had archived
most of our conversations. There was a pause, a longer pause
than usual, before she continued.
aj: anyway, ill be back in new york tuesday
td: good, we’ll talk about it then. Look after yourself
aj: i’m in the library of freaking congress… what can happen?
td: I was just thinking, maybe we could get together for a drink sometime
aj: well, don’t think it, ed … and don’t you dare say another word
I sat for a moment, staring at the screen, trying to imagine
her at a computer terminal in the Thomas Jefferson Building
on Capitol Hill. There was something thrilling about Jelly
being in a place I knew reasonably well: it connected our
footprints in the real world, brought us a degree closer. I’d
meant what I’d said about getting together. I wanted to meet
her now.
Before returning to the fray, I poured myself another glass
of champagne, then opened the music files she’d sent me
and sat back, eyes closed, listening through my headphones
to her playing the piano.
I’m no judge of musical talent (I was on the money side
of the business), but Jelena clearly had a gift and I hoped to
encourage her. She’d refused point-blank to let me interfere,
which was understandable. I couldn’t see the harm, though,
in letting someone who really knew their stuff hear her play.
I’d already made a few discreet calls, which resulted in my
getting an appointment at the Conservatoire for the day after
tomorrow. I planned to be in Paris anyway.
What I told Will about our relationship was the truth: Jelly
and I were friends, nothing more. But over the last few days,
I don’t know how or when exactly it happened, something
had changed. Nobody could have been more resistant than
I was to the idea of becoming involved. My life was complicated
enough, the last thing I needed was to get caught up
in some half-baked internet romance I didn’t even buy that
it was possible to fall for someone on a laptop screen. But I
couldn’t get her off my mind. Looking back I can see now
that there was a gradual, almost imperceptible escalation, an upping of the stakes – and that somewhere along the line,
crazy as it may seem, I’d fallen.
After he was gone, Jelly deleted the floor-plan and images
from the website of the Library of Congress that she’d pulled
up onscreen while they were chatting. Just to get a feel for
the place. She lingered over the view from an upper window
in the Jefferson Building. A wintry scene, looking out across
the Court of Neptune fountain to the Capitol and down the
snow-covered Mall, it was pretty enough to make her want
to visit Washington some day.
She hit 'close’ and signed off with a little sigh. What if it
occurred to Ed that the library wouldn’t be open this late on
a Saturday? She’d just have to bluff her way out of it. She
went over to the counter so she could pay what she owed.
She could hear somebody in the back office, a man’s voice,
talking on the phone in Arabic.
She tried to imagine what Ed was doing right now. She
could picture the country mansion, the floodlit lawns, dancing
. . . but couldn’t see him at all.
'That’ll be fifteen.’
The real world drifted back into focus. It was the Moroccan
guy, Hassan, the one she couldn’t stand, waving his hand in
front of her eyes like he was trying to bring her out of a
trance. 'Hello?’
'I almost fell asleep waiting.’
'Be fifteen dollars.’
“What’
'You had coffee and Danish, you were online two hours.’
'You are kidding me, right? I didn’t even leave work till
after five.’
'Fifteen, sugar.’
'Fuck the sugar shit.’
She slammed down ten on the counter, then, seeing he
was still giving her the hard stare, grudgingly, another five.
Hassan was always dogging on women; but he’d done it to
her for the last time.
She presented him with her middle finger and a sweet
smile, turned on her heel and stalked out into the heat and
traffic of Flatbush Avenue.
There was a mini-mart on the corner and she had to dive
in there to get
most of our conversations. There was a pause, a longer pause
than usual, before she continued.
aj: anyway, ill be back in new york tuesday
td: good, we’ll talk about it then. Look after yourself
aj: i’m in the library of freaking congress… what can happen?
td: I was just thinking, maybe we could get together for a drink sometime
aj: well, don’t think it, ed … and don’t you dare say another word
I sat for a moment, staring at the screen, trying to imagine
her at a computer terminal in the Thomas Jefferson Building
on Capitol Hill. There was something thrilling about Jelly
being in a place I knew reasonably well: it connected our
footprints in the real world, brought us a degree closer. I’d
meant what I’d said about getting together. I wanted to meet
her now.
Before returning to the fray, I poured myself another glass
of champagne, then opened the music files she’d sent me
and sat back, eyes closed, listening through my headphones
to her playing the piano.
I’m no judge of musical talent (I was on the money side
of the business), but Jelena clearly had a gift and I hoped to
encourage her. She’d refused point-blank to let me interfere,
which was understandable. I couldn’t see the harm, though,
in letting someone who really knew their stuff hear her play.
I’d already made a few discreet calls, which resulted in my
getting an appointment at the Conservatoire for the day after
tomorrow. I planned to be in Paris anyway.
What I told Will about our relationship was the truth: Jelly
and I were friends, nothing more. But over the last few days,
I don’t know how or when exactly it happened, something
had changed. Nobody could have been more resistant than
I was to the idea of becoming involved. My life was complicated
enough, the last thing I needed was to get caught up
in some half-baked internet romance I didn’t even buy that
it was possible to fall for someone on a laptop screen. But I
couldn’t get her off my mind. Looking back I can see now
that there was a gradual, almost imperceptible escalation, an upping of the stakes – and that somewhere along the line,
crazy as it may seem, I’d fallen.
After he was gone, Jelly deleted the floor-plan and images
from the website of the Library of Congress that she’d pulled
up onscreen while they were chatting. Just to get a feel for
the place. She lingered over the view from an upper window
in the Jefferson Building. A wintry scene, looking out across
the Court of Neptune fountain to the Capitol and down the
snow-covered Mall, it was pretty enough to make her want
to visit Washington some day.
She hit 'close’ and signed off with a little sigh. What if it
occurred to Ed that the library wouldn’t be open this late on
a Saturday? She’d just have to bluff her way out of it. She
went over to the counter so she could pay what she owed.
She could hear somebody in the back office, a man’s voice,
talking on the phone in Arabic.
She tried to imagine what Ed was doing right now. She
could picture the country mansion, the floodlit lawns, dancing
. . . but couldn’t see him at all.
'That’ll be fifteen.’
The real world drifted back into focus. It was the Moroccan
guy, Hassan, the one she couldn’t stand, waving his hand in
front of her eyes like he was trying to bring her out of a
trance. 'Hello?’
'I almost fell asleep waiting.’
'Be fifteen dollars.’
“What’
'You had coffee and Danish, you were online two hours.’
'You are kidding me, right? I didn’t even leave work till
after five.’
'Fifteen, sugar.’
'Fuck the sugar shit.’
She slammed down ten on the counter, then, seeing he
was still giving her the hard stare, grudgingly, another five.
Hassan was always dogging on women; but he’d done it to
her for the last time.
She presented him with her middle finger and a sweet
smile, turned on her heel and stalked out into the heat and
traffic of Flatbush Avenue.
There was a mini-mart on the corner and she had to dive
in there to get
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