Fare Forward Read online

  "Ah, Four Quartets," he says, one eyebrow raised.

  "Yes, assigned reading."

  "You come to the cathedral to read in the dark?"

  "No, I—"

  There is no clear explanation for why I carry my grandmother's slim volume of poems everywhere with me. I step quickly away from him, reacting to the intense energy I felt as we touched. I'm relieved to have the focus move away from me. He looks intently through the text, noticing the well-worn paper and broken binding, the small papers that mark favorite passages. The many pages that are folded down.

  "Wallace Gray's class right? He's quite well known for his first lecture. Hundreds of students show up. Isn't that so?" He smiles at me, a mischievous grin on his face. He asks these questions as if he already knows the answer.

  The course was outside of my curriculum. One of the most popular and beloved on Columbia's campus. In the standing-room-only classes, Wallace Gray challenged students to find, within themselves, everything he knew they were capable of. I remembered him looking at me when I was small as he pointed his finger in a gesture of promise.

  "When you're bigger, you will come read poems with me. We have much to learn from each other."

  I couldn't understand what I would teach him. And yet, I waited for that day. To understand the beautiful ideas, the carefully chosen words. Where every one meant something. I knew that these were the poems my grandmother had loved and I wanted to understand too, what she found inside. Ideas about time, love, and the existential journey of life. I needed help in any or all of those areas.

  The stranger waits for me to answer his question.

  "Actually, I never made it to the first class," I continue embarrassed. "I was looking for the room when I mistakenly found you, I mean your room—office. A mix-up somehow with my schedule." I realize that I am not making any sense and am still confused by what had happened. "It's not my major, just an elective." I was becoming a babbling, incoherent imbecile in his presence.

  He looks at me with his hypnotic stare. Calm and captivating. "I see. Well let's have a look at what you missed." Slowly, he begins to read.

  While time is withdrawn

  consider the future and the past

  with an equal mind.

  What might have been is an abstraction

  Remaining a perpetual possibility

  I realize that I have no idea who he is or why, for the second time, I am encountering him in what is the most unlikely place. He closes the book and lifts his eyes to meet mine.

  "Do you agree?"

  "I'm not sure; we haven't discussed this yet," I say.

  "But it's underlined here."

  "It's not my book. I mean it wasn't; it is now, but—" I want to turn away from him but I can't.

  "It's a question about destiny and whether we can change things. Fate maybe. That what did not happen might still remain possible if we could go back in time and choose differently."

  I feel confused and look right at him. "Yes, well that's not possible."

  I begin to feel the faint, familiar pressure in my head. Not knowing what else to do, I thrust out my hand in the most formal way I can, to introduce myself to him, officially. "I'm Gabriella Vogel." I try to steady my voice and speak calmly. "I've been coming here for many years, to the cathedral I mean. My grandfather used to teach at the university, a while ago."

  Actually, he was the world renowned Professor Emeritus of Theoretical Physics and Cosmology, but that I would keep to myself. My voice trails off, and I can see that more than listening to what I am saying, he seems to be watching me again.

  "And you are?" I ask.

  I realize that I still know absolutely nothing about him. As usual, I am trying to conceal my discomfort and nervousness by rambling on and filling the empty space between us with words.

  "Yes, I know who you are," he says. "My name is Benjamin Landsman and I am a student of your grandfather's work. I'm in New York doing some research."

  I reach out to shake his hand.

  He puts his hand out and takes mine then pulls it gently toward him so I have to step closer to keep my balance. He turns it over and looks first at my fingers, then the inside of my palm, slowly taking in every detail and curve, looking for something. I catch my breath at the shock of this intimate gesture. When he looks up, I feel that I need to respond to what he has said. That he knows who I am.

  I pull my hand away from his grasp too quickly.

  "Yes, well—he is very well known for his theories in physics, cosmology, and the universe," I say as I try to reconcile the fact that somehow he knows my grandfather.

  I want to put the pieces together, yet I need more information. I'm beginning to feel that I can no longer trust my instincts. As if he can read the questions in my mind, he points to the big blue and silver tag on my backpack that Lily had given me in the shape of the solar system. A symbolic gift from our many trips to the Museum of Natural History. My name is emblazoned in large letters. I refused to take it off, for even though it was childish, the memory of those days was something I was not ready to let go of.

  "Oh, it's hard to miss my name here." I find the opportunity to laugh for a moment and know my eyes reveal my embarrassment. Yet, I am relieved at the same time that he is not reading my mind. Or worse.

  "The Museum of Natural History." He seems to find humor in something. "Now that is a very interesting place."

  I bend down and try once again, as gracefully as I can, to gather up my belongings and push through the incredible energy that charges the air between us.

  "Come, Gabriella." His hand reaches out to help me up.

  I take it and realize how curious it is. The way he said my name, as if he has been saying it his whole life. As we turn and walk toward the back of the cathedral together, I know I need to leave the intimacy of the dark space, hurry back to get ready. But I'm not ready to walk away from him.

