Chapter 20
After much thought, we decided I should take a flight from JFK to Heathrow and pick my destination from there. Clara wanted to know where I was going to end up, but she also didn’t. Something about lots of beer and daddy’s credit card and having a weak moment. I tried to sympathize without sounding like I wanted her to come with me. (I did sort of want her to come with me.) And I didn’t actually know where I was going to go once I reached London, although it crossed my mind to visit my money in Switzerland. Or to return to Amsterdam. Have I mentioned how much I love Amsterdam?
I actually thought it would be a miracle if I made it on the plane, but I didn’t tell her that. With the demon out of the way, all I had to worry about was ingenuity on the part of my human pursuers, or simply luck smiling on the wrong person at the wrong moment, and that seemed like pretty good odds when I thought about it in the abstract. But now that I was actually going out into the world, in a more-or-less mad dash for the border, I was beginning to have my doubts. And since I’d already done a fabulous job of burning my bridge with Clara, I couldn’t stay any longer either.
Clara reserved a ticket for me under one of the passports I hadn’t used lately, meaning I had to brush up on my Spanish as I was going to have to be Gaspar Esperanzo for a little while. This is not as easy as it sounds, not when you’re fluent in almost every European dialect there ever was. I had to look up some Spanish-language web sites to get my head in the right century. I also had to give Clara some cash since it was the aforementioned daddy’s credit card that bought my ticket. (It’s surprisingly difficult to buy a ticket online with cash.)
Three in the morning with large portions of the city sleeping, it was time to say good-bye. Significantly, she’d managed to put on some clothes for the occasion.
“Will you let me know you’re okay?” she asked.
“Do you want me to?”
“Of course.”
“Then I will,” I said, although I probably wouldn’t. It was unspoken, but while making the formal arrangements for my departure, a sense of resignation had imposed itself on the proceedings. She’d stopped arguing, and I had stopped forcing myself to be so callous. “I think it would be best if you tried to get on with your life,” I added helpfully. “And maybe I’ll catch up with you someday. When you’re married and insanely happy.”
She hugged me, and I hugged her back. “I don’t think that will ever happen,” she said.
“It always does.” I kissed her on the forehead. A paternal gesture. Appropriate, given our age difference.
She kissed her finger and touched my cheek with it. “I’ve about figured out this immortality thing,” she said with a smile that managed to look sad. “All I have to do is stop getting older.”
“That’s all there is to it,” I agreed.
“When I get that down, I’ll look you up.”
I smiled. “It’s not as fun as it sounds.”
“Nothing ever is.”
We hugged tighter, and then I left.
The flight wasn’t until ten in the morning, but I didn’t want anybody to see me leaving Clara’s apartment during the day, so to throw off the scent I snuck out during the night and descended into the pit of hell itself. The subway.
Like just about everything else conjured up in the past century, the underground subway system of the modern city is an unfathomable engineering miracle covered in several inches of filth, urine, and spray paint. Despite being a certified member of the human race, I’ll never fully understand why miracles of this magnitude are treated so casually.
For the first couple of hours on the train, I expounded at length on that point with a drunk named Lester, who heartily agreed with me. Lester also let me in on important secrets about what the government is putting in the drinking water and how all communists are homosexuals and vice versa. Lester was a sharp guy, in a “wow, you’re nuts” sort of way. It was like speaking to outtakes from
Lester also had a bottle, which he offered kindly to share. I declined, for an odd reason—I didn’t want to disappoint Clara. I reminded myself I never planned to see her again, but this didn’t help.
Sometime in the third hour, Lester suddenly decided we were at “his stop”—although we’d been by it four times—and wandered off. I think he sobered up enough to wonder if maybe I was a homosexual communist government operative checking up on him. Could have been the tape recorder I suddenly pulled out of my pocket that gave him that impression. Yeah, it was sort of cruel, but he was starting to bore me.
Alone again, I got my hands on an abandoned early edition of the Times, and out of curiosity flipped through the pages to see if there were any new messages in Latin waiting for me. I found it on page seventeen. It was another full pager—must have cost a fortune—and it said pretty much exactly the same thing.
For the Eternal Man
You have nothing to fear from us. We will not hurt you. Your health is the most important thing. If you stop running, you will realize we have much to discuss. Wait where you are.
I had to think that somewhere in New York was a very confused Latin professor with a Times subscription.
I stayed underground for all of rush hour, which was a startling contrast to me and Lester alone in a car. Calling them sardines in business suits would be a bit cliché and besides which, inaccurate. More like a perpetual feeding frenzy. Or the way we used to bring down big game back in the day—everyone charge.
I shifted with the business-clad tide for a while, hopping off at stops here and there and basically making life miserable for anybody who might be following me. Then, with two hours to go before my flight, I popped back up to the surface and hailed a cab for JFK. Thus ended the easiest part of my day.
In the cab my thoughts drifted somewhat predictably back to Clara and how much I was expecting to miss her.
It would be easier if I didn’t care about anybody. I’ve met men like that, and none of them had immortality going for them. Me, I’ve got a ready-made excuse to be a serial dater. Yet, every time I leave someone behind, I feel pangs of regret followed by years of “hey, that looks sort of like…” sightings, until I either convince myself to go back and find the girl I abandoned or until I do the math and figure out she’s been dead for a while. Which is always a profoundly depressing revelation.
I wish I could say I’d never met anyone like her—meaning Clara the person, not Clara the uniquely attractive woman—but the tragedy of memory precludes such considerations. Yes, she reminded me of other women, women I’ve slept with and women I’ve simply known fairly well. One might think that takes the wonder out of romance. In a way it does, but in its place is the cozy familiarity of seeing someone again after a long time apart. It’s thoughts like
