Must Read Well, page 5
So that’s all about that.
The shrimp risotto turned out better than I’d dared hope—I’m not a natural cook—and Petra was thrilled for me when I told her my tale. (And maybe a tiny bit thrilled for herself, since she’d finally be getting her privacy back.) Naturally, she knew all about Anne Weil and the dead end to which that lady’s coyness had brought my dissertation. Like other people whose life plans weren’t about to be completely destroyed by Weil’s intransigence, I knew that Petra thought her well within her rights. And she was, of course. I was the idiot who’d assumed without a thought that I would win her cooperation. But Petra had always had the diplomacy and good sense to refrain from pointing that out to me.
When I told her about the non-disclosure agreement Weil mentioned, however, she put her fork down and gave me a sideways, narrow-eyed look. “You’re going to abide by that, I trust,” she said.
“Am I?”
“You’ll have to. She could take you to court if you don’t.”
I hesitated, torn between the person I usually was and the cunning child reawakened by the prospect of access to Anne Weil. “But when would she do that?” I asked, speaking from some middle ground between those two personae. “What are the chances my dissertation would ever even come to anyone’s attention? It’s not as if it’s likely to be published. And if by some bizarre fluke it were, would she—well, not to be crude or insensitive, but how likely is she even to be alive by then? She’s eighty-nine years old, and she has a bad heart.
“Not that I want her to die,” I added, as Petra’s cool green eyes continued to bore into me. “Besides, it’s not as if I’m planning to write anything scurrilous about her. I’m trying to champion her work. I’m trying to carve out a place for her in women’s history, for Chrissake. She’s just too—I don’t know what, too stubborn, too dopey, too mistrustful? Whatever, she just doesn’t get that.”
Petra was silent for a little while. She used the fingers of her left hand to shove a few stray grains of risotto onto her fork, chewed them, swallowed. Then she said, “But what if the journals she wants you to read from don’t have anything to do with her work? What use will that be?”
“Well, first of all, I think they probably will have to do with her work, because of the timing. Because of the dates she’s interested in and when Vengeance came out. But also—”
I stopped talking, wondering if I should tell even Petra what was in my mind. Probably not. Remote as the likelihood was, I supposed it was true that there could be legal action against me one day, and if a case were to arise, the less she knew, the better.
“But also because once I get to know her,” I improvised, “I’m sure she’ll open up to me.”
Petra knew me well enough to know I didn’t believe this. If there’s a sort of person people confide in, I am not that sort of person. I’m not open enough myself to invite confidences from others. But Petra also knew enough to let the subject drop.
FOUR
I moved into Apartment 10A two days after my first visit there, arriving on a Sunday just before noon. I came prepared with many stories about why I might have needed to move so quickly, from splitting up with a boyfriend (not much imagination there) to having been kicked out of what I’d thought was a legal sublet. But Weil never asked. Nor did she follow up on the work reference I had offered. This surprised me, but I attributed it to the outstanding job I’d done of presenting myself as an ideal tenant—not to mention my skills as a reader. In that capacity, I really did excel; she would be hard put to find someone better.
It was easy to pack up, because I’d hardly unpacked since evacuating Tim’s apartment; there was no room in Petra’s place for me to put my things “away,” so the suitcases had remained nearly full and the boxes sealed. Petra made us oatmeal for breakfast, then helped me lug everything down to a taxi late that morning. Just before I left, with the cabbie’s trunk full and the backseat crammed with overflow, we both felt a wave of sadness, the kind that would make sense if I were on my way to a new life on another continent.
Petra leaned into the backseat to give me a hug and our mouths accidentally banged into each other. This made us laugh. But after she’d straightened and slammed the door shut, and I’d rolled down the window so we could call goodbye and I love you to each other as the taxi pulled away, we both had tears in our eyes.
Half an hour later, at the Windrush, the doorman (Frank again) lugged everything out of the taxi and loaded it onto a brass luggage cart. He had been told I was coming to stay and that I should be treated as a resident. During the phone call when we set up my move-in date, Weil had asked if I could be available at two o’clock on the afternoon of my arrival, for a brief meeting in her living room. Naturally, I said I could; I had yet to see a lease and assumed she meant by “meeting” an occasion for me to sign one and pay my rent.
As it turned out, I didn’t cross paths with her until the appointed hour that day. It was Marta who let me in when I rang the bell, Marta who helped me carry my possessions to my room, she who gave me a key, she who suggested a nearby grocery store where I could pick up some food for myself. I did this soon after my arrival, coming back with a small stash of thriftily chosen tuna fish, bread, off-brand mayo, yogurt, and bananas. Without a glimpse of my landlady, I made myself a sandwich and, with Marta’s blessing, sat down at the lonely dining-room table to eat it. Then I unpacked.
Shortly before two o’clock, I heard the doorbell ring. Soon Marta passed my door and a couple of minutes later repassed slowly in the other direction, this time with Anne. Going into the living room promptly at 2:00, I found her again seated at her beautiful desk. With her, occupying what I already considered my chair, was a short, smiley, ruddy-cheeked man of fifty or so in a shapeless brown suit and a pair of salt-stained Oxford shoes. Emanating vigorous good cheer, he stood to shake my hand. And so I made the acquaintance of Patrick Quigley, who I soon learned was Anne’s lawyer.
