Chapter 2: London
The first time I try to call David, about two weeks after the conference, my call is forwarded to his voicemail. It's a standard recorded message, not his voice, and even at the best of times I sound like a moron when I leave a message, so I hang up.
It takes me three days to make a second attempt. I should be reviewing the monthly figures and preparing management reports. Instead I'm drafting speeches on sticky notes, so that I'll be prepared for either him or his voicemail. The task is made more difficult because I have no idea what I want to say. I have no idea what I want, period.
It's his voicemail.
"Uhmmm, David. Hi. It's Jordan. You know... from Stockholm. Uh, almost three weeks ago... Anyway, I just thought I'd call, you know, see what's up. Uhm. Well. Anyway. Call me, if you get a chance."
I hang up and bang the receiver against my forehead. Moron. Moron, moron, moron. Why didn't I just stick to the goddamned script? What's so difficult about, Hi David, it's Jordan. Just thought I'd call. Here's my number, in case you want to call me back. Not award-winning stuff, but oh, so much better than what I actually did say. Plus, I didn't leave my number, which means that the fucking ball is still in my fucking court, because I called him from the office phone, which blocks caller ID.
The third time, I call him from home, from my own mobile, so that, if I go off-script again, he'll at least have my number. The sticky note is on the kitchen counter in front of me, and there's not much that can go wrong, if I just stay on track. I've even rehearsed to achieve the right tone, casual, but not indifferent. I'm forty-six years old, and throughout the span of my career, I've calmly and confidently faced regulators, auditors, even a truly scary Ukrainian border officer, who was convinced my extra hard drive was some sort of bomb. I came out to my parents in a face to face discussion right after I graduated from college, as opposed to Benny, who got drunk on his twentieth birthday and left them a long and rambling message on their answering machine, from which his mother gathered that he liked a guy named Dick.
I can do this.
"David Hamvas."
I nearly drop the phone at the sound of his voice. Fuck. I was expecting voicemail again.
"Uh, hi."
"Hi." His tone is cautious, a little questioning.
I squeeze my eyes shut and pinch the bridge of my nose.
"It's Jordan. You know, from—"
"Jordan!" he interrupts me in the middle of making a fool of myself yet again, his tone warm. "How are you?"
"Good. Good. And you?" I nearly bark at him.
"Fine. Just got home a while ago."
"From where? And where's home?" Yep, just your average interrogation, posing as small talk.
"From Sydney. And Frankfurt, these days, at least."
The advances in telecommunications are a wonderful thing. David sounds like he's in the next room. I remember calling my parents from Dartmouth and the tinny echo on the line that made normal conversation almost impossible; you knew you were calling long distance back then and you respected it, saved it for special occasions, like births or deaths or to beg your parents for extra money. I suddenly long fervently for those good old days.
"What were you doing in Sydney?" I think my voice sounds a little more natural now.
"I'm glad you called again," he says, ignoring my question. "I thought you might not, and I didn't have your number. I don't even know your last name, so I have no way of finding you."
"It's Petersen. Jordan Petersen." I lean my elbows on the counter and press the phone harder against my ear. He really does sound glad to hear from me, and something that had a tight grip inside my chest loosens a little.
"Jordan Petersen?" he repeats after a pause, and his voice sounds a little strange. "Is that a common name in America?"
"Well, I'm sure there are a bunch of us kicking around, male and female. So yeah, I guess. Maybe."
"I knew a Jordan in grade school, and I'm pretty sure his last name was Petersen. Or maybe Peterson."
No. Fucking. Way.
"It would have been the early 70's," David blithely continues. "My father worked for First National City Bank, that's Citibank now, in Athens."
"David Ives," I say, pronouncing David the English way.
His laugh is a little choked. "Yeah. Wow. Small world, huh?"
"I thought you'd be bigger," I say inanely, because his different last name would have been the obvious thing to question.
He laughs again, more freely now.
"I guess I peaked early. By seventh grade everybody caught up with me, and by eighth about a third of the guys were taller than me."
"That must have been difficult for you," I say, the waspish tone of my voice surprising me.
"Difficult? Not really, why?"
"Losing the size advantage?"
"Huh?"
My encounters with David were among the defining events of my childhood, and he doesn't even remember them. Jesus, get a grip, Petersen. It's almost forty years later, for Chrissake. What the hell does it matter?
He laughs again, filling the silence. "Jordie Petersen," he says, in that fond, sickly sweet tone people use when they reminisce about their childhood. "What a little oddball you were."
"No, I wasn't," I spit out, unable to help myself. "I was shy, and I was more Greek than American, so I didn't fit in like the rest of you. That's all."
He says nothing for a while, then his voice is gentle. "I'm sorry," he says, but I don't know if he's apologizing for now or then, and I'm embarrassed at my outburst.
"No, I'm sorry. It was a long time ago, and you're right, I probably was an oddball. All kids are, one way or another."
He grunts noncommittally.
"Why did you change your name?" I need to shift the focus from eight-year old Jordie.
"I didn't really. Hamvas is my middle name, my mother's maiden name. When my dad passed away, my mom moved to Hungary and having a Hungarian name was easier. I didn't stand out as much."
"But... we heard you dad passed away when you were in Athens. That's why you left."
"That's right."
"But that was in 1974. Who moved to any Eastern Bloc country in 1974?"
