Keller angrily decided that he had broken no agreement with Indiana. What he and Geneviève shared was not love; besides, he was sick to death of misunderstandings, of feeling guilty about such petty issues. It was about time he ended the relationship; it had already dragged on too long. Even so, as he watched her cycle off into the distance, he wondered how he would react if their roles were reversed, if Indiana and Miller had been having the affair. “Go to hell, you stupid bitch,” he muttered, disgusted with himself. He didn’t plan to see her ever again—creating a scene like that had been tasteless, something Geneviève would never have done. Wipe Indiana from his mind and forget all about her, that was what he would do—and in fact, he’d already started to forget her. He dried his eyes with the back of his hand and trudged grouchily over to his car.
That night, he stayed up shuffling around the Woodside mansion, his overcoat and gloves pulled over his pajamas—what little warmth the central heating provided was swept away by drafts that slipped through the cracks in the floorboards with an eerie whistle. He finished his best bottle of wine as he chewed over a number of reasons to dump Indiana for good: what had happened that day only proved once again how narrow-minded and vulgar she was. What the hell did she want, anyway? For him to cut himself off from his friends, from his social circle? His little romps with Geneviève meant nothing—only someone as naive as Indiana could kick up a fuss over something so trivial. He didn’t even remember promising he would be faithful. When had that happened? It must have been in some moment of confusion—if he had done so, it was more of a formality than a promise. He and Indiana were not compatible, he had known it from the start; his mistake had been to give her false hope.
The wine hit him hard. He woke up with a sour taste in his mouth and a pounding headache, but after a few aspirin and a gulp of Pepto-Bismol he soon felt better, ate some toast and jam and gathered enough strength for a cursory glance at the paper. He had plans for the day, and he was not about to change them. He took a long shower to scrub off the effects of the bad night, and thought he had recovered his usual composure, but when he went to shave, a grizzled old man from a Tintoretto painting stared back at him from the mirror. He had aged ten years overnight, he realized. He sat on the edge of the bathtub, naked, studying the blue veins in his feet, muttering Indiana’s name and cursing her.
Saturday, 28
The San Francisco Bay met the dawn swathed in its usual milky fog, its outline blurred to the world. Mist crept down over the tops of the hills like a slow-moving avalanche of cotton, dulling the water’s steely glint. It was a typical day, with several degrees’ difference between the two ends of the Golden Gate Bridge: winter in San Francisco, autumn sun a few miles north. For Ryan Miller, the temperate climate was the best thing about this place—it allowed him to train outdoors all year round. He had competed in four Ironman triathlons: a 2.4-mile swim, a 112-mile bicycle ride, and a 26.2-mile marathon run with no break. He usually averaged fourteen hours—which was passable—but every time the press had hailed it a “triumph over adversity,” which made him angry; being an amputee was so common among war vets it was hardly worth mentioning. At least his prosthetic leg was top-of-the-line—that gave him an edge over other amputees, who had to make do with standard gear. His limp was so slight he could have danced the tango if he had had more of a sense of rhythm and less fear of looking like an idiot; but he had never been a dancer. To Ryan, Dick Hoyt was a genuine example of triumph over adversity: here was a father who did the triathlon carrying a disabled adult son who weighed as much as he did. Hoyt swam pulling a rubber dinghy with his son inside, cycled with his son strapped into a backseat, and pushed him in his wheelchair during the marathon. Every time Ryan saw him compete, this father’s unswerving love—a stark contrast to his own father’s brutality—moved him to tears.
As always, Ryan had started his day at five with Qigong exercises. This centered him for the rest of the day, and helped him to focus his awareness. In a book about the samurai, he had once read a quote that had become his motto: “A warrior without a spiritual practice is nothing but a killer.” He prepared breakfast—a thick green smoothie with enough protein, fiber, and carbohydrates to get a guy through a day in the Arctic—then took Attila out for a run so he wouldn’t get lazy. The dog still had boundless energy, but at eight years old he was not getting any younger, and after his service in the war there was a risk he would get bored with his sedentary life in San Francisco. Attila had been trained to defend and attack, to sniff out mines and terrorists, ward off enemies, parachute, swim through icy waters, and a variety of things that were not much use in civilian life. Though deaf, and blind in one eye, Attila compensated with a sense of smell remarkable even in a dog. Ryan communicated with him using hand signals, and the dog obeyed if the command seemed relevant; if it didn’t, he took refuge in his deafness and ignored it.
