Page 87 of The Secret
39
DAN
Monday, April 11, 2022
When I arrive in Manhattan, I head straight for Liss’s apartment, dozing on the bus heading into the city. It’s taken me two days to organize my flights and get here, and I rub a sweaty palm down my shorts. The security services were relaxed about me coming here, reassured me that the threat has pretty much gone, but it would be good if neither Jed nor I stepped into politics. I told them there was no way that was ever fucking happening.
Liss’s old US number is dead, and her DRC phone number is going straight to voicemail. Her Google Maps location has also stopped updating … Ice slides through my veins.Nausea too. Liss must have felt like this when she got no response from me, and God, I wish I hadn’t put her through that. She’s probably thoroughly fed up with me. There’s no answer when I press on her buzzer, and I examine my watch: 1 p.m. local time. Where would she be at this time?Shit. She could have moved. My knowledge of her life here is three years out of date.What am I doing?I lean against the wall, the silence of the apartment pressing down from above.
What went wrong on the farm? I pinned Jed down and made him go through the conversation he had with her word for word. He was fucking awful, but was it bad enough to cut off all contact like this? What Liss said back to him doesn’t chime with her flying halfway around the world and not responding. More like her stomping into a room and telling me what an asshole my brother is.
Does she feel for me what I feel for her? I tip my head back, the cold brick like a hard dead end. What if I can’t put it right?
A couple of people walk past on their way up 22nd Street, clutching books and wearing backpacks.The university. Maybe I could track her down there? They funded the project she was working on in Kiwanja. I blow out a long breath: It’s a starting point at least. I push off the wall and head off up the sidewalk, examining the route on my phone as I pass a man on an extended conversation on his headset. God, I like the optimism and ambition of New York. Too many places are ground down by a lack of opportunity. I understand why Liss keeps coming back here, why she can’t quite leave and cut all ties. I don’t think she looks at it like this, but she has an amazing life. Rich, fulfilling, doing good. It seems pretty damn perfect to me.
Once I’ve mapped out my route, I rattle around the subway, eyeing my fellow travelers. A young hipster couple, professionals with polished shoes. When I dreamed about a life away from the farm, this is what I saw. Sharing a space with ambitious young people, wearing a suit, purposefully traveling, seeing everything life had to offer, and going into an air-conditioned building with a coffee in my hand.A coffee, Dan?I huff out a laugh. I know about growing the plants, not share dealing or whatever these people do. There’s nothing more earthy than the farm. I’ve thought about moving to Cape Town, but how could I leave Jed to the mess and sheer grind of it? I loved my life at university, the research, the thinking—and no doubt the escape from my father played a huge part in that—but I also met people like the ones swaying on a train with me now.
Before long, I’m out of 8th Street—New York University Station and on the sidewalk again. Some guys are yelling on some building site over the road, almost drowned out by the incessant noise of drills. I breathe it all in. The desire to be working on a career yawns like a sinkhole inside me.
When I arrive at Washington Square, so many university buildings line the sun-dappled streets. Where do I start? Would Liss work here in the central university location? On impulse, I head to the library. The girl on the desk is kind, but spectacularly unhelpful. I realize I don’t even know what department Liss teaches in. But she hands me a map with a smile, and I unfold it to try and figure out what’s most likely.
A half hour later, I’ve been into the Politics and Humanities faculties to find blank faces, and a man has directed me to the School of Social and Cultural Analysis. It’s a real eye-opener the kinds of departments and studies that exist here. I stand in the street people-watching for a couple of minutes, breathing in slowly, filling my lungs with the buildings and lecture halls.I’ve missed it. Something bone-deep takes hold of me. I need to leave the farm, and I need to talk to Jed about it. After two years in safehouses, I can’t do this to myself anymore.
I head over to the redbrick building down the street, hoping against hope this isn’t another fruitless quest. The young woman at the front desk eyes me dubiously. Do I look like a stalker? After several minutes, an older guy appears behind her, eyes flicking down to her screen, and back up to me.
“I’m a friend of hers,” I say. At least they appear to know who Liss is, thank God. “We met in Kiwanja three years ago, and spent some time working together while I was gathering information for my thesis. I saw her again when she was over recently.”
The older man leans forward to look at the screen and squints up at me. “Why are you over here?” he asks.
My eyes flick to him. “I came to see her,” I say.
And his expression morphs into wariness. Dammit, but I don’t want to elaborate. The desire I have to always play my cards close to my chest is letting me down here.
“Do you have her number?” he says.
Damn. “Her African one, yeah.” I look down at my phone. “But she’s not using that one here.”
The idea she might be in this building, but they’re not going to cooperate causes desperation to slide up my throat.
“Sir, we can’t really …” the receptionist starts.
“We can’t inform strangers of our staff’s whereabouts or details,” the older man interrupts. “You appreciate that.”
Fuck, they’re closing this down. But the phraseour staffmakes me want to pump my fist.
“I have her email and her address. She wouldn’t have given me those if I was a stalker,” I say, fingers tightening around my phone as my words come out in a sharp burst.
“Yes, but she still might not want to see you,” the woman mutters.
“We certainly can’t …” the guy starts.
“I’m … I’m … I’m in a relationship with her,” I blurt out. God that sounds worse. “She left suddenly, and I want to put it right. Look.”
I pull out my phone and show him my home screen: a picture of Liss and me on the farm.
Whoever this man is, his expression totally shuts down now. He must think she’s avoiding me, and he’s probably right. He shakes his head. Ugh.
“I think you need to communicate with her directly, check whether she wants to see you,” he says.
