Fare Forward Read online

  I turn around to look at everything pinned up on the wall behind me, making sure it's all still there. I stand before the carefully constructed models and large drawings, assembled through a digital collage of images and text, then overdrawn by hand. Quite miraculous, given my distractions of late.

  "Our task was to create a space for scientists pushing the boundaries of what is known. These are the people who are looking beyond commonly accepted theories and laws. We were asked—what would encourage their research? I chose to investigate the internal spirit of the occupant. A space that changes the experience of time. Lit from above, with constantly evolving light and shadow, altering perspective. This is what could encourage creativity. Invention."

  I pause to catch my breath and gauge a reaction from the jury. They look straight ahead as they take in what I'm saying, matching the model and drawings meant to accompany my words. Their eyes move from the table to the wall then back to me.

  Nothing. No response, no questions. Silence.

  I continue and answer some initial questions about the process. I describe, in detail, the shape of the glass roof and the interior two-story wall that would act as a giant screen, a large surface on which shadows would be cast, creating a theatre of darks and lights. A living, breathing chiaroscuro. Seating areas would encourage quiet contemplation, using monastic ideas of silence and solitude for introspection. The only light entering would come from above, providing views of the sky, passing clouds and stars. All of this is linked together by an enormous glass staircase that ascends through the space. I purposely try to avoid any statements that much of the vision for the design had come to me in a very specific and vivid dream.

  "It is meant to encourage the varied experiences of the passage of time, the elements that make up reality. I think—I believe, that is—that this is what science is trying to explain."

  I want the work to stand on its own. In the painting studios, we had always been taught that the work needed to speak for itself. To deliver a powerful message through the complex interplay of form, color, and scale, without any specific explanation from the artist. Sometimes, there is no place for words.

  "Is this what you think, Miss—"

  "Vogel." My critic helps the guest juror finish his sentence.

  A panel of jurors were like sharks in the water. They could sense blood or any weak link made evident by the slightest hesitation of the presenter. They immediately found mine.

  "This is very interesting," he continues, his words loaded with sarcasm, "but I fail to see how your forms are connected to the objective of the program. It is such an abstract premise—really impossible, actually. You describe something that is not there. What you call the 'elements that make up reality,' this is not architecture. I just can't see it."

  "Well." I try to control my frustration and speak calmly. "That's the point isn't it?"

  As I turn my back to the panel to point out a detail on a drawing, I catch Emily's worried face watching me defend myself from the continuing verbal attack. I try to collect my thoughts when I hear greetings being exchanged among the panel and the movement of chairs. I realize that the missing critic has arrived.

  Great, another voice. And this one late.

  "I want to introduce our guest," I hear the dean say. "A fantastic mind and brilliant physicist—working on some secret research aren't you?" Everyone laughs at the absurd comment. "Yes, well, we are certainly fortunate that you happen to be in New York today. As fate would have it."

  "Yes, fate indeed," the voice says.

  I know who it is, without a doubt. I can feel him. I turn slowly around and look up.

  It's Benjamin.

  * * *

  27

  * * *

  OUR EYES MEET FOR a fraction of a second, but it is unmistakable. Recognition passes between us, and I notice the subtle acknowledgement, the intensity of his eyes as they meet mine.

  "Thank you, please continue." He quickly looks away and gestures his greeting to the other critics. The power of his presence commands the attention of everyone in the room. He walks around my models, inspecting them before he sits down. "I have been standing in the back for a while. Listening. I didn't want to interrupt. This is quite an interesting project."

  He is magnificent. It's that voice, the accent that I can't quite identify. Sitting here with the other critics and students as if he doesn't belong to this space or this time. Everyone stares at him. His amazing youth defies all expectation of what a world-famous physicist would look like. slowly, like waters that have been disturbed by a foreign body, the energy of the group shifts and then settles to accommodate his arrival. Everyone in the space turns back to me.

  "Gabriella?" My critic encourages me to continue.

  "Yes, well, it's a very personal interpretation of the project." I try to pull myself together. I look up at my drawings, pinned to the wall to find safety in my own work, attempt to steady my breathing and the subtle trembling of my hands. I know that what I have designed has come from a deep part of my unconscious. That it's impossible to explain.

  "Gabriella, this is a good start." My critic speaks finally, sounding encouraging.

  I see Benjamin and the intense way he takes in my work. His eyes are locked onto my drawings as he sits with his arms folded across his chest, the slightest smile on his face.

  "But do continue your investigation into this invention you seem to be pursuing," she continues.

  I nod automatically, doing anything to expedite the end of the discussion, to allow myself away from the front of the room, back to my seat. But, she is not finished. Clearly, she plans to use my review to make a point. I brace myself for what is coming next.

  "May I remind all of you that this is graduate school. While exploring abstract and poetic ideas about space is important, we do need to shift into the real world. That, in case you've forgotten, would be things like gravity, friction, and a variety of other laws of physics that apply to buildings."

  Everyone snickers.

