The Empire of the Dead by Tracy Daugherty Page A

were conversations.”
    A sad, brittle laugh. “The gap between Venturi and … who was it? … Gehry? Pediments and dormers … I’m sorry, Wally, what were they? …”
    â€œI’m no expert, Kate. Especially about … you know. I’m a fool. I’m ashamed. I apologize,” Bern said. He felt for her fingers. “Really. I won’t say anything more about my … my …”
    â€œYou don’t understand, Wally. I
crave
your certainty.” She smiled. “It’s comforting, so different from people
my
age, and I don’t want you to change. But given what’s happened …”
    â€œNo, no, no.”
    â€œStop ‘no-noing’ me!” She puffed her cheeks. Then she doubled over, holding her stomach. She’s right, Bern thought. The body will have its way.
    Without speaking, he seized her hand and pulled her out of the park. Down the block he spotted a Greek deli, not too crowded. He pointed to the facilities in back. “I’ll wait for you here,” he said. A roast pig turned slowly on a wooden platter in the window. Several minutes later she joined him again on the sidewalk.
    â€œCan we get a cup of coffee?” he said.
    â€œNo. I have to meet Gary,” she said.
    â€œAsk him to take you straight home. You need to lie down. Kate. Can I call you? Please? We need more time. I
am
your friend. I won’t try to be anything more than that. I promise.”
    â€œWally. No. I—”
    A carriage driver passed them, whipping his horse. The animal did not respond to the blows: its exhaustion seemed saintly, beyond the possibility of pain. “Hey! Stop it! Stop it!” Kate yelled at the man. He glanced at her contemptuously and raised his whip again. Kate turned to Bern, outraged, as though
he
had staged this incident for some unfathomable reason. She looked dangerously weak and pale. “I’m going to be sick!” she muttered. She scurried away.
    Bern felt certain he would not see her again.
    The perils of the city.
    He stared after the carriage at the spot where he’d got his last glimpse of her. The horse whinnied. Any minute now, Bern thought, this beaten brute will crumble to the street. At least its agony will have ended.
    He laughed bitterly at his self-pity. A self-pitying man is not capable of being
anyone’s
friend.
    Oh, now—
that’s
self-pity, too, he thought.
    He turned for his apartment.
2.
    Too much. He was talking too much.
    Conscious of the need
not to teach
, he tried to keep his mouth shut. But Kate! A week after their last meeting, she had called and asked to see him again, yet now she sat glumly in the restaurant, twirling her fork, poking at the head of a langoustine in its bed of yellow rice.
    Nervous, Bern gulped his first glass of wine, asked for another. He stared at the crab meat on his plate. It glistened warmly. Waiters bustled around him in the narrow aisles between tables where diners came and went, bulked up in wool coats and floppy cashmere wraps. Every now and then, cold gusts from the opened door swirled the caramel-cocoa odors in the air.
    Bern’s nose ran. He dabbed at it with his napkin. Kate’s usually clear gray eyes seemed drained of color. “Are you feeling better?” he asked her. “The nausea?”
    â€œFine,” she said forcefully, as if this was the last word she ever meant to utter.
    So Bern—halfway through his second glass of wine—described for her a recent walk he’d made past the ice rink at Rockefeller Center. A work crew in green caps and maroon coats maneuvered quiet machines across the blade-scritched ice, glazing it with water, he said, while impatient skaters huddled around the ring, chatting, laughing, munching bagels or hoagies. Bern stood and watched the scene from the sidewalk, dwarfed by the shiny metal statue of Prometheus.
    â€œSounds nice,” Kate said, clearly underwhelmed.
    Bern nodded.