The Purple Scissors
The Purple Scissors
I. The Present
She put down the New York Times with a deep sense of emptiness and frustration, no closer to understanding what had happened than after hearing the NPR report on her way to work at the New York Public Library. The headline read, “Nobel Winner Commits Suicide.” The story laid out in print what she had heard on the radio. “James MacPherson, PhD., 55, was found dead in his Stockholm hotel room, two hours after receiving the 2025 Nobel Prize for Literature, in an apparent suicide. Details remain sketchy, but Professor MacPherson left a cryptic handwritten note, ‘Thank you, but it is not what I sought.’”
The Times story went on with a review of the respected academic’s career at Columbia and Oxford, a description of his prize-winning work, and comments from his colleagues, who were unanimous in their dismay at his mysterious demise. “Dr. MacPherson had no known living relatives.”
Dr. Henry Zygmunt, who succeeded MacPherson as holder of the Corliss Lamont Chair in Civil Liberties at Columbia after the latter assumed his position at Oxford, had this to say about his friend and colleague, ‘He was a gentle, quiet man with a wonderful sense of humor that was sometimes hard to find. It came through in his work, but subtly. He did not seem distraught when we last talked after the prize announcement, but he was by nature somewhat enigmatic and aloof. It is a great mystery and an even greater tragedy.
The Nobel medallion was found in the hotel room, but neither the monetary award check, amounting to just under one million American dollars, nor the prize diploma had been located at press time. The medal bears the inscription from Virgil: Inventas vitam juvat excoluisse per artes, ‘And they who bettered life on earth by new found mastery.’ A spokesman for the Prize Committee said that no current action regarding the award was contemplated. ‘As far as the foundation is concerned, our work is concluded at the award ceremonies. We deeply regret the loss of this distinguished writer and philosopher.’ MacPherson’s obituary appears on page B12.”
Lisa Anderson folded the paper and fought back the tears. Now was not the time; she had work to do. What could have possibly made this sweet and gentle man take his own life? She had not seen James in a decade and had lost all track of him when he left Columbia five years ago.
But she had thought of him nearly every day of those last ten years. He was the only man she ever really loved, and in the depth of her love, even today, she was overwhelmed with his loss . . . again.
It seems so long ago.
II. The Past
“Hello. Excuse me,” said a male voice in a tentative tone.
She looked up from the pile of new accessions she was cataloging at a slightly scruffy-looking man in perhaps his mid-forties.
The man went on, “Do you by any chance have a pair of left-handed scissors?”
“No, I’m sure not. We don’t often have requests for left-handed scissors.” She instantly regretted her characteristic sarcasm. “We have right-handed scissors, though, and you’re welcome to them, provided, of course, that you don’t intend on slicing up our collections.” Again a reflexive twinge of regret. “I’m sorry. I don’t mean to be rude, but people are always tearing things out of our periodicals and even bound volumes sometimes.”
Her apology was perhaps a result of her unconscious softening of her attitude as she looked at him more closely. He had a pleasant face creased with what might be lines of good humor, already graying but plentiful hair, and a charcoal turtleneck under a tweed jacket. For a moment she was tempted to lean over the counter and check for elbow-patches, but she resisted the urge as she met his eyes, which peered over the upper rims of his reading glasses, perched half way down his nose.
“Oh, I quite understand. It’s terrible what some people will do. No shame at all! No, I just need to do some old-fashioned cut and paste. I write in a rather stream of consciousness fashion, then I have to cut things up and put them in the proper order. And I’ve forgotten to bring my scissors.” He looked positively crestfallen, whether embarrassed by his own ineptitude or from frustration at having to put up with right-handed scissors, she could not tell.
“Well, here you are,” she said as she retrieved a pair of blue-handled Fiskars from a drawer. “If you can make do with these, you’re more than welcome. But mind you, bring them back.”
“And you’re more than gracious. Thank you; I will. Thank you so much.”
She watched him walk back to his table, noticing with some disappointment the absence of elbow-patches, and smiled inwardly at the absurdity of the brief conversation. What an odd and polite gentleman!
A little over an hour later, just before closing time, he returned to her post at the counter carrying a well-used brief case, a volume of Jefferson Papers, and the blue-handled scissors.
“Here are your scissors, as promised. Thank you again. And would you mind seeing that this is returned to its proper location? I’m afraid I might misshelf it.”
She smiled at him, “Of course, sir. I’d be happy to.”
“You’ve been most kind. Next time I’ll try to remember my southpaw scissors.” She thought she noticed a twinkle in his eye as he turned to leave.
“Good night, sir. Have a pleasant evening.”
He turned back toward her, and the twinkle had grown into an engaging smile. “Now that we’re friends, could you lose the ‘sir’? It’s so tiresome. I get ‘sir’ and ‘Professor’ all day long. Let’s go with ‘James’ – dignified and easy to remember.”
She laughed as freely as the library would permit and held out her hand. “Very well, my name is Allysia, but they call me ‘Lisa.’”
He took her hand and held it, not in the manner of a handshake, but rather as if he was expecting her to curtsey. “How wonderful! Che gelida manina,” as he bowed slightly. “Good night then, Lisa.” He released her hand and turned to go.
“Good night, Sir James.”
He looked over his shoulder with a surprised and delighted smile that lit up his whole face, which she returned as she restored the scissors to their proper place.
III.
That had been their first encounter, and she remembered it as though it had happened last night instead of ten years ago. She had missed the reference to La Bohème, but she recognized the fact that he was quoting something. She knew enough Italian to get the gist of it and the spelling right after a few tries, and it did not take her long to turn up the libretto in a search online. Rudolfo’s line, which her introduction had unwittingly elicited. Che gelida manina. “What a cold little hand!” And then, “My name is Lucia, but they call me Mimi.”
Now the brief little scene made sense, and even before she read Mimi and Rudolfo’s tête-à-tête to its amorous Act I conclusion, she had the slightly euphoric sense that she had just experienced the most romantic thing to happen to her in all her thirty years.
She had been curious about the combination of the sources he was using. What was he working on? She felt sure she could find out more about him, yet she did not even know his last name. How foolish she had felt.
To her disappointment, he had not returned the next night, nor the following, but, on arriving for work late on a Thursday afternoon, she had been surprised to find him deep in his work, surrounded by books and periodicals, writing away on sheaves of unlined paper with a fountain pen.
As closing time neared, the piles of work on his table gradually diminished until he at last collected his papers into his briefcase and stood to leave. Her momentary regret turned to delight as he headed in her direction, and she smiled at him as he approached.
“Ah, Miss Lisa! How delightful -- I hadn’t noticed!”
“Lost in your work, Sir James –- productive, I hope?”
“Perhaps,” he sighed ruefully. “Too soon to tell. I wonder if I might prevail upon you to keep these here for me?” He handed her a pair of scissors, red-handled. “Left-handed,” he said, unnecessarily, but with a sheepish smile.
“Of course,” she replied, “I’ll put your name on them, only . . .”
He looked at her questioningly for a moment, then, “Oh! Yes, of course. MacPherson. James MacPherson.”
She laughed. “Very good. Consider it done. And it’s Lisa Anderson. Not ‘Mimi’, to my infinite regret.”
Delighted that she had picked up on his allusion to Puccini, he laughed freely, and a bit too loudly. “Outstanding!”
“Sir James,” she said softly, looking about her for accusing eyes, “forgive me for being curious, but what are you working on so intently? Do you mind telling me?”
He looked thoughtful and mildly uneasy –- enough to make her again regret her curiosity. Then he took a deep breath and said, “I’d be delighted to tell you. In fact, if you’ve no objection, I rather need someone to talk with about it. Would it be awfully improper to ask you to join me for a cup of coffee at your convenience?”
She understood rationally her delight at receiving this invitation, so tentatively proffered, but she decidedly did not understand the vague feeling of schoolgirl excitement that briefly overcame her. She hoped her eyes conveyed only the delight as she replied, “I’d be glad to! If you can putter about here for perhaps ten minutes, I’ll be through here? There’s a nice little place over on Madison and just a block down –- Café Encore?”
“Yes, I know it. Well, why don’t I go secure us a table and collect my thoughts and you join me when you can?”
“I’ll see you there then.”
“Good heavens, Jimmie Mac! What have you gotten yourself into?” he said aloud as he walked along to the café. That was the nice thing about New York on a warm night. No one took notice of men who talked to themselves. Yes, she was very pleasant and quite attractive. Light, longish hair that she did not wrap up in a librarian’s bun, but instead let cascade gracefully around her shoulders. Bluish eyes, perhaps. He was not good at noticing such things. But her smile was somehow compelling –- like turning on a light . . .
He entered the café, which, he was pleased to note, was sparsely attended.
At that moment, Lisa had completed a cursory research. She had quickly put away her things and turned to Marquis’ Who’s Who Online - This had to be Sir James . . .
MacPherson, James Douglas - b. 1970, Radnor, PA.
Holder of the Corliss Lamont endowed chair in Civil Liberties, Columbia University, 2010–2015.
BA Haverford College, Pol. Sci.; MA William and Mary College, Cultural Studies; PhD. Princeton University, Philosophy.
Author of numerous papers and articles in philosophy, literature, ethics and society, world culture. Books: Ethics and the American Dream, Culture and Psychology.
Parents: James May MacPherson, Marion Pratt MacPherson. Both deceased. Single.
Holy Mary, Mother of God, what have I gotten myself into? A decade older than me, more degrees than a thermometer, and undoubtedly the quintessential Main Line WASP. Still, he had a sense of humor and was a gentleman (so far).
She switched off the computer, grabbed her purse, and headed for the door, detouring briefly to the ladies room to . . . well, to check her hair and put on just a hint of lipstick! I’ll have to pretend I don’t know.
He rose and waved from a back table as she entered the café. “I hope I didn’t keep you waiting too long,” she said as she breathlessly seated herself opposite him, as he drew back her chair.
“Not at all. I often stop somewhere before heading back north. It’s nice to have company. I opted for wine instead of coffee; it’s too hot for coffee, I think. But please, have whatever you’d like. Are you hungry?”
“Not really. Wine sounds great –- Chablis, I think.”
“Done,” he said and signaled the waiter by holding up his glass. “Bring us a bottle of this. It’s nice. And perhaps a plate of crackers and cheese. No Swiss.”
That settled, he leaned back in his chair and looked at her. “So, Allysia Anderson who is called Lisa, tell me about yourself. Chi siete? Vi piaccia dir!”
