The Other Language(82)
Inside the department store the suffocating dampness mixed with the smells emanating from too many bodies feels like a lethal gas that will slowly poison her. She spends too long inside there, unable to make up her mind between two sets of pajamas, incapable of picking the right kind of snow boots, feeling heady, hungry and weak. Too much to choose from, too many options, that’s always the problem with department stores.
She bolts.
Out on the street Sonia inhales the cold slap of air on her face and quickly heads back downtown toward her more familiar neighborhood. The farther south she goes, the deeper into the West Village, the more stylish the women: cloaked in well-cut coats and fur-lined boots, extravagant head gear—a Mongolian-Tibetan style with a contemporary touch—hands gloved in unusual shades for a splash of color. Her own clothes feel limp and stale on her. What seemed a perfectly decent coat only two weeks ago as she was leaving Europe here feels threadbare, secondhand.
It’s going to be tough to brave this city, she thinks. It would’ve been easier, exciting, had they been in a different state of mind. Had they come for a different reason. Her feet are freezing already after only a few steps, the soles of her boots are too thin for the hard, icy pavement. Had she been more patient in her shopping attempt, she could’ve gotten at least the snow boots that were on sale on the ground floor. At least she’d have ticked one item off the list. Actually this constant postponing is a way to keep away all that is in store for them in the coming weeks. For what feels like a long time now she has been pushing the future—any portion of the future, regardless of its weight and size—as far away as possible.
A bubble, a tiny capsule of time where nothing is happening, no decision can be made, is all she wishes for.
A Starbucks beckons from across the street. Another whiff of hot air welcomes her. Sleepy youths in cotton T-shirts lounge in the ample armchairs holding laptops on their knees, busy with their Facebook pages, their backpacks and jackets spread on the floor as if it were their living room.
She sits by the window with a tall regular coffee, and along with the caffeine kick she injects her neurons with more drops of Rescue Remedy.
That’s when her peripheral vision catches a slight movement on her left side. She looks over to the window. Someone is standing outside looking in and shading with a hand the reflection on the glass. It’s a man in a leather coat. Their gaze meets in midair—a laser beam that pierces the glass and freezes the frame.
She jolts, her heart beating wildly in her throat.
Neither one knows how to proceed. He has walked in, brushing fresh snowflakes off his scarf, with a big smile made to conceal a certain uneasiness. They hug, briefly, circumspectly, without kissing. He sits down without taking off his coat, as though he cannot stay for long. Clearly he’s had to walk in, given the incredible coincidence, spotting her inside a Starbucks in an unlikely neighborhood, in a city of millions. They agree that once again they’ve met under unusual circumstances, though neither one pronounces the word sign or destiny. He has aged slightly, gracefully. His hair is shorter, he might have gained a few pounds, but his body still looks strong and muscular; it has the natural build gained by a life outdoors rather than the neatly sculpted physique created inside a gym. His clothes—such an African wardrobe—make him look incongruous, in a way rather unstylish; like a cowboy just landed in Manhattan. He glances over at the indolent college kids sitting next to them, at the mess of their used paper cups and half-eaten pastries on the tables. He seems fascinated, as though he’s never been inside a Starbucks before.
He and Sonia are evasive as to their whereabouts—why they both find themselves in New York of all places. He says he’s there for only another couple of days—business, boring stuff—and he’ll be flying back home on the weekend. Actually he might have said We’ll be flying back—Sonia tries to replay the phrase in order to double-check the pronoun but her memory plays funny tricks, it tends to blur words she doesn’t want to hear.
“Business,” she repeats, then asks, smiling, “Sheep business in New York?”
“No,” he says, “no more sheep in my life. More like big spare parts. You don’t want to know.”
Then he rubs his gloveless hands and blows on them.
“What are you doing here? Are you waiting for someone?” he asks.
“No, I was just …”
She stands up and gets her coat, gathers her bag.
“… just getting a coffee. Come on, let’s get out of here. I hate this place.”
Her hands are shaking lightly as she wraps the scarf around her neck. Nothing has changed—the excitement, the fear, the desire—it’s all still there, unevolved, unexpired. Still dangerously alive, as if it has only been asleep inside her.
Suddenly New York in the snow looks heartbreakingly beautiful. They walk along the small blocks around Greenwich Street, where there are fewer people, less traffic. They don’t have a plan yet but she wants to be somewhere quiet, where they can have some privacy.
“Are you hungry, you want to get something to eat?” she asks, to let him know that she does have a little time.
“Sure,” he says, looking slightly disoriented now. She sees a Japanese banner farther up the street.
“Good. How about sushi?”
“Whatever you feel like.”