I had not met Selina for weeks. It was odd since she lived one floor above me. Our synchronized work day meant we often found ourselves in the elevator going down to the lobby. She caught my eye because she had determined to dress stylishly even when shopping at the local deli. I recognized her at a distance. Her palette of colors was invariably black, white and fire engine red. She drew from her collection of designer sunglasses encrusted with rhinestones. On someone else they might have looked theatrical. Not so Selina. They enhanced the shock of silver hair framing her face. On a windy day her cashmere shawl tossed insouciantly over a shoulder remained in place by some trick of gravity.
Her gait was not hurried like the average New Yorker’s. She glided along as if the sidewalk conspired to move beneath her. I watched her slip past when I had no time to chat for she was a compelling speaker. She always recounted her recent trip to Europe: to Venice in Italy or Taormina in Sicily. The rich details of food and lodging held me enthralled. An inveterate lover of anything Italian, she warmed to the waiters who admired the American signora for her casual chic. As a creature of habit, she asked for the same room at the Venetian Hotel Daniele or the Sicilian San Domenico Palazzo. Like her preferred colors and enviable hair, she stayed within the bounds of what she knew best and never strayed in her choices. True, they repeated themselves but they rendered her conspicuous. Her habits of dress made you watch for them. They were Selina’s flourishes; in brief, her hallmark.
Today I was in luck. I had taken the elevator down and exited to the lobby. Selina was doing the same from the second lift. We expressed surprise at seeing each other like separated friends brought suddenly together. I escorted her to the street and we walked toward the park.
“I haven’t seen you in ages,” I said. “Have you been traveling?”
“No,” she said. “I’ve been spending my time and money on renovation. The apartment is almost finished. You recall the flood I had when a wall pipe broke. It ruined my rugs and furniture. When everything dried out I decided it all had to go. Can you come by around five? I’d like your reaction. The one thing missing is the Venetian chandelier. It’s coming this week.”
I had a day of appointments but I was eager to accommodate her. Curiosity pressed me to see how Selina’s style extended to her apartment. Promptly at five I knocked at her door and entered the foyer. I stood for a moment and surveyed the living room. Like a realtor allowing a potential buyer to react, she stood to the side and studied my face. Hers softened when she saw mine brighten with pleasure. My eyes moved like a film camera panning the horizon. She had used her signature colors everywhere: a white couch and matching chair; a white woolen rug with a red floral design; black lacquer tables with pewter vases each with orchids mottled in red. The color scheme was repeated in the kitchen. The cabinets were crimson, the counter tops in creamy marble while the black tiled floor was polished to a high gleam.
“It’s stunning,” I said. “Controlled opulence; so different from my Asian apartment where the cool pearl light is filtered through Japanese screens. Here we’re in Venice and Taormina at high noon.”
I knew why her Italian holiday had been cancelled. Selina had spared no expense on renovation. Her apartment dramatized her favorite expression: “I never regret the best.” Persons, places or things were either superlative or non-existent.
“Once the chandelier is hung I’d like you to come up for Prosecco. We’ll toast the apartment with something sparkling.”
On Friday at five I was sitting next to Selena on her virginal couch. Prosecco stood in a cooler while two fluted glasses were filled with the bubbling wine. We clinked glasses and I offered a toast:
“To a job well done,” I said. “It’s a brilliant renovation. I can’t recall any space that’s more like its owner. Your impeccable taste is everywhere.”
She smiled but showed no enthusiasm. Remaining silent, she looked away.
“You must be weary from detail. I remember it well from my own renovation. It went on interminably.”
“No, it’s not that. I never lost my zest for seeing the project through. But now that it’s over . . .”
Her words broke off. There was something halting in her voice. Suddenly honesty proved stronger than reluctance.
“You know, Joseph, you’re the only person I’ve invited up here. I’ve asked no one to cocktails or dinner or even to glimpse the apartment.”
“But why? I would think you’d want to share your accomplishment.”
“I’m not sure I want to. I find it hard to enjoy.”
“I’m sorry, Selina. I don’t follow. You’ve spent a small fortune on the renovation. How can you not enjoy it?”
“When I walk in after work, I feel like I’m entering a showcase apartment. It’s on display in a luxury building for a prospective buyer. It’s for viewing not for living.”
I did not react but allowed her to be confessional.
“I’ve created a museum, every piece chosen to please the eye. It’s all so beautiful I don’t want the harmony disturbed. I stand in my foyer and look out at what I’ve created. I’m loath to sit down. I don’t cook in my kitchen that has the latest appliances. I take my meals out. I shower at the gym, use the toilet facilities, dress there and make up my face before leaving for work. I return only to sleep.”
“You sound like a guest here.”
“I hate to admit it but I miss my old apartment with its cozy lived in feeling.”
“You remind me, Selina, of an aunt who kept things under plastic or glass for fear of soiling them. I remember how uncomfortable it was sitting on her couches during the summer. The plastic covers adhered to my skin when I tried to stand up. When she died and her children emptied her apartment, all the covers—plastic and glass—were removed. The Salvation Army got furniture that appeared brand new. My aunt never fully enjoyed her home. Plastic and glass thwarted contact. It was a lot like her: affectionately remote.”
“I hear what you’re saying but I can’t stop distancing.”
“You’d enjoy your apartment if you’d surrender your perfectionism.”
“How do you mean?”
I had arrived at a teachable moment and decided not to lose it. Like a movie camera trucking up for a close shot, I didn’t back off.
“Selina, you’re one of the best groomed women I know. You’re perfectly color-coordinated. And not a silver lock strays out of place. Even a breeze can’t budge your hair or your shawl.”
She laughed and said: “Always the astute observer, Joseph. I can deal with your candor. What are you thinking?”
“I was editing a line from Frost’s poem, ‘Birches’. It deals with love but it applies to life.”
I paused to give the words their full value: “Earth’s the right place for living. I don’t know where it’s likely to go better.”
“What are you suggesting?”
“Live in your apartment. But practice fracturing its perfection. On subsequent days, kick off your shoes and leave them there; or drop your clothes in the middle of your bedroom and stare them down. Leave the coffee cup in the sink and the bed unmade. Build a tolerance for irregularity. Replace order with spontaneity. This space is not a tableau, it’s where you live. I don’t know where it’s likely to go better.”
A week later, unnoticed, I saw Selena on the street and watched her pass by. A hefty breeze lifting her hair seemed to part it like the Red Sea. Her black shawl, no longer pinned in place, stirred with independent life. A line from Frost’s poem “Hyla Brook” unaccountably came to mind and I repeated aloud: “We love the things we love for what they are.”
Joseph Roccasalvo is a professional writer.
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