The Ghost of Greenwich Village: A Novel (36 page)

Eve knew all this but Klieg seemed to be in a trance.

“I think it was because we had more than a philosophy in common. We’d grown up in similar families. We’d come to feel we were alone in the world at a young age and recognized this in each other. If this doesn’t sound too strange, it was a little like a love affair.”

Eve nodded.

“We did everything together, walked every inch of the city and talked all night over bottles of wine at Montmartre. Paris was for
us what New York is for so many: that hypnotic place that binds those who cherish it in the same way. We could not get enough of it or each other. A few days apart felt like years.” He rubbed his eyes. “And then one day a new cashier started at the Deux Magots.”

“Louisa.”

“Immediately we sensed that she was a once-in-a-lifetime woman, the kind who could change a man’s destiny. Parisian girls could be a proud, haughty bunch, especially with foreigners, but Louisa was not. She came from a small village north of Toulouse and it was as if she was the only earnest girl left. She took a real interest in those around her and showed true kindness when anyone was in need. And that spelled danger. But we ignored this, of course.” He paused, remembering. “We spent every afternoon at the Deux Magots. Donald would look at the poems she was trying to write—I’m not sure how much talent she had, but she was so, so hopeful about it. And I would sketch dresses for her. After she got off work, we’d fly around the city from bar to café, salon to party, laughing and debating. We’d come home at dawn, staggering up to Louisa’s flat for
‘café pour trois.’
Black coffee in tiny cups and whatever Louisa had stolen from the restaurant would be our breakfast. We were so young, so ridiculously young. We thought we could go on like this forever.”

“But you couldn’t,” said Eve.

“I became aware that I had done what was verboten: I had fallen in love with Louisa. I agonized. What should I do? How could I hurt Donald? How could I jeopardize the friendship that existed between the three of us? Then my collection failed, as I told you, and something inside me broke. I decided if nothing else, I must at least have this woman. So one evening, I went to her flat to surprise her. I brought flowers, gladiolas. She wasn’t home but I knew where she kept her extra key and let myself in. Only to put the flowers in water, I told myself. I looked down and realized that I’d stepped on something. An envelope, slipped under the door.” His voice had grown hoarse.

“Go on,” said Eve, handing him her glass of water.

Klieg took a drink. “I opened it. I had no right to but I did. I read the letter inside. And I knew that if Louisa read it, I would lose her.”

“Why? What did it say?”

“It was from Donald. He too was in love with her.”

“But how did you know Louisa would pick Donald over you?” Eve asked, bringing her knees up under her chin.

“Because he had said all the right things. That he was ready to use words as a bridge instead of a wall, to say what he felt. He had written a new collection of stories, stories from the heart, not just the mind. He said it was she, Louisa, who had inspired him to reveal himself this way, and he included one of the stories with his letter. He implored her to meet him that very night, so he could declare himself in person. He promised that if she didn’t come, he would never bother her again. He said he would never ask anything of her and he would never speak of it to anyone. He said that the three of us would go on as we had always been,
les Trois Mousquetaires
.”

“Do you really think she would have gone to meet him?”

“Oh yes. Because while Louisa loved us both, it was Donald she was
in
love with. I knew; I could see that, despite our pledge, the two of them belonged together. But there was a problem. She was often frustrated by his inability to communicate, yet she was not the type to make demands. If she’d been bolder, she would have told him that he was the one she wanted. And she might have shown her poems to an editor and … who knows?

“In any case, with his letter, Donald made it clear that for her, he had changed his disposition. I doubt he ever used the word ‘love’ before or after. If he’d lived long enough to become famous, that letter would have become quite valuable. If I had not torn it to pieces, that is.” Klieg allowed himself a mirthless laugh.

Eve couldn’t believe what she was hearing. “What happened next?” she asked, hardly able to breathe.

“Louisa came home and we ate dinner together on her little
terrace overlooking the courtyard. I knew I had to act fast and I did. I asked her to marry me.”

