Read Online Tolstoy Lied : A Love Story (9780547527307) by Rachel Kadish - Free Book Online

have made it into print.
    My shoe squeaks on the floor. George startles.
    â€œHi,” I say softly, an apology for sneaking up.
    For a fraction of a second there’s a peculiar expression on his face. It’s neither sad nor happy, though it’s a relative of both. It’s something I can’t put my finger on, and there’s no opportunity to linger over it; as George rises from his seat he’s already wearing the bemused smile I recall from last week. He’s dressed in a sweater and jeans, and he’s just as bright-eyed and lanky as I’d remembered, long-jawed, studious-looking. This time he’s wearing a touch of cologne—a faint, warm smell. He greets me with a firm kiss on the cheek.
    â€œNice office,” I say, the smell of him still in my nose.
    â€œThanks.” He tilts his head, appraising the room, then gestures toward the nearest window, which faces into a narrow air shaft of soot-stained brick. “I first fell in love with it for the view.”
    My laugh comes a second late. I glance at his desktop, which holds a neat pile of well-worn textbooks and thick binders, a notebook filled with sloping script. A crowded-looking desk calendar. A scattering of pens and pencils. Behind his desk a printed sign is taped to the heavily marked chalkboard: GRAVITY: IT’S NOT JUST A GOOD IDEA. IT’S THE LAW .
    While he bends to load his briefcase with a sheaf of papers, I concentrate on his face. It’s a nice face. Honest. A face that seems incapable of dark secrets. Viewed from above, his lashes are thick, feminine, his forehead wide and vulnerable. There is something about seeing a tall man’s forehead from above that invites tenderness. Before me, I say to myself, stands a kind man: bending over a briefcase, packing it with care, traveling the city to work with schools in crisis.
    A man who looked hopeful when his date walked into the room. Now that it’s had time to register, I realize that that was what played across his face when I startled him: hope. As though he were lonelier than he wanted to let on. Something in me says, Remember this.
    We step out onto Seventh Avenue. The air is cool but mild. A perfect evening. We slow in unison.The street is devoid of honking, brightened here and there by yellow-crested trees, lit with that evening glow that sometimes overtakes Manhattan. Every few paces I bump against a vague obligation to speak, but something emboldens me to resist. This silence, unlike those on the telephone, seems to stitch something together. George says nothing. I can imagine us from a vantage point over the avenue: two companionable figures moving unhurriedly downtown. Every now and then I sneak a glance at him.
    We reach the restaurant, a cozy affair with green tablecloths and steamed windows. At our table we survey the menu. The waiter arrives with a plate of glistening black olives, takes our order, and leaves.
    We both begin to speak, then stop. George lifts an olive in salute, inviting me to go first.
    â€œTell me what brought you to New York,” I say.
    He chews his olive thoughtfully, pats his lips with his napkin, and only then answers. “I came to New York mainly to get away from Toronto. Part of a difficult break from the way I was raised. I was, in my younger days, a fundamentalist Christian. In Canada that’s a rare and diminishing breed.”
    â€œI’m Jewish,” I offer, spooning a few olives onto my plate.
    He laughs. “I didn’t invite you out to talk you into a personal relationship with your savior.” Then he smiles a complicated smile, at once bright and mournful. “Getting out wasn’t simple. I had to smash some idols, and I’d have to be a jerk to feel good about that. But I’ll spare you that story for tonight.”
    â€œSounds like your life is quite different these days.”
    â€œUnderstatement.” He winks. “But you meet me now at the pinnacle of my