell. A few large flashlights created tunnels of yellow light between floors. Intense concentration, each holding onto the shoulder of the person in front...step by step, down to the street. As if they had all been rehearsed.
Then the word was passed up, mouth to mouth: city black-out.
Why didn't you go straight to your apartment? she was asked many times in the days that followed. It would not have taken her long to walk. She was one of the lucky few. Others set their feet in the direction of home, fanning out towards the perimeter of Manhattan - up to the north beyond Harlem, to the east towards the Bronx and Brooklyn, south to the ferry - walking quickly, as quickly as they could, to take them away from where they were, driven on by a lurking fear of what might happen next.
In front of the building, a cabbie was listening to his car radio and shouting reports to a jostling crowd. Questions and information were being thrown into the air and tossed about. All out, lights out everywhere - what? Nah, can't be. It's all over - Where? Who done it...? Maybe someone's gonna...Nah, I tell you, - wait, there's more comin' in - says it's the grid, complete shut-down. Aw, shi-i-it.
Elisa stood for several minutes on the pavement, bumped and shoved by zigzagging bodies. Grim expressions on all faces. Traffic lights had stopped working, the sound of horns was symphonic. Julio, her energetic young colleague, leapt into the middle of the intersection, and started directing traffic. 'Hey, you, yes, YOU, get moving. Come on, come on. STOP. Wait. Now COME ON. You MOVE.'
Who put out the lights? Elisa could read in other people's eyes that they too were wondering whether this was a prelude to catastrophe.
She began to walk east, in the direction of Brooklyn Bridge. Would Mike be there? Last week's evening of carefree, thought-free sexual congress had felt wholesome, satisfyingly simple.
The volume of people was increasing as more and more poured out of offices, darkened stores and restaurants, up from the mouths of the subway, onto the sidewalk, spilling into streets. One woman's cell service worked; she had reached her mother in Boston. Elisa pressed her way up close, and listened to a voice on a tiny speakerphone reading from the internet: it was a rolling black-out that seemed to be engulfing the entire East Coast, but it was still in process and the information was unconfirmed.
She resumed her steady pace eastward, becoming part of a larger advance of people, moving as one, all one, with her; higgledy-piggledy at first, then acquiring a graceful flow. The sizzling August day was losing heat and the sun began to drop in the sky behind her. She was wearing flat soft-leathered pumps and loose-flowing linen trousers. Short-sleeved silk blouse, light linen jacket. It would do, thankfully. She had had no outside meetings that day and had dressed for ease, anticipating a long night in Mike's apartment.
Progress was slow. There were as many people on streets as on sidewalks. Cars proceeded carefully, windows thrown open, radios turned up to allow pedestrians to keep abreast of incoming news. Candles were being lit in bars and restaurants, doors were thrown open, air-conditioning now a useless feature.
By the time Elisa reached the bridge ripples of light-heartedness were spreading. No indications of an attack. Not yet. Sure about that? Dunno. A big fucking black-out. How stupid's that? Christ.
Mike wasn't there. His catering unit was mid-town. It would take him longer to get here - if he was going to come. Would he? She hadn't really considered the possibility that he might not make their date. She tried her cell phone again. No luck. She was too young to remember details of the black-out of '77, but she knew the stories - the looting and violence. The heat had driven people crazy, anarchy and rage had swept through the city. Old scores were settled, cars set on fire, pillaging everywhere. But this was different.
She stood on the allocated corner. Vigilant to danger. Doesn't anything ever get you flustered? Her business partner had asked her one night, two years ago after the stock market had screeched downward, leading to a period of adrenalin-bathed sleepless weeks for both of them. Sure, she'd replied indignant, we all express things differently, don't we, and now what about - and she moved to the next item on their agenda.
A swarm of pedestrians mingled with a jumble of vehicles. Some native New Yorkers like herself, a sprinkling of tourists, workers hoping to reach the mainland, a few daytrippers, all gathering momentum as they pushed for shelter. Many piled into bars and restaurants to drink warming beer, eat up cold food, exchange stories with strangers, seek comfort. All around, she felt a swelling of care, a small advancing mood of relief and camaraderie, as if to say, 'We Manhattanites stand together as one!'
There, among the crowd, she saw Mike. Rangy and appealing. She felt an immediate surge of elation. He was chatting to a woman on his left, leaning into her, then, to the guy on his right. As if they were participating in a friendly political march. He caught sight of her and waved. He then said something to the woman and pointed at her. Waved again. And in minutes he was next to her, giving her a big hug.
So you must have, like, really liked him? Her friends had kept pushing her in the days that followed. I guess, she'd replied, careful to avoid any kind of commitment. So - then - I mean - how, like, did it...how do you...and their questions would tail off.
'Let's go.' Mike grabbed her hand. She suddenly felt serene, happy to be swept along by circumstance. Mike chit chatted with everyone on their journey across the bridge. His jubilation mirrored the general mood. Car headlights were on low, radios on high volume. Police were everywhere, posted along the bridge. More information was coming in about the enormity of the black-out. Joy took hold. Death was not part of the picture--the lights had gone out!
