January, Part 2

Valentines: Stories
by Olaf Olafsson

(Page 2 of 2)

When he felt he was finally growing used to living with her, she broke off their relationship. They had then lived together for more than a year and he had begun to enjoy waking up before her and watching her sleep. But he never told her that and refrained from touching her while she slept. He felt lucky to have met her and expected a happy future. He was speechless when she said it would probably be best for them to go their separate ways.

"I don't think you love me," she said.

He was about to try to convince her that she was wrong and ask her to stay but abandoned the attempt. He thought that maybe his love wasn't adequate, maybe there were others who were capable of loving more passionately. It wouldn't be fair for him to get in her way. He imagined that she had already met someone who was better for her but couldn't bring herself to tell him.

He helped her move and called her regularly for the next few weeks to hear how she was doing. Perhaps she felt he was nursing her as if she were one of his clients, but she talked to him anyway and tried to sound cheerful. Then she asked him to stop calling.

"You needn't worry about me," she said. "I'm going on vacation and when I come back I'm starting a new life."

They hadn't met since. Apart from hearing that she'd moved to Europe he had lost touch with her. So had Taubman, and Tomas had stopped asking him about her. He hadn't forgotten her, though, and once in Paris he caught himself looking for her. He found this strange, as he had no idea where in Europe she lived. But he could picture her in a city like Paris with her long, slender neck and those birdlike shoulders. Paris or Rome or Florence. That's where shoulders like those belonged.

After that he had been wary in his dealings with women, taking care not to rush into anything. His relationships didn't last long. The women wanted a commitment.

From the airport, Tomas booked a hotel room while waiting for his baggage. He knew the Plaza Hotel was now closed so he tried elsewhere. He liked the old hotels best, where the furnishings were heavy and venerable and time seemed to stand still. Of course he could have spared himself the journey into the city and taken a room at one of the airport hotels, but he knew he wouldn't feel at ease there. Once he had caught the flu and been stuck in an airport hotel in Seattle and the memory still haunted him. The room had been bare, the lighting cold, and all that he could see from the window were a parking lot, a freeway and a warehouse with the logo of a foreign airline. He could still remember the emptiness and silence in the middle of the day, the dirty carpet, the foul-tasting tap water. Overwhelmed by a sense of dread he had checked out, even though he was still running a high fever. It had taken him longer to shake off the dread than the flu.

There was a long wait for the baggage. His thoughts went to Maureen while bags from an earlier flight wound their way past. He had been thinking of her on the plane and after landing, when it became clear that he wouldn't make it to Chicago that night. "She asked about you," Taubman had said. "She's now living in New York."

He loathed being forward. He never cold-called prospective clients, preferring instead to let middlemen make initial contact. But she had asked about him and fate was leading him to the city._Finally he decided to take a chance and called directory assistance.

Maureen Egan. There were two by that name, one on East Seventy-fifth, the other in SoHo. He thought it more likely that she would live on the Upper East Side and quickly tapped the number into his phone so he wouldn't forget it. Yet he didn't call her right away, feeling he needed to give it more thought. It had been such a long time. Ten years. But she had asked after him, and although he hadn't pressed Taubman for any more information he had sensed from the old man that she had asked out of interest. "Apparently she's single again," he had said.

He didn't call until he was in the taxi. It was snowing and traffic was moving slowly.

"Hello."

"Maureen?"

"One moment."

He almost hung up but stopped himself. When she finally came to the phone he recognized her voice immediately.

"Maureen?"

"Yes?"

"Tomas Eliot."

"Tomas? I can't believe it."

"I'm sorry to bother you."

"You're not bothering me."

"Taubman told me you were living in New York."

"Where are you? It's a bad connection."

"I'm in a taxi on my way into the city. I was wondering if we could meet."

"Meet?"

"I understand if you can't. I just thought it would be good to hear your voice. Taubman told me you were living here now."

"Yes, I moved."

"I understand if you're busy. I shouldn't have bothered you."

"No, we should meet."

"I was going to fly to Chicago tonight but they've canceled all the flights. Are you free tomorrow morning?"

She didn't answer immediately.

"I can't do tomorrow morning," she said then.

"I understand. Perhaps we could just meet next time I'm in town."

"Where are you staying?"

He told her.

"That's not far from here. I could stop by."

"Are you sure that's not an inconvenience? With the weather . . ."

"What did Ira tell you?"

"He said you'd asked about me."

There was a silence, and Tomas was about to repeat that they could just meet another time when she cleared her throat and said: "I'll come by around ten-fifteen."

He was in Manhattan just after nine. The hotel was in the Sixties, between Madison and Fifth. He was greeted warmly and the lighting in the lobby was dim and cozy. His room faced the street, and the porter who carried up his luggage for him said that things had been very busy over the holidays but were now quieting down. There were cut flowers in a vase on the coffee table and chocolates on the pillow. Tomas ran himself a bath.

At ten he went downstairs. He had reserved a table in the library next to the bar where you could have your meals brought to you as you sat in the deep, comfortable armchairs. A fire was burning in the hearth, its warmth reaching out to him and the flames casting a glow on the wood-paneled walls.

Feeling good after his bath, a change of clothes and a slap of aftershave on his cheeks, he decided to have a drink. He savored it slowly while studying the menu the waiter had placed on his table. Maureen. After all these years. Would she have changed? Would she still be as genuine and warm? As . . .

He didn't finish the thought. She was in the doorway when he looked up, wearing a warm coat. She looked the other way so at first he wasn't sure it was her. But when she moved her head his heart leaped and he hurried over to her.

"Maureen," he said.

"Tomas."

"It's so good to see you."

They smiled. Not sure whether to shake her hand or kiss her, he did neither.

"It's so good to see you," he repeated. "How long has it been?"

"Ten years," she said.

"Ten years," he repeated as if taken aback. "Are you sure?"

"Yes," she said. "It's ten years."

He helped her out of her coat and handed it to the waiter. They went into the library, she leading the way. She had always been slim, but he thought she had lost weight. Yet she looked good, her face smooth and her eyes clear, though perhaps she seemed a little tired. The veins in her neck that he had stroked so often were still faintly traced.

Copyright © 2007 by Olaf Olafsson.

About the Author

Olaf Olafsson was born in Reykjavik, Iceland, in 1962. He studied physics as a Wien Scholar at Brandeis University. He is the author of two previous novels, The Journey Home and Absolution. His work has been translated into fourteen languages. He lives in New York City with his wife and two sons.