Cleopatra and Frankenstein(35)

The Oyster Bar was located on the lower level of the station, down two sets of wide marble steps. To reach it, they had to cross the whispering galley, a swooping archway of interlocking terra-cotta tiles meticulously laid in a herringbone pattern.

“Do you know about this?” asked Frank.

Cleo shook her head.

“If we stand in opposite corners, and I whisper something into the wall, you’ll be able to hear it. Something about the acoustics of the architecture means it carries. You wanna try it?”

They each went to a separate corner and leaned their bodies against the cool cavernous walls. The sounds of the station echoed around them. Frank was just about to whisper to Cleo that he loved her when he heard her voice reverberating through the tiles next to his ear.

“I haven’t told them we got married,” she whispered.

“You didn’t?” he whispered back.

“So don’t mention the wedding,” she whispered.

Frank turned to look at Cleo, whose back was still to him. She was wearing a long lemon silk dress that made her look like a bar of sunshine. He was crossing the walkway to speak to her when they heard the sound of Cleo’s name being called. Peter and Miriam were standing in front of the restaurant, waving at them.

“I told them we live together,” said Cleo hurriedly. “But that’s it.”

“Whatever you say,” said Frank.

Cleo’s father was a large strawberry-blond man with the same pale eyes and slightly distrustful expression as his daughter. He was wearing a faded polo shirt and cargo shorts, from which his thick arms and legs sprouted like cactus limbs covered in a thin layer of blond fuzz. His dense, weathered body suggested a life of hard physical labor, though this impression was offset by a delicate silver thumb ring and a collection of gemstone bracelets tied around each wrist.

Miriam was also wearing an assortment of silver and turquoise jewelry, which included a chunky, veined ring on each finger and an old-fashioned clock dangling from a chain around her neck. She was an attractive woman in her mid-fifties with long mahogany-brown hair streaked with gray. Tied around her head was a teal headscarf the same color as the loose linen tunic she wore. Both she and Peter were wearing matching Teva sandals, hers in aqua, his in black. The nails on Miriam’s hand, when she waved, flashed green.

“Oh yeah,” Cleo muttered as they made their way toward them. “Miriam’s obsessed with the color turquoise.”

“We were worried you wouldn’t recognize us,” said her father when they reached them.

“Why wouldn’t I recognize you?”

“Oh, you know,” he said. “It’s been a few years.”

“You look the same,” Cleo said. “You look good.” She gave each of them a stiff hug. “This is Frank,” she said.

Frank instantly swooped in to pump Peter’s meaty hand in his own. He attempted to give Miriam a kiss on each cheek the European way, but she resisted, and he ended up smooshing his face messily into hers and then breaking away.

“Awesome to meet you guys,” he said.

Awesome was a not a word he generally used, given that he was a man in his forties and not a college frat boy, but he had been thrown off by the bungled double kiss and was now in a tailspin of social unease. He resorted to grinning manically at them and rubbing his palms together like some kind of cartoon villain. Cleo, on the other hand, could feel herself physically shrinking in their presence. She made a conscious effort to push her shoulders back and meet Miriam’s eyes, which were regarding Frank with bemusement.

“You’re very American, aren’t you,” said Miriam.

“I’m not sure that’s a compliment,” said Frank, widening his grin into an even gummier grimace.

“He’s from New York,” said Cleo defensively. “That’s just how they sound.”

“Oh, I love it, darling,” trilled Miriam. “Everyone keeps telling us to ‘Have a great day.’” Here she affected an obscenely nasal American accent. “They’re all so friendly, aren’t they?”

“I dig your, um, green thing,” said Frank. “Very cool.”

“Turquoise represents coming into one’s own power,” declared Miriam. “It’s a little more than cool.”

“I’m hungry,” said Peter. “Let’s go in.”

The subterranean Oyster Bar could have been in any season of any year. It was untouched by time or sunlight. The same curved ceilings as the whispering gallery outside continued within, the sweeping contours of the tiles creating the sensation of being inside a brick oven. Low chandeliers in the shape of ship’s wheels shone their buttery light on the gleaming stainless steel and Formica counters, around which stood rows of vinyl swiveling stools. The group decided to sit at a table rather than the bar and were led to a separate section with red-and-white-checkered tablecloths and stiff white napkins that glowed amber in the light.

“What a funny place,” said Miriam as she took a seat.

“It’s a New York institution,” said Frank. “Freshest oysters in the city. My mom used to take me here when I was a kid.”

“That must have been some time ago,” said Miriam lightly. “You’re quite a bit older than Cleo, no?”

“Now, now,” said Peter. “Let’s order first before we begin the inquisition.”