“Me? Oh, I’m just a girl from Queens who tried life in Manhattan and liked it. American Studies at CCNY and almost through a Masters in Library and Information Sciences at NYU. I’ve been working at the library part time for about five years and I do believe they intend to take me on full time when I graduate. I live a block from Washington Square, and when I’m not studying or working I go to shows when convenient and affordable, read quite a lot, listen to music. Not a very exciting life, but a contented one . . .”
“What do you read?”
What was this? I’m getting the third degree here and I thought we were going to talk about what he was working on.
She laughed in spite of herself. “Everything I can get my hands on, which is one of the reasons I like working at NYPL. Fiction mostly –- a balance between the old and the new. And the Times every day.”
“And the music?”
“Everything but country and jazz, nothing up to and including the Renaissance, and nothing that resembles rap, hip-hop, or anything else whose labels I don’t even pretend to understand.”
“Clearly a lady of refinement.” He smiled that gentle, winning smile. “And one of curiosity, I surmise. Why else would you enquire about my project!”
“Well then, what about you?” Time to play dumb. “A history teacher perhaps?”
“Close enough,” he replied happily. “Philosophy faculty at Columbia.” At least he was a truth-teller. I rather like looking at how the world changes and how those changes are influenced by, and reflected in, ideas in writing and the fine arts. The old ‘chicken and egg’ thing. Not very exciting, as you say, but I enjoy it.”
“How fascinating.” she said with a sincere and encouraging smile.
“Mmmm . . . Well, I doubt most people would agree with you. But I put more value on being fascinated than being fascinating.”
Again a pause, and he watched he as she considered this, taking a sip of wine, watched as her face turned into that remarkable smile.
“Of course. You put it perfectly!”
“So . . .,” she continued hesitantly, “What’s the current project?”
He leaned back in his chair and for a few moments, closed his eyes and pinched the bridge of his nose in the manner she had observed when he was working. She tried not to smile.
“Well,” he began as he emerged from his trance with pursed lips and squinting eyes as though he were trying to see something clearly, “It’s the same ideas, really, with a few twists perhaps, but all my work to date has been expository in nature. Now I’m trying to wrap the package up in fiction, and I’m struggling with the realization that I don’t know how to write fiction.”
“Oh, my. Jumping into fiction and taking on the Great Themes all at once! It’s a bit of a leap, isn’t it, James?”
“Yes, I’m finding that it is. But I think it’s worth the effort because, well, no one picks up anything I’ve written except critics, professors, and their students who are forced into it. I have great faith in humanity – perhaps too great – and if I want to reach them, I have to get off campus.”
“So that’s why you come to my library, to come down to the level of the Great Unwashed.”
He laughed. “Where’s Oprah when you need her? It’s partly that, I suppose, but there’s more to it. Fiction requires something more than academic writing. The objective of the latter is that the reader understands. The objective of fiction is that the reader feels, and that goes deeper and lasts much longer. I know from my own work that fiction has done more to influence thought, the course of humanity through time, than all the other literary forms, including even poetry, perhaps with a few notable exceptions and which I wouldn’t attempt in any case. War and Peace, Uncle Tom’s Cabin, Romeo and Juliet transformed into West Side Story -- There are so many examples. In a way, I’m trying to apply what I’ve learned to my own work –- take my own advice, so to speak.”
“I suppose what you say is true,” she mused. “But what of the other art forms – drama, painting, architecture perhaps, and certainly music?”
“Of those you’ve mentioned, only music comes close, and the effect is not as obvious, though perhaps more powerful, I’ll admit. Do you understand what I mean by that?”
“Yes professor,” she smiled slyly, “do you want examples?”
He laughed, “That was not intended as a test, but sure!”
She paused to think for a moment reflecting that all worries about a stilted conversation with a learned man had somehow vanished. “Well, I think it’s because music gets inside of you in a way that written words can’t. Once you’ve come to know Beethoven’s Ode to Joy or Wagner’s Siegfried Idyll or even Dylan’s Blowin’ in the Wind, it’s impossible not to be changed by them. Subtly as you suggest, perhaps, but deeply.”
“Yes, and do you know why?” he smiled again, “Sorry, I can’t help myself.”
“Not in a way I can put into words, but yes, I think so.”
“But that’s it exactly, don’t you see? Music takes up where words leave off. Victor Hugo said, ‘Music expresses that which cannot be said, but on which it is impossible to remain silent.’”
“Oh, James, yes! That is it, isn’t it? How wonderful!”
Perhaps content to bask in the glow of this mutual understanding, they did not speak for a minute or so, and busied themselves with the snacks. Had they thought about it, which they may well have done in their reverie, it may have occurred to them that a happy silence, as music, expresses that which must be said better than words – at least at that very moment.
“Have you ever been to the opera?” he asked.
“No. Well, Gilbert and Sullivan and plenty of Andrew Lloyd Webber, but not real opera. I have a few excerpt CDs of some Verdi and Wagner, and Carmen, I think, but no complete works. I’d love to go sometime. I just haven’t got around to it yet.” She smiled at him.
“How about Saturday night?”
What had he been thinking? He steeled himself for her polite excuse.
“Why I’d be delighted! Which one?” How exciting! Am I crazy?
“Madame Butterfly, at the City Opera. Not the Met, nor La Bohème, but ‘twill suffice. I share season tickets with a friend, but he’s on sabbatical this term, so I have them to myself.”
“How nice!” . . . a friend, but he’s on sabbatical . . . She hadn’t missed the “he,” just as he hadn’t missed the odd fact of the availability of this gradually more beautiful and delightful lady on a Saturday evening. She went on, “I’ll do my homework -- bring it home from the library and study the libretto while I listen . . .”
“No, please don’t. Do that after if you like, but not before. There will be subtitles if you need them. But you’ll feel the music better if it’s new to you. Later you’ll come to love it. But for my purposes, I’d rather you got the music, the lyrics, and the drama all at once.”
“Okay . . . Just what are your purposes, Sir James?”
To her dismay, he blushed deeply and lowered his eyes. Oh, jeez. I really must learn to think before I speak. “Oh, dear, I’m so sorry. I was just teasing. I’m awful, really I am.”
He brightened a bit. “No, it’s all right. You just caught me by surprise, and you’re perfectly right to ask. Let me think out loud . . .”
She gave him what she hoped was an encouraging smile, without really understanding why.
“Oddly enough, what we’ve talked about tonight, although we’ve gone off on a tangent or two, has given me some things to think about. That’s a good thing.” He smiled lightly. “And I’d like to watch you experience your first opera, to observe you as a research subject, frankly. I hope we can continue what we’ve begun tonight, because I think it will help me to think about what I’m trying to do. To convey how literature or music changes people, and how they, being somehow different, change the world around them. You’ve already been most helpful, and in a way that I couldn’t possibly find from any of my stodgy colleagues. But . . . there’s more to it than that.”
He lowered his eyes again, speaking softly to the wine glass he held with both hands. “Quite honestly, and I know this sounds ridiculous and it’s a bit embarrassing, I find I enjoy your company tremendously. I’m sorry if that’s out of order, but there you have it.”
There was a potentially uncomfortable silence as she waited to hear if there would be more to come. When he looked up at her somewhat ruefully, she realized there was not. She leaned toward him across the table and lightly placed her hands on his – four hands holding one wine glass.
“James . . . Sir James,” she smiled at him, “Would it help if I told you that I much prefer to be called ‘good company’ than a laboratory mouse? I’m fascinated by your work. Really I am. We’ve barely scratched the surface, but I’m caught up in it, and I’m delighted to help you in any way I can. You’ve made me think about things tonight that I didn’t even know that I could think about. But I too enjoy good company. So relax, you dear, gentle man, and enjoy yourself, because I most certainly am.”
And so, in this odd fashion that might have been lifted from the pages of Jane Austen, James and Lisa acknowledged, if they did not outright declare, their love. There is little more that needs be known about the remainder of the night, save for the manner in which the wine bottle was drained.
“To music.”
“To Puccini.”
“To fiction.”
“To the Great Themes.”
“To laboratory mice.”
“And good company”
“To love” was left unspoken.
IV.
Midway through Puccini’s Madama Butterfly there is a short scene, exquisitely scored, in which the American Consul to Japan reads a letter from an American naval officer to Cio-Cio San - “Butterfly,” the teenage girl he married several years before. Unfortunately and unknown to Butterfly, Captain Pinkerton already has an American wife. The letter is intended to break this news and that he must forsake his young bride. But she misunderstands and hears only that he is returning. When she learns the truth, she will commit hari-kiri, leaving their infant son, of whom he is unaware, as a reminder of their love, and of his remorse. But at this moment, she is the only one in the opera house who is ecstatic, and Puccini captures both her rapture and her impending doom in the delicate repartee.
Lisa Anderson only partly understood this. She was alternately absorbed in the beauty of the music, which she enjoyed more on first hearing than she had expected, and the evolving story. She had occasionally glanced at James, who had been totally engrossed from the first downbeat. She did so at this decisive moment and saw a tear making its way slowly down his cheek toward his jaw.
This is what he meant. He is feeling the music, and has been changed by it. Not now, not tonight, but before. Tonight it merely grows deeper.
She knew well enough that this was a tear responding not merely for the tragic Butterfly, but to a depth of feeling that she had rarely witnessed, and even more rarely experienced. This was a revelation to her, and she was mildly jealous.
And yet she felt compelled to tell him she understood, and with the knuckle of her forefinger, she touched his cheek and took the tear from it.
He took a deep breath, wiped his other cheek briefly, and took her hand in his, with the dampness of his tears between their entwined fingers, and so remained until the final curtain.
When the lights came up after the last curtain call, they made their way through the lobby to Lincoln Center’s plaza, with its magnificently lit fountain. They stood watching it for a minute, arm in arm, until he turned to her with a radiant smile. “Well, my little laboratory mouse, a little wine?”
“Of course, and, if you don’t mind, I’ve done the honors. Would you like to see my little place?
“I would indeed.” And they advanced to the waiting line of taxis.
They said very little in the taxi, each lost in their own thoughts.
For his part, James realized that he was enchanted by her. She seemed to understand him, sometimes anticipating his thoughts, accepting his subdued intensity, and yet she was not afraid to poke fun at him, a fact that he found delightfully refreshing. As they rode south through Manhattan, he thought with delight that the music of Puccini was replaying in his mind, accompanying his musings on a heroine of his own – an oddly confusing amalgam of the girl in his fledgling work and the young woman beside him.
