Through the Children's Gate Read online

  But that was a lie, easily discovered, so I said, “Ask the kids around school if the Yankees have ever won a World Series.” He did, and when he came home, he said cautiously, “Well, they say they won last year.” That seemed about as far back as the collective first-grade memory went. I was pleased. It was good news, but not too much good news—a way of attaching a young New Yorker to hope without going all the way back to omnipotence. Someday I will tell him about twenty-six, twenty-seven Series victories, but not just now. I want him to root for something that might not always work out. It seems healthier than rooting for a sure thing, just as giving back a trophy teaches more than keeping one.

  At night, with the Series coming on, I can sometimes actually see the Statue of Bravery looming, slightly ridiculous but noble, on the Lower Manhattan skyline—leering hungrily at the big humorless French woman across the harbor, as the property tycoon would want him to, securing the future of the city by his iron lust.

  Thanks giving goes well: It is good to have the crowd around the table and the children, laughing. Decent heritage turkey, which I brined. The old group, for one more year … The Yankees lost at the very end, but Luke seem unperturbed by it. Hey, they did darn well. He still doesn't get it, thank God, is not yet really a querulous, demanding rooter, a true Yankees fan.

  The next day we go with the Kogan family to Rockefeller Center and Bergdorf Goodman. There is a lonely Santa at Bergdorfs, a real Bergdorf's Santa, elegantly dressed, with an little live dog at his feet, all alone. The children reluctantly volunteer to sit on his lap, Luke reluctantly because he is getting a bit old for it, and Olivia because she lives in fear of grown-ups in costumes. (We encountered the Easter Bunny in the park earlier this year, a guy in a bright pink suit handing out promotional candy, and Olivia's screams could be heard from one end of the Great Lawn to the other. She still talks about it, the way Odysseus must have talked about that encounter with the Cyclops.) But they sat and asked for stuff, and then we had a picture taken—the children on Santa's lap, smiling that cheesy, forced, alarmed public smile one sees on the faces of Chinese Communist officials at the Annual Party Congress.

  Then we went skating at Rockefeller Center, thinking it would be nearly empty, which it wasn't, just the opposite, mobbed. We waited in line, put on our skates—proud Canadians, bringing our own—and then whizzed around, holding the children's hands, each of us grownups sneaking off for a quick one-time-only dash around the rink before rejoining our stately family chain.

  After the skating was over, as the Zamboni came out, we saw a single couple left on the rink, a youngish man and younger woman. Suddenly, he fell to his right knee, and he handed her a little box, and we watched as her shoulders collapsed in tears. A single moment of caution—what the hell is this?—and then we all realized what had happened: He had proposed, and she had accepted. He hugged her and they skated off hand in hand, she still wiping tears away from her face, he looking embarrassed and empowered.

  The applause, which began as a ripple and then spread into waves of thunder, was something larger than kind and something more than sentimental; it was a cheer for continuity, and for cheap gestures, and for life.

  But, over hot chocolate in the café, as we analyzed the moment, Martha was indignant. “Of course!” she cried. “What was she supposed to do? What if she didn 't want to marry him? She was going to give him back the ring right in the middle of Rockefeller Center? It wasn't a romantic gesture. It was erotic coercion.” It was, I thought, at least a good chess move, tactical and designed to throw your opponent—or, in this case, your conquest—so off balance that you get what you want.

  Expensive public declarations of eternal loyalty are the best short-term erotic tactic, as generations of lovers have learned. What it leaves you with—a lifetime of debt and uncertain obligation—is worth the feeling of triumph and the promise of sex as you skate off the rink to music and applause. The wisdom of betrothal is like the wisdom of comedy, which is not very different from the wisdom of medicine or parenting: there is no true long run, no final result that will make sense of everything, only an endless sequence of short runs placed end to end. You have the pleasure of short-term satisfaction even if, in love, anyway, you almost always have to give back the trophy when the tournament is over. (You always have to give back the trophy in the true long term, the Keynes long term.)

  I love you forever really means Just trust me for now, which is all it ever means, and we just hope to keep renewing the “now,” year after year. I looked at the now-engaged faces, to see how old they were and if the city could trust them to remain here to have their children, as the property tycoon would want. But I couldn't tell.

