back, became entangled in the leather leash, stumbled off the step onto the driveway, fell awkwardly, and broke his left arm. Police were called, and the tenant insisted on charging Daniel Blank with assault.
In time, Blank and Lipsky were summoned to the 251st Precinct house to give sworn statements. Daniel said the tenant had abused his dog, and when he, Daniel, objected, the man had struck him with a folded newspaper. He had not pushed the man until after that first blow. Charles Lipsky corroborated this testimony.
The charge was eventually withdrawn, the case dropped. The dog owner moved from the building. Blank gave Lipsky five dollars for his trouble and thought no more of the matter.
But about six months after this incident, something of a more serious nature happened.
On a Saturday night, lonely and jangling, Daniel Blank put on his “Via Veneto” wig and strolled out into midnight Manhattan. He wore a Swedish blazer of black wool and a French “body shirt” in a lacy polyester weave, cut to cling to the torso. It was a style called
On impulse, nothing else, he stopped at a Third Avenue tavern he had seen before but never entered. It was called “The Parrot.” There were two couples at the bar and two single men. No one sat at the tiny tables. The lone waiter was reading a religious tract.
Blank ordered a brandy and lighted a lettuce cigarette. He looked up and, unexpectedly, caught the eye of one of the single men in the mirror behind the bar. Blank shifted his gaze immediately. The man was three seats away. He was about 45, short, soft, with the meaty nose and ruddy face of a bourbon drinker.
The bartender had his radio tuned to WQXR. They were playing Smetana’s “The Moldau.” The bartender was reading a scratch sheet, marking his choices. The couples had their heads together and were murmuring.
“You have beautiful hair.”
Daniel Blank looked up from his drink. “What?”
The porky man had moved onto the barstool next to his.
“Your hair. It's beautiful. Is it a rug?”
His first instinct was to drain his drink, pay, and leave. But why should he? The dim loneliness of The Parrot was a comfort. People together and yet apart: that was the secret,
He ordered another brandy. He turned a shoulder to the man who was hunching closer. The bartender poured the drink, then went back to his handicapping.
“Well?” the man asked.
Blank turned to look at him. “Well what?”
“How about it?”
“How about what?”
Up to now they had been speaking in conversational tones: not loud, but understandable if anyone was interested in listening. No one was.
But suddenly the man leaned forward. He thrust his flabby face close: watery eyes, trembling lips: hopeful and doomed. “I love you,” he whispered with an anxious smile.
Blank hit him in the mouth and toppled him off the stool onto the floor. When the man got up, Blank hit him again, breaking his jaw. He fell again. Blank was frantically kicking him in the groin when the bartender finally came alive and rushed around the bar to pinion his arms and drag him away.
Once again the police were summoned. This time Blank thought it best to call his lawyer, Russell Tamblyn. He came to the 251st Precinct house and, shortly before dawn, the incident was closed.
The injured man who, it was learned, had a sad record of offenses including attempts to molest a child and to proposition a plain-clothed patrolman in a subway toilet-refused to sign a complaint. He said he had been drunk, knew nothing of what had happened, and accepted responsibility for the “unfortunate accident.”
The detective who took Daniel Blank’s statement was the same man who had taken his testimony in the incident involving the tenant who kicked his dog.
“You again?” the detective asked curiously.
The attorney brought the signed waiver to Daniel Blank, saying, “It’s all squared away. He’s not making a charge. You’re free to go.”
“Russ, I told you it wasn’t my fault.”
“Oh sure. But the man has a broken jaw and possible internal injuries. Dan, you’ve got to learn to control yourself.”
But that wasn’t the end of it. Because the doorman, Charles Lipsky, found out, even though nothing had been published in the newspapers. The bartender at The Parrot was Lipsky’s brother-in-law.
A week later the doorman rang the bell of Blank’s apartment. After inspection through the peephole, he was admitted. Lipsky immediately launched into a long, jumbled chronicle of his troubles. His wife needed a hernia operation; his daughter needed expensive treatment for an occluded bite; he himself was heavily in debt to loansharks who threatened to break his legs, and he needed five hundred dollars at once.
Blank was bewildered by this recital. He asked what it had to do with him. Lipsky then stammered that he knew what had happened at The Parrot. It wasn’t Mr. Blank’s fault, certainly, but if other tenants…If it became known…If people started talking…
And then he winked at Daniel Blank.
That knowing wink, that smirky wink, was worse than the victim’s whispered, “I love you.” Daniel Blank felt attacked by a beast whose bite excited and inflamed. Violence bubbled.
Lipsky must have seen something in his eyes, for he turned suddenly, ran out, slammed the door behind him. Since then they had hardly spoken. When necessary, Blank ordered and the doorman obeyed, never raising his eyes. At Christmas, Daniel distributed the usual amounts: ten dollars to each doorman. He received the usual thank-you card from Charles Lipsky.
Blank pushed the button; the door of the automatic elevator slid silently open. He stepped inside, pushed button C (for Close door), button 21 (for his floor), and button M (for Music desired). He rode upward to the muted strains of “I Got Rhythm.”
He lived at the front end of one leg of the building’s U. It was an exceptionally large four-room apartment with living room windows facing north, bedroom windows east, and kitchen and bathroom windows west, or really down into the apartment house courtyard. The walk to his door from the elevator was along a carpeted tunnel. The corridor was softly lighted, the many doors blind, air refrigerated and dead.
He unlocked his door, reached in and switched on the foyer light. Then he stepped inside, looked about. He closed the door, double-locked it, put on the chain, adjusted the Police Bar, a burglar-proof device consisting of a heavy steel rod that fitted into a slot in the floor and was propped into a recess bolted to the door.
Mildly hungry, Blank dropped clothing and gear on a foyer chair and went directly to the kitchen. He switched on the blued fluorescent light. He inspected the contents of his refrigerator, selected a small cantaloupe and sliced it in half, at right angles to the stem line. He wrapped half in wax paper and returned it to the refrigerator. He scooped seeds and soft pulp from the other half, then filled the cavity with Familia, a Swiss organic cereal. He squeezed a slice of fresh lemon over all. He ate it steadily, standing, staring at his reflection in the mirror over the kitchen sink.
Finished, he dumped melon rind into the garbage can and rinsed his fingers. Then he moved from room to room, turning the light on in the next before turning it off in the last. Undressing in his bedroom he found the note in his shirt pocket: “…Thousands of fantastic pipple…” He placed it on his bedside table where he’d see it upon awakening.
He closed the bathroom door tightly before taking a shower so hot it filled the air with heavy steam, clouding the mirrors and sweating the tiles. He lathered with an emollient soap of cocoa butter that slicked his skin. After rinsing in cool water and turning off the shower, he rubbed his wet body with a cosmetically treated tissue claiming to “restore natural oils to dry skin” and “smooth, soften, and lubricate the epidermis.”
His twice-a-week maid had been in during the afternoon. His bed was made with fresh sheets and pillowcases. The top sheet and sateen comforter were turned down. It was hardly 11:00 p.m., but he was pleasantly weary and wanted sleep.
Naked, allowing water and tiny oil globules to dry on his exposed body, he moved about the apartment, drawing drapes, checking window latches and door locks. He stepped into the bathroom again to swallow a mild sleeping pill. He felt sure he would not need it, but he didn’t want to think in bed.
The long living room was dimly lit by light from the bedroom. The end of the living room faced north, with
