properly moved in.”
“But I already bought another on my way home last night.”
“I only gave you money for two.”
“So now you pay me more.”
“That’s not how this works, Jorek.”
This is one of those classic chicken-and-egg situations one reads about, by which I do not mean the money (and, frankly, I am a little embarrassed that Bella is giving Jorek a hard time about money, given how well off we are). What I am talking about here is the light. Bella doesn’t seem to understand that we can’t possibly move in until we create more light; she thinks we should create more light after moving in. I’m not entirely sure what Jorek says in response, since by now Bella is out of bed and moving toward the bathroom. After a few more exchanges, she clicks off and returns the phone to my bedside, then undresses and gets in the shower. Once I hear the water running, I call Jorek back and arrange to meet him at the house in a couple of hours.
Now I feign sleep again. Bella emerges from the shower, does her morning ritual of hair and makeup with a practiced efficiency, and then dresses. As she is getting ready to leave, she sits down beside me and says, even though I am fake asleep, “If you are really so light-obsessed, Lars, perhaps you ought to consider opening the curtains.” Then, without further ado, she grabs her bag and leaves.
Here she has a point. Not only are the curtains drawn decidedly shut, but I have also employed the special room-darkening blinds. Even at midday, it is deliciously cavelike in this room. This is emotionally tricky territory. I need light in my life, yet prefer darkness in my room. Please don’t ask me why. I don’t have all the answers.
After I hear the door click, I lie in bed contemplating this riddle, the riddle of me, Lars Jorgenson, until I can motivate myself to emerge from beneath the tangle of bedclothes. Finally, with trepidation, I approach the window. I stand with my fingers clutching the pull rod on the curtain, but find myself frozen—I try to shift it in a rightward direction, but I actually, physically cannot. It’s as if I’m having some adverse reaction to the possibility of light, or at least light in this room, and the complete illogic of the situation is paralyzing. I sit on the edge of the bed for a while, staring at the curtains, and then I go into the bathroom and swallow a Praxisis. These can be slow to kick in, so I crawl into the bathtub to wait. And let me tell you, if you have never taken a Praxisis, it’s always worth the wait. Although lately it seems the wait does not always deliver, and after an interminably long time, when nothing happens, I swallow a couple more.
After about thirty minutes, I climb out of the tub, walk over to the window, pull the cord on the blinds, and then draw back the heavy flax drapery. It’s almost biblical what happens next: the sun streams in so blindingly that I have to shut my eyes and fumble about the room until I locate my sunglasses.
And then—outside! A rich emulsion of pedestrians streaming by, every one of them looking so purposeful, carrying coffee and newspapers, computer bags slung over shoulders; a young woman, her hair still wet from the shower, or maybe from the pool, clutching a bouquet of wildflowers, which makes me wonder if she’s having a dinner party, or if it’s someone’s birthday. Some refrain from a book Bella often refers to pops into my head. Something to do with flowers and dinners and glorious days in June. I feel myself begin to soar. Maybe this is why she likes books so much; the poetry is its own high. I wish I liked books. But for now, I find Praxisis to be a good facsimile of the intellectual stimulation I am lacking in my life.
Across the street is a patch of greenery, and I wonder if perhaps we’re situated across from one of those famous London parks. Bella had said something about our hotel being in a posh section of town, within walking distance to many popular attractions
“But I already bought another on my way home last night.”
“I only gave you money for two.”
“So now you pay me more.”
“That’s not how this works, Jorek.”
This is one of those classic chicken-and-egg situations one reads about, by which I do not mean the money (and, frankly, I am a little embarrassed that Bella is giving Jorek a hard time about money, given how well off we are). What I am talking about here is the light. Bella doesn’t seem to understand that we can’t possibly move in until we create more light; she thinks we should create more light after moving in. I’m not entirely sure what Jorek says in response, since by now Bella is out of bed and moving toward the bathroom. After a few more exchanges, she clicks off and returns the phone to my bedside, then undresses and gets in the shower. Once I hear the water running, I call Jorek back and arrange to meet him at the house in a couple of hours.
Now I feign sleep again. Bella emerges from the shower, does her morning ritual of hair and makeup with a practiced efficiency, and then dresses. As she is getting ready to leave, she sits down beside me and says, even though I am fake asleep, “If you are really so light-obsessed, Lars, perhaps you ought to consider opening the curtains.” Then, without further ado, she grabs her bag and leaves.
Here she has a point. Not only are the curtains drawn decidedly shut, but I have also employed the special room-darkening blinds. Even at midday, it is deliciously cavelike in this room. This is emotionally tricky territory. I need light in my life, yet prefer darkness in my room. Please don’t ask me why. I don’t have all the answers.
After I hear the door click, I lie in bed contemplating this riddle, the riddle of me, Lars Jorgenson, until I can motivate myself to emerge from beneath the tangle of bedclothes. Finally, with trepidation, I approach the window. I stand with my fingers clutching the pull rod on the curtain, but find myself frozen—I try to shift it in a rightward direction, but I actually, physically cannot. It’s as if I’m having some adverse reaction to the possibility of light, or at least light in this room, and the complete illogic of the situation is paralyzing. I sit on the edge of the bed for a while, staring at the curtains, and then I go into the bathroom and swallow a Praxisis. These can be slow to kick in, so I crawl into the bathtub to wait. And let me tell you, if you have never taken a Praxisis, it’s always worth the wait. Although lately it seems the wait does not always deliver, and after an interminably long time, when nothing happens, I swallow a couple more.
After about thirty minutes, I climb out of the tub, walk over to the window, pull the cord on the blinds, and then draw back the heavy flax drapery. It’s almost biblical what happens next: the sun streams in so blindingly that I have to shut my eyes and fumble about the room until I locate my sunglasses.
And then—outside! A rich emulsion of pedestrians streaming by, every one of them looking so purposeful, carrying coffee and newspapers, computer bags slung over shoulders; a young woman, her hair still wet from the shower, or maybe from the pool, clutching a bouquet of wildflowers, which makes me wonder if she’s having a dinner party, or if it’s someone’s birthday. Some refrain from a book Bella often refers to pops into my head. Something to do with flowers and dinners and glorious days in June. I feel myself begin to soar. Maybe this is why she likes books so much; the poetry is its own high. I wish I liked books. But for now, I find Praxisis to be a good facsimile of the intellectual stimulation I am lacking in my life.
Across the street is a patch of greenery, and I wonder if perhaps we’re situated across from one of those famous London parks. Bella had said something about our hotel being in a posh section of town, within walking distance to many popular attractions
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