could see north and south where the city vaguely morphed into Indiana and Wisconsin; and best of all I could see how the tremendous lake, stretching far out of sight to the east, held the city in its immense cold gray hands. I had expected to be amazed by the incredible welter and shapely chaos of the city below me, the countless jostling structures shouldering and crowding against each other, veined by streets and alleys, stitched by train lines, dotted with floating gulls and crows like scattered grains of salt and pepper, but I had not expected to be so stunned by the lake. It had never occurred to me that something could be far bigger and stronger than the city, but this was inarguably so, and I walked home that night along the lake, marveling at it, and a little frightened too.
*Â Â Â *Â Â Â *
Miss Elminides remained a shadowy and elusive figure to me deep into the winter; no matter what time I arose and ran for the bus, or slept in and sleepily shuffled downstairs for empanadas and the papers and the mail, I never saw her going to work or in the hallways; and no matter what time I came home from work, or dashed in and out on the weekends with my basketball or on my late-night adventures in pursuit of music, I never saw her coming in or out, although often I could see her bay windows lit from within. The only time I saw her, it seemed, was when she wanted to speak to me, and this always happened in the lobby by the mailboxes; I would be reaching for my thin scrabble of mail, when she would suddenly appear at my shoulder, murmuring gently about a jazz club I really should investigate, or a gyro shop on the west side of the city where the spanikopita had healed two children of serious diseases, or the train schedule to White Sox games, which were only two months away, hard as it was to believe in baseball in the marrow of a Chicago winter.
After a while her illusory presence began to seem amazing to me and finally I bearded Mr Pawlowsky about it one evening when he was clearing out one of the storage stalls in the basement. I remember this discussion particularly for two reasons: his muffled voice emerging disembodied from behind and beneath dense layers of mattresses and boxes and jackets and clothes-hangers, and the way in which we had a gently honest conversation about romance without ever mentioning the word or the idea directly; a particularly male approach, I suspect, although perhaps women also have sidelong conversations in which you each row close to but never quite directly at an island between you; let alone actually land on it, God forbid.
He said, faintly, from behind the wall of dusty possessions, that Miss Elminides was a remarkable woman altogether, and one of her many virtues was what he would call a masterful discretion; some people might call her shy or retiring but he himself much admired the way she grappled with things as they were, when it was time to come to grips with them; for example her mention of the White Sox now, in early February, was sensible in that pitchers and catchers reported to training camp in Florida next week, so baseball is suddenly in the air, which is especially delicious given that we are in the icy snare of winter at the moment, so to speak, and what could be more cheerful to think about than hot summer days and beer and a decent outfield for once, and also what trains to take to the park when the Sox open the regular season in April? Similarly Miss Elminides mentioning a particular gyro shop; for one thing she has exquisite taste in Greek culinary matters, as you now know, so you can be sure that if she tells you to go there it will be a stunning experience, but also the fact that she told you about it is tantamount to saying there are other and deeper things to be discovered there, and she knows you are a journalist, so in effect she is saying to you there are amazing things to be found, if you take the hint, which I assume you will. So are you dating anyone
*Â Â Â *Â Â Â *
Miss Elminides remained a shadowy and elusive figure to me deep into the winter; no matter what time I arose and ran for the bus, or slept in and sleepily shuffled downstairs for empanadas and the papers and the mail, I never saw her going to work or in the hallways; and no matter what time I came home from work, or dashed in and out on the weekends with my basketball or on my late-night adventures in pursuit of music, I never saw her coming in or out, although often I could see her bay windows lit from within. The only time I saw her, it seemed, was when she wanted to speak to me, and this always happened in the lobby by the mailboxes; I would be reaching for my thin scrabble of mail, when she would suddenly appear at my shoulder, murmuring gently about a jazz club I really should investigate, or a gyro shop on the west side of the city where the spanikopita had healed two children of serious diseases, or the train schedule to White Sox games, which were only two months away, hard as it was to believe in baseball in the marrow of a Chicago winter.
After a while her illusory presence began to seem amazing to me and finally I bearded Mr Pawlowsky about it one evening when he was clearing out one of the storage stalls in the basement. I remember this discussion particularly for two reasons: his muffled voice emerging disembodied from behind and beneath dense layers of mattresses and boxes and jackets and clothes-hangers, and the way in which we had a gently honest conversation about romance without ever mentioning the word or the idea directly; a particularly male approach, I suspect, although perhaps women also have sidelong conversations in which you each row close to but never quite directly at an island between you; let alone actually land on it, God forbid.
He said, faintly, from behind the wall of dusty possessions, that Miss Elminides was a remarkable woman altogether, and one of her many virtues was what he would call a masterful discretion; some people might call her shy or retiring but he himself much admired the way she grappled with things as they were, when it was time to come to grips with them; for example her mention of the White Sox now, in early February, was sensible in that pitchers and catchers reported to training camp in Florida next week, so baseball is suddenly in the air, which is especially delicious given that we are in the icy snare of winter at the moment, so to speak, and what could be more cheerful to think about than hot summer days and beer and a decent outfield for once, and also what trains to take to the park when the Sox open the regular season in April? Similarly Miss Elminides mentioning a particular gyro shop; for one thing she has exquisite taste in Greek culinary matters, as you now know, so you can be sure that if she tells you to go there it will be a stunning experience, but also the fact that she told you about it is tantamount to saying there are other and deeper things to be discovered there, and she knows you are a journalist, so in effect she is saying to you there are amazing things to be found, if you take the hint, which I assume you will. So are you dating anyone
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