But the doorman regretted no, he could not call Professor Kinch for Professor Kinch had expressly forbidden any calls that afternoon.
“Is he unwell? I mean—has he been unwell? Unusually unwell? Has there been an emergency?”
“No, ma’am. Not that I know.”
“His ‘assistant’ is with him? He isn’t alone?”
“Yes, ma’am. She’s there. He isn’t alone.”
Outside on Fifteenth Street Naomi dared to ask Madelena again what was wrong with Karl Kinch?—and Madelena said airily, “Oh, Kinch has numerous ailments. His genius has effloresced in unexpected ways and not all of them aesthetic. The most obvious is MS—multiple sclerosis—that was diagnosed when he was in his late twenties. (But it isn’t clear what MS is—not a single ailment or condition but a syndrome.) Reputedly, Kinch was a young lover of the philosopher Michel Foucault who died of AIDS in the mid-1980s—it is believed by some, including Kinch himself, that he contracted an HIV infection from Foucault, if not AIDS itself. And the poor man is very visually impaired—‘legally blind.’” Madelena paused, considering Naomi’s alarmed expression. “But that’s enough for now, dear. We never speak of such matters with Kinch but if he wants to tell you more about himself, he will.”
They returned two days later, also in the late afternoon. This time they were not rebuffed but directed to an elevator by the doorman who continued to call Madelena “Professor Wein” and was not corrected by her.
In the elevator Naomi asked her grandmother why she didn’t trouble to correct the doorman and Madelena explained: “I always feel that it’s impolite to correct a civilian. I am paid to ‘correct’ students of mine, who have enrolled in my courses, and so it’s expected in that context; but it is not expected that I should go around ‘correcting’ others. And why should I care what I am called by a stranger?—as long as the mis-‘calling’ is consistent, and Kinch knows who is coming to see him.”
Madelena smiled as she spoke. Naomi felt a rush of affection for her grandmother who was in an unusually friendly and accessible mood.
“Has the doorman always called you ‘Wein’?”
“Yes! But I think I didn’t notice at first.”
“How long have you been coming to visit Mr. Kinch?”
“How long here? As long as he’s been living here—he’d used to live in Washington Mews, in one of those charming brownstones owned by the university. But when he became seriously ill, about fifteen years ago, he decided to move away from Washington Square Park—he thinks the city is too intense there, it grates against his nerves. So I’ve been visiting Kinch in this building for approximately fifteen years. In fact, I’d helped him find his ‘bourgeois’—that is, ‘deeply boring’—apartment, which he finds protective as a kind of ‘quarantine.’ And I must say, I never—really—know how Kinch will greet me.”
Madelena was feeling so exhilarated, having been not-rebuffed in the foyer, she didn’t object to her granddaughter asking so many questions.
For the visit Madelena wasn’t wearing her usual stylish black clothes but a dark magenta suede coat with a matching hat, that hid much of her silver hair. She’d stopped at an expensive food shop on University Place to buy a bag of mangoes for Kinch—“His favorite fruit, he claims.” Her usual cool, slightly ironic composure seemed to have vanished leaving her both excited and apprehensive, as Naomi had rarely seen her.
As they waited for the doorbell to be answered Madelena cautioned Naomi: “Don’t be surprised when you see Kinch. And don’t feel sorry for him, please! He’s very sensitive to what he calls ‘gratuitous pity.’ He is quite happy with his life, which has been very creative. He has won many awards which he won’t mention. He has few friends—but those he has are special to him, and love him. What you will see is just the outer man, the surface. Our true lives are interior and inaccessible to the eye.”
The door was opened by a middle-aged woman with a severe expression who let them in without a word, and took their coats to hang in a closet.
Was this person a nurse? Caretaker? She wore a shapeless cardigan sweater over white nylon slacks and white crepe-soled shoes. Stiffly she smiled at Madelena, who called her “Sonia.” She took no notice of Naomi at all.
Blindly Naomi followed her grandmother into the apartment—through a small dim-lighted foyer in which books were stacked on the floor like stalagmites and into an equally dim-lighted living room in which books were similarly stacked on tables and on the floor, as well as crammed into floor-to-ceiling bookshelves. The single window in this room was obscured by heavy velvet drapes. Madelena moved briskly without waiting for Sonia to escort her as if there were some old, familiar friction between them, which Madelena blithely ignored.
Naomi was dismayed by the smell of the apartment—airless, gingery-medicinal, faintly rancid. Worse yet, there was an underlying odor of tobacco smoke. How strange that Madelena who was fastidious about the air in her own apartment seemed oblivious of the stale air here.