The Executor Part 25

"Lots of things. Weddings are stressful." She stood up and headed toward an armchair, then reconsidered, sitting cross-legged on the floor, dipping her fingers into the thick pile. "It really is a nice carpet. Believe me, I can tell."

I said nothing.

She said, "It's all who wants this, who wants that. Who won't eat this, who'll only eat that. My mom-oh my G.o.d. And his mom is even worse. Put the two of them together ..." She mimed an explosion.

Silence.

"Tell me," I said.

"You don't want to know."

"I do." I paused. "Tell me."

Silence.

"All right," she said.

Among the gory details were: an argument over whose family rabbi would preside; the bridesmaid controversy (Pedram's sisters refused to wear the strapless dress Yasmina had picked out); the lingering question of the main, chicken or beef or a duet.

"It sounds crazy when I talk about it," she said.

"No."

"It does. It is crazy. It's insane insane. I want a nice wedding, too, but I haven't even had my second fitting and already everything's out of control. I don't care who you are. There is no reason in the world to get this invested in a single day."

"I take it you've set a date."

"June twenty-third."

"That's sooner than you expected."

She nodded.

"Well," I said. "I hope it all works out."

"Could you be less convincing."

"There's always Las Vegas."

"You don't get it, do you. It's a community event. It has nothing to do with me. And Pedram loves the idea of a big wedding. He's like the craziest of all. Groomzilla. Do people say that? They should."

"Sure," I said.

"What's that supposed to mean?"

"All I said was, 'Sure.' "

"Don't get high and mighty."

"Mina-"

"Like you knew all along this would happen to me."

"I never said that. I never even thought it."

"You did."

"All I want is for you to be happy," I said.

"Well I'm not," she said. "There you go. I'm not happy. Happy now?"

"I-"

"I can't deal with it anymore. Them or any of it. I want to get on a plane. Oh, s.h.i.+t. I need a tissue, please."

I fetched the box from the nailhead table and knelt before her.

"This is so embarra.s.sing."

"There's nothing to be embarra.s.sed about."

She laughed, wiped her eyes. "Okay." With a second tissue she enfolded the first. "My parents have already put down seventy thousand dollars in deposits. I don't even want to know what it'll cost by the time it's over. The guest list is over three hundred so far, and that's just our side.... I don't know what to do. I don't know what I can do."

"It's your life."

"It's not. It's mine, and his, and my parents', and his parents', and grandparents.... Everyone is pouring everything they have into this. It's like the highlight of my mother's existence. I can't do anything about it now."

"You always have a choice," I said.

"You're doing it again."

"What."

"Talking in aphorisms."

"This is your wedding. It's marriage. It's not a pair of shoes."

She shook her head. "I wish I could send you to talk to them."

"I will if you want me to. Give me the number."

"They'll just yell at you in Farsi. 'Who eez dees? Vhot are you dooing?"' She laughed wetly. "Anyway. At least one of us is happy."

"You should be, too."

"I'll deal."

"You deserve more than that. You deserve to be happy in every respect. You-"

She started crying again.

I apologized.

"Never mind," she said. She wiped her face. Then, with only the briefest hesitation, she reached out for me.

IF I CONSIDERED the library a sacred s.p.a.ce-and I did-then I ought to've felt ashamed defiling it. I didn't. I felt terrific. I felt at peace, enjoying the softness of the carpet against my bare back. Yasmina lay bunched against me. Her makeup was smudged, her hair a black tangle, and the feeling of her there brought to mind quiet Sunday mornings past, when I woke early, her skin moist and darkly radiant among the pure white sheets, one neat lacquered hand darting out again and again to slap the snooze b.u.t.ton, a quiet comedy that could last the better part of an hour. She spent a lot of time fretting over body hair, bleaching and epilating, the base of her neck, her forearms, the small of her back. In all honesty I preferred her the way she was. She always felt to me like a feral thing I had managed to tame.

Now she sat up and began gathering her clothes.

"Mina."

She faced away to put on her bra.

"Mina. Talk to me."

"What do you want me to say? I'm getting married."

"Are you?"

She ignored me.

"Mina-"

"Please stop. I feel bad enough as it is."

"Wait." I sat up. "Let's have a conversation."

"I'm engaged."

"To someone you don't love."

"It's still wrong."

"What can I do to convince you?" I asked.

"You can't," she said. "Not even you."

SHE WOULDN'T LET me walk her home, so I called a cab and we went out on the front porch to wait. It was cold out, the moon in hiding. Behind me I sensed the heft of the house, my house. Watching Yasmina take pleasure in it had given me untold joy.

"It's going to snow soon," she said.

Her car turned the corner.

"It's up to you," I said. "Remember that."

"Okay, Confucius."

I stayed on the front porch, willing her to turn around. But it was two in the morning, and she had to get up for work. She had decisions to make. Not even I could convince her. I'd made my case as best I could, and now all I could do was wait. I stood up to go inside.

Fifty feet away, across the street, the darkness moved. A bright orange spot pierced the oily black-cigarette-and then disappeared.

21.

Cambridge emptied out for the holidays. Drew left for a poker tournament in Reno. Yasmina flew to Los Angeles, where her family was throwing her and Pedram a second engagement party. I stayed indoors, ordering food from the market, surfing the Internet, typing and deleting, inching forward, sliding back. Realizing that I would have to take more drastic measures, I called Detective Zitelli.

"Not really," he said, when I asked if he could tell me what was happening.

"The autopsy must be finished," I said. "They released the body."

"It's finished."

The verdict was cardiac arrest, caused by an overdose of a combination of medications, self-inflicted.

"What about Eric?"

"What about him."

"You didn't talk to him?"

"Listen up," he said. "I'm driving the bus here. Not you. Now, you can be an a.s.set or you can be a liability. Your call."

I apologized.

"You're going to have to take my word on this, all right? But based on the information we have so far, it's pretty clear that Ms. Spielmann took her own life."

I said nothing, thinking of her last, lonely hours on earth.

"I know it's not an easy thing to accept," he said. "For what it's worth, I can tell you cared about her a lot."

His tone, just shy of sincere, raised my antennae. I wanted to get off the phone, but I hadn't yet asked my second question. In trying to make the segue sound natural, I ended up stuttering like a ham actor. "Uh-thank you. I app-thanks, but-detective? One more-sorry. One thing, about her thesis, the thesis. Do you think I might be able to get that back anytime soon?" I paused. "I need it, you see, for research purposes."

A brief silence.

"I'm working as fast as I can," he said.