Bj?rk smiled and helped Oliver up. “And this”—she pointed to the shimmering lamp hanging overhead, dropping into the stairwell, “actually my daughter and I made it out of mussel shells. It wasn’t supposed to be permanent, but … we like it.”
She wandered into an upper room, and we followed. There, she showed us two custom-made instruments, a celeste and what looked like a harpsichord. Both had been modified somehow through instructions from a program on her Mac. I could tell that O was completely lost as she explained how this worked. Yet it was then, right then, that I realized how much she and O were alike—fellow geniuses, incredibly, intuitively brilliant—while being at the same time such an unlikely pair of friends.
Back downstairs, Bj?rk brought out a gooseberry pie, with berries picked from her own trees. She’d made it with her daughter the night before. “As she was the cook, of course she had to have the first piece,” she said, pointing out the missing wedge. She served it up in a nice slop—topped with fresh, plain Skyr, which has a sour bite to it—along with coffee and tea. The tea set was out of Alice in Wonderland—each cup literally half a cup, sliced in half. “I’ve learned that these are for right-handed people, these teacups,” she says, “or I learn who is left-handed by watching them try to drink from them.” She giggled.
We finished the pie. I looked at Oliver’s watch and saw that it was almost three thirty; we’d been here three hours. Oliver signed an advance copy of Hallucinations—“You will be the only person in all of Iceland with this book”—and I gave her a copy of one of mine. “For Bj?rk, with gratitude,” I signed it.
THE WEEPING MAN
I left work one night at five fifteen and headed west on Fulton to catch the uptown 4/5 at Broadway. The sidewalk was packed thick with commuters. I felt weary and aggravated by the slow pace of the crowd. “Come on, people,” I muttered under my breath, “let’s move.” Just as I said this, I noticed something not right: a young man, two or three people ahead of me, crumpling. A building caught his fall. I came to his side. He was pale; his face contorted; he clutched his arm. He was dressed in a suit, as if he had just left his office on Wall Street. “Are you okay?” I asked. “Are you sick? Do you need help?” I wondered if he was having a seizure. I felt for my cell phone in my pocket, ready to make a call.
He didn’t answer. He was Asian and, for a moment, I wondered if he didn’t speak English. I repeated myself: “Are you in pain? Do you need help?”
“No, I’m okay,” he said, and then began weeping. I looked around, not sure what to do. Passersby were watching. The young man stood and began walking slowly, still weeping all the while. I stayed by his side.
“You sure you’re okay?” I asked. “If I can do anything to help—”
He nodded, so, though reluctant, I went on my way, taking the steps down to the subway station. When I rounded the corner, I saw he was behind me. Our eyes met. I slowed my pace so he wouldn’t lose track of me in the crowd. He followed, through the turnstile and onto the platform. He looked so distraught, his face a rictus of pain. I had a bad feeling, I just did, frightened that he might do something to harm himself. He came and stood next to me; he cried quietly but didn’t speak.
Fortunately, a train arrived immediately, and I ushered him onto the car. Commuters rushed through, pushing their way in, pushing hard; you can’t believe how crowded a subway car can be at rush hour.
He grabbed hold of a pole with both hands, so tightly his knuckles went white. He began crying again. The subway car was packed so tightly that I was pressed right against him. I told him my name and asked his. “Kenneth,” he mumbled, saying it with derision.
“What’s going on, Kenneth?” I whispered.
He took a deep breath. “It’s all gone wrong!” he spit out. “My entire life.”
Had he lost his job? Lost a fortune? Gotten his heart broken? I didn’t ask. I put a light hand on his shoulder and let the train’s hum answer him.
We rode in silence for a while.
He looked up at one point. “You’re a good person,” he said brusquely. He tried to say it nicely, I could tell, but somehow it didn’t come out that way; it sounded like a mean accusation. It was actually sort of funny. I couldn’t help but smile.
“Listen,” I told him, “I have had days like the one you are having.” I told him how sometimes I used to go out to the pier at Christopher Street when it was empty, just to have a cry. “It’s hard.”