Lisa’s curiosity had grown into a sense that she had somehow connected with someone who was interested in her for the right reasons, although she could not figure out what they might be, and that feeling was new to her. The prospect of a relationship that grew out of gentleness, colloquy, and mutual admiration engendered a wonderfully warm feeling, and in her characteristic fashion she enjoyed the moment, and the prospect of many more to come.
Emerging at the north side of Washington Square, they walked under the arch, across the square and the short distance to a tall, narrow brownstone on Mercer Street with a brass knocker on a black front door.
“The last affordable apartment in the Village,” she said as she opened the outer door and unlocked the inner one with a key. “Fourth floor, I’m afraid,” giving him a rueful look.
“No mountain too high,” he grinned. “After you.”
There was only 4A and 4B, and she chose B, unlocked it with another key, reached in, and turned on the light. They entered a room clearly designed to be everything but the bathroom and bedroom. He quickly took in a couch and two generous chairs with a small oak coffee table in the middle of a dhurrie rug between them. To the left was a small kitchenette and in the corner a small table with four chairs for dining. To the right was a desk with a computer, and the wall was bookcases floor to ceiling, save for a section holding a TV and compact sound system. Opposite the entry was a window overlooking the street, and a hallway to the rear was evident to the right of the bookcases. The walls were painted white and appointed with posters, prints and black and white photographs.
“Chez Lisa,” she said, removing her light jacket and draping it over the back of a the chair.
“It’s exquisite. Perfect. It suits you!”
“That it does. Make yourself comfortable, please! I’ll dredge up some goodies.”
He removed his suit jacket, placing it on the chair next to hers, and headed for the bookshelves while she went to the fridge, took out the wine, rummaged in the drawer for a corkscrew, and took them to him. “Make yourself useful.”
“What a wonderful wall of bookcases! How lucky you are to have found an apartment with them,” he said as he went to work on the wine bottle.
“My brother built them for me. The landlord paid for the materials, believe it or not. I figured I was going to be here for a while, and, as you can see, I need bookshelves.” She turned on a track light that lit the wall beautifully and turned off the overhead light, casting the room in a warm glow. Absorbed in his explorations, he heard her opening and closing drawers and cupboards in the kitchenette. Presently she returned carrying a tray with two glasses and a bowl of peeled shrimp with a smaller one for sauce, an assortment of crackers, and two blocks of cheese –- no Swiss. “Find anything interesting?” she said as she placed the tray on the coffee table.
“Get to know a person by the books she keeps,” he said, turning to her with a smile and holding the bottle and corkscrew, with the cork cleanly impaled on it. “None of mine, alas!”
“Oh, dear! If only I’d known!”
He laughed, and set the wine beside the tray. “My, how elegant!”
She sat on the sofa as he poured the wine. He handed her a glass and raised his. “To Puccini! What did you think of it?”
She reached up and touched her glass to his. “To Puccini indeed. And thank you.” She kicked off her shoes and drew her feet up under her on the couch as he seated himself in the comfortable chair without the jackets.
“I thoroughly enjoyed it. But not as much as you. I may learn to, I think. Give me time.”
“I know. You need to become familiar with the music, and that will come. It’s like meeting someone who will later become a good friend – you don’t know it at the time, but perhaps you have a good feeling about it, and with each encounter, you become closer. And then later, you marvel at the whole thing. How dull life must have been . . . before. It’s hard to explain how I feel about opera – hard to put into words. But I think by now you understand that.”
“Yes. Oddly enough, I used to think that the idea of people singing their way through dialog was a bit silly. I don’t think that any more. I can understand how the combination of the music and the words is so much more powerful.” How dull life must have been . . . before!
“And so tragic . . . Poor Butterfly . . . and that Pinkerton – what a bastard.”
“No,” she said. “There I don’t entirely agree with you.” She paused, waiting for his reaction. He looked at her with raised eyebrows.
“Cio-Cio San, ‘Butterfly,’ is a geisha. She dances, and who knows what else, for men, right?”
“Right, but . . .”
“But nothing. Now, please understand, it’s my first hearing, but I think I followed it pretty well. Those subtitles are great, by the way.”
“Go on,” he said, leaning back to face her. “May I take off my shoes?”
“Of course!” she laughed. “Pretend we’re in that little house with the paper walls, overlooking the harbor. Shall we sit on the floor?”
“That won’t be necessary, though it’s tempting,” he replied, removing his shoes and gingerly rubbing his toes before leaning back. “Please continue.”
“Well, think about it. She’s basically a teenage hooker, right?” He winced, but nodded.
Not waiting for him to comment, she went on. “She’s used to wielding power over men. That’s what it’s all about. Sure, she’s sad. She’s remorseful, but more than that, she’s pissed. She realizes she’s the tragic victim here. She can’t handle that, and, besides, she doesn’t want to go back to her old line of work, so she turns the tables. By committing suicide, she reasserts her control – her power over Pinkerton and her own destiny. And she does so with such drama, such finality, and with a perfect sense of timing. She wins and he loses, because he really does love her. And her death makes him realize that. And now, for the rest of his life, he has to live with the son, the blue-eyed Oriental boy, the constant reminder of her. She’s the victor, he the tragic victim – the Returning Hero. You can hear it in his last remorseful cry – ‘Butterfly! Butterfly!’ It’s not remorse for the loss of her. He had already made that decision. It’s a protest. It’s remorse for his own future. Puccini knew that. It’s in the music.”
He sat in stunned silence. So did she, nearly out of breath. “Oh dear. I’ve destroyed your illusions.”
“No,” he said, without opening his eyes. “You’ve . . . redefined them.”
He leaned forward, took a gulp of wine, and refilled his glass. He took her glass from the table and held it up for her. Instead of taking it from him, she guided his hand until she was able to take a sip as he held the glass to her lips. “You see?” she licked her lips, smiling at him. “It’s all about power, Sir James. Power and freedom.”
After a pause, James said ruefully, but with enough of a smile that suggested he was teasing, “I’m reconsidering my thought to invite you to La Bohème.”
“Why thank you! I’d love to!” and they both laughed.
They prattled on happily, much in the manner of the conversations that were occurring many places at the same time within a few blocks in this old section of Manhattan. They went off on tangents about Kondratieff waves, the Golden Mean, 60‘s music, Persian poets, and Melville. At something like 2 a.m., he glanced at his watch and was startled to see the lateness of the hour.
“Oh dear . . .”
“Yes,” she replied sadly, “I don’t want the night to end either, but I suppose it must.”
He retrieved his shoes and struggled a bit putting them on, then stood and picked up his jacket. She stood and faced him. “James, it’s so late. With good judgment I should ask you to stay, but somehow I think you wouldn’t want me to.”
“No. Quite right. I’ll be fine.”
“You sure?”
“Yes of course. Thank you.”
She took his jacket from him and held it for him to put on. As he turned toward her, she dusted his shoulders lightly, and he reached up and took her hands.
“I wish I could sing,” he said, looking at her upturned face, her long, radiant hair framing her features in the soft light, her eyes now most decidedly blue.
“Why?” she smiled.
“Because the words, ‘Thank you for a most delightful evening’ aren’t enough. They need help from Puccini. Without music, you won’t really know how I feel.”
“Mmmm . . . right.” She paused for a moment, looking at the smile in his eyes and on his lips. “There are other art forms, though. Remember?”
And she kissed him, softly, lingering for a few moments to indicate that, perhaps, it was intended as somewhat more than just the polite au revoir. She drew back, but not away, and sensed that he was a bit startled. He stared at her for a moment, and their second kiss was all the music they needed. Finally, they held each other for a few moments and then he turned to go. She opened the door for him and whispered, “Thank you, James. Do be careful.”
“I will . . .” He paused and turned back to her after stepping into the hallway. “Would you like to take a walk in the park tomorrow afternoon?”
“MmmHmm. What time?”
“Two-ish, perhaps? Meet you at Hans Christian Andersen?”
“I’ll be there.”
“Until then,” he said, with the smile that had captivated her, which he saw reflected in hers.
V.
He reached the street and walked to the corner, mildly surprised at how warm it still was. He hailed a cab and, as it pulled up, he opened the door, paused, and said to the driver, “I’ve changed my mind – sorry for the inconvenience.”
“Hey, No prob, Mon. Have a nice night.”
Then he turned and started walking, back through Washington Square Park and up Fifth Avenue, for despite feeling euphoric, elated, and aroused, James MacPherson was deeply unsettled, and he needed to think, and therefore he needed to walk.
James MacPherson did not believe in one-night stands, nor affairs of the heart, nor marriage. He had never reached that terminal stage, but he had been hurt - badly hurt – and he did not want that particular experience again. He had gained wisdom, he supposed, from the aching emptiness of love gone wrong, and he knew he didn’t want to go there again. But James MacPherson was a lonely man. He had read, where was it . . . I like being alone, but occasionally it crosses over into loneliness, and that I decidedly do not like . . . He couldn’t remember. He longed for the company of someone like Lisa - longed for the conversations, the smiles, the teasing, the kisses, and . . . more.
James MacPherson was in a fix, and he was smart enough to know it. He could, perhaps already did, love this woman, but could he give her what she wanted?
He walked quickly, not because he was virtually alone on Fifth Avenue, but because it was his habit. He was surprised at how soon the Empire State Building came upon him, and he walked on without pausing.
He paused briefly in front of Patience and Fortitude - the two lions at the entrance to the New York Public Library, her library.
He eventually reached his apartment at nearly 4 a.m. and was too tired to think any more. Too tired, or perhaps he felt that he had, as always, worked it through and need think no more about it. Sleep would ease the dreadful specter of doubt, even remorse, which pressed in on him.
Lisa Anderson, for her part, did not think quite so much that night, but neither did she sleep well, for she was no less troubled than James MacPherson. She had not been in love before, although more than once thought she might be, and did not recognize what was happening to her. She only knew that she wanted to be with this person who had made her feel better about herself than she ever remembered feeling, and that surprised her because she had never felt small or insignificant in any way.
Yet she did not regret taking the initiative with the good night kiss, nor agreeing to see him yet again. Lisa Anderson had trouble acting in any way false to her feelings. She recognized that, and recognized as well that it occasionally got her in trouble, but she made no effort to change her approach to life. She was who she was, take it or leave it, and something in her was at the same time terrified and ecstatic that James MacPherson was taking it.
VI.
And so they slept and dreamed fitfully on that night – the night which evolved into a glorious year together, with many nights when they did not sleep separately. And then one day the defining moment came without warning and quite innocently. A long walk to their usual meeting place in Central Park.
