Page 245 - A Little Life: A Novel

“Did she say that to you?”
“No, Willem, of course not. I’m just guessing. From my vast experience
with women, you know.”

Later, when Willem and Philippa broke up, he would feel as guilty as if
he had been solely to blame. But even before that, he had wondered
whether Willem, too, had come to realize that no serious girlfriend would
tolerate his constant presence in Willem’s life; he wondered whether
Willem was trying to make alternative plans for him, so he didn’t end up
living in a cottage on the property he’d someday have with his wife, so he
wouldn’t be Willem’s sad bachelor friend, a useless reminder of his

forsaken, childish life. I will be alone, he decided. He wouldn’t be the one
to ruin Willem’s chances for happiness: he wanted Willem to have the
orchard and the termite-nibbled house and the grandchildren and the wife
who was jealous of his company and attention. He wanted Willem to have
everything he deserved, everything he desired. He wanted every day of his
to be free of worries and obligations and responsibilities—even if that

worry and obligation and responsibility was him.
The following week, Richard’s father—a tall, smiling, pleasant man he’d
met at Richard’s first show, three years ago—sent him the contract, which
he had a law school classmate, a real estate lawyer, review in tandem with
him, and the building’s engineering report, which he gave to Malcolm. The
price had almost nauseated him, but his classmate said he had to do it: “This
is an unbelievable deal, Jude. You will never, never, never find something

that size in that neighborhood for this amount of money.” And after
reviewing the report, and then the space, Malcolm told him the same thing:
Buy it.
So he did. And although he and the Goldfarbs had worked out a leisurely
ten-year payment schedule, an interest-free rent-to-own plan, he was
determined to pay the apartment off as soon as he could. Every two weeks,

he allotted half of his paycheck to the apartment, and the other half to his
savings and living expenses. He told Harold he had moved during their
weekly phone call (“Thank Christ,” Harold said: he had never liked
Lispenard Street), but didn’t tell him he had bought a place, because he
didn’t want Harold to feel obligated to offer him money for it. From
Lispenard Street he brought only his mattress and lamp and the table and a
chair, all of which he arranged into one corner of the space. At nights, he

would sometimes look up from his work and think what a ludicrous