Alena: A Novel by Rachel Pastan Page A

said, and put his hands behind his back.
    “You were close to her.” I was sorry when I realized it. I had started to feel he was someone I could like.
    “No,” he said. “No. I wouldn’t say that.”
    There were footsteps on the stoop, a perfunctory knock. The door swung open and there was Bernard, wearing an expression of weary, gray-faced geniality like a courteous ghost. He was dressed like Roald, except that his jeans and red plaid shirt looked stiffer, newer. “Good morning,” he said. “Hello, Roald. Beautiful morning, isn’t it? Thanks for coming over. Is that coffee you’re drinking?”
    “I’ll make some more,” I said. “It’ll only take a minute.” A false heartiness hung in the air like an oily gauze. I wanted to brush it away, to see the contours and corners of the world clearly, but instead I put another pot of coffee on and said I would go get dressed.
    “Yes,” Bernard said. “Let’s get going. It’s a busy day!”
    Busy with what? I thought of Louise sitting in her office with her plump, taupe-stockinged legs crossed, talking on the phone, scanning the paper, stirring cream into her tea. Surely Alena hadn’t spent her days like that! I hurried up the stairs. Behind me I heard Roald say, “How was Venice?”
    “Crowded. Every year it gets more . . .”
    More what?
    My few clothes were crumpled and in need of washing. I’d have to find some time to run them through the washing machine and hang them out to dry. That was all right for summer, but what would it be like in February? Perhaps there was a laundromat in town. Well, but how would I get there? My thoughts chased each other in circles as I threw on the blue skirt that used to be my favorite, and a yellow blouse that wasn’t too wrinkled but that, I suddenly remembered, Bernard had said made me look like I was ten. Still, it would have to do. I brushed my hair, put on lipstick, ran the mascara wand through my lashes. I slipped into my shoes, black slingbacks with a high wedge heel and an open toe. They were a little scuffed by now, but they made me taller.
    At the top of the stairs I hesitated, suddenly wobbly. The air was thick with damp and salt so that it felt like inhaling a heavy broth through which oxygen trickled and burbled, paddling valiantly toward the thirsty lungs. What if I climbed back into bed? What if I pretended to be sick? What if I really was sick?
    “Yes, very young.” Bernard’s voice echoed up the stairs, followed by a murmur I couldn’t make out. “No, I don’t think so . . . Obviously.” More murmuring. “Well, it was Agnes’s idea. I don’t care one way or the other . . . Did she? Well, she’ll just have to—”
    I clattered down, making as much noise as I could. It was obvious they were talking about me: Bernard didn’t think something about me, Agnes would have to do something-or-other about me. It was I, without a doubt, who was very young.
    And what was Roald saying in his quiet,
r
-less voice? I was pretty sure I didn’t want to know.
    When I came into the room, all sound ceased except for the buzzing of the overhead light fixture.
    “I’m ready!” I said.
    Bernard looked me up and down, frowning slightly. “Are you really going to wear those shoes?” he said.

    I saw what he meant as we walked up the sandy dirt path. The high slingbacks slipped, my feet nearly coming out of them. The day was bright with a strong breeze fluttering the beach grass. On the long back of the dune, the south wing of the Nauk glittered in the sun, just as in the pictures I’d seen. Where the wings came together in a shallow V, like a child’s rendering of a soaring gull, there was a little grassy area mostly enclosed by tall square hedges. Here, out of the wind, roses bloomed on trellises, and benches on either side of the entryway invited sitting. Flanking the broad door, narrow strips of glass extended from the foundation to the roof, offering a glimpse—through the museum’s tiled