The Imperial Wife Read Online Free Page B

grandfather, who once wore suits and bow ties and effusively greeted random ladies on the streets of Rego Park (“Ciao, beauties”) as if he were Marcello Mastroianni or a flaneur in Malta. He had not lasted long in America.
    I’m forced to summon Carl over for introductions. Come, honey! Meet Jeremiah Gruber. The man’s wife is a petite, fragile-looking woman with a fit physique and two gold knots dotting her ears. Carl hesitates, but then obeys.
    â€œYou wrote a novel, didn’t you?” the wife asks Carl. She is looking at him with an admiration I’m used to by now. My husband belongs to that species of handsome, tall male writers. “I’m almost positive I read about it in People. Catherine the Great, wasn’t it?”
    â€œWe just got the news that it’ll be translated into Italian.” I pull my husband closer, offer his hand a brief, conspiratorial squeeze. There’s no response. I feel only bones surrounded by a film of flesh.
    â€œI can speak for myself, thanks, Tanya,” he says in my general direction.
    â€œMaybe we can entice you to come and meet with our book club,” the woman says to him. She is rooting around in her snakeskin handbag for a pen or card. “We often have writers drop in and answer questions about their inspiration.”
    â€œShe’s in three book clubs,” my client says.
    â€œThat’s wonderful,” I effuse, filling in the space. “I wish I had time for reading.”
    My husband folds his museum guide, signaling an end to the conversation. He’s gotten more polite at deflecting requests like this, but people are always unpleasantly surprised when he refuses to take part in self-promotion. He’s a classic pessimist like my mother, convinced everything good that happens to him is a mistake and everything bad is part of an unshakable narrative. “I don’t think so. Thanks for asking though.”
    â€œOh.” The card is frozen in midair. “I guess you must be busy on the next book.”
    Carl is examining the vivid Sonia Delaunay painting before him, the slashes of swirling color meant to imitate the electric lamps new to the streets of Paris. “That’s right. I’m busy on the next book.”
    My client comes to the rescue. “They’re a handsome couple, Tanya and Carl, don’t you think?”
    â€œHe’s thrilled at all the attention that book’s gotten, we all are,” I say. I take the wife’s card since someone has to. “I’ll write you both for the auction preview. You’ll go crazy for the early Komar and Melamid, Jeremiah. It dates right before they dissolved their partnership. Lovely to see you both.”
    When they’re out of sight, I turn to Carl. His jaw is tight, his eyes flashing steel. You want to run from it every single day.
    â€œOh, honey, they meant well.”
    â€œYeah, I know. You meant well too, didn’t you, Tan?”
    â€œOf course I did. I do.”
    â€œOkay, keep telling yourself that.”
    He strides out of the gallery, those long deerlike steps, his shoes inaudible on the parquet floors. My eyes are filling and I blink frantically to keep them dry. It’s just the typical bumps of a beginning, two individuals learning to be a couple, wedging themselves into their proper places.
    I make an effort to take in a bit of the show but falter in my usual concentration. He’s gone a long time. I dash off a few e-mails on my phone. But fifteen minutes go by, then a half hour, then forty-five minutes. I take a seat on the bench in front of the restrooms. Man after man is expelled, none of them him. The rainstorm must have ended because the galleries are clogging with visitors.
    I text— where are you? —then another one right after that in capital letters: ARE YOU STILL AT MUSEUM? I take the escalators and check the benches in front of each restroom. Tourists filter in and out, shaking out