they at least were linked to the material world by their longings for it. Scranton embodied the absolute loneliness of the human being in space and time, a situation which in many ways I shared. Even the act of convincing himself that he was a former astronaut only emphasised his isolation.
‘A remarkable story,’ I commented. ‘One can’t help wondering if we were right to leave this planet. I’m reminded of the question posed by the Chilean painter Matta — 'Why must we fear a disaster in space in order to understand our own times?' It’s a pity you didn’t bring back any mementoes of your moon-walks.’
Scranton’s shoulders straightened. I could see him counting the coins on the table. ‘I do have certain materials…’
I nearly laughed. ‘What? A piece of lunar rock? Some moon dust?’
‘Various photographic materials.’
‘Photographs?’ Was it possible that Scranton had told the truth, and that he had indeed been an astronaut? If I could prove that the whole notion of his imposture was an error, an oversight by the journalist who had investigated the case, I would have the makings of a front-page scoop… ‘Could I see them? — perhaps I could use them in my book…?’
‘Well…’ Scranton felt for the coins in his pocket. He looked hungry, and obviously thought only of spending them on a loaf of bread.
‘Of course,’ I added, ‘I’ll provide an extra fee. As for my book, the publishers might well pay many hundreds of dollars.’
‘Hundreds…’ Scranton seemed impressed. He shook his head, as if amused by the ways of the world. I expected him to be shy of revealing where he lived, but he stood up and gestured me to finish my drink. ‘I’m staying a few minutes’ walk from here.’
He waited among the tables, staring across the street. Seeing the passers-by through his eyes, I was aware that they had begun to seem almost transparent, shadow players created by a frolic of the sun.
We soon arrived at Scranton’s modest room behind the Luxor Cinema, a small theatre off Copacabana Avenue that had seen better days. Two former storerooms and an office above the projection booth had been let as apartments, which we reached after climbing a dank emergency stairway.
Exhausted by the effort, Scranton swayed against the door. He wiped the spit from his mouth onto the lapel of his jacket, and ushered me into the room. ‘Make yourself comfortable..
A dusty light fell across the narrow bed, reflected in the cold-water tap of a greasy handbasin supported from the wall by its waste-pipe. Sheets of newspaper were wrapped around a pillow, stained with sweat and some unsavoury mucus, perhaps after an attack of malarial or tubercular fever.
Eager to leave this infectious den, I drew out my wallet. ‘The photographs…?’
Scranton sat on the bed, staring at the yellowing wall behind me as if he had forgotten that I was there. Once again I was aware of his ability to isolate himself from the surrounding world, a talent I envied him, if little else.
‘Sure… they’re over here.’ He stood up and went to the suitcase that lay on a card table behind the door. Taking the money from me, he opened the lid and lifted out a bundle of magazines. Among them were loose pages torn from Life and Newsweek, and special supplements of the Rio newspapers devoted to the Apollo space-flights and the moon landings. The familiar images of Armstrong and the lunar module, the space-walks and splashdowns had been endlessly thumbed. The captions were marked with coloured pencil, as if Scranton had spent hours memorising these photographs brought back from the tideways of space.
I moved the magazines to one side, hoping to find some documentary evidence of Scranton’s own involvement in the space-flights, perhaps a close-up photograph taken by a fellow astronaut.
‘Is this it? There’s nothing else?’
‘That’s it.’ Scranton gestured encouragingly. ‘They’re good pictures.
Pretty well what it was like.’
‘I suppose that’s true. I had hoped.
I peered at Scranton, expecting some small show of embarrassment. These faded pages, far from being the mementoes of a real astronaut, were obviously the prompt cards of an impostor. However, there was not the slightest doubt that Scranton was sincere.
I stood in the street below the portico of the Luxor Cinema, whose garish posters, advertising some science- fiction spectacular, seemed as inflamed as the mind of the American. Despite all that I had suspected, I felt an intense disappointment. I had deluded myself, thinking that Scranton would rescue my career. Now I was left with nothing but an empty notebook and the tram journey back to the crowded apartment in Ipanema. I dreaded the prospect of seeing my wife and my mother at the door, their eyes screwed to the same accusing focus.
Nonetheless, as I walked down Copacabana Avenue to the tram-stop, I felt a curious sense of release. The noisy pavements, the arrogant pickpockets plucking at my clothes, the traffic that aggravated the slightest tendency to migraines, all seemed to have receded, as if a small distance had opened between myself and the congested world. My meeting with Scranton, my brief involvement with this marooned man, allowed me to see everything in a more detached way. The businessmen with their briefcases, the afternoon tarts swinging their shiny handbags, the salesmen with their sheets of lottery tickets, almost deferred to me. Time and space had altered their perspectives, and the city was yielding to me. As I crossed the road to the tram-stop several minutes seemed to pass. But I was not run over.
This sense of a loosening air persisted as I rode back to Ipanema. My fellow passengers, who would usually have irritated me with their cheap scent and vulgar clothes, their look of bored animals in a menagerie, now scarcely intruded into my vision. I gazed down corridors of light that ran between them like the aisles of an open-air cathedral.
‘You’ve found a story,’ my wife announced within a second of opening the door. — ‘They’ve commissioned an article,’ my mother confirmed. ‘I knew they would.’
They stepped back and watched me as I made a leisurely tour of the cramped apartment. My changed demeanour clearly impressed them. They pestered me with questions, but even their presence was less bothersome. The universe, thanks to Scranton’s example, had loosened its grip. Sitting at the dinner table, I silenced them with a raised finger.
‘I am about to embark on a new career From then on I became ever more involved with Scranton. I had not intended to see the American again, but the germ of his loneliness had entered my blood. Within two days I returned to the caf in the side-street, but the tables were deserted. I watched as two parties of tourists stopped to ask for ‘the astronaut’. I then questioned the waiter, suspecting that he had banished the poor man. But, no, the American would be back the next day, he had been ill, or perhaps had secretly gone to the moon on business.
In fact, it was three days before Scranton at last appeared. Materialising from the afternoon heat, he entered the caf and sat under the awning. At first he failed to notice that I was there, but Scranton’s mere presence was enough to satisfy me. The crowds and traffic, which had begun once again to close around me, halted their clamour and withdrew. On the noisy street were imposed the silences of a lunar landscape.
However, it was all too clear that Scranton had been ill. His face was sallow with fever, and the effort of sitting in his chair soon tired him. When the first American tourists stopped at his table he barely rose from his seat, and while the photographs were taken he held tightly to the awning above his head.
By the next afternoon his fever had subsided, but he was so strained and ill-kempt that the waiter at first refused to admit him to the caf. A trio of Californian spinsters who approached his table were clearly unsure that this decaying figure was indeed the bogus astronaut, and would have left had I not ushered them back to Scranton.
‘Yes, this is Commander Scranton, the famous astronaut. I am his associate — do let me hold your camera..
I waited impatiently for them to leave, and sat down at Scranton’s table. Ill the American might be, but I needed him. After ordering a brandy, I helped Scranton to hold the glass. As I pressed the spinsters’ bank-note into his pocket I could feel that his suit was soaked with sweat.
‘I’ll walk you back to your room. Don’t thank me, it’s in my direction.’
‘Well, I could use an arm.’ Scranton stared at the street, as if its few yards encompassed a Grand Canyon of space. ‘It’s getting to be a long way.’
‘A long way! Scranton, I understand that.
It took us half an hour to cover the few hundred yards to the Luxor Cinema. But already time was becoming