“Please sit down,” he invited, moving toward me and waving me into the chair he’d just vacated. As I sat, Anne nodded amiably at me, even casually, as if we’d seen each other just a few minutes ago. Meanwhile, her lawyer brought in a little wooden chair from the foyer, sat, then reached into a briefcase he’d left on the floor. From this he withdrew several documents, which he set on the desk in front of me.
The first was indeed a lease, a lease of six sentences on a single page. In it, Anne Taussig Weil (hereinafter “Landlord”) agreed to rent a room and private bath in Apartment 10A of the Windrush, with kitchen privileges and free internet access included, on a weekly basis, to Beth Miller (hereinafter “Tenant”) for the sum of $160 a month. Tenant agreed to pay this rent in four weekly installments of $40 starting on the seventh day after the signing of this lease. She further agreed to conduct herself quietly and to bring no visitors to the apartment.
This was something we hadn’t discussed, but it had never crossed my mind to bring anyone anyhow. She also agreed to do all she could to make herself available to read to Landlord no less than one hour of every day during the tenure of her stay. Should Tenant fail to meet these terms, or if for any other reason Landlord should wish to, Landlord retained the right to demand, on a week’s written notice, that Tenant move out. As for Tenant, she had the right to move out at any time.
After this, there were signature lines for both of us.
“Oh,” Quigley said, as he handed us pens. “Do you have a picture ID, Beth?”
“Yes, of course. In my room. Should I get it?”
“Please.”
On my way to my room, I felt a suspense I’d been mercifully spared since getting myself out of Flyspeck—the suspense that comes when a person bigger than you might suddenly explode. My forehead was visibly sweating when I returned and gave the license to Quigley, but thankfully, all he did was look at it, murmur “Oh” again, then take out a pen for himself and neatly alter the tenant’s name to “Elizabeth Miller.” Given the usual single-spaced lines and squint-worthy font in which the lease was printed, I told myself it was unlikely Anne would be able to make out either my crossed-out name or his printed substitute.
This done, Quigley handed back my license and copy of the lease, gave a copy to her, and asked us both to sign. Anne had put on her reading glasses. Now she scanned her desk, then put out a hand and slid it over the surface. She was searching for the magnifying glass with the jade handle, I assumed, but it wasn’t there. It lay on a Chippendale-style end table next to one of the red velvet sofas; I had noticed it earlier, when I came in, but I said nothing. Failing to locate it, she let the matter go and instead merely skimmed over, or pretended to skim over, the lease, pen hovering, until Quigley reached out to guide her hand to her signature line. We both signed two more copies. Then Quigley gave one to each of us and slipped the third into his briefcase.
“There, that’s done. And now,” he went on, drawing a few other papers from his bag, “I have the non-disclosure agreement you discussed.” He riffled through the copies quickly, neatly changing my first name again, then put one before each of us. Reaching again into the briefcase, he produced from it the sort of clamp used for embossing notarized documents. “Please read it,” he told me. After a minute, he murmured to Anne, “We’ll need our witness soon.”
Anne rang her little bell, upon which Marta promptly appeared, driver’s license in hand. Since she’d told me she was here from Monday through Friday, I realized now that she must have come in today only to welcome me and to serve as witness.
Quigley took a look at her license, then at her face, and returned it.
I was still reading the agreement, and the others waited in silence until I was done. For better or for worse, I was too nervous to make much sense of it. I tried to keep my face pleasant, businesslike, but inside I was quivering. With a formal, legal document before me and a pen with which to sign it, Petra’s imaginary lawsuit seemed less far-fetched.
“Take your time,” Quigley said, watching me. “Let me know if you’d like to consult a lawyer before you sign. It is a legally binding document, and I’d advise you to do so.”
But I declined. Apart from suggesting that I had doubts about my willingness to observe its stipulations, taking time to see a lawyer of my own would only delay things. Besides, like the lease, the NDA was short and very clear. It stated that I agreed to keep in strict confidence any information pertaining to the personal or professional life of Anne Taussig Weil or other named persons in the material I was to read her. I would not provide or permit unauthorized access to, use of, publication, or dissemination of same. I would not disclose or discuss the information with any person.
Further, I would keep confidential the very existence of this agreement (too late for that!), revealing neither the fact of it nor the nature of the business that occasioned it. This agreement would terminate only with the written consent of Anne Taussig Weil. Failure to observe any or all of these obligations could result in money damages and/or litigation.
It was disturbing, very disturbing, and the more I read, the faster ran my heart. Still, I comforted myself that there was one very good thing about it: The terms applied only to what I learned from the material I read aloud to her. Nothing was said about information from conversations we might have, nor the other 290 or so journals sitting unattended not a hundred feet away. I signed, and as Quigley handed two more copies around, signed both of these as well. One copy for each of us, each with Anne’s and my signature, each witnessed by Marta and notarized by Quigley. I look back at that moment now and believe that I both knew and did not know just then that I was determined to examine those journals no matter what. I was like a person burning with fleshly desire, mesmerized by the perverse lure of the forbidden. I wanted them. I would have them.