From outside, the carolers’ voices drifted up:

“That whole evening, I felt sick. As the hours ticked by, I kept thinking of Donald, somewhere out there in the dark, waiting for her. At the end of the night, Louisa agreed to be my wife. I should have rejoiced but I felt only torment. And this became a harbinger for our marriage. As wonderful as she was, and as well as we were suited, our time together was shadowed by my guilt. A piece of her always seemed to be somewhere else, with her real love.” Klieg brought his elbows to his knees and placed his face in his hands.

“Did Donald find out about you two?”

“Yes. Some days later he dragged himself away from his self-imposed isolation and came to the café. He saw us embracing by the espresso machine.”

“What did he do?”

Klieg shook his head. “Nothing. He kissed us each on the cheek and demanded the biggest
pain au chocolat
in the case, got himself a newspaper, and took a seat at his favorite table. Never once did he mention the letter or his feelings. He even helped Louisa and me pack for Germany.” Klieg’s shoulders sagged and he sat back, spent. “I have often wondered if I would have been so selfless if the situation had been reversed. But if Donald had taken Louisa from me, I do not know what I would have done.” Again, the low, bitter laugh. “I might have tried to kill him with my scissors.”

Eve brought a hand to her mouth.

Donald … the writer … 
Paper
.

Klieg … the designer … 
Scissors
.

Eve looked at the creased picture in her hand: Louisa, with her dimples … 
Rock
?

Eve reached out, putting a hand on Klieg’s knee. “You told me at the gallery that day that something happened to Donald in 1964. Something that led him to distrust words, to decide that they couldn’t communicate feelings. And that after that he never again attempted to express emotion in his stories. You said you didn’t know what had happened. But it was you taking the letter, wasn’t it? That’s what happened in 1964. Donald believed she’d read his words and that they hadn’t moved her. Maybe that they even caused her to reject him.”

“Yes.” Klieg’s face crumpled now. “In one night I destroyed everything. I cast three lives off course. Louisa died with a broken heart because she missed Donald. Donald died without Louisa and without achieving the dreams he had of becoming famous. Everyone lost because of what I did, and perhaps the world lost, too. Lost a great artist.”

A beat passed and then Eve was brought up short by this last claim. “What do you mean, lost a great artist? You said Donald didn’t have talent.”

“Of course he had talent! He possessed one of the most original minds of his generation,” said Klieg, his face ashen.

“Then why did you lie?” asked Eve, blinking fast, bringing a hand to her forehead.

“Because I couldn’t face what I did. It was easier to believe Donald was average, that I had silenced only a mediocre voice.” He swallowed. His eyes, when he finally looked at her, were like glass. “That is why I stopped working years ago. Why should I have this enormous success when he did not? The shame caught up with me. Because I had Louisa, I was happy and able to create. Because he lost her, he became for all intents and purposes a failure. Both of us bitter and, in our hearts, lonely,” he whispered.

Eve looked at Klieg for a long moment, flooded with a mix of emotions. She was stunned, and incensed on Donald’s behalf. Yet Klieg looked so utterly defeated, she couldn’t help but feel sorry for him. They sat for several minutes in silence, listening to the carolers’ voices growing faint as they moved off down the street.

Finally, Eve stood. “I’m sorry,” she said, wiping her face. “I can never thank you enough for your honesty, but now I have to go.” She put on her shoes and lay a hand on his shoulder. “Everything’s going to be all right, though. It really is,” she said, though she was not at all sure that it would be.

As she ran lightly down the stairs with Highball at her heels, she could just make out the end of the song.

   • • •

It wasn’t easy in the predawn hours of a stormy Christmas Day to get a taxi to take her and Highball all the way down to the Lower East Side, wait while she packed up her bags, and then drive them all the way back up to the Village. It was after 3 a.m. when she stopped on the last stair, dipped her chin to her chest, and closed her eyes. Highball looked up at her and whined softly. Eve swallowed, rotated her shoulders a few times, and fumbled through her keys. The door opened with a sigh of protest. A quick entry was definitely best, Eve thought, like jumping off the high dive before you had a chance to think about it. She strode with purpose down the hall and into the bedroom, where she dropped her luggage.

