He took the wrong Seventh Avenue subway. When he climbed to the street he noticed everyone was black. It was too complicated to get out of Harlem. He hailed a taxi to get him back across town. At World Student House the Puerto Rican elevator man conducted the creaky machine to the eleventh floor. Breavman wished he could understand the words to the song he was singing. He decided he would say gracias when he left the elevator.
“Watch your step.”
“Thanks,” said Breavman in perfect English.
He knew he’d hate his room before he unlocked the door. It was exactly the same as he’d left it. Who was the man? He didn’t want to look out the window where General and Mrs. Grant were, or Gabriel on the roof of Riverside Church, or the shining Hudson, alien and boring.
He sat down on the bed, holding the key tightly in his right hand in exactly the position it had been when he twisted it in the keyhole, biting the inside of his cheek with molars. He was not really staring at the chair but the chair was the only image in his mind. He didn’t move a muscle for forty-five minutes. At that point it occurred to him in a wave of terror that if he didn’t make a great effort to rouse himself he would sit there forever. The maid would find him frozen.
Down at the cafeteria the fast-moving short-order man called him back for change.
“Giving it away, Professor?”
“No, I need it, Sam.”
“Name is Eddy, Professor.”
“Eddy? Glad to meet you, Sam.”
I’m cracking up, thought Breavman. He was wet-eyed happy because of the trivial exchange. He sat at a small table, his hands clasped over the cup of tea, enjoying the warmth. Then he saw Shell for the first time.
Fantastic luck, she was sitting alone, but no, here was a man coming to her table, balancing a cup in each of his hands. Shell stood up to take one from him. She has small breasts, I love her clothes, I hope she has nowhere to go, prayed Breavman. I hope she sits there all night. He looked around the cafeteria. Everyone was staring at her.
He pressed his thumb and forefinger in the corners of his eyes, his elbow on the table – a gesture he always regarded as phony. The war-lined desk colonel signing the order that sends the boys, his boys, on the suicide mission, and then we see him steeled for the casualty lists, and all the secretaries have gone home, he is alone with his pin-studded maps, and maybe a montage of the young men in training, close-up of young faces.
Now he was sure. It was the first thing in a long time he had learned about himself. He wanted no legions to command. He didn’t want to stand on any marble balcony. He didn’t want to ride with Alexander, be a boy-king. He didn’t want to smash his fist across the city, lead the Jews, have visions, love multitudes, bear a mark on his forehead, look in every mirror, lake, hub-cap, for reflection of the mark. Please no. He wanted comfort. He wanted to be comforted.
He grabbed the bunch of napkins out of the tumbler, wiped the excess ink from his ballpen on a corner of one of them, and scribbled nine poems, certain that she would stay as long as he wrote. He shredded the napkins as he dug the pen in, and he couldn’t read three-quarters of what he’d done; not that it was any good, but that had nothing to do with it. He stuffed the debris into his jacket and stood up. He was armed with amulets.
“Excuse me,” he said to the man with her, not looking at her at all.
“Yes?”
“Excuse me.”
“Yes?”
Maybe I’ll say it ten more times.
“Excuse me.”
“Can I help you?” A little anger showing. The accent was not American.
“May I – I would like to talk to the person you are with.” His heart was driving so hard he could believe he was transmitting the beats like a time signal before the news.
The man granted permission by turning up the palm of his open hand.
“You’re beautiful, I think.”
“Thank you.”
She didn’t speak it, her mouth formed the words as she looked at her loosely clasped hands composed at the edge of the table like a schoolgirl’s.
Then he walked out of the room, grateful it was a cafeteria and he had already paid his bill. He didn’t know who she was or what she did but he had no doubt whatever that he would see her again and know her.
10
Shell took a lover at the end of her fifth year of marriage. It was shortly after she started her new job. She knew what she was doing.
Talking with Gordon had failed. He was only too eager to talk. She wanted them both to go to psychiatrists.
“Really, Shell.” He smiled at her paternally, as if she were an adolescent reciting the Rubaiyat with too much belief.
“I mean it. The insurance covers it.”
“I don’t think it’s necessary,” he understated, meaning that it was the most outrageous thing he had ever heard of.
“I do.”
“I’ve read Simone de Beauvoir,” he said with gentle humour. “I know this world is not kind to women.”
“I’m talking about us. Please talk with me. Don’t let this night go by.”
“Just a second, darling.” He knew that at this precise moment she was challenging him to a solemn meeting. He suspected that it was the last time she would ever confront him like this. He also knew
