The Immortalists(40)
At 72 Clinton, she lay in her old bed and closed her eyes until his presence was tangible. One hundred and thirty-five years ago, the Fox sisters heard rapping noises in their Hydesville bedroom. On a gray, blustery afternoon in September 1983, Simon knocked for Klara. It was more than a creak in the floorboards, more than the whine of a door: a low, sonorous pop that seemed to come from the bowels of 72 Clinton, as if the building were cracking its knuckles.
Klara’s eyes flew open. She could feel her heartbeat in her ears. ‘Simon?’ she ventured.
She held her breath. Nothing.
Klara shook her head. She was getting carried away.
She had all but forgotten the knock by June 21st, 1986, the fourth anniversary of Simon’s death. She’d spent previous anniversaries in bars, drinking vodka straight until she forgot what day it was, but this year, she forced herself to make coffee, tie her Doc Martens, and walk to the Castro. It was remarkable: many of the gay clubs had closed with the bathhouses, but Purp was still standing. It even looked freshly painted. She wished she could tell Simon, or Robert. Robert had never liked Purp, but Klara knew he would be glad to hear it survived.
Robert. She used to meet him downtown. In 1985, President Reagan still hadn’t acknowledged AIDS, and two men chained themselves to a building at UN Plaza in protest. Klara and Robert brought food and copies of the Bay Area Reporter to a growing mass of volunteers. If Robert wasn’t too sick, they slept outside. Klara begged a nurse who had cared for Simon to include Robert in the Suramin trial, and he received the last open spot. But the medication made him sick, so sick he couldn’t dance, and he stopped taking it within days. Klara banged on the door of the Eureka Street apartment where Robert now lived alone. ‘You owe it to Simon,’ she shouted. ‘You can’t quit now.’ By August, they weren’t speaking. By October, every patient in the trial was dead.
When Klara read about it in the paper, it felt like her whole body was on fire, like she could melt through the floor from the burn. She tried to call Robert, but his line had been disconnected. When she got to Academy, Fauzi told her that Robert had moved back to Los Angeles. Just picked up and left. That was seven months ago. She hadn’t been able to find him since.
She found an orange nasturtium on the ground and hooked it through Purp’s door handle. That night, she made Gertie’s meat loaf, which Simon had loved, and undressed for a bath. Underwater, her hair spread like Medusa’s. She could hear the echo of voices, muffled feet on the stairs. And then: a crack. She recognized it instantly as the noise she’d heard in New York.
She burst through the surface of the water, wetting the floor.
‘If you’re real,’ she said, ‘if it’s you, do it again.’
The noise came a second time, like a bat striking a ball.
‘Jesus Christ.’ When she began to shake, tears hit the water. ‘Simon.’
14.
June 1988: Raj stands onstage at Teatro ZinZanni as Klara paints her face in the dressing room. It’s the nicest one she’s ever been in, with a gold vanity and a TV screen that shows what’s happening onstage.
‘Life isn’t just about defying death,’ Raj says, his voice coming through the speakers on either side of the television. ‘It’s also about defying yourself, about insisting on transformation. As long as you can transform, my friends, you cannot die. What does Clark Kent have in common with the chameleon? Right when they’re on the brink of destruction, they change. Where have they gone? Nowhere we can see. The chameleon has become a branch. Clark Kent has become Superman.’
Klara sees the miniature Raj onscreen spread his arms. She lines her lips with bright red pencil.
Three months later, Klara flies to New York: her visits over the High Holidays have become a tradition. She is dizzy with happiness. Second Sight was a success, and though the collapsed birdcage poked like veins through Klara’s jacket sleeve – they’ll have the seamstress let it out – the audience didn’t seem to notice. Teatro ZinZanni has booked them for ten more shows.
Klara wants Raj to meet her family, but they can’t afford two tickets to New York. Soon, though, he says, they’ll have the cash to go anywhere. On Rosh Hashanah, Klara pulls Varya into the bunk room. It feels like her body’s all helium, like she could rise to the ceiling if she just took off her shoes.
She says, ‘I think we might get married.’
‘You started dating in March,’ says Varya. ‘It’s been six months.’
‘February,’ says Klara. ‘Seven.’
‘But Daniel hasn’t even proposed to Mira.’
Mira is Daniel’s girlfriend. They met one year ago, when Mira was studying for an art history degree, and she’s already come to meet Varya and Gertie. As soon as Daniel gets a job, he plans to propose with a ruby ring Saul gave Gertie.
Klara tucks a lock of Varya’s hair behind her ear. ‘You’re jealous.’
She’s observing Varya, not accusing her, and it is this – the tenderness in Klara’s voice – that makes Varya wince.
‘Of course not,’ she says. ‘I’m happy for you.’
Varya must think it’s another one of Klara’s acts, something she’ll quit in a month or two. She doesn’t know they’ve all but done it, that Klara has her dress and Raj has his suit, that they plan to go to City Hall as soon as Klara returns from New York. She certainly doesn’t know about the baby.