By the time they got back after an hour’s run, man and dog were puffing and panting. Attila slumped in a corner while Ryan subjected himself to exercise machines laid out like macabre sculptures in his apartment, along with the king-size bed, a TV, a stereo, and a bench that served as dining table, office, and workshop. A huge bank of computers connected him directly to the government agencies he worked with. There were no photographs to be seen, no diplomas, no medals; there was nothing personal, as though he had just arrived or was just about to move out, although the walls were hung with a collection of weapons that he would disassemble and clean to pass the time.
His apartment wasn’t exactly comfortable but had enough space for his restless soul, and boasted a huge garage and an industrial elevator—an iron cage that could lift a tank if need be. He had chosen the loft for its size, and because he liked to be alone. He was the only tenant in the building, and after six o’clock and on weekends, the streets of the industrial district were deserted.
Ryan swam in an Olympic pool or in the bay, alternating days. Arriving at Aquatic Park that Saturday, he headed for the Dolphin Club with Attila. It was cold out, and at that early hour there was no one around except a few joggers, who would suddenly appear like ghosts out of the thick fog. He put a muzzle and leash on Attila, just to be safe; the dog could still run at thirty miles an hour and rip through a bulletproof jacket with his teeth, and when his jaws locked around his prey, there was no way to make him let go. Ryan had spent a year acclimatizing the dog to the city, but he worried that, if provoked or taken by surprise, Attila might still attack, and if that happened, there would be no choice but to have him put down. It was something Ryan had accepted when he took Attila in, but the idea of having his battle comrade and best buddy put to sleep was more than he could bear. He owed that dog his life. In the explosion in Iraq that had cost him his leg in 2007, Ryan had barely managed to apply a tourniquet before passing out, and would have died had it not been for Attila, who dragged him a hundred yards through sustained machine-gun fire and then lay on top of his master as a shield until help arrived. As he was being airlifted out, Ryan called the dog’s name in the helicopter, and he was still repeating it on the plane that took him to the American hospital in Germany.
Months later, during his long convalescence, Ryan got a letter telling him that Attila had been assigned a new handler and was serving with another Navy SEAL team in a zone held by al-Qaeda. There was a photo, but in it Attila was unrecognizable: his coat had been shaved, leaving only a strip on his back like a Mohawk, which made him look even more threatening. Ryan kept up with his progress through friends in SEAL Team Six, who periodically sent news.
By November 2008 Attila had been involved in countless assaults and rescue operations, saved numerous lives, and was fast becoming a legend among the SEALs. One day, while he was traveling in a convoy with his handler and some other SEALs, a bomb exploded by the road, destroying a number of vehicles and leaving two men dead and five injured, as well as Attila. The dog had been in such a bad way that no one expected him to survive, but they took him to safety with the rest of them beca
use you never leave a fallen comrade behind—it’s a sacred rule. Attila survived his injuries thanks to medical intervention—although he would not serve in battle again—and was decorated for his bravery. Ryan still had a photo of the ceremony, and kept Attila’s medal in a case with his own.
When he found out that Attila had been retired from active service, Ryan began the long process of getting him repatriated to the United States and adopting him, something that required him to overcome a number of bureaucratic hurdles. When at last the day came and Ryan went to pick the dog up from the military base, Attila immediately recognized him. He leaped on him, and they rolled around on the ground, playing the way they always had.
The Dolphin Club had been around since 1877, from which date it had kept up a healthy rivalry with the club next door, the South End Rowing Club. They operated out of the same ramshackle old wooden building, the two separated only by a thin wall and a door with no lock. At a discreet signal, Attila sneaked stealthily into the changing rooms and hid next to the yellow sign that read NO DOGS, while Ryan went upstairs to a viewing gallery, a little circular room with a couple of threadbare armchairs and a rocking chair. There he found Frank Rinaldi, the caretaker, who at the ripe old age of eighty was always the first to arrive, already settled in his rocking chair to enjoy the city’s greatest spectacle: the Golden Gate Bridge lit by the morning sun.
