Page 517 - A Little Life: A Novel

the small place he occupies? How can he hope for more when he can’t
comprehend what he thought he did?
Nightfall is abrupt and brief, and the wind more intense, and still he

walks. He wants warmth, food, a room with people laughing. But he can’t
bear to go into a restaurant, not by himself on Thanksgiving, not in the
mood he’s in: he’ll be recognized, and he doesn’t have the energy for the
small talk, the bonhomie, the graciousness, that such encounters will
necessitate. His friends have always teased him about his invisibility claim,
his idea that he can somehow manipulate his own visibility, his own
recognizability, but he had really believed it, even when evidence kept

disproving him. Now he sees this belief as yet more proof of his self-
deception, his way of constantly pretending that the world will align itself
to his vision of it: That Jude will get better because he wants him to. That
he understands him because he likes to think he does. That he can walk
through SoHo and no one will know who he is. But really, he is a prisoner:
of his job, of his relationship, and mostly, of his own willful naïveté.

Finally he buys a sandwich and catches a taxi south to Perry Street, to his
apartment that is barely his anymore: in a few weeks, in fact, it no longer
will be, because he has sold it to Miguel, his friend from Spain, who is
spending more time in the States. But tonight, it still is, and he lets himself
in, cautiously, as if the apartment may have deteriorated, may have started
breeding monsters, since he was last there. It is early, but he takes off his
clothes anyway, and picks Miguel’s clothes off Miguel’s chaise longue and

takes Miguel’s blanket off Miguel’s bed and lies down on the chaise, letting
the helplessness and tumult of the day—only a day, and so much has
happened!—descend, and cries.
As he’s crying, his phone rings, and he gets up, thinking it might be Jude,
but it’s not: it’s Andy.
“Andy,” he cries, “I fucked up, I really fucked up. I did something

horrible.”
“Willem,” Andy says gently. “I’m sure it’s not as bad as you think it is.
I’m sure you’re being too hard on yourself.”
So he tells Andy, haltingly, explaining what has happened, and after he is
finished, Andy is silent. “Oh, Willem,” he sighs, but he doesn’t sound
angry, only sad. “Okay. It is as bad as you think it is,” and for some reason,
this makes him laugh a little, but then also moan.

“What should I do?” he asks, and Andy sighs again.