“I've been trying to reach you,” she said. “You're out early.”
“I was running around on a story.”
“You remember our conversation?” Caroline asked.
“I remember I gave a drunken, sentimental speech. The audience was weeping.”
“No, what you said was very kind.”
“Yeah, well.”
“So,” she began, “what do you usually have for lunch?”
“Whatever.”
“Why don't you come up to my apartment and have some whatever?”
I said nothing.
“Well?” came Caroline's voice.
“I'm smiling,” I answered. “You wanted me to smile and I'm smiling.”
“Do you do other things, too?”
“Yes, I flirt with strange women on the phone.”
“They flirt with you, you mean.”
“Only when they want something from me.”
“I just want you to come over. It's an innocent request.”
“Do you have more things to show me, pictures of your dead husband in folders, neat stuff like that?”
“How about two o'clock?” she asked, ignoring the question. “I won't serve any gin and tonics.”
“I'll be able to keep it all straight, then.”
“Yes,” she answered, “figure out the motivations and so on.”
“Including yours?”
“Mine? My motivation is quite clear,” she said. “I'm looking for deliverance.”
“Aren't we all.”
“Not like I am,” she blurted.
That's what did itâI caught a tone in that remark, heard the dark spaces, Caroline's recognition of her own complicity in something. Yes, I told her, yes.
Â
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It was almost noon, and in a mood of nervous time wasting, I floated outside down to the street, had my shoes shined by a man who told me he was going to be as rich as Bill Gates, and then drifted into a video store and found copies of Simon
Crowley's movies. I picked up one of the bright, cellophane-wrapped boxes:
“Mr. Lu
is the second work by the brilliant young filmmaker who died a tragic, untimely death. Just twenty-six, Simon Crowley filmed
Mr. Lu
in only four weeks. The movie caused a sensation at the ⦔
The movie was sixty-two minutes long, and it seemed that if I was going to see Caroline again, it might not be a bad thing to view one of her late husband's movies. Back in the office, I slipped into an unused conference room and started the tape. The movie, set in New York, involves a black subway motorwoman, Vanessa Johnson. A world of rushing through dark corridors toward trash and rats and red signals turning green, the train's two beams of lights sweeping ahead of her as if searching interminably for something. Vanessa is about thirty-five and unmarried, the mother of three, and believes herself to be finished with the affections of men. She must deal with thieves who steal copper signal wire from the subway tunnels and lay the wire across the track so that it is cut by the passing trains, and she is confronted with a homeless man whose arm is severed when she runs over him accidentally as he lies drunkenly on one of the rails. Her face allows no expression, her eyes show no hope. Her only solace seems to be a battered cassette player, on which she plays Mozart's
Requiem
from beginning to end, starting the tape just as her shift starts. One evening she notices an older Chinese businessman. He rides her train every night, stepping onto the train at the same point in the music each time. She watches him in the side mirror of the motorman's booth as he enters and exits, always wearing a tailored suit. In time they speak. His name is Mr. Lu. He inquires about her and she tells him little, yet by her manner intimates that she would like to know more about him. Mr. Lu runs a wholesale hardware-supply store in Chinatown, rides home to Queens each night. After several datesâeach of which is marked by awkwardness and tensionâVanessa gives herself over to him, insisting only that he not touch her between her legs with his hands. Something happened a long time ago and she is reminded of it whenâhe nods. He is gentle with her, and yet
his manner remains reserved. He prefers not to tell her of himself, only that he lived in China until the 1970s. The film is suffused with a strange and potent eroticism, for while neither character is conventionally sexy, each is clearly hungry for the passion that has eluded them both until this moment. Eventually Vanessa learns that Mr. Lu has serious heart troubleâeach time they have sex literally imperils himâand that he served as one of Mao Tse-tung's executioners during the Cultural Revolution. In a long and grieving monologue on the observation deck of the Empire State Building, tourists around them videotaping one another and eating ice cream, Mr. Lu explains that he has personally executed more than eight hundred menâand fourteen women, one of whom was pregnant He goes on to tell Vanessa that he no longer understands the world, only that he has played an evil role in it He admits that he hated black people intensely after he emigrated to America, thinking them dirty and stupid. He has never had a family, he says, and wishes fervently that he had lived a different life. He believes that Vanessa is a very good woman who “deserves honor.” He wishes someone to know that he feels remorse for what he has done. He fears that he will soon die at any time, perhaps climbing a stairway or crossing the street. He asks Vanessa if she will allow him to ask her a “question very terrible.” She says yes. He says that he thinks he can induce a fatal heart attack in himself and would like to try it while having sex with her, in order that he might not die alone but in the arms of a woman. She says she will think about it Several days later she tells him no. He is respectful and quiet. When they are to meet again she is told that he has died that very day, lifting a heavy box in his store. The movie ends with an agonizingly long shot of Vanessa inside her subway car, the voices of the
Requiem
soaring and dropping, the stations and riders flashing by, mesmerizing, exhausting, Vanessa's eyes seeing them and yet not, her face sorrowful and mysterious.