  The lover on skates, appealing to eternity, was actually two moves—one hidden ring, one romantic gesture—ahead of his beloved, which is as far ahead as you can reasonably hope to be these days. What we had applauded (en masse, in Rockefeller Center) was just one more short-term tactic disguised as a long-term plan, like all the other good New York moves in chess, sex, ethics, property development, and family trust.

  Bumping into Mr. Ravioli

  My daughter, Olivia, who just turned three, has an imaginary friend whose name is Charlie Ravioli. Olivia is growing up in Manhattan, so Charlie Ravioli has a lot of local traits: He lives in an apartment “on Madison and Lexington,” he dines on grilled chicken, fruit, and water, and, having reached the age of seven and a half, he feels, or is thought, “old.” But the most peculiarly local thing about Olivia's imaginary playmate is this: He is always too busy to play with her. She holds her toy cell phone up to her ear, and we hear her talk into it: “Ravioli? It's Olivia … It's Olivia. Come and play? Okay. Call me. Bye.” Then she snaps it shut and shakes her head. “I always get his machine,” she says. Or she will say, “I spoke to Ravioli today.” “Did you have fun?” my wife and I ask. “No. He was busy working. On a television” (leaving it up in the air whether he repairs electronic devices or has his own talk show).

  On a good day, she “bumps into” her invisible friend and they go to a coffee shop. “I bumped into Charlie Ravioli,” she announces at dinner (after a day when, of course, she stayed home, played, had a nap, had lunch, paid a visit to the Central Park Zoo, and then had another nap). “We had coffee, but then he had to run.” She sighs sometimes at her inability to make their schedules mesh, but she accepts it as inevitable, just the way life is. “I bumped into Charlie Ravioli today,” she says. “He was working.” Then she adds brightly, “But we hopped into a taxi.” What happened then? we ask. “We grabbed lunch,” she says.

  It seemed obvious that Ravioli was a romantic figure of the big exotic life that went on outside her little limited life of parks and playgrounds—drawn, in particular, from a nearly perfect, mynahbird-like imitation of the words she hears her mother use when she talks about her day with her friends. (“How was your day?” Sighing: “Oh, you know. I tried to make a date with Meg, but I couldn't find her, so I left a message on her machine. Then I bumped into Emily after that meeting I had in Soho, and we had coffee and then she had to run, but by then Meg had reached me on my cell and we arranged …”) I was concerned, though, that Charlie Ravioli might also be the sign of some “trauma,” some loneliness in Olivia's life reflected in imaginary form. “It seems odd to have an imaginary playmate who's always too busy to play with you,” Martha, my wife, said to me. “Shouldn't your imaginary playmate be someone you tell secrets to and, I don't know, sing songs with? It shouldn't be someone who's always hopping into taxis.”

  We thought at first that her older brother, Luke, might be the original of Charlie Ravioli. (For one thing, he is also seven and a half, though we were fairly sure that this age was merely Olivia's marker for As Old as Man Can Be.) He is too busy to play with her much anymore. He has become a true New York child, with the schedule of a Cabinet secretary: chess club on Monday, T-ball on Tuesday, tournament on Saturday, play dates and after-school conferences to fill in the gaps. Already, their conversation tr
acks their chromosomes.

  “Luke, how was your day?” Olivia asks him at three-thirty after he has come from school, as they sit eating cookies and cocoa.

  “Okay, I guess,” he says indifferently.

  “What did you have for lunch?” she persists.

  “Uh—I don't remember. A sandwich, I guess.”

  “Luke, what did the teacher say about your birthday poem?”

  “Nothing. It was okay, I guess.”

  Longer pause. She waits patiently. Finally, pointedly: “Luke. How wasmy day?”

  But Olivia, though she counts days, does not yet really have days. She has a day, and into this day she has introduced the figure of Charlie Ravioli—in order, it dawned on us, to insist that she does have days, because she is too harried to share them, that she does have an independent social life, by virtue of being too busy to have one.