When they reached the other side, they turned to look at Manhattan: the darkening night was creeping up buildings, tops of skyscrapers burned gold.
'Beautiful, huh?' Mike spoke with solemnity, and quietly they stood, hand in hand, watching the island slowly being plunged into black. Elisa felt suspended in time, evanescent in the dimming light of the sky.
Mike moved first, and off they went into Brooklyn. She refrained from asking whether they were headed for his apartment. She hoped so. To be cocooned in his bedroom, surrounded by candles, and comforted by the strains of talk from impromptu gatherings in the street below floating up through open windows.
Her instincts told her not to assume anything. Assumption caused fuck-ups. 'I think we should get a flashlight,' she suggested. No matter where they were going, they would need light. Mike might think this was an overly practical response. 'Over there,' she nodded in the direction of a group of people standing by make-shift stalls. She sounded commanding, deployed the same tone of voice she used when talking to her partner about a declining stock. The important thing was not in the detail, but in taking a strong position.
'Okay,' Mike agreed, and they joined the line to buy a flashlight, as if this too, was part of the adventure. Store-owners had become street hawkers, beckoning passersby to grab their wares at bargain prices. Ad hoc entrepreneurs with bulging trolleys were patrolling the pavements, selling piles of flashlights and candles at extortionate cost. With good-natured smiles, aware of their opportunism. And they were forgiven, as lines formed to grab what was on offer before day became fully night.
Mike bought a large industrial model. He switched it on and flashed it about in the direction of another man, doing the same, their beams colliding. Mike and the guy sparred with their swords of light, laughing. Elisa felt defenceless in the pool of brightness.
'How far to your apartment?'
'Couple of miles. But, hey, we should walk around, feel the vibe, see what's going on.' Or not, Elisa thought, see anything, given the conditions. 'Great neighbourhood bar near me, we'll check it out,' he continued. His excitement was making Elisa nervous.
And then they walked down an alley, and his hands were all over her, and they were necking, just like teenagers. The torch had been deposited on the rubble-strewn tarmac in the urgency of their embrace, its beam funnelling from their feet to an open side-door just beyond. They moved towards it, following the path of light, and stumbled across the threshold, fumbling and tugging at clothes.
They were not alone. The room, which seemed at first glance to be a small dusty store-room, was filled by the whiteness of a large camping light, placed high on a tower of boxes. Two boys stood, frozen in motion next to a supermarket trolley, loaded with a number of small rectangular boxes.
Mike let go of her, opened his arms wide as if asking for a hug, and swaggered to them, 'Hey, brothers, don't let us interrupt you. Stocking up?' The older one was no more than sixteen, a big brawny teenager. With him was a boy, maybe about ten, at most. Elisa could tell the older boy was high. He had the same look as many of her colleagues when they were hyped up on coke. No brakes.
What led Mike to do what he did would remain a puzzle to Elisa for a long time. Friends would say of him, 'Such an idiot, he always had to show off, be the good guy.' Instead of just backing out the door and continuing on their way, Mike lunged towards them, said, 'Brothers, let me help, make hay while the opportunity's there, right dude?' His sudden movement triggered a blurred sequence of actions. There were some shouts from the older boy to the young one, a quick draw of something from his back and a kick at Mike, who fell into the teenager, as if tackling, and then something clattered across the floor to land at Elisa's feet. She picked it up without thinking. A gun. And then a loud cry from Mike, and there he was, caught in a head-lock by this teenager, who had a knife at this throat.
It was up to her. She knew that. The outcome would depend on it. She often read in books and had heard on television programmes that in times of extreme danger, actions either sped up or slowed down; but, for her, that warm early evening in Brooklyn, caught in a circle of white light and the deep shadows of that small room, they played themselves out in real, measured time. The whites of Mike's eyes shone like luminescent marbles, alarm making them unusually large. His assailant's narrowed, watching her with what felt like a detached curiosity. She had never before held a gun. It was much heavier than she would have expected, awkward to hold. She had also never before felt such a girl.
The younger one barely moved. He had stepped back in the scuffle, out of the way, into the gloom, hugging a number of boxes.
'Throw it here, lady,' the teenager growled. He was jittery, rocking on his feet.
'Come on, dude, take it easy. No harm meant,' gasped Mike. The teenager tightened his grip, causing Mike to gag. The smell of must and cardboard, traces of urine and rotting food - or was it something dead, a dead rat - engulfed Elisa. Rivulets of sweat were pouring from her armpits down her arm, into her hands, making the gun slippery. She lifted it and pointed at the young boy in the corner.
'Drop it, lady.' The teenager's voice was menacing. A whimper came from the corner. 'Shut it,' the teenager snapped. Mike's breathing was short and loud. Very carefully, Elisa took a step back, then another, keeping the gun aimed at the kid; and another, another, until she was at the exit. She looked one more time at Mike, his face twisted by the effort to breathe, by the will to survive.