It was, indeed, a quietly brilliant movie, and, remembering the photographs I had seen the night before, Simon Crowley's fate seemed continuous with the bleak vision of
Mr.
Lu.
Crowley's death was now, oddly enough, a small matter of grief for me. Cultural hype aside, here had been someone with something to say.
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At two, sobered by the movie, I rode the elevator up to Caroline Crowley's apartment with Sam Shepard. He was going a couple of floors higher, perhaps visiting someone equally glamorous. He stared ahead, hoping not to be recognized. He was still handsome yet looked like hell, the skin loose under his chin, the eyes tired. He saw me staring at him.
“Hey, man.”
The elevator opened then, and I stood in front of the black door for a moment, feeling odd that I was here again, not twelve hours after staggering out the previous night. It was both strange and deeply logical to me; our compulsions are always evident to us, I think, even if we fear them.
Caroline pulled the door open as soon as I knocked, her hair tied back in a ponytail. She was dressed in jeans and a white cashmere sweater.
“I rode up in the elevator with Sam Shepard,” I said.
“He's got a friend upstairs.”
The apartment was filled with pale winter light and seemed larger than it did the night before. I saw fresh vacuum-cleaner tracks on the carpet.
“I made us a little lunch,” Caroline said.
I followed her into the dining room, where a spread of soup and sandwiches was laid out on a long mahogany table. In the middle of the table was a bowl of the largest oranges I had ever seen.
“Last nightâ” I began.
“Last night was just right,” she interrupted.
I didn't know what she meant.
“You weren't expecting to meet me,” she said. “I saw you across the room and just thought I'd talk to you. I know it'sâit's strange, but I figured you had heard about every crazy story people can tell and this was
very
âwell, you have to understand myâCharlieâis very much of a businessman,
very dependable and everything, but not much interested in what happened with me and Simon ⦔ She took an orange from the bowl and began to peel it. “I guess I have a little problem, and it's pretty embarrassing.” She lifted her eyes. “I mean, if it was
just
embarrassing, then it wouldn't be a big deal. But it's more than that.”
We did not know each other, but already a strange intimacy existed between us. She seemed to feel a great pressure to tell me certain things, some essence of a predicament, and it occurred to me that perhaps she had decided that these were things her fiancé might be better off not knowing. For if she could tell him, then why would she need to tell me? I also was beginning to wonder whether Caroline Crowley might simply be lonely. Not in the sense of unaccompanied, for a woman such as she would always be accompanied, but fundamentally solitary; I wondered, too, if she did not trust herself to keep out of trouble. She was bright and beautiful and yet appeared unmoored. That she wanted to tell me of her “little problem” was proof of the randomness of her life and, I suspected, proof that her problem was not little at all.