  Yet Charlie Ravioli was becoming so constant and oddly discouraging a companion—“He canceled lunch. Again,” Olivia would say—that we thought we ought to look into it. One of my sisters is a developmental psychologist who specializes in close scientific studies of what goes on inside the heads of one- and two- and three-year-olds. Though she grew up in the nervy East, she lives in California now, where she grows basil in her garden and jars her own organic marmalades. I e-mailed this sister for help with the Ravioli issue—how concerned should we be?—and she sent me back an e-mail, along with an attachment, and, after several failed cell-phone connections, we at last spoke on a landline.

  It turned out that there is a recent book on this very subject by the psychologist Marjorie Taylor, called Imaginary Companions and the Children Who Create Them, and my sister had just written a review of it. She insisted that Charlie Ravioli was nothing to be worried about. Olivia was right on target, in fact. Most under-sevens (63 percent, to be scientific) have an invisible friend, and children create their imaginary playmates not out of trauma but out of a serene sense of the possibilities of fiction—sometimes as figures of pure fantasy; sometimes, as Olivia had done, as observations of grown-up manners assembled in tranquillity and given a name. I learned about the invisible companions Taylor studied: Baintor, who is invisible because he lives in the light; Station Pheta, who hunts sea anemones on the beach. Charlie Ravioli seemed pavement-bound by comparison.

  “An imaginary playmate isn't any kind of trauma marker,” my sister said. “It's just the opposite: It's a sign that the child is now confident enough to begin to understand how to organize her experience into stories.” The significant thing about imaginary friends, she went on, is that the kids know they're fictional. In an instant message on AOL, she summed it up: “The children with invisible friends often interrupted the interviewer to remind her, with a certain note of concern for her sanity, that these characters were, after all, just pretend.”

  I also learned that some children, as they get older, turn out to possess what child psychologists call a “paracosm.” A paracosm is a society thought up by a child—an invented universe with a distinctive language, geography, and history. (The Brontës invented a couple of paracosms when they were children.) Not all children who have an imaginary friend invent a paracosm, but the two might, I think, be related. Like a lonely ambassador from Alpha Centauri in a fifties sci-fi movie who, misunderstood by paranoid Earth scientists, cannot bring the lifesaving news from his planet, perhaps the invisible friend also gets an indifferent or hostile response, and then we never find out about the beautiful paracosm he comes from.

  “Don't worry about it,” my sister said in a late-night phone call. “Knowing something's made up while thinking that it matters is what all fiction insists on. She's putting a name on a series of manners.”

  “But he seems so real to her,” I objected.

  “Of course he is. I mean, who's more real to you, Becky Sharp or Gandalf or the guy down the hall? Giving a manner a name makes it real.”

  I paused. “I grasp that it's normal for her to have an imaginary friend,” I said, “but have you ever heard of an imaginary friend who's too busy to play with you?”

  She thought about it. “No,” she said. “I'm sure that doesn't occur anywhere in the research literature. That sounds completely New York.” And then she hung up.

  The real question, I saw, was not “Why this friend?” but “Why this fiction?” Why, as Olivia had seen so clearly, are grown-ups in New York so busy, and so obsessed with the language of busyness that it dominates their conversation? Why are New Yorkers always bumping into Charlie Ravioli and grabbing lunch, instead of sitting down with him and exchanging intimacies, as friends should, as people do in Paris and Rome? Why is busyness the stuff our children make their invisible friends from, as country children make theirs from light and sand?

  This seems like an odd question. New Yorkers are busy for obvious reasons: They have husbands and wives and careers and children, they have the Gauguin show to see and their personal trainers and accountants to visit. But the more I think about this, the more I think it is—well, a lot of Ravioli. We are instructed to believe that we are busier because we have to work harder to be more productive, but everybody knows that busyness and productivity have a dubious, arm's-length relationship. Most of our struggle in New York, in fact, is to be less busy in order to do more work.