“Buy me an ice-cream. I walked all the way.”
“Of course. Did you now? What possessed you?”
“Nice day, and I was thinking about this book of yours.”
“Ah! Good! Any recommendations?”
“Yes, I’m thinking you should drop the Jefferson and Locke and Thomas Aquinas and . . .”
“No, I mean about the ice-cream.” And he was smiling that smile of his and she was so exasperated she punched his shoulder.
“One of those prefab Cherry Garcia’s on a stick,” she said.
He turned to the attendant. “You heard the lady, and I’ll have a Mystyk – strawberry, I think.”
They took their sweets to a table for two overlooking the boat pond, where a handful of radio-controlled crafts were mostly successful at avoiding each other.
“You were saying?” he said as he extracted a pipe and tobacco pouch from his pocket.
She was attacking the ice-cream cone with relish, in an unconsciously sensuous manner that was mildly unsettling as he watched her. “Well, I was thinking you should write this thing out of your own head. If it’s fiction, it’s a story, and no amount of research will give you the story. So leave it until later. Write the story and make the characters real, and then come back to it later for historical accuracy or whatever it is that’s been holding you back.”
“Hmmm . . . I’m not sure I can do it that way. I told you, I’m not used to writing fiction.”
“Tell me, James, when does the story start, in time? What’s happening and who are the first characters you introduce?”
After a pause, he began. “Middle of the nineteenth century, on a farm in central Europe. A father and his daughter. They’re talking outside their house . . .”
“Daytime or night time?”
“Ummm . . . End of the day. After the evening meal, I suppose.”
“Warm night then?”
“Yes, I guess it would be.”
“What’s her name? What does she look like?”
“Milena, I think. Mila for short. It means ‘Love of the people.’ Slavic. High forehead, long, light brown hair. Like yours. Pretty . . . Like you.”
She smiled. “And Papa? What does she call him? What does he look like? And where’s Mama?”
He leaned back, closed his eyes, pinched his nose, puffed on his pipe. “Poppy. She calls him ‘Poppy.’ He’s dark. Looks like a farmer. Dirty hands, streaked face. Dark hair, beard and mustache. Fifty maybe. Looks older. Mama died in childbirth, having her – Mila.”
“What are they talking about?”
“She wants to go to school. He doesn’t want her to leave him . . .”
That was enough to make her point. “James, why aren’t you writing this down?”
He opened his eyes and looked at her. “I have been. I’ve been developing the setting, the historical context. Europe was in turmoil, people were losing their land, their livelihood . . .”
“James… Sir James. How many times have you written the word ‘Mila’ or ‘Poppy’?”
After a long pause, he lowered his eyes. “None,” he admitted, “but I’ve got them in my head.”
“Exactly! James, dear James. Go home and write the story. Write about Mila and her Poppy. Write about what she learns at school and how it changes her and how she in turn changes others. What happens to Poppy? Does he lose the farm? Does she give him grandchildren? Does one of them write music which energizes a revolution, or does a revolution motivate her poetry? It’s all in your head, James, and in your abundant heart. Leave the damn research until later. Feel what Milena feels, and write it down. Write it with beautiful words. Laugh with her. Cry with her. Sing with her. Make love to her. Make her real! Then put her in your freakin’ historical context. Jefferson and all the others will be here when you need them. But if you want to write fiction, James, you sure as hell don’t need them now!”
“You don’t think? . . . ”
“No James, I don’t. They’re distractions.” It had just occurred to her, but she only thought and did not voice it. “So am I.”
“Try it, James. You’ve nothing to lose.”
At that moment, a group of children at the edge of the pond made a small commotion. She was watching them intently. It may have been his imagination, but he perceived a deep longing in her eyes – the “I want a husband and children look.”
While a hundred thoughts passed through his mind, he rose and took his empty bottle back to the counter as she devoured the last of her ice cream.
“Let’s walk. Can we walk?” He could not face her; he did not trust himself.
“Yes. Thanks for the ice-cream!”
He did not take her hand, which was his custom, and they wandered off around the boat pond, passing by the noisy children, mothers and fathers, nannies pushing strollers . . . and other lovers. At the corner of 59th and 5th, they stopped, and that was when she knew.
“Thank you,” he said. “I’ll call you soon.”
“Not before you’re ready,” she replied, looking at him steadily. He leaned forward and pecked her on the cheek and turned north, wordlessly.
As he faded into the distance, her tears came. This would not be good for either of us. It’s all well and good to enjoy the moment, but our moments have turned into months, and months turn into years, and the unavoidable result could be a future that neither of us wants.
James was distraught, but he knew, knew down to his very soul, that he did not want to give up his freedom. It was not his freedom to go about with other women or not be home on time for dinner, but his freedom to stay up late and smoke his pipe or come and go as he pleased, without knowing that someone might be wondering where he was or wishing he’d get around to fixing the drains or wondering where the money for this or that was going to come from; and he was certainly not prepared for what children would do to his life.
Could I walk though the City at 2:30 a.m. if I had someone waiting for me? Not that I make a habit of walking around at that hour, but suppose I did? What of it? And even in broad daylight. Damn, I can hear it. ‘James, slow down. Please, Jimmie can’t keep up with you.’ No. I need friendship, perhaps even companionship. But I need freedom more. I know that’s selfish, but, well, we are the product of our experiences . . . it’s unavoidable. And if that’s selfishness, so be it.
And then James rationalized that he was contemplating walking away from something that, if he did, would be a supremely unselfish act. Because, although he was considering his own needs in his thoughts, the source of his discomfort was out of consideration for Lisa. Even when he voiced that very thought in his mind, it was only himself that he blamed.
I cannot do this to her. I cannot deny this delightful creature the life she could have, should have. And I can never give her that.
VII.
She cried every day for a week, and occasionally long after - sometimes at night, listening to Madame Butterfly and her expanding library of music that was somehow now dominated by Puccini, sometimes when she opened the drawer at the library and saw the two pairs of scissors lying side-by-side.
And she cried the night six weeks later when she had still not heard from him and her brother came and took her for a late dinner and she poured her heart out to him because he knew her well enough to know and to care and she needed to talk with someone.
“Let me stay the night, Sis. You shouldn’t be alone now. Things will look brighter in the morning.”
“Yes. That would be nice. Thank you, Michael.”
James did not cry, not at first, but only because he really didn’t know how, but he nearly did on that evening when he and his opera ticket partner were walking up the west side of Central Park after the La Bohème – the La Bohème to which, after all, he had not invited Lisa.
“What’s wrong with you, James?”
That’s what triggered it. The combined effect of his favorite, heart-rending Act III when the lovers struggle with their love, and the question that Henry asked was just too much to bear, and in the last half hour, he had told Henry Zigmunt everything there was to tell.
“Go to her, man. Call her. Go to her – don’t walk away from this, James.”
And James had wavered. He called her that night and received no answer. And at eleven o’clock he hailed a taxi and went to Mercer Street. Her apartment was dark, and he stood in a doorway on the opposite side of the street and down a bit, smoking his pipe and wondering what to do. Presently he saw a taxi pull up and saw Lisa get out with a nice looking young man about her age, perhaps a bit older. He saw him put his arm around her shoulder and her put her arm around his waist as they climbed the steps to the black door with the brass knocker, and he saw the light go on in her window. He was still standing there when the light went out a half-hour later. The young man had not come out, and after about fifteen minutes James began to walk. As he made his way north, he thought about the changing historical context of The Returning Hero, but it did not stem the flow of his tears.
VIII. The Present
“Come in,” she called in response to the knock at her office of the Head Librarian of the New York Public Library.
“Sorry to disturb you, Miss Anderson, but there’s a rather large FedEx package for you.”
“Thank you, Jean. Leave it on the sideboard, please. I’ll get to it.”
“Okay. Funny . . . It’s from Sweden. Maybe it’s Swiss cheese.”
Sweden. Oh God! “Then it would be from Switzerland, Jean, and it would probably smell.”
“Oh, right,” replied Jean, reluctantly departing.
Wearily, she rose from her chair and went over to the package; it was about the size of a small suitcase. “Hotel Stockholm,” read the return address on the label. She carried the box to her desk and worked at it until she managed to get one end opened. Tipping it up, she shook it until it yielded a bundle wrapped in layers of newspapers. She set the box aside and gingerly unwrapped the paper to reveal a tattered old briefcase which she instantly recognized as belonging to James. She snapped open the clasps and looked at the contents.
She saw a large envelope, a book-sized rectangular package, a small, business-size envelope and a small, irregularly shaped package wrapped in tissue paper.
In the large envelope was a beautiful illuminated declaration that was the Nobel Laureate Diploma for Literature in the name of James Douglas MacPherson. She set that aside and unwrapped the rectangular package, which was a copy of The Returning Hero. She knew of it, of course, but seemed to see it anew. She opened the cover and leafed through the first few pages. There was a dedication page . . .
This story is dedicated to the staff of the New York Public Library, without whom it would be merely historically accurate.
It was hand-signed, “James.”
Oh, James. Dearest James . . .
Then she opened the small envelope. There was a note wrapping a loose piece of paper – a check in the amount of $980,000, endorsed Payable to Allysia Anderson, James D. MacPherson.
Dearest Allysia who is called Lisa,
I read of your appointment as Head Librarian, and you will forgive me if I feel proud. Thus I trust this package will find you. Other than that, I know little of the person I fell in love with so long ago, and love still today. I hope she has found happiness. I don’t know whether this confession shocks you, but it must be made, for my hour has come.
I have begun to notice the onset of a dementia, and, although I’m still quite capable, the prognosis is confirmed, the progression is inevitable. I suspect you know me well enough, despite our separation of so many years, to understand what I am about to do, and I believe I know you well enough that you will not mourn, as others may.
Please see that this signed volume and the diploma are added to the collection of your wonderful library. It is, after all, their origin, in so many ways, my love! As for the award, it is intended for your personal use. It is my hope that you use it as you wish, knowing that you will find a way to enrich others with your wealth. It is so inadequate as an expression of the happiness you brought to me, from the day I borrowed your scissors, and every day of my life thereafter.
As for me, it is my only wish that the happiness with which I remember you will now, in some odd way, be transferred to you as you think of your
Sir James
With the weight of lost years cascading in tears down her face, Lisa Anderson opened the small package to find a child’s size pair of scissors, ambidextrous, with purple handles. She held them for a moment, then opened the center drawer of her desk, placed them with the scissors of the blue handles and those of the red, and closed the drawer.