  "Ms. Vogel is pursuing a joint degree," my critic continues as she turns to the rest of the jurors.

  I cringe as this unnecessary piece of information is shared. "Really?" Dean Zumi finally speaks up.

  "In the Master of Fine Arts Program. A painter aren't you?" She looks at me with a smirk on her face. "It is highly unusual to attempt to do both at the same time."

  I have not taken a breath. My classmates were well aware of the recent sale of several paintings at a gallery in SoHo thanks to a collage of newspaper clippings near the entry to the studio noting any publicity about faculty, students, and alumni. I can't understand why this information has any relevance to the review and desperately try to find a way to disappear.

  "Amazingly ambeeshious of you," Dean Zumi states sarcastically as he laughs. "We pride ourselves on how we push our students to their absolute maximum, with barely enough time to sleep or do anything other than architecture. I think you might be the first to attempt this." He turns to the group with a wry smile. Clearly, he is pleased with his own humor at my expense.

  "I think her work is strengthened by the clear evidence of the other creative pursuits she has undertaken." It's Benjamin, stopping the momentum of the attack as he continues, "It is clear that Ms. Vogel's work is a reflection of some very deep creative forces, even those surfacing from her unconscious. Perhaps a source that is not understandable, even to herself?"

  As I hear him, I think I feel the floor shifting under me. I back up slowly, to lean against the wall. I need to use its force to hold me up, to steady myself. How could he have known that this, in fact, is exactly what had occurred? That I had thought the very words he was saying.

  "In many cases, physical science has been built upon the ruins of our spiritual nature. In our rage for technology, we ourselves have become machines. Through this we have destroyed our spirit or our soul, as some might say."

  A hush has come over the room.

  "Quite interesting, Dr. Landsman."
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  "Her work, I believe, is an attempt to connect to a part of her inner creativity. Looking for a new way of saying things. Appropriate don't you think? Given that science itself is looking for new things to say." He turns and looks directly at the panel of jurors as his hand points to my drawings on the wall. "After all, was that not the intent of this project?"

  I glance at the jurors as I stand motionless in the front of the room.

  My classmates, Emily, and everyone else are trying to absorb everything that he has just said about my project. About me. The incredibly accurate and personal nature of his words. I finally get to sit down and will the day to move forward more quickly as the other students in my group present their projects, some with more success than others. I have other things on my mind. Whoever he is, I need to find out why he keeps appearing in my life and everything else about him: the undeniable power of the magnetic draw I feel to him. I try to formulate a plan of how I will be able to speak to Benjamin.

  Alone.

  * * *

  28

  * * *

  THE LIGHT HAS TRANSITIONED throughout the day, animating the forms of the skylight as the sun completes its arc above our building. I can hear the subtle buzzing of the fluorescent fixtures. One thing I know for certain, I have been waiting for the chance to find Benjamin and speak to him. It's an opportunity that I will not let slip away.

  I stand alone in the room that contains the echoes of emotions and energy that suffused it all day. A war zone of paper, coffee cups, notes, and chairs, everything shifted out of alignment. I need to take time to understand everything that has happened, what it means, and what I'm going to do. As I mechanically unpin my drawings from the wall I hear a discussion outside the room.

  I would recognize that voice anywhere, anytime in my life.

  I turn around and run out the door as Benjamin and the dean walk out of Avery Hall and into the cold night. Relief, happiness, and apprehension flood me at the same time as I see him and consider my options.

  "Excuse me—" I hear the words come out of my mouth in disbelief. I run toward the two men as I wonder what has come over me, what the hell I'm doing. They turn at the same time, Dean Zumi quite surprised and Benjamin—smiling.

  "Yes?" The dean turns back to Benjamin."Ah, look who it is. The first-year dreamer, from earlier, I believe."

  "I'm sorry to disturb you both. I just—" I realize that I am at a complete loss, exhibiting uncharacteristic almost desperate behavior. I have a thousand questions, yet cannot seem to formulate any intelligent or reasonable words to come out of my mouth.

  "Gabriella, there you are," Benjamin says as he reaches his hand out.

  "You know each other?" The dean is genuinely surprised.

  "This is Gabriella Vogel. I work with her grandfather, the physicist."

  Recognition flashes across his face as the dean seems to really see me for the first time.

  "Well, so it is you. I didn't know until the other day that you were in the program. Trying to fly under the radar are you?"

  "No, not at all."

  "We really need to be going, Bernard." Benjamin reaches out to take the heavy backpack off my shoulder. "It was lovely spending the day here with your students and their very interesting work. I know Gabriella must be exhausted."

  I nod.

  "Of course." The dean seems confused as he looks first at Benjamin then back at me, clearly trying to determine what our relationship is. I am doing everything I can to keep my face still and not betray the riot of emotion I am feeling.

  "Let me know when you are back in America, Benjamin, and thank you, for coming today."

  "Yes, it was quite informative."

  As he turns, Dean Zumi stops and looks at me once more with both eyebrows raised.

  "I have to tell you, Gabriella, your grandfather is quite remarkable. A very brave man."