“I need volunteers to clean the bathrooms,” he said by way of greeting. “Put your name down on the list, kid.”
“Sure. You swimming today, Frank?”
“What do you think?” grumbled the old man. “That I’m going to sit here by the goddamn gas heater the rest of the day?”
Frank was not the only octogenarian to brave the icy waters of the bay. A recently deceased club member—a man who, on his sixtieth birthday, had swum across from Alcatraz with shackles on his ankles, pulling a boat behind him—had still been swimming there at ninety-six. Rinaldi, like Ryan and Pedro Alarcón, belonged to the Polar Bear Club, a group whose members were required to swim at least forty miles over the course of the winter. Each member entered his total for the day on a piece of graph paper tacked to the wall. To calculate the distance covered, there was a map of Aquatic Park and a piece of knotted string, a rudimentary system that nobody saw any need to change. Like everything else at the club, calculating mileage was subject to an honor code that had worked perfectly for a hundred and thirty-five years.
In the locker room, Ryan changed into his swim trunks. Before heading down to the beach he patted Attila on the back, and the dog settled down to wait for him, huddled in a corner, nose between his front paws, trying not to be seen. On the beach Ryan met Pedro, who had arrived before him but decided not to brave the water because he had the flu. He had a rowboat ready to take out, and was wrapped up in a heavy coat, woolly hat, and scarf, his maté gourd in one hand and a thermos of hot water tucked under his arm. The two men greeted each other with an almost imperceptible nod.
Pedro gave the boat a push, nimbly hopped into it, and vanished into the fog. Ryan, meanwhile, pulled on his orange swim cap and his goggles, unstrapped his prosthetic leg—he tossed it onto the sand, sure nobody would touch it—and dived into the waves. The cold was like a sudden blow, but soon he was feeling the heady euphoria of a swimmer. At moments like this—feeling weightless as he defied the treacherous currents, withstanding the near-freezing temperatures that made his bones creak, propelling himself with the powerful muscles in his arms and his back—he was once again the man he used to be. After a few strokes he no longer felt the cold, and could focus on his breathing, his speed, and his direction, orienting himself by the buoys that he could just pick out through his goggles and the fog.
The two men trained for an hour and arrived back on the shore at the same time. Pedro dragged the boat up onto the sand and handed Ryan his prosthesis.
“I’m in bad shape,” muttered Ryan, heading for the club, leaning on Pedro’s shoulder and limping from stiffness and the pain in his stump.
“Legs only give you ten percent of your power in the water. You’ve got thighs like a horse, my man. Don’t waste ’em swimming. In the triathlon you need to save your leg power for the cycle and the run.” They were interrupted by Frank Rinaldi, whistling from the top of the steps to tell them they had a visitor. Standing next to him, holding two paper cups, was Indiana Jackson, her nose red and her eyes watering, having just hopped off her bike—her usual form of transport.
“I brought you the most decadent thing I could find,” she said. “Sea salt caramel hot chocolate from Ghirardelli.”
“Something wrong?” asked Ryan, alarmed to see her at the club, where she had never set foot before.
“Oh, it’s nothing urgent—”
“Then let Miller get in the sauna a while,” Rinaldi told her. “Bunch of reckless guys have died of hypothermia from that water.”
“And a bunch more were eaten by sharks,” Ryan joked.
“Is that true?” she said.
Rinaldi explained to Indiana that no sharks had been seen there in a long time, but years ago a marauding sea lion had managed to get into Aquatic Park Lagoon, bitten fourteen people on the leg, and chased another ten who narrowly escaped unharmed out of the lagoon. Experts said he was protecting his harem of mates, but Rinaldi was still convinced the animal had brain damage from toxic algae.
“How many times I tell you not to bring your dog to the club, Miller?”
“Lot of times, Frank, and every time I’ve told you that Attila’s a service animal, like a guide dog.”
“I’d like to know what kind of service you get out of a mutt like that!”
“He calms my nerves.”
“Club members are complaining, Miller. That dog could bite somebody.”
