False Impression

Fenston gave up trying to contact his office only when he saw the North Tower collapse in front of his eyes. He replaced the receiver and rushed back down the unfamiliar corridor to find Leapman scrawling SOLD on a “To Rent” board that was attached to the door of an empty office.

“Tomorrow there will be ten thousand people after this space,” he explained, “so at least that’s one problem solved.”

“You may be able to replace an office, but what you can’t replace is my Monet,” Fenston said ungraciously. He paused. “And if I don’t get my hands on the Van Gogh . . .”

Leapman checked his watch. “It should be halfway across the Atlantic by now.”

“Let’s hope so, because we no longer have any documentation to prove we even own the painting,” said Fenston, as he looked out of the window and stared at a gray cloud that hung above the ground where the Twin Towers had once proudly stood.

Anna joined a group of fellow stragglers as they emerged out of the gloom. Her compatriots looked as if they’d already completed a marathon but hadn’t yet reached the finish line. Coming out of such darkness, Anna found she couldn’t bear to look up at the glaring sun; even opening her dust-covered eyelids demanded effort. On, on, she stumbled, inch by inch, foot by foot, coughing up dirt and dust with every step, wondering how much more black liquid there could possibly be left in her body. After a few more paces she collapsed onto her knees, convinced the gray cloud could no longer overtake her. She continued coughing, spitting, spitting, coughing. When Anna looked up, she became aware of a group of startled onlookers, who were staring at her as if she’d just landed from another planet.

“Were you in one of the towers?” asked one of them. She didn’t have the strength to answer and decided to get as far away from their gaping eyes as possible. Anna had only covered a few more paces before she bumped into a Japanese tourist who was bending down trying to take a photograph of her. She angrily waved him away. He immediately bowed even lower and apologized.

When Anna reached the next intersection, she collapsed on the sidewalk and stared up at the street sign—she was on the corner of Franklin and Church. I’m only a few blocks from Tina’s apartment, was her first thought. But as Tina was still somewhere behind her, how could she possibly have survived? Without warning, a bus came to a halt by her side. Although it was as full as a San Francisco tram car during rush hour, people edged back to allow her to clamber on. The bus stopped on the corner of every block, allowing some to jump off while others got on, with no suggestion of anyone paying a fare. It seemed that all New Yorkers were united in wanting to play some part in the unfolding drama.

“Oh, my God,” whispered Anna, as she sat on the bus and buried her head in her hands. For the first time she thought about the firemen who had passed her on the stairwell, and of Tina and Rebecca, who must be dead. It’s only when you know someone that a tragedy becomes more than a news item.

When the bus came to a halt in the Village near Washington Square Park, Anna almost fell off. She stumbled over to the sidewalk, coughing up several more mouthfuls of gray dust that she’d avoided bringing up while she was on the bus. A woman sat down on the curb beside her and offered her a bottle of water. Anna filled her mouth several times before spitting out dollops of black liquid. She emptied the bottle without swallowing a drop. The woman then pointed in the direction of a small hotel where escapees were trooping in and out in a steady stream. She bent down and took Anna by the arm, guiding her gently toward the ladies’ room on the ground floor. The room was full of men and women oblivious of their sex. Anna looked at herself in the mirror and understood why onlookers had stared at her so curiously. It was as if someone had poured several bags of gray ash all over her. She left her hands under a flowing tap until only her nails remained black. She then tried to remove a layer of the caked dust from her face—an almost pointless exercise. She turned to thank the stranger, but she, like the cop, had already disappeared to assist someone else.

Anna limped back onto the road, her throat dry, her knees cut, her feet blistered and aching. As she stumbled slowly up Waverly Place, she tried to remember the number of Tina’s apartment. She continued on past an uninhabited Waverly Diner before pausing outside number 273.

Anna grabbed at the familiar wrought-iron balustrade like a lifeline and yanked herself up the steps to the front door. She ran her finger down the list of names by the side of the buzzers: Amato, Kravits, Gambino, O’Rourke, Forster . . . Forster, Forster, she repeated joyfully, before pressing the little bell. But how could Tina answer her call, when she must be dead, was Anna’s only thought. She left her finger on the buzzer as if it would bring Tina to life, but it didn’t. She finally gave up and turned to leave, tears streaming down her dust-caked face, when out of nowhere an irate voice demanded, “Who is it?”

Anna collapsed onto the top step.

“Oh, thank God,” she cried, “you’re alive, you’re alive.”

“But you can’t be,” said a disbelieving voice.

“Open the door,” pleaded Anna, “and you can see for yourself.”

The click of the entry button was the best sound Anna had heard that day.

13

“YOU’RE ALIVE,” REPEATED Tina, as she flung open the front door and threw her arms around her friend. Anna may have resembled a street urchin who had just climbed out of a Victorian chimney, but it didn’t prevent Tina from clinging to her.

“I was thinking about how you could always make me laugh, and wondering if I’d ever laugh again, when the buzzer sounded.”

“And I was convinced that even if you’d somehow managed to get out of the building, you still couldn’t have survived once the tower collapsed.”

“If I had a bottle of champagne, I’d open it so that we could celebrate,” said Tina, finally letting go of her friend.

“I’ll settle for a coffee, and then another coffee, followed by a bath.”

“I do have coffee,” said Tina, who took Anna by the hand and led her through to the small kitchen at the end of the corridor. Anna left a set of gray footprints on the carpet behind her.

Anna sat down at a small, round, wooden table and kept her hands in her lap, while a soundless television was showing images of the other side of the story. She tried to stay still, aware that anything she touched was immediately smeared with ash and dirt. Tina didn’t seem to notice.

“I know this may sound a little strange,” said Anna, “but I haven’t a clue what’s going on.”

Tina turned up the sound on the television.

“Fifteen minutes of that,” Tina said as she filled the coffeepot, “and you’ll know everything.”

Anna watched the endless replays of a plane flying into the South Tower, people throwing themselves from the higher floors to a certain death, and the collapse of first the South and then the North Tower.

“And another plane hit the Pentagon?” she asked. “So how many more are out there?”