the museums and bistros of the vast metropolis, plagued by the ghost of certainty they'd come here, to this far place, this neutral site,
apart but together
, in order to forge some long-delayed truce or compact. The shrouded visages of the locals formed a kind of brick wall, an edifice which met his gaze everywhere: forehead, eyebrows, glasses, grim-drawn lips, cell phones, sandwiches. Against this background she'd have blazed like a sun. But never appeared.
Oh Vivian Relf! Oh eclipse, oh pale penumbra of my yearning!
Pink slip, eviction notice, deleted icon, oh!
Stalked in alleys of my absent noons, there's nobody
knows you better than I!
Translucent voracious Relf-self, I vow here
Never again once to murk you
With pallid tropes of
familiarity
or
recognition
You, pure apparition, onion—
Veil of veils only!
D ORAN C LOSE, in his capacity as director of acquisitions in drawings and prints, had several times had lunch with Vander Polymus, the editor of
Wall Art
. He'd heard Polymus mention that he, Polymus, was married. He'd never met the man's wife, though, and it was a surprise, as he stepped across Polymus's threshold for the dinner party, bottle of Cabernet Franc in a scarf of tissue thrust forward in greeting, to discover that the amiable ogre was married to someone he recognized. Not from some previous museum fete or gallery opening but from another life, another frame of reference, years before. Really, from another postulated version of his life, his sense, once, of who he'd be. He knew her despite the boyishly short haircut, the jarring slash of lipstick and bruises of eyeshadow, the freight of silver bracelets: Vander Polymus was married to Vivian Relf.
Meeting her eyes, Doran unconsciously reached up and brushed his fingertips to his shaved skull.
“Doran, Viv,” said Polymus, grabbing Doran by the shoulder and tugging him inside. “Throw your coat on the bed. I'll take that. C'mon. Hope you like pernil and bacalao!”
“Hello,” she said, and as Doran relinquished the bottle she took his hand to shake.
“Vivian Relf,” said Doran.
“Vivian Polymus,” she confirmed.
“Shall we pry open your bottle?” said Vander Polymus. “Is it something special? I've got a Rioja I'm itching to sample. You know each other?”
“We met, once,” said Vivian. “Other side of the world.”
Doran wanted to emend her
once
, but couldn't find his voice.
“Did you fucking fuck my wife?” chortled Polymus, fingers combing his beard. “You'll have to tell me all about it, but save it for dinner. There's people I want you to meet.”
So came the accustomed hurdles: the bottles opened and appreciated; the little dinner-party geometries:
No, but of course I know your name
or
If I'm not wrong your gallery represents my dear friend Zeus
; the hard and runny cheeses and the bowl of aggravatingly addictive salted nuts; the dawning apprehension that a single woman in the party of eight had been tipped his way by the scheming Polymus and another couple, who'd brought her along—much as, so long ago, Vivian Relf had been shopped at parties by the couple she'd been visiting. Hurdles? Really these were placed low as croquet wickets. Yet they had to be negotiated for a time, deftly, with a smile, before Doran could at last find himself seated. Beside the single woman, of course, but gratefully, as well, across from Polymus's wife. Vivian Relf.
He raised his glass to her, slightly, wishing to draw her nearer, wishing they could tip their heads together for murmuring.
“I used to think I'd keep running into you forever,” he said.
She only smiled. Her husband intruded from the end of the table, his voice commanding. “What is it with you two?” Irrationally, Polymus's own impatience seemed to encompass the years since Doran and Vivian's first meeting, the otherwise forgettable, and forgotten, party. Doran wondered if anyone else on the planet had reason to recall that
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