The NDAs distributed, Marta disappeared while the rest of us exchanged polite smiles (mine sending a quick squiggle of nausea through me) and Quigley tucked his copy of the executed document into his briefcase.
“And that,” he said, standing up, “I believe, is that.”
He gave a little bow, returned his chair to the foyer, then came back to the desk to say goodbye. Anne tilted her face up at him and, in her most thrilling Lauren Bacall voice, thanked him for sparing her a trip to his office—and on a Sunday at that. He smiled, said it was no trouble, leaned down, air-kissed her, and went away, leaving Anne and me alone.
For a moment, in the vacuum the others had left behind, she trained her eyes on my face with what seemed to me a speculative look. As before, I wondered what she could really see of me, whether she was truly scrutinizing me or, for some reason, merely schooling her own gaze to mimic speculation. I thought it had to be the latter, since she had told me that anything she focused on was blank. She couldn’t pretend to walk steadily or, of course, read text without great difficulty, but she could pretend to read my expressions. Diminished as her abilities were, this must have been a consolation.
“We haven’t discussed when we’ll meet for the readings,” she pointed out after a moment. “Providing I’m well enough, I’d prefer ten in the morning. Does that suit you?”
Because the class I taught met on Tuesdays and Fridays at three, I assured her this was fine.
“Good. And seven days a week?”
“Yes, that’s no problem at all.”
“And if I’m not well enough in the morning, we’ll try to arrange it for another time that day? There will no doubt be such mornings. My energy is—” she hesitated before finishing, “—my health is variable these days.”
“Yes, I understand. Yes, sure.”
“Wonderful. Shall we start tomorrow then? Oh, and by the way,” she added, “I’m not sure I’ll be able to listen for a whole hour every time. But you won’t mind if some sessions are shorter.”
“Not at all; whatever works for you.” I hesitated before going on, “If you’d care to get started now, I’m free.”
She shook her head.
“I’m afraid this afternoon’s little ceremony was enough excitement for me for today. I don’t know how old you imagine I am, but I’m nearly ninety. Even at my best, I spend many hours a day lying down in my room, recovering from nothing more than the ordinary exertions of daily life. I’m already longing to do that right now.”
I jumped to my feet. “Then we’ll start tomorrow. Shall I—?”
I gestured at the cane and crooked my arm to suggest my willingness to escort her, but she said no.
“It’s best for me to manage on my own, or so my doctor tells me. I must keep my joints and muscles working as best I can. Many people older than I am have less trouble with this, I know, but I am being punished for a lifetime of sedentary pursuits. My only comfort is that I’ve had enough self-discipline to keep my spine straight. I couldn’t bear to be one of those people you see with their backs hunched and their heads irremediably thrust forward.”
With this, she reached for her cane and, leaning heavily on it, used it to lever herself upright. Then, each action deliberate, she turned slowly in the direction of the dining room and began a cautious journey toward it.
“Between my shaky pins and my wonky eyes, every walk is an adventure,” she remarked as she went. “Still, I try to hobble up and down the corridor every day or two. Dr. Braudy’s orders. God, how I loathe exercise,” she called back as she neared the dining room.
Out of tact, I stayed where I was until I heard her three-footed steps reach her bedroom door. Then I went to my own room and called Carrie Benson, my roommate freshman year at Columbia.
Carrie is a lawyer.
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That night, after nearly two weeks of camping out at Petra’s, I slept easily and deeply. At her place, even though I knew it so well, I had awakened every morning with a sense of dislocation. When I came to consciousness, the thought of Tim rushed to my mind—his habit of throwing off all the covers by morning no matter the weather, the way he slept curled up on his side, facing away from me, the march of sharp vertebrae up his curved spine—and a wave of self-pity and exhaustion would run through me.
At Anne’s, the mattress was pleasantly firm, the quilt and linens fresh. Despite my deep sleep, I woke up preternaturally aware of where I was—as if, like a bird’s, half my brain had been awake all night. When I got out of bed and opened the blackout shades concealed behind the eyelet curtains, it was a delight to see the morning’s cloud-dotted blue sky and the bright, flowing river, so different from Petra’s courtyard view, not to mention the airshaft outside the bedroom I’d shared with Tim. (Only the living room faced Morningside Park.) A little snow had fallen overnight and lay crisp and pure along the branches of the black, leafless trees below. I checked my phone and found I had slept nine hours, till 7:45.
I washed and dressed before creeping to the kitchen, drawn by a strong smell of coffee. I thought perhaps Marta had already come but found Anne there alone, her thin body canted against a counter while she buttered a slice of toast. Her beautiful hair was neatly brushed, and she wore a quilted, cream-colored, ankle-length robe with a pair of soft tan leather slippers. The robe had lapels and a wide sash; it reminded me of dressing gowns in movies of the ’30s. I hesitated in the open doorway—the swing door was flush to the wall, held there by some built-in mechanism—unsure if she was aware of me and reluctant to disturb her, until she said without turning, “Go ahead, come in. Kitchen privileges, you know.”
