Mira, Part 2

Lost Hearts in Italy
by Andrea Lee

(Page 2 of 2)

In the same way, when Zenin phones, the rest of the world recedes. They alone are real, two points of brightness connected by sound waves and the past. But as the connection is established, like lights on an electronic map, she imagines a third point lighting up somewhere else. Mai due senza tre, as the Italian saying goes, never two without three. The essential third point is her first husband, Nick, Zenin's former rival. Hidden somewhere in the glass and steel corporate wilderness of Canary Wharf or Wall Street or the Bund in Shanghai. Mira never hears from him but she gets regular news from their daughter, Maddie, of his life in London, his family, his career in international finance. Nick is somehow always present at these encounters in space, where all times are one time.

It was always less like a triangle than a game, she thinks. One of those annoying electronic games her boys play, where computer-generated civilizations battle each other, or the kind of ancient board combat that people claim dates back to the Olmecs or Hittites or sunken Atlantis. A game with a dozen shifting alliances. Young married couple against the old libertine. Lovers against husband. Rich against not rich. Europe against America. A game of skill that at its hottest and hardest should have concluded, according to a military code of honor, or to the rules of storytelling, with an execution. At least a suicide. Except that the three of them obstinately remained alive. All three of them, Zenin, Nick, and Mira, have one thing in common besides a susceptibility to passion. And that is a stubborn, rather bourgeois attachment to life and its consolations.

So now, nearly two decades later, they're all alive, widely separated, no longer hagridden by lust and jealousy, grown older and lazier, less exacting about their pleasures. Zenin, Mira reminds herself, is actually a grandfather. Nick has a beautiful second wife and two girls besides their own daughter, Maddie.

She herself is so immersed in the controlled chaos of family and work that she barely notices she is happy. The only thing that revives their game, their three-sided connection, is the empty liturgy of these phone calls from Zenin, which recall a moment in time when raw excess made them a casual aristocracy, apart from the rest of the world.

It's nostalgia, thinks Mira, returning to her work. Not for love, of course. For being young.

But later she thinks that the calls are a way of saying, You still belong to me. And she knows that some part of her does belong to Zenin. And a part to Nick as well. As we always belong forever to people who have hurt us badly, or been badly hurt by us.

1985 • in the air

The story of Nick and Mira and Zenin begins with an act of generosity. Anonymous and spontaneous, the noblest kind. A graceful impulse on the part of a woman Mira never met. That's the reason, one July afternoon, that she is sitting in a first-class lounge at Kennedy Airport.

Because a secretary or administrative assistant in the bank that has sent Nick Reiver, her husband, from Manhattan to its Rome office, has done him a friendly turn. Devised an illegal treat for his wife. For her transfer to Europe, a first-class ticket, where company policy barely stretches to business class. Afterward, Mira always pictures this generous secretary as a Billy Wilder character, a Fran Kubelik grown older, full of wisecracks but with a kind of virtue that goes deeper than a heart of gold. A sort of elemental sweetness that only Americans have. And this well-meaning woman stretches the rules for Nick not just because he is fair-haired and handsome in a way that always tempts secretaries to make exceptions for him, but because he has the same sweetness. It shines in him. It inspires the favor, and what eventually comes out of the favor blows it all away.

The immediate result, though, is that Mira, twenty-five years old and very pleased, is sitting in the first-class lounge. Having kissed her mother at the gate and disposed of the shamingly huge old suitcase from the attic of her parents' house in Mount Airy, Philadelphia. The kind of strapped mastodon of a cracked-leather case that is meant to be dragged over borders in the wake of famine or pogrom, and appears in old pictures of Ellis Island.

Except that the Ward family is black, a clan of teachers and lawyers rooted in Philadelphia for generations, set in their ways and their neighborhoods as only middle-class mulattos can be. Still, the suitcase has always been upstairs under the eaves, legacy of some flighty distant cousin or great-aunt, and when Mira's mother came to help pack up Mira's West Side apartment, she bullied Mira into accepting it, arguing its practicality with a vigor that suggested the bag was stuffed with maternal wisdom. Its presence looms over Mira as her mother's car inches through La Guardia traffic on a simmering August afternoon, her mother calculating dollar-lira exchange rates and reminiscing about a trip she took to Rome in 1966, where near the Campidoglio, she and her sister Marjorie were asked directions in broken Italian by a group of tourists from Alabama.

Poor ignorant things, they thought we were natives.

And you were natives, says Mira smartly. Only not Italian. You were the kind of natives who wear grass skirts and carry bananas on their heads. The kind of natives they used to string up back home in Alabama. Oh, hush. Mrs. Ward, a widow belonging to the frugal, wary Depression-bred generation of African Americans who call themselves "colored," is always easy prey for her two quick-witted daughters, Mira and Faith, with their Ivy League diplomas and scathing tongues. She is crushed at losing Mira to Europe, but also troubled in her private sense of justice, this because Mira, the impertinent younger child, the one who never listened, the one who against all good advice married a white boy and rejected law school to take up the precarious trade of writing, Mira now is blithely setting off for a new life of adventure and entirely unearned luxury.

That first-class ticket, for example. Neither of them understands what it really means until they wrestle the barn-size suitcase onto a cart and propel it wobblingly toward Alitalia check-in. And, with the display of the magic ticket, the bag and all complications are wafted away. It's a slow afternoon at the airport, and suddenly Mira is surrounded by the attentions of men and women who seem to live for deference. Lackeys, she thinks with delight. Minions.

A tanned Italian in a green jacket flashes a brilliant smile at her and relieves her of the suitcase. Which, instead of a humiliating encumbrance, suddenly becomes a charming piece of eccentricity. And Mira thinks, This is what it means to be rich. This sudden grand simplicity, this rescue from petty embarrassment. A revelation so absorbing that it makes her kiss her mother goodbye with the same pitying impatience that she felt when she left on her honeymoon. An embrace at the gate, a promise to call, a wave, and Mira is gone, confusing a departure for Europe for a departure into the world of money.

A weekday in late August. Except for Mira and an attendant, the first-class lounge is empty.

Though in the future Mira will try many times to recall the details of where she first met Zenin - two places, the lounge and the first-class section on the Rome flight - she can't, of course, because they are nowhere. They are part of those outposts of anonymous functional opulence where languages and nationalities crisscross promiscuously. Enclosures of nonstyle upholstered in weird uncolors of blue-gray, green-brown, and apricot, garnished with laminated briarwood or funereal fresh flowers. Places that, like expensive hotels, represent the bland apartheid of wealth. The kind of places where they will meet when they are having their affair.

To Mira it is new, so she acts bored. Is anyone in the airport trying and failing so emphatically? She leans back on a couch and sips a glass of white wine and picks at a little square of salted pastry, and has no idea that her face is tense and glowing with excitement, like that of a child on Christmas morning.

Copyright © 2006 by Andrea Lee. Excerpted by permission of Random House, a division of Random House, Inc. All rights reserved. No part of this excerpt may be reproduced or reprinted without permission in writing from the publisher.

About the Author

Andrea Lee was born in Philadelphia and received her bachelor's and master's degrees from Harvard University. She is a former staff writer for The New Yorker, and her fiction and nonfiction writing has also appeared in The New York Times Magazine and The New York Times Book Review. She is the author of Russian Journal, the novel Sarah Phillips, and the short story collection Interesting Women. She lives with her husband and two children in Turin, Italy.