miserably. Then he put his hand out. 'Ten bucks, please.'
'Oh. Right.'
For a terrible moment, he thought he might reach inside his pocket and find it empty.
But there was a small fold of crisp green new bills. He counted out twelve dollars and gave it to the cabbie.
'You take care of yourself,' the cabbie said.
'Thanks.'
He was halfway out of the rear door of the cab when he realised that he didn't remember giving the cabbie this address. But he had to have given him this address or else why would the cabbie have stopped here?
He said, 'May I ask you a question?'
The cabbie regarded him in the rear-view again. 'Sure.'
'This address.'
'Uh-huh?'
'This is the address I gave you?'
'Sure thing, chief. I always write 'em down. And I wrote this one down same as always.'
'I see.'
'4835. Ain't that right?'
'Uh, yes.'
'So anyway, like I say, you take care of yourself.'
So he got out.
And the cab went away.
And here he stood, sniffing.
Actually, it was a perfect morning for sniffing, and enjoying. This was the Midwest at its most perfect apple blossom weather, the temperature in the seventies even though it was still morning, and the wind at ten miles per hour and redolent of newly blooming lilacs and dogwood. Girls and women were already wearing shorts and T-shirts with no bras, breasts bouncing merrily beneath the cotton. Dogs appeared in profusion, tugging masters behind them; everything from Pekinese to wolf hounds were on parade this morning. Babies in strollers waved little pink hands up at him and a couple of college girls in an ancient VW convertible gave him mildly interested glances.
At one time the Italian Renaissance buildings of this area had been beautiful. This was back in the days when the neighbourhood had been largely populated with young middle class families who couldn't yet afford houses. These apartment buildings had shone with respectability, the pedimented windows and arcaded entryways not only fashionable but elegant.
Now the neighbourhood was given over to student housing, serving the sprawling university several blocks north. Middle class aspirations had long since fled, replaced now not only by students but by those who preyed on students-drug pushers, hookers, muggers, and merchants who automatically marked everything up 20 percent more for the college kids.
From open windows came a true cacophony of musical styles-heavy metal, salsa, jazz, and even country western. Students today were much more eclectic than his generation of the sixties had been when the official music had run to the up-against-the-wall lyrics of the Jefferson Airplane, the Doors, and the Stones.
If he couldn't remember his name, how did he remember music he'd listened to over twenty years ago?
Trembling, he started across the street.
He stood in front of the place, looking up at the arched entranceway and remembering… nothing.
He knew he'd never seen this place before.
Then why had he given the cabbie this address?
The front door opened. A young black woman, pretty, slender, came down the stairs carrying an infant. 'Hi,' she said.
'Hi,' he said.
She saw the way he was looking at the entrance and said, 'May I help you with something?'
He shrugged. 'I just want to make sure I've got the right place.'
She laughed. 'It's the right place unless you're selling something.' She pointed to a discreet sign, black letters on white cardboard, NO SOLICITORS.
'Oh, no,' he said. 'I'm not selling anything.'
She laughed again. 'Then this is probably the right place.'
She hefted the infant and walked on, looking eager to be caught up in the green flow of the perfect day.
He stood there a few more moments and then went up the stairs.
The vestibule smelled of cigarette smoke and fresh paint. The hallway had been done in a nice new baby blue.
He went over to the line of mailboxes. He checked the names carefully. None looked familiar.
He tried once again-it seemed pretty ridiculous, when you thought of it:
He dug his hand into his right pocket. He felt two quarters and a dime. He also felt a key.
When the key was in his fingers, and his fingers in front of his face, he saw the number 106 imprinted on one side of the golden key.
He looked at the mailbox marked 106:
Who was Mr. Sauerbry? Was he Mr. Sauerbry? If he was, why didn't he remember?
The inner door opened. A fat man in lime-green Bermuda shorts and a T-shirt that read OLD FART came downstairs leading a pretty collie on a leash.
'Morning,' the fat man said.
'Morning.'
He could tell that the fat man was suspicious. 'Help you with something, pal?'
He wasn't sure why, but it irritated him to be called pal. 'No. Just looking for my friend's apartment.'
'Which apartment is that?' the fat man said. The collie was yipping. He wanted outside with the green grass and yellow butterflies.
He said, too quickly, 'Number 106.'
The fat man lost his expression of suspicion. Now he looked curious. 'You actually know him?'
'Who?'
'The guy who lives in 106.'
'Oh. Yeah. Sure. As I said, he's a friend of mine.'
The fat man pawed at some kind of very red, crusty skin disease he had on one of his elbows. 'Nobody's ever seen him.'
'Really?'
'Not one of us. But we've always been curious.'
This time, the dog didn't merely yip. He barked. In the small vestibule, the sound was like an explosion.
'Needs to piss,' the fat man said. Then he smiled. 'Matter of fact, so do I. But I guess I should've thought of that sooner, huh?'
And with that, he nodded goodbye and let the collie jerk him down the vestibule stairs and outside.
Two minutes later he stood in front of 106.
The apartment was at the far end of the hall. Warm dusty sunlight fell through sheer dusty curtains. For a moment he felt lazy and snug as a tomcat on a sunny bed. He wished he knew who he was. He wished things were all right.
He looked both ways, up and down the long rubber runner that stretched from one end of the hallway to the other.
Nothing. Nobody coming. Nobody peeking out doors.
He inserted the key.
How had he come by this key, anyway? Exactly what was it doing in his pocket?
The key worked wonderfully; too wonderfully.
He pushed open the door and stepped inside 106.
The smell bothered him more than the darkness.