  Constant, exhausting, no-time-to-meet-your-friends Charlie Ravioli–style busyness arrived as an affliction in modern life long after the other parts of bourgeois city manners did. Business long predates busyness. In the seventeenth and eighteenth centuries, when bourgeois people were building the institutions of bourgeois life, they seem never to have complained that they were too busy—or, if they did, they left no record of it. Samuel Pepys, who had a navy to refloat and a burned London to rebuild, often uses the word “busy” but never complains of busyness. For him, the word “busy” is a synonym for “happy,” not for “stressed.” Not once in his diary does Pepys cancel lunch or struggle to fit someone in for coffee at four-thirty. Pepys works, makes love, and goes to bed, but he does not bump into and he does not have to run. Ben Franklin, a half century later, boasts of his industriousness, but he, too, never complains about being busy, and always has time to publish a newspaper or come up with a maxim or swim the ocean or invent the lightning rod.

  Until sometime in the middle of the nineteenth century, in fact, the normal affliction of the bourgeois was not busyness at all but its apparent opposite: boredom. It has even been argued that the grid of streets and cafés and small engagements in the nineteenth-century city—the whole of social life—was designed self-consciously as an escape from that numbing boredom. (Working people weren't bored, of course, but they were engaged in labor, not work. They were too busy to be busy.) Baudelaire, basically, was so bored that he had to get drunk and run out onto the boulevard in the hope of bumping into somebody.

  Turn to the last third of the nineteenth century and the beginning of the twentieth, though, and suddenly everybody is busy, and everybody is complaining about it. Pepys, master of His Majesty's Navy, may never have complained of busyness, but Virginia Woolf, mistress of motionless lull, is continually complaining about how she spends her days racing across London from square to square, just like—well, like Charlie Ravioli. Ronald Firbank is wrung out by his social obligations; Marcel Proust is constantly rescheduling rendezvous and apologizing for being overstretched. Henry James, with nothing particular to do save live, complains of being too busy all the time. He could not shake the world of obligation, he said, and he wrote a strange and beautiful story, “The Great Good Place,” which begins with an exhausting flood of correspondence, telegrams, and manuscripts that drive the protagonist nearly mad.

  What changed? That James story helps supply the key. It was trains and telegrams. The railroads ended isolation and packed the metropolis with people whose work was defined by a complicated network of social obligations. Pepys's network in 1669 London was, despite his official position, relatively small compared even with that of a minor aes
thete like Firbank, two centuries later. Pepys had more time to make love because he had fewer friends to answer.

  If the train crowded our streets, the telegram crowded our minds. It introduced something into the world that remains with us today: a whole new class of communications that are defined as incomplete in advance of their delivery. A letter, though it may enjoin a response, is meant to be complete in itself. Neither the apostle Paul nor Horace Walpole ever ends an epistle with “Give me a call and let's discuss.” By contrast, it is in the nature of the telegram to be a skeletal version of another thing—a communication that opens more than it closes. The nineteenth-century telegram came with those busy-threatening words “Letter follows.”

  Every device that has evolved from the telegram shares the same character. E-mails end with a suggestion for a phone call (“Anyway, let's meet and/or talk soon”), faxes with a request for an e-mail, answering-machine messages with a request for a fax. All are devices of perpetually suspended communication. My wife recalls a moment last fall when she got a telephone message from a friend asking her to check her e-mail apropos a phone call she needed to make vis-à-vis a fax they had both received asking for more information about a bed they were thinking of buying from Ireland online and having sent to America by Federal Express—a grand slam of incomplete communication.

  In most of the Western world outside New York, the press of trains and of telegraphic communication was alleviated by those other two great transformers: the car and the television. While the train and the telegram (and their love children, subways and commuter trains and e-mail) pushed people together, the car and the television pulled people apart—taking them out to the suburbs and sitting them down in front of a solo spectacle. New York, though, almost uniquely, got hit by a double dose of the first two technologies and a very limited dose of the second two. Car life—car obsessions, car-defined habits—is more absent here than almost anywhere else in the country, while television, though obviously present, is less fatally prevalent here. New York is still a subject of television, and we compare Sex and the City to sex and the city; they are not yet quite the same. Here two grids of busyness remain dominant: the nineteenth- and early-twentieth-century grid of bump and run, and the late-twentieth- and early-twenty-first-century postmodern grid of virtual call and echo. Busyness is felt so intently here because we are both crowded and overloaded. We exit the apartment into a still-dense nineteenth-century grid of street corners and restaurants full of people, and come home to the late-twentieth-century grid of faxes and e-mails and overwhelming incompleteness.