  "I—yes. Thank you."

  "Now I understand where you get it from." He walks away, and then Benjamin and I are alone.

  I look up at him and into his eyes, at his face. I see everything. The way he looks at me, the shape of his body under the lines of his coat. The way he breathes.

  "I need to speak with you." It's the only thing I can manage to say.

  His eyes are intense as they search mine. He seems to be struggling with some sort of choice. A decision that he needs to make about which direction this moment will take.

  Changing our fate.

  "Benjamin?" I am unable to find any other words. And then, as if fighting against a force that can no longer be suppressed, he looks at me and reaches out his open hand for mine.

  "Gabriella, come with me."

  * * *

  29

  * * *

  I NEED TO REMIND myself that this is really happening. I am not in a dream but, here, in the world of the present. Ever since the first day of our unexpected encounter, I've wished for this moment, and, this time, the threshold between waking and sleeping, dream and reality will remain separate.

  I want to learn everything about him. I watch as the color in his cheeks changes from the exertion of our walk, the way his hands move as he talks, and, mostly, how he looks at me. The sting on my cheeks is matched by the surprising fire in my body and the excitement of being with him. I have so many questions and an intense need to find answers as I try desperately to piece together the disparate elements of his appearance in my life. The undeniable knowledge that I have seen him before in my premonitions.

  There was no mistaking that.

  We move through the city as he asks me countless questions. He wants details, memories, and experiences—events from the past that I can barely recall. I can see, for the very first time, what might be buried deep within the layers of my heart. A glimmer of the intense emotion that has remained so closely guarded, hidden, waiting for the right moment to burst forward. Just like my grandmother had predicted.

  Trust what your heart is telling you.

  "Gabriella?"

  I love the way he says my name.

  "Yes? I'm sorry, I just realized where we are."

  We have traveled across to the most western edge of the city near the river, where industrial buildings have been converted into living spaces. I can see the shape of the wind, made visible through swirling leaves, papers, and the steam rising from the subway grates. There is a rawness to this commercial part of town. Deserted—silenced by night.

  He turns to face me, and I see a resolve in his eyes. Slowly he reaches his hand out, I place mine in his, and feel his fingers close. Like the steel door of a vault slamming shut. He turns and leads me up the steps to the landing of a gray, faceless building, indistinguishable from all the others on the street. "This is my home . . . when I'm in New York. Why don't you come in?"

  "I don't know if I should, I mean—" I need to think clearly but am confused by the adrenaline rush of the walk and emotions brought on by him. "It's late."

  He can barely suppress his smile. His eyes shine in the reflection cast by the streetlamp and the glow of the lights inside the building. Watching me seems to be some form of entertainment for him.

  "Come in for a while, then I will take you back."

  I think of everything I want to ask him, the questions formulated over the last several weeks, and I know that I can't run away this time. Our eyes are locked on each other as we stand in front of the building. He waits patiently.

  "Yes." I look away from him for a moment and then meet his eyes. "After all, you are working with my grandfather."

  "As I hoped."

  I feel him reach around me to press a code on a small keypad that releases the lock on the large industrial door. As we step inside it's clear that we have entered a private residence, completely contrary to what the outside expression of the building suggests. I catch my breath at the incredible beauty of everything around me: shining stone floors, a tall glass staircase that begins where we stand but then disappears into a two-story space beyond my line of sight. Lar
ge contemporary paintings are illuminated by low-voltage lights that grow brighter as we approach, sensing our movement. Everything is made of glass or stone, and digital keypads display an array of information about the status of each room. Benjamin leans against a wall and stands with his arms crossed as he watches me take everything in.

  "What is this place?" I ask.

  "Please, look around."

  Doors open automatically, and I feel myself drawn deeper into the amazing environment. Art and music surround me, and he watches, clearly enjoying my astonishment as I take in the visual feast, a path of discovery through the magnificent rooms. I'm amazed by the explosion of color, form, and shape in paintings I recognize from many of the well-established artists of the world. I return from my brief examination to face him, unable to find anything to say.

  "You seem quite surprised, at a loss for words, perhaps?" He laughs. The formal nature of his question is something I have noticed before in his language.

  "Yes, wow, thank you." I sound embarrassingly idiotic again.

  Put a sentence together, Gabriella, I say to myself.

  "It's so different. Beautiful," I add.

  Well, that was better than my incoherent babbling, but it's the only thing that comes out of my mouth. I am trying to talk, walk, and take it all in at once. I really don't know where to look first.

  He smiles to himself as he takes my coat and hangs it in a closet. I watch it disappear into the wall surface after it closes on its own. He turns around to look right at me as if he is deciding what to say. As he pushes his hair back off of his forehead, I notice his hand, the flash of his watch, the way he moves his sleeves before he folds his arms. I can feel the path my heart seems to be taking toward the magnetic draw of his.

  "How long have you lived here?"

  I see his hesitation. "I travel a great deal, Gabriella. I'm not in New York that often, but this is my home when I am here."