“How the hell is he going to bite someone with a muzzle on, Frank? Besides, he only attacks if I order him to.”
Ryan took a quick shower and dressed hurriedly. He was surprised that Indiana remembered he trained at the club at the same time every Saturday—he assumed she had her head in the clouds most of the time. Indiana was a little kooky—everyday details passed her by. She regularly got lost walking through the streets, could never keep track of what she spent, continually lost her cell phone and her purse; yet in her work she was inexplicably punctual and organized. When she tied her hair back with a scrunchie and put on the white smock she wore for therapy, she was transformed into the straitlaced sister of the woman he knew—the one with the tousled mane of hair and the too-tight clothes. Ryan loved them both. He loved the distracted, scatterbrained friend who brightened his existence and aroused his protective side, the woman who danced drunk on salsa and piña colada in the Latino club Matheus Pereira took them to, while Ryan watched her from his seat; and he also loved the serious, sober healer who soothed his muscle pains, the high priestess of ethereal essences, of magnets for aligning the forces of the universe, of crystals, pendants, and candles. Neither woman knew anything about the love he felt for her, this feeling like the tendrils of a creeper he could feel encircling him.
Ryan signaled Attila to stay in his corner while he went up to the viewing gallery to join Indiana, waiting on her own now that Pedro and Rinaldi had gone. They sat down in the battered armchairs in front of the picture windows, where a flurry of seagulls greeted them, looking out at the opalescent landscape as the towers of the Golden Gate Bridge rose above the dwindling fog.
“To what do I owe the pleasure?” asked Ryan, forcing himself to drink the near-cold hot chocolate she had brought, though the cream had curdled and started to form a paste.
“I take it you know it’s over between Alan and me?”
“Really?” Ryan exclaimed, not bothering to hide his satisfaction. “How did that happen?”
“How can you ask me that? It was all your doing—you’re the one who sent me that magazine. I was so convinced of Alan’s love. . . . How could I have been so wrong about him? When I saw those photos, I felt like I’d been punched i
n the gut, Ryan. Why did you do it?”
“I didn’t send you anything, Indi, but if whatever it was persuaded you to dump that old fool, well, it was about time.”
“He’s not old, he’s fifty-five, and he looks fantastic. Not that I care—he’s not in my life anymore,” she announced, blowing her nose.
“Tell me what happened.”
“First, you have to swear it wasn’t you who sent the magazine.”
“It’s like you hardly know me!” Ryan protested, annoyed now. “I don’t do backstabbing. What you see is what you get. I’ve never given you any reason to doubt my honesty, Indiana.”
“I know, Ryan. I’m sorry, I’m just really confused right now. I found this in the mail,” she said, passing him a few pages folded in half, which he read quickly and handed back to her.
“This Baroness van Houte looks just like you,” was Ryan’s tactless response.
“Sure, we’re identical! Except she’s twenty years older, twenty-five pounds lighter, and wears Chanel.”
“You’re much more beautiful.”
“I can’t deal with disloyalty, Ryan. I just can’t.”
“A second ago you were accusing me of betraying you.”
“No, it’s just the opposite—I thought you’d sent me the article out of loyalty. As a favor, to open my eyes to the truth.”
“I’d be a coward if I didn’t say it to your face, Indiana.”
“You’re right, of course. I need to know who did this, Ryan. It didn’t come with the mail—there was no stamp. Someone took the trouble to put it in my mailbox.”
“It could have been any of your admirers, Indi, acting with the best intentions: so you’d know what kind of a guy Alan Keller is.”
“Well, whoever it was left it at my house, not the clinic, so whoever it was knows where I live, knows about my private life. Did I tell you I’m missing some underwear? I’m sure someone’s been in my apartment, more than once even, but there’s no way to be certain. It’s easy to get to my place without being seen from the street—the staircase is at the side of the house, hidden behind a big pine tree. Anyway, Amanda said something to Bob, and you know how possessive he is: he showed up with a locksmith without even telling me and had the locks changed on my dad’s house and my apartment. Nothing has gone missing since, but sometimes I feel like someone’s been there. I can’t explain it, there’s a presence in the air, like a ghost. I think somebody’s spying on me, Ryan.”