  He points to a band of reliefs. "These reliefs have a profound power in their message. Don't you think?"

  I stop to consider what he is saying as I look up at the last frieze of carvings near the door.

  "I mean," he continues as he looks right at me, "these images from so many years ago reveal messages that are timeless. As if the people who made them still have a power over us. Even after they are no longer here."

  People no longer here having a power over us? I know in my heart that this is true. I had experienced it; I did experience it all the time.

  "They are proof of the force that moves through time. The soul of the artist transferred into his work," he says the words softly while looking at the art. "Maybe this gives them a reason for living?"

  I think about what he just said. He waits for my reaction and turns to face me. I am so overwhelmed that I can't respond. How does he know that these are thoughts I have had many times before? The essence of what I believed to be the pinnacle of achievement for any artist. To speak eternally with complete silence, lighting the path of those who would come after.

  "I'm not sure what you mean."

  "Do you have things that you plan for, Gabriella, that you want to do? Dreams that keep you moving into the future?"

  "Like what?" I try to collect my thoughts.

  "What people want; traveling to a special place, climbing a mountain, finding everything you're looking for."

  "Yes, of course."

  As we stand on the threshold of the church I experience the strangest inability to tear myself away from him. I thrust my hands into the pockets of my jacket to conceal their trembling. It's late, cold, yet I'm completely intoxicated by the way he speaks, the way he looks at me. Everything about him.

  "It was good to see you—again, I mean. But, I'm sorry. I just realized how late I am. I really need to go."

  The words sound so small, so inappropriate in light of everything that has taken place.

  How I feel.

  I push the heavy bronze doors of the cathedral open as the cold night air stings my cheeks and realiz
e that in so many ways, I have just traveled from one world to another. He is behind me, and I turn to wave goodbye and see him framed in the doorway. I notice the moonlight on his face.

  "I will see you again, Gabriella." He smiles at me.

  "And you?" I want to ask him the question he posed to me. "What is it that you wish for?"

  He reaches out and barely touches my cheek. "I've already found it."

  At a complete loss for words, I am only able to nod and turn to hurry down the steps. Running away once again, I think. As I break into a sprint up the long, dark avenue, I know he is watching me and that, somehow, the last words he said are a promise and a prayer.

  * * *

  16

  * * *

  I RUN ALL THE WAY from Amsterdam and 109th street as quickly as I can. I feel energized in a way I never have before.

  I am consumed with the feelings of the unexpected encounter. I keep picturing him as he stood in the doorway of the church, the almost other-worldly light that illuminated him, and the way he looked at me. The hauntingly beautiful music is still in my ears, and I think about everything he said and what it felt like to be near him. There was something about him that struck a chord deep within me, and I was trying to understand why.

  I knew that things often connected in my life, and I couldn't dismiss the coincidence of our two encounters. More than that, however, was the undeniable certainty that I had seen him before, in powerful premonitions, both in my past and future. As I try desperately to push away the sensations, I realize that something about him makes me want to see the visions more clearly and understand. But, I need everything I have in me to simply manage the present, and I know if I don't hurry back to get ready—there will be hell to pay. I turn down the street to continue my charge into the building, look down at my phone, and see that I have four missed calls from Emily.

  I know she is wondering where I am, when we will meet, what I am planning to wear, and the other details of our evening together. I put the phone to my ear and brace myself for the verbal barrage.

  "Where have you been?" Emily shouts into the phone as I round the entry past the doorman in my building, waving hello and flashing my ID card at the same time.

  I press the button on the elevator keypad repeatedly. "Please hurry!" I'm exasperated and forget that I have the phone in my hand with Emily on the other end of the line.

  "What? What did you say? Gabriella, what is the matter with you?"

  "Oh, I'm sorry, Em. I have just had the craziest, most frustrating day!"

  "Well, I was getting ready to call campus security. Honestly, Gabriella, you don't go wandering in Morningside Heights. There are so many creeps around here. What am I going to do with you—and it's only the beginning of the year!"

  I listen and know she is right.

  "Gabriella, are you there?"

  "Yes, sorry, Em, I am trying to get upstairs to get ready. What is the plan? Where are we meeting?"

  "I promised your grandfather I would get you to the museum in one piece. I'm coming to get you. With the car service."

  I cringe at the thought of Emily and the driver in the dark shiny car pulling up in front of the building inhabited by graduate students. I feel the familiar anxiety as my hopes of remaining under the radar continue to disappear.

  "Gabriella, can you be ready in thirty minutes?"

  "I'll do my best." I stop trying to argue with her. There is no point.

  "Remember how we would go to New York every summer with your grandparents? All the art galleries, Central Park, and Grand Central Station? It's been so long since we've been to the museum together. Tonight is going to be amazing."

  I remembered the day last summer when the mailman rang the doorbell at the beach, proud to be part of delivering the news. The massive envelope had been ceremoniously carried into my grandfather's library by Maggie, to be opened and added to the scrapbook she created that contained the symbols of his life's successes. Seeing his name on the invitation to the National Medal of Science Awards Ceremony was further confirmation that my grandfather had always been involved in the most progressive and seminal work of his generation.