Seeing her rooms again was like walking into a museum dedicated to “The Previous Life of Eve Weldon”: the pieces, a catalogue of her recent past, perfectly preserved. All that was missing were little bronze plaques: “Bed slept in by Eve Weldon, always, unfortunately, quite alone.”

“Vanity mirror gazed into by Eve.
Weldon. Known to look fondly upon thirties hats.” She came back down the little hall and her eyes swept over the living room: “Art deco bar, drunk at rather too frequently by Eve Weldon. Also served as desk for dictation of—”

Her heart stopped. The bottle of bourbon that had been standing on the bar when she left two weeks ago now lay on its side, its contents spilled. Eve turned the bottle upright with a shaky hand. “Donald?” she whispered. No answer. She leaned over and saw an inky bourbon stain on the floor with a thin film of dust over it.
“Donald?”
Still nothing.

Eve’s mind raced. She sat at the bar, afraid that her extended absence had killed him, or whatever the equivalent would be. If it had, she’d never forgive herself. She bounced her knee and counted the minutes. After nearly half an hour with each of her senses turned up a notch, she thought she felt a tentative creeping in her head. It moved forward, then back, then forward again. A moment later she heard a muted static, like the first time Donald had made contact.

“EEEE-wshhhhhh. EEEE-wshhhhhh
—effort to—
wshhhhhhh
—promise—
wshhhhhhh
—pour—
wshhhhhhh.”
The voice was so faint she thought she was dreaming it. Had her absence weakened Donald this much?

Promise … pour
. What was he saying? Of course. The day she had saved Highball at the dog run and got that cut on her arm, Donald had pledged that one day he’d pour her a drink.

“Someday, I will surprise you,” he’d said then.

“But I
—wshhhhhhh
—bit of trouble,” he gurgled now.

“Donald? Can you hear me?” murmured Eve.

“Yeeeee …” His voice was faint but clearer.

“Were you trying to pour me a drink?”

“Yes.”

“Did you know I was coming home?”

“No.”

Eve perched on a bar stool. The moment felt crucial yet fragile. If it were a reunion with a long-lost love, this would be the
time to look into each other’s eyes and read what was there, for better or worse. But she couldn’t do that with Donald. She closed her eyes and let her mind become the empty blue space. When she sensed thoughts intruding, she pushed them out. She held the space empty for as long as she could, then felt a trickle of feeling snake through. Regret, maybe. Whether it was hers or Donald’s, she couldn’t tell. Soon it ran into a rivulet of something else, something that felt like hope. The two streams swirled slowly around each other, finally giving up their separateness.

Eve had no idea how long she sat there, but as church bells struck the half hour, words found their place again. “Well,” she whispered finally. “It’s the best drink I never drank.”

Donald’s small chuckle sent a tingle through her head.

“The perfect Christmas present,” she said.

“Is it Christmas?”

“Yes.”

“Merry Christmas.”

Eve stood up and began to light some candles. She didn’t feel like turning on the lights.

“I have another present for you,” said Donald. “With you gone, I’ve had a lot of time to think. To face facts.”

“Meaning?”

“Meaning I’ve gotten it through my thick head that I’ve departed your world. My existence is different; my tasks must change. I’ve got to do what ghosts”—he’d never used this word about himself before—“do. Open doors. Make floorboards groan. Warble ‘boo’ or some such.”

This last part nearly made Eve laugh out loud. “You can’t be serious. Why would you want to do those things?”

“You won’t always be here, that much is clear. So I must get over silly notions about my stories and move on.”

“Stop. And listen,” she continued, walking toward the bathroom. “I’m going to take a bath and make a pot of tea. And then—‘Rock, Paper, Scissors.’ ”

“What?”

“We’re going to finish your story,” she said as she turned on the hot water full blast. The steam rose, warming her skin and bending her hair.

“That’s all over now. I can’t make this work. As you’ve been trying to tell me, once it was fresh, but now it’s nothing special.”