I. The Present
She put down the New York Times with a deep sense of emptiness and frustration, no closer to understanding what had happened than after hearing the NPR report on her way to work at the New York Public Library. The headline read, “Nobel Winner Commits Suicide.” The story laid out in print what she had heard on the radio. “James MacPherson, PhD., 55, was found dead in his Stockholm hotel room, two hours after receiving the 2025 Nobel Prize for Literature, in an apparent suicide. Details remain sketchy, but Professor MacPherson left a cryptic handwritten note, ‘Thank you, but it is not what I sought.’”
The Times story went on with a review of the respected academic’s career at Columbia and Oxford, a description of his prize-winning work, and comments from his colleagues, who were unanimous in their dismay at his mysterious demise. “Dr. MacPherson had no known living relatives.”
Dr. Henry Zygmunt, who succeeded MacPherson as holder of the Corliss Lamont Chair in Civil Liberties at Columbia after the latter assumed his position at Oxford, had this to say about his friend and colleague, ‘He was a gentle, quiet man with a wonderful sense of humor that was sometimes hard to find. It came through in his work, but subtly. He did not seem distraught when we last talked after the prize announcement, but he was by nature somewhat enigmatic and aloof. It is a great mystery and an even greater tragedy.
The Nobel medallion was found in the hotel room, but neither the monetary award check, amounting to just under one million American dollars, nor the prize diploma had been located at press time. The medal bears the inscription from Virgil: Inventas vitam juvat excoluisse per artes, ‘And they who bettered life on earth by new found mastery.’ A spokesman for the Prize Committee said that no current action regarding the award was contemplated. ‘As far as the foundation is concerned, our work is concluded at the award ceremonies. We deeply regret the loss of this distinguished writer and philosopher.’ MacPherson’s obituary appears on page B12.”
Lisa Anderson folded the paper and fought back the tears. Now was not the time; she had work to do. What could have possibly made this sweet and gentle man take his own life? She had not seen James in a decade and had lost all track of him when he left Columbia five years ago.
But she had thought of him nearly every day of those last ten years. He was the only man she ever really loved, and in the depth of her love, even today, she was overwhelmed with his loss . . . again.
It seems so long ago.
II. The Past
“Hello. Excuse me,” said a male voice in a tentative tone.
She looked up from the pile of new accessions she was cataloging at a slightly scruffy-looking man in perhaps his mid-forties.
The man went on, “Do you by any chance have a pair of left-handed scissors?”
“No, I’m sure not. We don’t often have requests for left-handed scissors.” She instantly regretted her characteristic sarcasm. “We have right-handed scissors, though, and you’re welcome to them, provided, of course, that you don’t intend on slicing up our collections.” Again a reflexive twinge of regret. “I’m sorry. I don’t mean to be rude, but people are always tearing things out of our periodicals and even bound volumes sometimes.”
Her apology was perhaps a result of her unconscious softening of her attitude as she looked at him more closely. He had a pleasant face creased with what might be lines of good humor, already graying but plentiful hair, and a charcoal turtleneck under a tweed jacket. For a moment she was tempted to lean over the counter and check for elbow-patches, but she resisted the urge as she met his eyes, which peered over the upper rims of his reading glasses, perched half way down his nose.
“Oh, I quite understand. It’s terrible what some people will do. No shame at all! No, I just need to do some old-fashioned cut and paste. I write in a rather stream of consciousness fashion, then I have to cut things up and put them in the proper order. And I’ve forgotten to bring my scissors.” He looked positively crestfallen, whether embarrassed by his own ineptitude or from frustration at having to put up with right-handed scissors, she could not tell.
“Well, here you are,” she said as she retrieved a pair of blue-handled Fiskars from a drawer. “If you can make do with these, you’re more than welcome. But mind you, bring them back.”
“And you’re more than gracious. Thank you; I will. Thank you so much.”
She watched him walk back to his table, noticing with some disappointment the absence of elbow-patches, and smiled inwardly at the absurdity of the brief conversation. What an odd and polite gentleman!
A little over an hour later, just before closing time, he returned to her post at the counter carrying a well-used brief case, a volume of Jefferson Papers, and the blue-handled scissors.
“Here are your scissors, as promised. Thank you again. And would you mind seeing that this is returned to its proper location? I’m afraid I might misshelf it.”
She smiled at him, “Of course, sir. I’d be happy to.”
“You’ve been most kind. Next time I’ll try to remember my southpaw scissors.” She thought she noticed a twinkle in his eye as he turned to leave.
“Good night, sir. Have a pleasant evening.”
He turned back toward her, and the twinkle had grown into an engaging smile. “Now that we’re friends, could you lose the ‘sir’? It’s so tiresome. I get ‘sir’ and ‘Professor’ all day long. Let’s go with ‘James’ – dignified and easy to remember.”
She laughed as freely as the library would permit and held out her hand. “Very well, my name is Allysia, but they call me ‘Lisa.’”
He took her hand and held it, not in the manner of a handshake, but rather as if he was expecting her to curtsey. “How wonderful! Che gelida manina,” as he bowed slightly. “Good night then, Lisa.” He released her hand and turned to go.
“Good night, Sir James.”
He looked over his shoulder with a surprised and delighted smile that lit up his whole face, which she returned as she restored the scissors to their proper place.
III.
That had been their first encounter, and she remembered it as though it had happened last night instead of ten years ago. She had missed the reference to La Bohème, but she recognized the fact that he was quoting something. She knew enough Italian to get the gist of it and the spelling right after a few tries, and it did not take her long to turn up the libretto in a search online. Rudolfo’s line, which her introduction had unwittingly elicited. Che gelida manina. “What a cold little hand!” And then, “My name is Lucia, but they call me Mimi.”
Now the brief little scene made sense, and even before she read Mimi and Rudolfo’s tête-à-tête to its amorous Act I conclusion, she had the slightly euphoric sense that she had just experienced the most romantic thing to happen to her in all her thirty years.
She had been curious about the combination of the sources he was using. What was he working on? She felt sure she could find out more about him, yet she did not even know his last name. How foolish she had felt.
To her disappointment, he had not returned the next night, nor the following, but, on arriving for work late on a Thursday afternoon, she had been surprised to find him deep in his work, surrounded by books and periodicals, writing away on sheaves of unlined paper with a fountain pen.
As closing time neared, the piles of work on his table gradually diminished until he at last collected his papers into his briefcase and stood to leave. Her momentary regret turned to delight as he headed in her direction, and she smiled at him as he approached.
“Ah, Miss Lisa! How delightful -- I hadn’t noticed!”
“Lost in your work, Sir James –- productive, I hope?”
“Perhaps,” he sighed ruefully. “Too soon to tell. I wonder if I might prevail upon you to keep these here for me?” He handed her a pair of scissors, red-handled. “Left-handed,” he said, unnecessarily, but with a sheepish smile.
“Of course,” she replied, “I’ll put your name on them, only . . .”
He looked at her questioningly for a moment, then, “Oh! Yes, of course. MacPherson. James MacPherson.”
She laughed. “Very good. Consider it done. And it’s Lisa Anderson. Not ‘Mimi’, to my infinite regret.”
Delighted that she had picked up on his allusion to Puccini, he laughed freely, and a bit too loudly. “Outstanding!”
“Sir James,” she said softly, looking about her for accusing eyes, “forgive me for being curious, but what are you working on so intently? Do you mind telling me?”
He looked thoughtful and mildly uneasy –- enough to make her again regret her curiosity. Then he took a deep breath and said, “I’d be delighted to tell you. In fact, if you’ve no objection, I rather need someone to talk with about it. Would it be awfully improper to ask you to join me for a cup of coffee at your convenience?”
She understood rationally her delight at receiving this invitation, so tentatively proffered, but she decidedly did not understand the vague feeling of schoolgirl excitement that briefly overcame her. She hoped her eyes conveyed only the delight as she replied, “I’d be glad to! If you can putter about here for perhaps ten minutes, I’ll be through here? There’s a nice little place over on Madison and just a block down –- Café Encore?”
“Yes, I know it. Well, why don’t I go secure us a table and collect my thoughts and you join me when you can?”
“I’ll see you there then.”
“Good heavens, Jimmie Mac! What have you gotten yourself into?” he said aloud as he walked along to the café. That was the nice thing about New York on a warm night. No one took notice of men who talked to themselves. Yes, she was very pleasant and quite attractive. Light, longish hair that she did not wrap up in a librarian’s bun, but instead let cascade gracefully around her shoulders. Bluish eyes, perhaps. He was not good at noticing such things. But her smile was somehow compelling –- like turning on a light . . .
He entered the café, which, he was pleased to note, was sparsely attended.
At that moment, Lisa had completed a cursory research. She had quickly put away her things and turned to Marquis’ Who’s Who Online - This had to be Sir James . . .
MacPherson, James Douglas - b. 1970, Radnor, PA.
Holder of the Corliss Lamont endowed chair in Civil Liberties, Columbia University, 2010–2015.
BA Haverford College, Pol. Sci.; MA William and Mary College, Cultural Studies; PhD. Princeton University, Philosophy.
Author of numerous papers and articles in philosophy, literature, ethics and society, world culture. Books: Ethics and the American Dream, Culture and Psychology.
Parents: James May MacPherson, Marion Pratt MacPherson. Both deceased. Single.
Holy Mary, Mother of God, what have I gotten myself into? A decade older than me, more degrees than a thermometer, and undoubtedly the quintessential Main Line WASP. Still, he had a sense of humor and was a gentleman (so far).
She switched off the computer, grabbed her purse, and headed for the door, detouring briefly to the ladies room to . . . well, to check her hair and put on just a hint of lipstick! I’ll have to pretend I don’t know.
He rose and waved from a back table as she entered the café. “I hope I didn’t keep you waiting too long,” she said as she breathlessly seated herself opposite him, as he drew back her chair.
“Not at all. I often stop somewhere before heading back north. It’s nice to have company. I opted for wine instead of coffee; it’s too hot for coffee, I think. But please, have whatever you’d like. Are you hungry?”
“Not really. Wine sounds great –- Chablis, I think.”
“Done,” he said and signaled the waiter by holding up his glass. “Bring us a bottle of this. It’s nice. And perhaps a plate of crackers and cheese. No Swiss.”
That settled, he leaned back in his chair and looked at her. “So, Allysia Anderson who is called Lisa, tell me about yourself. Chi siete? Vi piaccia dir!”