  I had taken the invitation gratefully as my eyes scanned the list of other award recipients. There was a doctor whose ground-breaking work in treating HIV/AIDS had reduced the instances of death and mortality through a powdered antibiotic cocktail developed to be added to the water system. Medical breakthroughs were being acknowledged that helped make it possible for burn victims to heal with fewer scars and older people to hear more clearly, slowing down the process of aging. There were discoveries that led to new vaccines, prevention of childhood illnesses, safer food propagation, and innovations in electronics.

  "I'm waiting for my trip to Sweden, Dr. Vogel, the Nobel Prize is next, right?" Maggie's eyes sparkled with promise. Sometimes I wondered what Maggie really knew about his work.

  He looked up at her then at me. "Just in case either of you two think I'm retiring, I'm not."

  I knew he was making a point that even though he had left Columbia he would in no way be limiting his research. I hoped he was right. I wanted him to find what he was looking for, and if that included the Nobel Prize then I wanted that for him too.

  "Einstein got one," I had said in encouragement, "and he didn't have all the answers."

  The fact was that I had noticed a new intensity in my grandfather's work that consumed him more fully. Although he always made time for me, I sensed a shift over the summer. An urgency to his research, as if there was a deadline that he was racing against.

  "You are trying to unravel the deepest secrets of the universe aren't you, Papa?" I had asked him.

  Each of the award recipients had deepened an understanding of the world and many had directly changed our lives. It was a night honoring those who had taken on the challenge to address some of the greatest problems human kind faced, the greatest mysteries. My grandfather was looking for an explanation that tied disparate and often conflicting scientific concepts together: Einstein's theories and the shocking new evidence being discovered through cutting-edge technology like the Supercollider. This was his dream.

  There was also a very practical side to my grandfather, and it was probably this piece that allowed him to maintain and develop his teaching and academic career so effectively. Like nobody on the face of this earth, he understood me. Knowing my forgetfulness and disorganization when planning for these types of events, he had put Emily in charge of getting me there dressed and on time. She met her assignment with profound gratitude and grit.

  "Don't forget to wear something fabulous. Remember last time? All the photographers will be there."

  Right. In fact, that's exactly what had happened; I did forget. I lost track of time in the cathedral with Benjamin. I panic for a second remembering the many discussions Emily and I had about this night.

  "What could be better than celebrating the achievements of brilliant people?" She could hardly contain herself. "Brains, now that's what really turns me on."

  "Emily, the only reason I agreed to go to this . . . this event is because of him."

  "Science and specifically physics are quite the vogue, Gabriella," she stated with conviction, "but I'm sure you haven't noticed."

  "I leave these things up to you, Em. To keep me informed." I knew she wasn't listening to me.

  "Young, fabulous scientists," she had continued, "are better than rock stars. Remember that."

  Combine that with a black-tie soiree with food, dancing, and press, and to Emily, you had created the ultimate social opportunity. I was sure she had spent half the day preparing—I had less than thirty minutes.

  I slam the door of my room behind me and try to concentrate completely on three simple goals: get in the shower; get dressed; get downstairs. I strip down and peel away the elements of my day, thanking fate for the many dinners I had accompanied my grandfather to over the last few years that would provide something appropriate in my closet. I wrap the towel
haphazardly around myself and try to run around the corner and down the hall without attracting too much attention from my suite mates who are arguing loudly in the kitchen about the merits of postmodern architecture.

  The hot water warms me as I wash away the uncertainty of the day. It's a relief to take this moment, to stand still. Needing every possible second to separate from the intensity and the undeniable force of energy between Benjamin and me, a sensation that I had never really felt before. I keep trying to push the image of him out of my mind—away, like it doesn't belong. But his face, his eyes, the velvet quality of his voice, and the way he had touched my hand, held it, and looked at it, as if confirming to himself who I was, keeps coming back to me.

  He recognized something about me, in me. I was so thrown off balance by the way it made me feel.

  Okay, Gabriella, try to focus.

  I step out of the shower and run back to my room. I quickly towel dry my hair, pin it up in a twist, and find a dress, checking my watch one more time. I walk out of my room, hoping to escape the interested eyes of my roommates, but they immediately stop speaking when I emerge. All of them stare at me in complete silence, and I can see that they are reading the headline article about my grandfather. I had purposely not read it. I knew that it contained a detailed account not only of his work and goals, but the attempt on his life that had killed my parents in France.

  "That bad?" I try to sound lighthearted and hope they won't start asking questions about what they are reading.

  No response.

  Finally, Daniel, one of my suite mates, speaks up. "Gabriella, you are—"

  "Yes." David seems to agree. "Wow, a dress. I wonder where you're going?"

  He tries to sound cheerful as he discreetly puts down the newspaper and disguises the sympathy I can clearly see on his face. I had tried to keep the details of my personal life private but now I know they are out in the open, on the front page of the New York Times.