Michael hadn’t seen Yeats all morning. Under the guidance of his host, he dressed and prepared to leave, though he didn’t know where they were going. He was content to be led. The studio was sparser than it had been yesterday; even the camera whose flash had knocked him unconscious was safely stowed for travel. She seemed aware that he had been devastated in some way, and she was careful not to handle him too firmly.
They went out from her building to the street market two blocks away, and as soon as he inhaled the damp, yeasty smell of food his stomach gurgled to life. From a paper-lined bin in a pushcart, Lilly withdrew two golden pastries and handed one to Michael. It was hot against his fingers and he blew on it before taking a bite and discovering it was filled with pillowy mashed potatoes rich with salt and pepper. In other bins were braided and knotted and coiled breads, and in the next cart two tall samovars dispensed what his nose told him was tea. He tugged on Lilly’s sleeve and pointed imploringly toward that cart. In a moment he had a cup of tea in one hand and the savory pastry in the other. All around him men in black caps and women toting heavy bags swayed. Children chased each other—the girls in long skirts and the boys in short pants. Michael filled his mouth with crispy pastry and spuds and sipped at his tea. Thirty minutes earlier, he would have sworn that he could taste only ashes, but he enjoyed this good food and the sugared tea even as he felt the sharp ache of loss. Until he could find his brothers and do a proper job of mourning his father, he would honor him here, among the multitudes, with a wish that the afterlife found him in better company than poor, lonely Yeats.
“HERE IS HOW we should proceed,” Yeats said.
Michael had been staring out the window of the elevated train, catching glimpses of the East River and the docklands at each cross street. Now he turned to face the poet, who had taken the seat beside him. “Why didn’t you tell me sooner?” he said.
“About your father?” Yeats said, seemingly surprised by the question. “Because I didn’t know. And then I did.” Yeats folded his hands in his lap. If he had been visible to any of the other riders, he would have seemed ungainly and out of place. He did not look like a man accustomed to mass transit.
“The next time you go… away,” Michael said, “could you deliver a message to him?”
“It’s not how this works,” Yeats said. “There’s no grand ballroom where the souls of the departed mill about in conversation.” He pointed to their benefactor, who sat in the row in front of Michael. “I would, however, like to renew our efforts to communicate with our cordial host.”
“Not another séance,” Michael said. “I’m done with that business.”
“No, not another séance. A map, but so simple in its execution that even you could draw it, and which will lead her—”
“The only people I want to communicate with are my brothers. And the only discovery that matters is that my father is dead.” Michael’s face was faintly mirrored on the train’s window. He looked just like himself, like he had always looked to himself. Why was there no one in this city who could recognize him?
“Do you have any children, Mr. Yeats?”
Yeats seemed taken aback. “I have a daughter, Anne. And a son, called Michael.”
“Michael? And you haven’t thought to mention that?”
“It didn’t seem relevant.”
Relevant. Michael brooded over the word for a moment. With everything so topsy-turvy, who could say what was relevant? All of it was, or else none of it. “How old is he?” he said.
“About your age, I imagine.”
“And that’s not relevant, either?”
Yeats only shrugged.
“What sort of a fellow is your Michael?”
“Oh, he’s a fine lad, I’d say. Very interested in history and politics. Last time I saw him must have been autumn. We went round and round about the Czech situation—Chamberlain and all that.”
“Autumn?” Michael said. “And you passed away in winter, wasn’t it? So you didn’t see much of each other, then?”
“He spent—spends—most of his time in Ireland, with his mother.”
“So your wife is often away as well?”
“I’m the one who’s away—who was, who is… however you want to phrase it. London mostly, the English countryside. I have—I had—rather a large circle of friends and patrons, as you can imagine, and a number of… relationships, which can be complicated affairs.” Yeats removed his glasses and set about polishing the lenses. “When the children were young, it wasn’t possible to work when they were about. Noisy and nosy, as children tend to be.” He replaced his glasses on the bridge of his nose and crossed his legs, right over left, and switched, left over right. “I’m not what you’d call a family man, if that’s what you’re getting at. George knew that when we married.”
“I’m not getting at anything,” Michael said. “Except to say that I am what you’d call a family man—or I’d like to be. If I could find my brothers, that would be enough. There’s nothing for me in France, or London, or Ireland. My father is dead, my brothers are here—somewhere—and the girl I loved is married off to a toothless old man. The only thing I left in Ireland is my senses and I don’t think I’ll be able to recover those by going back. The only healing, psychical or otherwise, is going to come from a reunion with my family. So I will not draw your map, and I will not baffle this good woman with visions and voices from the great beyond. If that’s not to your liking, then sod off back to the spirit realm.”
THEY—THAT is, Michael and Lilly—exited the train and stood together on the elevated platform. There was no sign of Yeats. Michael’s view out the west-facing windows had been blocked by the standing passengers, but as the train pulled away, he saw before him the recognizable landmarks of his first days in the city: the Chrysler Building, the Empire State, and, on a straight line in front of him, the narrow-shouldered, pin-striped tower that soared above the golden man. He seized Lilly’s sleeve and stretched out his arm like a man in a crow’s nest sighting land.
The walk to the museum was four blocks the long way, avenue to avenue, but he stretched the distance by jogging one block south for each block west. Lilly would have tried to steer him but he moved with such purpose, and with such a sense of lightness, as if a great weight had been lifted. The tea and the potato knish had restored him somewhat, and now, having reached Fifth Avenue, with its jewelry shops, furriers, ateliers, and boutiques, he was positively rejuvenated.