“Me? Oh, I’m just a girl from Queens who tried life in Manhattan and liked it. American Studies at CCNY and almost through a Masters in Library and Information Sciences at NYU. I’ve been working at the library part time for about five years and I do believe they intend to take me on full time when I graduate. I live a block from Washington Square, and when I’m not studying or working I go to shows when convenient and affordable, read quite a lot, listen to music. Not a very exciting life, but a contented one . . .”
“What do you read?”
What was this? I’m getting the third degree here and I thought we were going to talk about what he was working on.
She laughed in spite of herself. “Everything I can get my hands on, which is one of the reasons I like working at NYPL. Fiction mostly –- a balance between the old and the new. And the Times every day.”
“And the music?”
“Everything but country and jazz, nothing up to and including the Renaissance, and nothing that resembles rap, hip-hop, or anything else whose labels I don’t even pretend to understand.”
“Clearly a lady of refinement.” He smiled that gentle, winning smile. “And one of curiosity, I surmise. Why else would you enquire about my project!”
“Well then, what about you?” Time to play dumb. “A history teacher perhaps?”
“Close enough,” he replied happily. “Philosophy faculty at Columbia.” At least he was a truth-teller. I rather like looking at how the world changes and how those changes are influenced by, and reflected in, ideas in writing and the fine arts. The old ‘chicken and egg’ thing. Not very exciting, as you say, but I enjoy it.”
“How fascinating.” she said with a sincere and encouraging smile.
“Mmmm . . . Well, I doubt most people would agree with you. But I put more value on being fascinated than being fascinating.”
Again a pause, and he watched he as she considered this, taking a sip of wine, watched as her face turned into that remarkable smile.
“Of course. You put it perfectly!”
“So . . .,” she continued hesitantly, “What’s the current project?”
He leaned back in his chair and for a few moments, closed his eyes and pinched the bridge of his nose in the manner she had observed when he was working. She tried not to smile.
“Well,” he began as he emerged from his trance with pursed lips and squinting eyes as though he were trying to see something clearly, “It’s the same ideas, really, with a few twists perhaps, but all my work to date has been expository in nature. Now I’m trying to wrap the package up in fiction, and I’m struggling with the realization that I don’t know how to write fiction.”
“Oh, my. Jumping into fiction and taking on the Great Themes all at once! It’s a bit of a leap, isn’t it, James?”
“Yes, I’m finding that it is. But I think it’s worth the effort because, well, no one picks up anything I’ve written except critics, professors, and their students who are forced into it. I have great faith in humanity – perhaps too great – and if I want to reach them, I have to get off campus.”
“So that’s why you come to my library, to come down to the level of the Great Unwashed.”
He laughed. “Where’s Oprah when you need her? It’s partly that, I suppose, but there’s more to it. Fiction requires something more than academic writing. The objective of the latter is that the reader understands. The objective of fiction is that the reader feels, and that goes deeper and lasts much longer. I know from my own work that fiction has done more to influence thought, the course of humanity through time, than all the other literary forms, including even poetry, perhaps with a few notable exceptions and which I wouldn’t attempt in any case. War and Peace, Uncle Tom’s Cabin, Romeo and Juliet transformed into West Side Story -- There are so many examples. In a way, I’m trying to apply what I’ve learned to my own work –- take my own advice, so to speak.”
“I suppose what you say is true,” she mused. “But what of the other art forms – drama, painting, architecture perhaps, and certainly music?”
“Of those you’ve mentioned, only music comes close, and the effect is not as obvious, though perhaps more powerful, I’ll admit. Do you understand what I mean by that?”
“Yes professor,” she smiled slyly, “do you want examples?”
He laughed, “That was not intended as a test, but sure!”
She paused to think for a moment reflecting that all worries about a stilted conversation with a learned man had somehow vanished. “Well, I think it’s because music gets inside of you in a way that written words can’t. Once you’ve come to know Beethoven’s Ode to Joy or Wagner’s Siegfried Idyll or even Dylan’s Blowin’ in the Wind, it’s impossible not to be changed by them. Subtly as you suggest, perhaps, but deeply.”
“Yes, and do you know why?” he smiled again, “Sorry, I can’t help myself.”
“Not in a way I can put into words, but yes, I think so.”
“But that’s it exactly, don’t you see? Music takes up where words leave off. Victor Hugo said, ‘Music expresses that which cannot be said, but on which it is impossible to remain silent.’”
“Oh, James, yes! That is it, isn’t it? How wonderful!”
Perhaps content to bask in the glow of this mutual understanding, they did not speak for a minute or so, and busied themselves with the snacks. Had they thought about it, which they may well have done in their reverie, it may have occurred to them that a happy silence, as music, expresses that which must be said better than words – at least at that very moment.
“Have you ever been to the opera?” he asked.
“No. Well, Gilbert and Sullivan and plenty of Andrew Lloyd Webber, but not real opera. I have a few excerpt CDs of some Verdi and Wagner, and Carmen, I think, but no complete works. I’d love to go sometime. I just haven’t got around to it yet.” She smiled at him.
“How about Saturday night?”
What had he been thinking? He steeled himself for her polite excuse.
“Why I’d be delighted! Which one?” How exciting! Am I crazy?
“Madame Butterfly, at the City Opera. Not the Met, nor La Bohème, but ‘twill suffice. I share season tickets with a friend, but he’s on sabbatical this term, so I have them to myself.”
“How nice!” . . . a friend, but he’s on sabbatical . . . She hadn’t missed the “he,” just as he hadn’t missed the odd fact of the availability of this gradually more beautiful and delightful lady on a Saturday evening. She went on, “I’ll do my homework -- bring it home from the library and study the libretto while I listen . . .”
“No, please don’t. Do that after if you like, but not before. There will be subtitles if you need them. But you’ll feel the music better if it’s new to you. Later you’ll come to love it. But for my purposes, I’d rather you got the music, the lyrics, and the drama all at once.”
“Okay . . . Just what are your purposes, Sir James?”
To her dismay, he blushed deeply and lowered his eyes. Oh, jeez. I really must learn to think before I speak. “Oh, dear, I’m so sorry. I was just teasing. I’m awful, really I am.”
He brightened a bit. “No, it’s all right. You just caught me by surprise, and you’re perfectly right to ask. Let me think out loud . . .”
She gave him what she hoped was an encouraging smile, without really understanding why.
“Oddly enough, what we’ve talked about tonight, although we’ve gone off on a tangent or two, has given me some things to think about. That’s a good thing.” He smiled lightly. “And I’d like to watch you experience your first opera, to observe you as a research subject, frankly. I hope we can continue what we’ve begun tonight, because I think it will help me to think about what I’m trying to do. To convey how literature or music changes people, and how they, being somehow different, change the world around them. You’ve already been most helpful, and in a way that I couldn’t possibly find from any of my stodgy colleagues. But . . . there’s more to it than that.”
He lowered his eyes again, speaking softly to the wine glass he held with both hands. “Quite honestly, and I know this sounds ridiculous and it’s a bit embarrassing, I find I enjoy your company tremendously. I’m sorry if that’s out of order, but there you have it.”
There was a potentially uncomfortable silence as she waited to hear if there would be more to come. When he looked up at her somewhat ruefully, she realized there was not. She leaned toward him across the table and lightly placed her hands on his – four hands holding one wine glass.
“James . . . Sir James,” she smiled at him, “Would it help if I told you that I much prefer to be called ‘good company’ than a laboratory mouse? I’m fascinated by your work. Really I am. We’ve barely scratched the surface, but I’m caught up in it, and I’m delighted to help you in any way I can. You’ve made me think about things tonight that I didn’t even know that I could think about. But I too enjoy good company. So relax, you dear, gentle man, and enjoy yourself, because I most certainly am.”
And so, in this odd fashion that might have been lifted from the pages of Jane Austen, James and Lisa acknowledged, if they did not outright declare, their love. There is little more that needs be known about the remainder of the night, save for the manner in which the wine bottle was drained.
“To music.”
“To Puccini.”
“To fiction.”
“To the Great Themes.”
“To laboratory mice.”
“And good company”
“To love” was left unspoken.
IV.
Midway through Puccini’s Madama Butterfly there is a short scene, exquisitely scored, in which the American Consul to Japan reads a letter from an American naval officer to Cio-Cio San - “Butterfly,” the teenage girl he married several years before. Unfortunately and unknown to Butterfly, Captain Pinkerton already has an American wife. The letter is intended to break this news and that he must forsake his young bride. But she misunderstands and hears only that he is returning. When she learns the truth, she will commit hari-kiri, leaving their infant son, of whom he is unaware, as a reminder of their love, and of his remorse. But at this moment, she is the only one in the opera house who is ecstatic, and Puccini captures both her rapture and her impending doom in the delicate repartee.
Lisa Anderson only partly understood this. She was alternately absorbed in the beauty of the music, which she enjoyed more on first hearing than she had expected, and the evolving story. She had occasionally glanced at James, who had been totally engrossed from the first downbeat. She did so at this decisive moment and saw a tear making its way slowly down his cheek toward his jaw.
This is what he meant. He is feeling the music, and has been changed by it. Not now, not tonight, but before. Tonight it merely grows deeper.
She knew well enough that this was a tear responding not merely for the tragic Butterfly, but to a depth of feeling that she had rarely witnessed, and even more rarely experienced. This was a revelation to her, and she was mildly jealous.
And yet she felt compelled to tell him she understood, and with the knuckle of her forefinger, she touched his cheek and took the tear from it.
He took a deep breath, wiped his other cheek briefly, and took her hand in his, with the dampness of his tears between their entwined fingers, and so remained until the final curtain.
When the lights came up after the last curtain call, they made their way through the lobby to Lincoln Center’s plaza, with its magnificently lit fountain. They stood watching it for a minute, arm in arm, until he turned to her with a radiant smile. “Well, my little laboratory mouse, a little wine?”
“Of course, and, if you don’t mind, I’ve done the honors. Would you like to see my little place?
“I would indeed.” And they advanced to the waiting line of taxis.
They said very little in the taxi, each lost in their own thoughts.
For his part, James realized that he was enchanted by her. She seemed to understand him, sometimes anticipating his thoughts, accepting his subdued intensity, and yet she was not afraid to poke fun at him, a fact that he found delightfully refreshing. As they rode south through Manhattan, he thought with delight that the music of Puccini was replaying in his mind, accompanying his musings on a heroine of his own – an oddly confusing amalgam of the girl in his fledgling work and the young woman beside him.
