The Imperial Wife Read Online Free

eyelash? How does that work anyway?”
    â€œI don’t think so. You get only one chance at a wish.” Carl leans back against the pillow, his Grecian profile dipping into his book. Then, just as abruptly, he shuts it. His lips outline the rim of my ear and I allow him to diffuse my entire day, a day more stressful than I can admit even to myself. I try to sink into feeling only, but the mental collage is of a frowning Marjorie, Mr. Reed Brooks seeking rescue from the submarine of the viewing room.
    â€œYou’re so beautiful,” I breathe as if my words will transport me where it matters.
    â€œAnd you,” he says. “And you.” But in it I detect a mournful spiral.
    *   *   *
    The next day, the Museum of Modern Art is less crowded than usual because of a dripping March rain. Carl and I run in soaked and dump our jackets in the coat check. Since I’m a corporate member, we enter the museum for free, two tickets handed to me once I flash my Worthington’s ID. I hand one to Carl.
    I love museums the way my husband loves libraries, for their civilized silence, the generosity of their gifts, that they can make you see familiar work in a new way depending on the curatorial point of view, the angle of the historical context. I love being surrounded by thousands of strangers yet encased in our own cocoon, the sound of our wet shoes tapping the floor in rhythm, the murmur of self-confident opinions around us. I pay partial attention to the show, but mostly it’s about the pleasure of ambling, of peaceful interaction with Carl. No demands from clients, no pressures from Dean’s office. A rare Saturday with my husband.
    â€œOkay, so I’ve got the new novel all mapped out,” Carl says, veering me around dutiful scrutinizers of section labels. The exhibition brings together many of the most influential works in abstraction’s early history and covers a wide range of artistic production.
    â€œReally? Tell me.”
    â€œOkay, so picture this. It’s set in St. Petersburg in 1911 at the Stray Dog Café. You know, the one where Mandelstam and Akhmatova and Tsvetaeva argued and read poetry and drank red wine. It was a famous hangout for the greatest poets of the era. Before the Revolution. It’ll be like a Russian Cabaret. ”
    â€œUh-huh.”
    â€œWhat do you think? Does it sound viable to you?”
    I have no idea what he’s talking about, but pretend I do. It’s always sobering how much more Carl knows about my own history. He pulls back each finger, chapter by chapter. “It’ll open in the 1960s with Robert Frost visiting the elderly Akhmatova in Leningrad and move back in time.”
    â€œThat sounds amazing,” I say, probably too loudly because a few people without headphones look up at me, irritated. We are all standing in front of a map that links people and countries, slashes of red connecting Picasso to Liubov Popova and Vanessa Bell.
    â€œIt’s just in the research stages right now,” he insists. “But doesn’t it sound fascinating?”
    â€œI can’t wait to read it. Whenever you’re ready.”
    â€œI might show it to someone else first. If that’s okay.”
    I pretend that the suggestion of this arrangement is perfectly acceptable, even as it stings.
    Carl is letting his hair grow longer, the preppy 1980s way it looked when I first met him. That impossible golden flax, pin-straight, straining over his ears and collar. I note that he’s made the style decision without sharing it with me. When we first got together, he would ask for my feedback on the most minute things: loafers or the Top-Siders? The paisley or polka-dotted umbrella? Even matters of diet: should I eat this late if we’re having an early dinner? Should I skip the fries? Will the salad fill me up, do you think?
    I suppose after four years of marriage, it’s natural that our minds will take turns