She made it out the door, into the alley without faltering; turned heel and ran, blindly, banging into the wall on either side, till, in a matter of seconds she was back on the main drag. She now slowed her pace and turned in the direction of the bridge, still holding the gun. Her bag had fallen off her shoulder when they had been kissing in the alley. Too late to go back for it. She could feel bruises and scrapes beginning to form on her arms and legs.
A toddler came out of the darkness towards her in a baby carriage, waving a flashlight in a big arc. He and his mother were laughing. Drivers were astonishingly self-conscious--moving slowly, stopping at every corner. Disembodied voices murmured. Beer cans opened. Cigarette ends burned. Fragments of life glided by. No one paid any attention to Elisa.
The bridge had been cordoned off to motorized vehicles. Only pedicabs and pedestrians allowed. It was still very crowded. About half way across, on the walkway above the road, she stopped to look out at the expanse of the East River. In the distance, an illuminated long snake meant the FDR drive was clogged with cars, nosing their way off the island. She looked up, and saw something which never before had she seen in Manhattan. Stars. So many of them. So very bright. She felt she had only to reach out to catch one. Stretching her arm high, over the rail of the bridge, and tilting her head way back, she inhaled deeply, and let go of the gun, let it fall into the blackness, falling through the air, to drop many feet below into the rushing currents of the river.
The superintendant had a spare key to her loft. 'You ok, Miss?' He asked with a slight smirk, looking her up and down with his flashlight. 'Need candles or anything? I got plenty.' No, she shook her head, no, she didn't need anything. She stumbled through the dark space, up the spiral chrome staircase, feeling her way through the rooms. Her apartment felt immense. Through the large picture window of her bedroom, diamond-white glitter streaked the sky. She was in a cave, staring out across a lonely wasteland. She didn't allow herself to think about Mike. She was living through her senses alone. Overwhelmed by every small sound, speaking to her from the guts of the building; every touch... the silky caress of her sheet, the polished wood floor; and smells, all those odours she'd never before noticed, the pine-scent of her cleaner's materials, wisps of perfumes from deodorants and cosmetics, a line-up of freshly laundered blouses, tantalizing her with their declarations of cleanliness and hard-won order.
I went to sleep straightaway, she'd repeated to various policemen in the days that followed. They had tracked her down quickly. It had been easy. Although her wallet and all her electronic gadgets had been stolen from her handbag, there had been a piece of mail with her name and address on it. So, Ma'am, you mean, you didn't try to find your lost bag, or nothing, you just kinda sauntered home, in the dark, after this argument with your boyfriend, and just - went to sleep? Yes, she'd affirmed, and the hard steadiness of her reply had discouraged the officer from asking any further questions. You'll find I reported my lost credit cards and everything else as soon as I was able to. And he wasn't my boyfriend, she'd asserted, we were on a date, I barely knew him.
Mike's body had been found in the alley the following morning by the owner of the store. The postmortem revealed he'd died of heart failure, but there were a number of mysterious bruises on his upper body. The proprietor of the electronics shop also reported that a few boxes of cell phones were missing from his storeroom. The story that finally emerged about Mike's death was simple: he and Elisa had been on their way to his apartment. They had started making out in the alley-way and then had had an argument. He had wanted to check out noise coming from the open side-door and she hadn't. She had walked off, in a huff, bag left carelessly in the alley. Mike had interrupted some looters, and in a heroic effort to prevent the crime, had been roughed up, and this had led to his heart failure. The perpetrators had left him to die. The coroner stated the time of death was thought to have been somewhere around 9 in the evening.
There were many things she found out about Mike in the days following the black-out. He had a son, a boy in his early 20s, a senior at college. He wanted to meet her. She declined. He had two ex-wives, on the alimony roll. They wanted her to join them for a consolation dinner. She declined. His aged mother lived in Queens. She was inconsolable. Mike had a PhD in economics. His alma mater publicized his death on their web site. He had a heart condition - this was news to everyone.
She didn't go to the funeral. She didn't go into her office in the days that followed the black-out and sold her share of the company to her partner soon after. Day after day, she wandered her capacious penthouse, ordering in whatever she needed and directing affairs from her home office. At first, she allowed friends to visit, but this stopped too when she began to find their concern intrusive. They thought she was in shock, unable to absorb Mike's unexpected death. You mustn't blame yourself for that argument, sweetie, they would coo at her. After all, you were right, he shouldn't have gone in there, he was just showing off. So young, so damn young...
She found herself unable to move from her bedroom, content to remain curled up on her large, downy bed. And the cleaner came every other day, going about her tasks as if nothing had changed.
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Katri Skala has worked as a curator of literary programmes in New York and London, most recently for the University of East Anglia and the New Writing Partnership. She is currently completing her novel, Questions of Pleasure.
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Thursday, 19 November, 2009
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