with surfboards. OK, now I’ll rush in and thrust all my sorrows into the salty bosom of the Pacific, thrus-s-s-s-s-s-s-s-s-s-s-s-s-s-s-s-s-t! I run, water splashing around me. I wade in chest-high, but the waves push me back to the beach. I take a deep breath and dive in. I stay underwater for a long time. I hop out. From my low vantage point, I see the ocean swallowing and spitting up surfers. One of them manages to take off, catching a wave in my direction. He passes close by, young, long-haired, calm, with the inspired expression of someone who walks on water. Our eyes meet for a second and he disappears. I keep on battering the waves until exhaustion empties my head. At some point I stop, float on my back, close my eyes, try to free my body of fatigue for a while, but can’t. I turn around and start swimming toward the distant shore. Getting out of the ocean proves to be harder than I expected. The same waves that wanted to toss me onto dry land earlier now won’t let me reach the shore. I battle them for a long time before realizing that I am the only one out here acting like an idiot. I understand that resistance is pointless. I relax my muscles, watch the surfers, and try to understand how the ocean operates. A few futile attempts to take advantage of the breaking waves follow; the undertow thrusts me deep into the water and spins me around, leaving me without any sense of up and down, of bottom and surface. At last, almost breathless, I manage to come up and see my wave. I catch it, seconds before it breaks. I relax on its crest, stretch my arms forward, I become one with it as countless, small, invisible turbines beneath my body drive me joyfully toward land.
I dry off and head back to the tourist-scattered boardwalk. A group of Japanese sightseers come toward me. They politely ask if I can take a picture of them by the ocean. They hand me the first camera. Before I snap the shot, I arrange them so all of their smiling little heads are in focus. I lift my left hand up, one, two, three, cheese, click—there you go. At once, several more hands pass their cameras to me. I pose them a little more carefully this time—four squatting down, six standing behind them and again, one, two, three, cheese. In no time, I’m holding a Canon, two digital Sonys, a small Yashica, a Panasonic, and something else. While I am clicking the shutters, I wonder what would happen if I suddenly took off with all this loot. Would they chase me? What would happen if they caught me? Is there a kung fu master among them? I hand back the gear and accept their compliments with a slight bow. The last camera someone hands over is a Nikon F3. Grasping the familiar body, I feel chills run down my spine. I love this model. After a few shots, I return it hesitantly. Its weight, its reliability, its grace . . .
Again, Stella storms my thoughts.
*
—don’t take pictures of my legs, please
—they’re part of your topography. now please lift up this knee
a little
—topography in blue. anytime i bump into something, bam—another bruise . . . see . . .
—you have delicate skin
—am i delicate?
—the most delicate thing ever . . .
—m-m-m-m-m . . .
—the most, most, most delicatest thing ever . . .
—hey, dog-eyes . . . stay focused
*
I was a freshman majoring in English literature. Stella was in her senior year at the High School of Fine Arts. Yet the idea of going to the Art Academy had somehow never crossed her mind. Her classmates took private lessons in painting. She took English instead. Next year she was accepted into my college and moved in with me. She never stopped painting. She just said that she was tired to death of painting what other people told her to. Because I was a year ahead of her, I told her which classes were important, which were a waste of time. I gave her my notes and pointed her to the “right” books. I introduced her to interesting people, to her future professors and instructors, some of whom I had become friends with. I filtered her education—I realize now—with the noble desire to make things easier for her. We spent countless dark mornings in our warm bed because I wouldn’t let her go to an early-morning lecture or a boring seminar. Half-awake, she would let herself be conquered, we would sleep in, roll in bed until late, then we would have coffee, listen to music, read novels, laze around, waste our time—we had time, God, we had so much time.
*
I park in front of a liquor store a few blocks from where Elijah lives. I know Elijah from a screenwriting class we took together a few years back. We got to be friends and kept in touch after the class was over. I go to a pay phone, pick up the greasy receiver, and dial his number. Elijah Ellison is large, redheaded, and freckled. He’s twenty-nine and rents a shed by the pool at Steve and Tara’s place. He doesn’t drink, doesn’t smoke, and doesn’t eat meat. The remarkable thing is, despite a complete lack of any success whatsoever, he continues to write screenplays 24/7. Elijah is obsessed by the idea of writing a romantic comedy—something along the lines of When Harry Met Sally, Pretty Woman, or Sleepless in Seattle . . . Whether he has talent or not is hard to say. What he definitely has is perseverance. If I were an envious person, I would envy him.
The last time we saw each other was two years ago. I was jobless and desperate. I had slipped into one of those moments of madness (or enlightenment), in which you feel that nothing is impossible. I was writing a script then. We met to discuss it.
“The idea is great,” he said, “but it’s hard to figure out whether it’s a comedy or a drama. What is it? You’ve got to clear that up.”
“Well, Elijah,” I countered, “is it really so important whether it’s a comedy or a tragedy or . . . ?”
“It’s important.”
“Elijah, it’s easy for you to say this is comic, that’s dramatic, and this . . . well, this is a tragedy. To me, man, everything I write is a giant jar of salsa: salty, sweet, sour, with a hot aftertaste!”
“So what I’m hearing is that you’re only interested in doing Great Things.” Well, it’s hard for me to say no to that. “Now me, I don’t have a single great idea, nothing even close, but I’ve finished seven romantic comedies and a dozen more short scripts. I have short stories and a complete novel. It’s better to have an average but completed idea than a great unstarted one!” Sometimes I want to strangle the guy. But now I call him from a pay phone.
I park on the street, under the blooming magnolia. Pacino, the dog, starts barking and Tara answers the door.
“Zack, how are ya?” She immediately notices my black eye but says nothing. I say “Hi” and hand her the bag with the bottle of wine. She and Steve like good wine. The other dog, I forget his name, licks my shoe. I go inside.
“Where’s Steve? Where’s Elijah?” I say.
Tara talks very fast and a lot. In fact, Tara talks fast precisely because she talks a lot. “Elijah is here, and Steve should be home any minute now. Where’s Stella? Why didn’t she come with you?” Without waiting for an answer, she goes on: “She’s probably busy. How are you guys anyway? You know what? Her painting, the one with the scorched trees that I saw at her show last year . . . I just can’t forget it. What with all these wild fires now . . .” On the TV screen there is a forest burning somewhere in Southern California. “I want to buy it. Can I buy it? How much would it be? But where can I put it here? No, no, no . . . it belongs in a gallery. It’s huge! How big is that painting, Zack? Seven, eight, nine feet? And black. It’s not black, actually. It’s dark, very dark, but not black. But it’s huge!” She whistles and waves her hands. “Big, it’s gigantic. Yes, Stella is amazing, amazing! Last year she painted burned forests, now