Lisa’s curiosity had grown into a sense that she had somehow connected with someone who was interested in her for the right reasons, although she could not figure out what they might be, and that feeling was new to her. The prospect of a relationship that grew out of gentleness, colloquy, and mutual admiration engendered a wonderfully warm feeling, and in her characteristic fashion she enjoyed the moment, and the prospect of many more to come.
Emerging at the north side of Washington Square, they walked under the arch, across the square and the short distance to a tall, narrow brownstone on Mercer Street with a brass knocker on a black front door.
“The last affordable apartment in the Village,” she said as she opened the outer door and unlocked the inner one with a key. “Fourth floor, I’m afraid,” giving him a rueful look.
“No mountain too high,” he grinned. “After you.”
There was only 4A and 4B, and she chose B, unlocked it with another key, reached in, and turned on the light. They entered a room clearly designed to be everything but the bathroom and bedroom. He quickly took in a couch and two generous chairs with a small oak coffee table in the middle of a dhurrie rug between them. To the left was a small kitchenette and in the corner a small table with four chairs for dining. To the right was a desk with a computer, and the wall was bookcases floor to ceiling, save for a section holding a TV and compact sound system. Opposite the entry was a window overlooking the street, and a hallway to the rear was evident to the right of the bookcases. The walls were painted white and appointed with posters, prints and black and white photographs.
“Chez Lisa,” she said, removing her light jacket and draping it over the back of a the chair.
“It’s exquisite. Perfect. It suits you!”
“That it does. Make yourself comfortable, please! I’ll dredge up some goodies.”
He removed his suit jacket, placing it on the chair next to hers, and headed for the bookshelves while she went to the fridge, took out the wine, rummaged in the drawer for a corkscrew, and took them to him. “Make yourself useful.”
“What a wonderful wall of bookcases! How lucky you are to have found an apartment with them,” he said as he went to work on the wine bottle.
“My brother built them for me. The landlord paid for the materials, believe it or not. I figured I was going to be here for a while, and, as you can see, I need bookshelves.” She turned on a track light that lit the wall beautifully and turned off the overhead light, casting the room in a warm glow. Absorbed in his explorations, he heard her opening and closing drawers and cupboards in the kitchenette. Presently she returned carrying a tray with two glasses and a bowl of peeled shrimp with a smaller one for sauce, an assortment of crackers, and two blocks of cheese –- no Swiss. “Find anything interesting?” she said as she placed the tray on the coffee table.
“Get to know a person by the books she keeps,” he said, turning to her with a smile and holding the bottle and corkscrew, with the cork cleanly impaled on it. “None of mine, alas!”
“Oh, dear! If only I’d known!”
He laughed, and set the wine beside the tray. “My, how elegant!”
She sat on the sofa as he poured the wine. He handed her a glass and raised his. “To Puccini! What did you think of it?”
She reached up and touched her glass to his. “To Puccini indeed. And thank you.” She kicked off her shoes and drew her feet up under her on the couch as he seated himself in the comfortable chair without the jackets.
“I thoroughly enjoyed it. But not as much as you. I may learn to, I think. Give me time.”
“I know. You need to become familiar with the music, and that will come. It’s like meeting someone who will later become a good friend – you don’t know it at the time, but perhaps you have a good feeling about it, and with each encounter, you become closer. And then later, you marvel at the whole thing. How dull life must have been . . . before. It’s hard to explain how I feel about opera – hard to put into words. But I think by now you understand that.”
“Yes. Oddly enough, I used to think that the idea of people singing their way through dialog was a bit silly. I don’t think that any more. I can understand how the combination of the music and the words is so much more powerful.” How dull life must have been . . . before!
“And so tragic . . . Poor Butterfly . . . and that Pinkerton – what a bastard.”
“No,” she said. “There I don’t entirely agree with you.” She paused, waiting for his reaction. He looked at her with raised eyebrows.
“Cio-Cio San, ‘Butterfly,’ is a geisha. She dances, and who knows what else, for men, right?”
“Right, but . . .”
“But nothing. Now, please understand, it’s my first hearing, but I think I followed it pretty well. Those subtitles are great, by the way.”
“Go on,” he said, leaning back to face her. “May I take off my shoes?”
“Of course!” she laughed. “Pretend we’re in that little house with the paper walls, overlooking the harbor. Shall we sit on the floor?”
“That won’t be necessary, though it’s tempting,” he replied, removing his shoes and gingerly rubbing his toes before leaning back. “Please continue.”
“Well, think about it. She’s basically a teenage hooker, right?” He winced, but nodded.
Not waiting for him to comment, she went on. “She’s used to wielding power over men. That’s what it’s all about. Sure, she’s sad. She’s remorseful, but more than that, she’s pissed. She realizes she’s the tragic victim here. She can’t handle that, and, besides, she doesn’t want to go back to her old line of work, so she turns the tables. By committing suicide, she reasserts her control – her power over Pinkerton and her own destiny. And she does so with such drama, such finality, and with a perfect sense of timing. She wins and he loses, because he really does love her. And her death makes him realize that. And now, for the rest of his life, he has to live with the son, the blue-eyed Oriental boy, the constant reminder of her. She’s the victor, he the tragic victim – the Returning Hero. You can hear it in his last remorseful cry – ‘Butterfly! Butterfly!’ It’s not remorse for the loss of her. He had already made that decision. It’s a protest. It’s remorse for his own future. Puccini knew that. It’s in the music.”
He sat in stunned silence. So did she, nearly out of breath. “Oh dear. I’ve destroyed your illusions.”
“No,” he said, without opening his eyes. “You’ve . . . redefined them.”
He leaned forward, took a gulp of wine, and refilled his glass. He took her glass from the table and held it up for her. Instead of taking it from him, she guided his hand until she was able to take a sip as he held the glass to her lips. “You see?” she licked her lips, smiling at him. “It’s all about power, Sir James. Power and freedom.”
After a pause, James said ruefully, but with enough of a smile that suggested he was teasing, “I’m reconsidering my thought to invite you to La Bohème.”
“Why thank you! I’d love to!” and they both laughed.
They prattled on happily, much in the manner of the conversations that were occurring many places at the same time within a few blocks in this old section of Manhattan. They went off on tangents about Kondratieff waves, the Golden Mean, 60‘s music, Persian poets, and Melville. At something like 2 a.m., he glanced at his watch and was startled to see the lateness of the hour.
“Oh dear . . .”
“Yes,” she replied sadly, “I don’t want the night to end either, but I suppose it must.”
He retrieved his shoes and struggled a bit putting them on, then stood and picked up his jacket. She stood and faced him. “James, it’s so late. With good judgment I should ask you to stay, but somehow I think you wouldn’t want me to.”
“No. Quite right. I’ll be fine.”
“You sure?”
“Yes of course. Thank you.”
She took his jacket from him and held it for him to put on. As he turned toward her, she dusted his shoulders lightly, and he reached up and took her hands.
“I wish I could sing,” he said, looking at her upturned face, her long, radiant hair framing her features in the soft light, her eyes now most decidedly blue.
“Why?” she smiled.
“Because the words, ‘Thank you for a most delightful evening’ aren’t enough. They need help from Puccini. Without music, you won’t really know how I feel.”
“Mmmm . . . right.” She paused for a moment, looking at the smile in his eyes and on his lips. “There are other art forms, though. Remember?”
And she kissed him, softly, lingering for a few moments to indicate that, perhaps, it was intended as somewhat more than just the polite au revoir. She drew back, but not away, and sensed that he was a bit startled. He stared at her for a moment, and their second kiss was all the music they needed. Finally, they held each other for a few moments and then he turned to go. She opened the door for him and whispered, “Thank you, James. Do be careful.”
“I will . . .” He paused and turned back to her after stepping into the hallway. “Would you like to take a walk in the park tomorrow afternoon?”
“MmmHmm. What time?”
“Two-ish, perhaps? Meet you at Hans Christian Andersen?”
“I’ll be there.”
“Until then,” he said, with the smile that had captivated her, which he saw reflected in hers.
V.
He reached the street and walked to the corner, mildly surprised at how warm it still was. He hailed a cab and, as it pulled up, he opened the door, paused, and said to the driver, “I’ve changed my mind – sorry for the inconvenience.”
“Hey, No prob, Mon. Have a nice night.”
Then he turned and started walking, back through Washington Square Park and up Fifth Avenue, for despite feeling euphoric, elated, and aroused, James MacPherson was deeply unsettled, and he needed to think, and therefore he needed to walk.
James MacPherson did not believe in one-night stands, nor affairs of the heart, nor marriage. He had never reached that terminal stage, but he had been hurt - badly hurt – and he did not want that particular experience again. He had gained wisdom, he supposed, from the aching emptiness of love gone wrong, and he knew he didn’t want to go there again. But James MacPherson was a lonely man. He had read, where was it . . . I like being alone, but occasionally it crosses over into loneliness, and that I decidedly do not like . . . He couldn’t remember. He longed for the company of someone like Lisa - longed for the conversations, the smiles, the teasing, the kisses, and . . . more.
James MacPherson was in a fix, and he was smart enough to know it. He could, perhaps already did, love this woman, but could he give her what she wanted?
He walked quickly, not because he was virtually alone on Fifth Avenue, but because it was his habit. He was surprised at how soon the Empire State Building came upon him, and he walked on without pausing.
He paused briefly in front of Patience and Fortitude - the two lions at the entrance to the New York Public Library, her library.
He eventually reached his apartment at nearly 4 a.m. and was too tired to think any more. Too tired, or perhaps he felt that he had, as always, worked it through and need think no more about it. Sleep would ease the dreadful specter of doubt, even remorse, which pressed in on him.
Lisa Anderson, for her part, did not think quite so much that night, but neither did she sleep well, for she was no less troubled than James MacPherson. She had not been in love before, although more than once thought she might be, and did not recognize what was happening to her. She only knew that she wanted to be with this person who had made her feel better about herself than she ever remembered feeling, and that surprised her because she had never felt small or insignificant in any way.
Yet she did not regret taking the initiative with the good night kiss, nor agreeing to see him yet again. Lisa Anderson had trouble acting in any way false to her feelings. She recognized that, and recognized as well that it occasionally got her in trouble, but she made no effort to change her approach to life. She was who she was, take it or leave it, and something in her was at the same time terrified and ecstatic that James MacPherson was taking it.
VI.
And so they slept and dreamed fitfully on that night – the night which evolved into a glorious year together, with many nights when they did not sleep separately. And then one day the defining moment came without warning and quite innocently. A long walk to their usual meeting place in Central Park.
“Buy me an ice-cream. I walked all the way.”
