In Sunlight and in Shadow by Mark Helprin

like a continual and uneven popping of corks. When she crossed the bridle path literally in the shadow of the San Remo, two horses trotted by, high and handsome. On one was a man perfectly attired in riding boots, jodhpurs, a tweed jacket, a tie, and a very fine hat. With a carnation at his lapel, and an expert seat, he was turned in the saddle, speaking to his daughter, a girl of seven or eight, just as elegantly attired but in miniature. Though her horse was somewhat smaller than his, she was confronted with the universal terror of rich young children, a terror that Catherine herself had faced and mastered, that of sitting on a spirited horse proportionately two and a half times higher, faster, and less amenable than her father’s horse, with her legs having no chance of gripping its sides to keep her steady. The father had seemed as fixed in the saddle as a fact of gravity, but his daughter just rested there, balanced only by her grace and that of God. She was, however, unafraid, for she trusted him, and as they rode he gave good and learned advice, and by his love and by the grace of God, she stayed on.
     
    A majestic staircase, with shiny white balusters and a red-brown chestnut rail, was set against the Sutton Place wall of her house, rising in switchbacks from the second floor to the sixth, past large windows that looked out onto the street. Thus she had been told, ever since she had been moved from the nursery to the sixth floor, never to take the stairs while dressed immodestly, lest the “poor people” who lived in the cooperative apartments across Sutton Place catch a glimpse of her
déshabillé.
    Once they reached their destination, these stairs opened onto a generous landing that ran the width of the building south to north. A left turn would take one along a gallery lined with lighted paintings to an architraved door at almost the north end, the entrance to her rooms. A long hall led into the depth of the building, and off this were a bathroom and dressing room, a study, and a bedroom together taking up less than half the floor. The major part and major room, into which the hall spilled as naturally as a brook, was an immense living area that led two steps down to a terrace. From this room, with a fireplace, grand piano, and American and French impressionist paintings glowing like jewels, one could look easily out over the river to Queens. The view was industrial and grim, but the water was wide and the sunrises almost blood red. The ships and barges that raced by, their speed doubled by the fast current, were close enough so that it was possible to see the color of the helmsmen’s eyes.
    Very few captains wanted to take their boats upriver when the current was running against them or downriver when it had shifted, but often they had to, and often they did. And when they did, vessels that at other times might appear and disappear in seconds would labor for five or ten minutes to move through the waters directly in her view. Where ordinarily when they rode on the current the pilots seemed breathlessly to guide them as they fell, pilots who guided them against the current were breathless as if from the exertion of climbing.
    Immense volumes of foam in an oxygen-white avalanche were disgorged from straining propellers as they churned the river, which did not cease its resistance for a split second. The strain was so great and the force streaming against the prows so steady that the main task of the pilots was to keep the current dead ahead lest they be swung around and hurled sideways downriver or onto the rocks. Catherine had many times seen a barge and tug forced to come about. Mostly they had saved themselves, surrendering their hard-fought battle to run apostate with the current they had opposed, but more than once she had seen a panicked boat beach itself against the unforgiving banks.
    And all this from the tranquility of her living room. Or from the terrace, which now that it was warm had a line of