York to prove himselfâhe wanted to make money, lots of it, enough to show his family theirs didnât matter. So he developed real estate. By the time she met him he was forty, and wealthy in his own right. Now he was ready for a new challengeâhe confided this in her as soon as they became loversâhe wanted to collect art. He was like so many men who collect after earning their fortunes: impatient, omnivorous, wanting all the knowledge right away; wanting exactly what money cannot buyâtaste, connoisseurship.
Only much, much later was Lia able to understand how good she must have looked to him at first; how perfect an opening she represented. He saw how she would be, standing next to him, and this he loved, but the essential Lia, the heart still waiting, went unseen. He loved what she brought and not what she was.
She always remembered a certain moment after they were engaged. He was on the phone and she in the next room, on the other side of a glass window. He held up his palm in greeting to her, his tan, comfortably lined face split in a grin of affectionate embarrassment that let her know he was talking about her. She smiled back, but tuned in. He never remembered her proficiency in reading lips. He never edited himself. And with the insecure curiosity of the younger woman, she wanted to know everything he said, especially about her.
Thatâs right, thatâs exactly what Iâm going to do.
Evan was grinning into the phone. Lia knew he was talking about buying art. She watched as he spoke again.
Of course sheâs going to help me! Sheâs going to make me a pile of money.
He listened, and laughed.
Naturally. Why do you think Iâm marrying her?
He laughed and raised his hand to her again from the other side of the glass, smiling, that sly, contrite look. She turned away, churning, until he got off the phone. When she confronted him he said: Oh, Lia, grow up. Of course thatâs one of the reasons Iâm marrying you. Itâs not the
only
reason. I canât believe youâre complaining about this! He treated the whole thing as if it were silly.
But it was not silly to her, not at all, and that was the true problem beneath the false problemâthat even her honest admission of this did not move him. This was the beginning of her backing away. It hurt, breaking it off. But sheâd never regretted it.
And now she was past thirty, more realistic. Somewhere there would be someone with whom she could feel at ease. Someone she could help, who could help her. It shouldnât be so impossible. As for that jolt of what she used to think was love, that seemingly perfect mirror that puts the inner self up in ecstasy, for judgment by another human soulâat least she knew by now that that was not love at all but a forgery of the most insidious kind. She didnât believe it anymore, she didnât want it, and she didnât wait for it.
Now, the Yongle vase in front of her, she finished typing and pressed a button that would send the vase to her own private computer archive at the same time it went into the inventory. Everything in her memory world was in computerized files too. Naturally she wouldnât take a chance on losing things. But it was a point of honor with her not to retrieve information from the computer, only to store it there. She made herself rely on memory.
She took the sweet-white vase back in her fingers, wrapped the whole surface of her palm around the swelling glazed body, the magic, mathematically perfect swirls of the design against her skin. She cradled it back into its soft little white manger and closed it up.
4
That night, walking across the lamplit entry court, she noticed a far gate opening into another set of courtyards. It was arrestingly irregular. Up close, she saw it was built of jagged ornamental rocks. She ducked her head and slipped through it. A court cut by rose-lined paths opened out in front of her. Thin steles of rock,
Only much, much later was Lia able to understand how good she must have looked to him at first; how perfect an opening she represented. He saw how she would be, standing next to him, and this he loved, but the essential Lia, the heart still waiting, went unseen. He loved what she brought and not what she was.
She always remembered a certain moment after they were engaged. He was on the phone and she in the next room, on the other side of a glass window. He held up his palm in greeting to her, his tan, comfortably lined face split in a grin of affectionate embarrassment that let her know he was talking about her. She smiled back, but tuned in. He never remembered her proficiency in reading lips. He never edited himself. And with the insecure curiosity of the younger woman, she wanted to know everything he said, especially about her.
Thatâs right, thatâs exactly what Iâm going to do.
Evan was grinning into the phone. Lia knew he was talking about buying art. She watched as he spoke again.
Of course sheâs going to help me! Sheâs going to make me a pile of money.
He listened, and laughed.
Naturally. Why do you think Iâm marrying her?
He laughed and raised his hand to her again from the other side of the glass, smiling, that sly, contrite look. She turned away, churning, until he got off the phone. When she confronted him he said: Oh, Lia, grow up. Of course thatâs one of the reasons Iâm marrying you. Itâs not the
only
reason. I canât believe youâre complaining about this! He treated the whole thing as if it were silly.
But it was not silly to her, not at all, and that was the true problem beneath the false problemâthat even her honest admission of this did not move him. This was the beginning of her backing away. It hurt, breaking it off. But sheâd never regretted it.
And now she was past thirty, more realistic. Somewhere there would be someone with whom she could feel at ease. Someone she could help, who could help her. It shouldnât be so impossible. As for that jolt of what she used to think was love, that seemingly perfect mirror that puts the inner self up in ecstasy, for judgment by another human soulâat least she knew by now that that was not love at all but a forgery of the most insidious kind. She didnât believe it anymore, she didnât want it, and she didnât wait for it.
Now, the Yongle vase in front of her, she finished typing and pressed a button that would send the vase to her own private computer archive at the same time it went into the inventory. Everything in her memory world was in computerized files too. Naturally she wouldnât take a chance on losing things. But it was a point of honor with her not to retrieve information from the computer, only to store it there. She made herself rely on memory.
She took the sweet-white vase back in her fingers, wrapped the whole surface of her palm around the swelling glazed body, the magic, mathematically perfect swirls of the design against her skin. She cradled it back into its soft little white manger and closed it up.
4
That night, walking across the lamplit entry court, she noticed a far gate opening into another set of courtyards. It was arrestingly irregular. Up close, she saw it was built of jagged ornamental rocks. She ducked her head and slipped through it. A court cut by rose-lined paths opened out in front of her. Thin steles of rock,
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