“Of course. Did you now? What possessed you?”
“Nice day, and I was thinking about this book of yours.”
“Ah! Good! Any recommendations?”
“Yes, I’m thinking you should drop the Jefferson and Locke and Thomas Aquinas and . . .”
“No, I mean about the ice-cream.” And he was smiling that smile of his and she was so exasperated she punched his shoulder.
“One of those prefab Cherry Garcia’s on a stick,” she said.
He turned to the attendant. “You heard the lady, and I’ll have a Mystyk – strawberry, I think.”
They took their sweets to a table for two overlooking the boat pond, where a handful of radio-controlled crafts were mostly successful at avoiding each other.
“You were saying?” he said as he extracted a pipe and tobacco pouch from his pocket.
She was attacking the ice-cream cone with relish, in an unconsciously sensuous manner that was mildly unsettling as he watched her. “Well, I was thinking you should write this thing out of your own head. If it’s fiction, it’s a story, and no amount of research will give you the story. So leave it until later. Write the story and make the characters real, and then come back to it later for historical accuracy or whatever it is that’s been holding you back.”
“Hmmm . . . I’m not sure I can do it that way. I told you, I’m not used to writing fiction.”
“Tell me, James, when does the story start, in time? What’s happening and who are the first characters you introduce?”
After a pause, he began. “Middle of the nineteenth century, on a farm in central Europe. A father and his daughter. They’re talking outside their house . . .”
“Daytime or night time?”
“Ummm . . . End of the day. After the evening meal, I suppose.”
“Warm night then?”
“Yes, I guess it would be.”
“What’s her name? What does she look like?”
“Milena, I think. Mila for short. It means ‘Love of the people.’ Slavic. High forehead, long, light brown hair. Like yours. Pretty . . . Like you.”
She smiled. “And Papa? What does she call him? What does he look like? And where’s Mama?”
He leaned back, closed his eyes, pinched his nose, puffed on his pipe. “Poppy. She calls him ‘Poppy.’ He’s dark. Looks like a farmer. Dirty hands, streaked face. Dark hair, beard and mustache. Fifty maybe. Looks older. Mama died in childbirth, having her – Mila.”
“What are they talking about?”
“She wants to go to school. He doesn’t want her to leave him . . .”
That was enough to make her point. “James, why aren’t you writing this down?”
He opened his eyes and looked at her. “I have been. I’ve been developing the setting, the historical context. Europe was in turmoil, people were losing their land, their livelihood . . .”
“James… Sir James. How many times have you written the word ‘Mila’ or ‘Poppy’?”
After a long pause, he lowered his eyes. “None,” he admitted, “but I’ve got them in my head.”
“Exactly! James, dear James. Go home and write the story. Write about Mila and her Poppy. Write about what she learns at school and how it changes her and how she in turn changes others. What happens to Poppy? Does he lose the farm? Does she give him grandchildren? Does one of them write music which energizes a revolution, or does a revolution motivate her poetry? It’s all in your head, James, and in your abundant heart. Leave the damn research until later. Feel what Milena feels, and write it down. Write it with beautiful words. Laugh with her. Cry with her. Sing with her. Make love to her. Make her real! Then put her in your freakin’ historical context. Jefferson and all the others will be here when you need them. But if you want to write fiction, James, you sure as hell don’t need them now!”
“You don’t think? . . . ”
“No James, I don’t. They’re distractions.” It had just occurred to her, but she only thought and did not voice it. “So am I.”
“Try it, James. You’ve nothing to lose.”
At that moment, a group of children at the edge of the pond made a small commotion. She was watching them intently. It may have been his imagination, but he perceived a deep longing in her eyes – the “I want a husband and children look.”
While a hundred thoughts passed through his mind, he rose and took his empty bottle back to the counter as she devoured the last of her ice cream.
“Let’s walk. Can we walk?” He could not face her; he did not trust himself.
“Yes. Thanks for the ice-cream!”
He did not take her hand, which was his custom, and they wandered off around the boat pond, passing by the noisy children, mothers and fathers, nannies pushing strollers . . . and other lovers. At the corner of 59th and 5th, they stopped, and that was when she knew.
“Thank you,” he said. “I’ll call you soon.”
“Not before you’re ready,” she replied, looking at him steadily. He leaned forward and pecked her on the cheek and turned north, wordlessly.
As he faded into the distance, her tears came. This would not be good for either of us. It’s all well and good to enjoy the moment, but our moments have turned into months, and months turn into years, and the unavoidable result could be a future that neither of us wants.
James was distraught, but he knew, knew down to his very soul, that he did not want to give up his freedom. It was not his freedom to go about with other women or not be home on time for dinner, but his freedom to stay up late and smoke his pipe or come and go as he pleased, without knowing that someone might be wondering where he was or wishing he’d get around to fixing the drains or wondering where the money for this or that was going to come from; and he was certainly not prepared for what children would do to his life.
Could I walk though the City at 2:30 a.m. if I had someone waiting for me? Not that I make a habit of walking around at that hour, but suppose I did? What of it? And even in broad daylight. Damn, I can hear it. ‘James, slow down. Please, Jimmie can’t keep up with you.’ No. I need friendship, perhaps even companionship. But I need freedom more. I know that’s selfish, but, well, we are the product of our experiences . . . it’s unavoidable. And if that’s selfishness, so be it.
And then James rationalized that he was contemplating walking away from something that, if he did, would be a supremely unselfish act. Because, although he was considering his own needs in his thoughts, the source of his discomfort was out of consideration for Lisa. Even when he voiced that very thought in his mind, it was only himself that he blamed.
I cannot do this to her. I cannot deny this delightful creature the life she could have, should have. And I can never give her that.
VII.
She cried every day for a week, and occasionally long after - sometimes at night, listening to Madame Butterfly and her expanding library of music that was somehow now dominated by Puccini, sometimes when she opened the drawer at the library and saw the two pairs of scissors lying side-by-side.
And she cried the night six weeks later when she had still not heard from him and her brother came and took her for a late dinner and she poured her heart out to him because he knew her well enough to know and to care and she needed to talk with someone.
“Let me stay the night, Sis. You shouldn’t be alone now. Things will look brighter in the morning.”
“Yes. That would be nice. Thank you, Michael.”
James did not cry, not at first, but only because he really didn’t know how, but he nearly did on that evening when he and his opera ticket partner were walking up the west side of Central Park after the La Bohème – the La Bohème to which, after all, he had not invited Lisa.
“What’s wrong with you, James?”
That’s what triggered it. The combined effect of his favorite, heart-rending Act III when the lovers struggle with their love, and the question that Henry asked was just too much to bear, and in the last half hour, he had told Henry Zigmunt everything there was to tell.
“Go to her, man. Call her. Go to her – don’t walk away from this, James.”
And James had wavered. He called her that night and received no answer. And at eleven o’clock he hailed a taxi and went to Mercer Street. Her apartment was dark, and he stood in a doorway on the opposite side of the street and down a bit, smoking his pipe and wondering what to do. Presently he saw a taxi pull up and saw Lisa get out with a nice looking young man about her age, perhaps a bit older. He saw him put his arm around her shoulder and her put her arm around his waist as they climbed the steps to the black door with the brass knocker, and he saw the light go on in her window. He was still standing there when the light went out a half-hour later. The young man had not come out, and after about fifteen minutes James began to walk. As he made his way north, he thought about the changing historical context of The Returning Hero, but it did not stem the flow of his tears.
VIII. The Present
“Come in,” she called in response to the knock at her office of the Head Librarian of the New York Public Library.
“Sorry to disturb you, Miss Anderson, but there’s a rather large FedEx package for you.”
“Thank you, Jean. Leave it on the sideboard, please. I’ll get to it.”
“Okay. Funny . . . It’s from Sweden. Maybe it’s Swiss cheese.”
Sweden. Oh God! “Then it would be from Switzerland, Jean, and it would probably smell.”
“Oh, right,” replied Jean, reluctantly departing.
Wearily, she rose from her chair and went over to the package; it was about the size of a small suitcase. “Hotel Stockholm,” read the return address on the label. She carried the box to her desk and worked at it until she managed to get one end opened. Tipping it up, she shook it until it yielded a bundle wrapped in layers of newspapers. She set the box aside and gingerly unwrapped the paper to reveal a tattered old briefcase which she instantly recognized as belonging to James. She snapped open the clasps and looked at the contents.
She saw a large envelope, a book-sized rectangular package, a small, business-size envelope and a small, irregularly shaped package wrapped in tissue paper.
In the large envelope was a beautiful illuminated declaration that was the Nobel Laureate Diploma for Literature in the name of James Douglas MacPherson. She set that aside and unwrapped the rectangular package, which was a copy of The Returning Hero. She knew of it, of course, but seemed to see it anew. She opened the cover and leafed through the first few pages. There was a dedication page . . .
This story is dedicated to the staff of the New York Public Library, without whom it would be merely historically accurate.
It was hand-signed, “James.”
Oh, James. Dearest James . . .
Then she opened the small envelope. There was a note wrapping a loose piece of paper – a check in the amount of $980,000, endorsed Payable to Allysia Anderson, James D. MacPherson.
Dearest Allysia who is called Lisa,
I read of your appointment as Head Librarian, and you will forgive me if I feel proud. Thus I trust this package will find you. Other than that, I know little of the person I fell in love with so long ago, and love still today. I hope she has found happiness. I don’t know whether this confession shocks you, but it must be made, for my hour has come.
I have begun to notice the onset of a dementia, and, although I’m still quite capable, the prognosis is confirmed, the progression is inevitable. I suspect you know me well enough, despite our separation of so many years, to understand what I am about to do, and I believe I know you well enough that you will not mourn, as others may.
Please see that this signed volume and the diploma are added to the collection of your wonderful library. It is, after all, their origin, in so many ways, my love! As for the award, it is intended for your personal use. It is my hope that you use it as you wish, knowing that you will find a way to enrich others with your wealth. It is so inadequate as an expression of the happiness you brought to me, from the day I borrowed your scissors, and every day of my life thereafter.
As for me, it is my only wish that the happiness with which I remember you will now, in some odd way, be transferred to you as you think of your
Sir James
With the weight of lost years cascading in tears down her face, Lisa Anderson opened the small package to find a child’s size pair of scissors, ambidextrous, with purple handles. She held them for a moment, then opened the center drawer of her desk, placed them with the scissors of the blue handles and those of the red, and closed the drawer.
posted by An old throwback to the sixties at 12:41 AM
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