Caroline began to move the plate of sandwiches around. “Last night you may have noticed that the articles I showed you on Simon don't mention me: See, we didn't have a public wedding, and also I didn't meet him until just about the end of his life. The fact that we were married came out after he died, and I just flew to Mexico and stayed a few months in order to avoid the television people, people like that.”
“People like me.” I took a sandwich. “Ratlike journalists.”
“Yes, exactly.”
“How did you and Simon meet?”
“By accident.” She separated each section of the orange, then laid them out in a line, eight pieces. “At the time, I wasâI'd been around, if you know what I mean. I'd been here a few years ⦔ She paused, and in the gesture I was given to understand that there was a story that preceded her arrival to New York, but she seemed to push it away in order to concentrate on what she was telling me. “I was living a sort of tired, pretty-girl New York life, you know? I had almost
no money and I was ⦠there were always
regular
guys sort of around, but I was tired, I'd been to a lot of parties and everything ⦠I'd been out in California, but I'd come to New York just to see it, see something different, you know.”
I nodded my vague understanding. Only later would it be clear to me that Caroline was offering an absurdly simplified, barely truthful version of why she had come to New York City; only later would I see that the reasons for her change of venue ran deep into her past and that the effects ran up to that very moment. But now, watching her fiddle with her orange peels, I knew only that she seemed distracted by anxiety.
“I guess I had been in the city long enough that I knew I had to get serious about something,” she was saying. “I mean, this is a hard place. You have to know why you're here. If you don't know thatâ”
“You're in big trouble.”
“Yes, you're in big trouble, because you'll get pushed into something or just eaten up somehow. That happened to a girlfriend of mine. She started smoking crack and I just never saw her anymore, and then she showed up and was really thin and sick, and we had to send her back to Texas on a bus.” Caroline pushed an orange section between her teeth. “So at the time I didn't have work, and I went to an agency and got a job answering phones at a law firm, at the front desk, and I could sort of scrape along on that. I'd been there about three days when one of the attorneys, one of the older ones, asked me if I would join him for a drink after work. He was very important and everything, but he was just some kind of regular guyâhe wouldn't have understood anything about me ⦠I wasn't even looking for anybody, I had dressed very conservatively and hadn't put on too much makeup. I just didn't want to be noticed, I wanted some
stability,
and anyway, he asked me out, and there he was in his suit and gray hair and everything, maybe forty-five, and he looked sort of pleased with himself, like he had just made a million dollars or something, and for all I know he
had,
and actually he was sort of attractive, but ⦠well, I had seen some people in California
who were pretty unusual ⦠I said that was very nice but I couldn't do it. So, he was a lawyer, after all, so he wanted a rationale, and he asked me if it was a matter of availability or a matter of preference. That was how he put it. I was sort of angry, and I said preference.” Caroline bit a piece of orange. “The next day, the lady who was the head of personnel fired me when I came back from lunch. She said it just wasn't going toâ”
“He'd told her to do it.”
“Of course. I just got up and left, and I walked south from Midtown, just walked and walked, at least an hourâyou know how that can feel good on a cold dayâand I was just walking along and went into a crummy bar down on Bleecker Street. It was warm inside. I decided to sit and think and then Simon came inâhe was easy to recognize, he didn't look like anybody else. I'd seen his films. In fact, I'd seen
Mr. Lu
twice. He was alone, and he saw me sitting there and came over and asked me if he could buy me another drink, and I said yes and we talked for a while. I thought that he was even uglier than what I'd seen of him in the media. Shorter, kind of meaner-looking, with cowboy boots, which look stupid on a city guy. But we had a pretty good conversation. He wanted to know about my childhood.” She ate another orange section. “Specifically if there was a laundry line in the backyard, with T-shirts and underwear and jeans drying on it, and that was funny, but I said yes, in fact, we'd had a laundry line like that. Both our fathers had done physical labor ⦠my stepfather was a trucker. I wondered why he was paying such attention to me.”