“Let me ask you something,” called out one man. He was wearing a wool cap and a ski jacket with the stuffing coming out of the sleeves. I looked around to see who he was addressing, but nobody replied.
A metal desk stood where the concierge used to be, and a bored-looking young man in a security guard’s uniform slouched on a small chair behind it. When I approached, he glanced up from his newspaper. “Tour hours are over,” he said. “You’ll have to come back tomorrow.”
“May I look around the lobby?” I asked.
He shrugged. “Suit yourself. The old dining room’s closed, though. They’re using it for storage.”
I looked beyond him to the old wooden check-in counter, which remainted intact, but seemed out of place now in those dingy surroundings. The space above it was covered with plywood. “What happened to the stained glass?” I asked, remembering the beautiful thirty-foot windows that filtered in the afternoon light.
“They covered ’em up. The bums outside were throwing rocks through ’em.”
While I stood there staring at the old check-in area, the man in the ski jacket said more loudly, “Hey, can I ask you something?”
The guard sighed impatiently. “Pete, shut the hell up! Can’t you see we’ve got a visitor here?”
I turned toward the entrance to the bar. The heavy wooden door had been replaced by a glass door that had several cracks running the length of it. Inside were decorations from the dining room—tablecloths, paintings, broken chandeliers. I could not bear to look around me anymore, so I turned back to face the guard.
“What is this place?”
He looked over at the people on the couches and then up at me. “It’s a crash pad for people who got problems up here,” he said, tapping his forehead. “I guess you could say it’s one step up from a flophouse.”
“This used to be—”
“Some kind of fancy hotel. I know, can you believe it?”
I thanked the guard and walked back outside and across the street to my car. I did not feel entirely safe— disheveled men lingered in doorways, and a younger woman in gaudy clothing and too much makeup looked me up and down before continuing down the street. By the time I got back into the driver’s seat, I was shaking all over. I could not reconcile the squalid hotel I’d just seen with the place I had frequented as a young man. I could not understand what the years had done—to the Tiffany Hotel, and to all of us.
After a moment, I gathered myself and drove the four blocks west to the Biltmore. That hotel, thankfully, still had a restaurant and bar, and the patrons—while not as glamorous as the patrons of old—were still a respectable sort. I had several glasses of Scotch, and stayed in the bar all evening. For the first time, I felt truly old. And perhaps with all the talk of Thanksgiving approaching, I felt more melancholy than usual; I knew that this year, like every year, I would spend the holidays alone. I must have had more to drink than I realized, for when I got back in my car, I hit a curb turning the corner. Then, in need of something cheerful, I had the urge to drive over to the old DeLuxe Theater, where in my altered state of mind I half-believed that one of the old vaudeville troupes might be performing. I hit another curb or two as I made my way through downtown, and when I reached the old theater, I found that it had been abandoned. I got out of my car for a closer look, and when I returned, I discovered that my tire was flat. For a moment I panicked; I’d never changed my own tire. Then I thought of Mrs. Bradford.
She was kind enough to drive me home without asking any questions, accepting my explanation that I’d had a difficult day. She went so far as to accompany me into the house, which would have caused me discomfort under normal circumstances but seemed perfectly natural now. After seeing me to my armchair and asking where the cups were, she brewed me a pot of strong coffee. Then, as I drank it, she called the automobile club and arranged for someone to retrieve my car in the morning. After that had been settled and she was sure I was all right, she sat down on the couch across from me. I noticed, even in my altered state, the graceful lines of her jaw and neck, more apparent because her hair was tied back. She looked, at once, quite younger than usual, and also—given the hour—rather tired.
“I’m starting to worry about you,” she said.
I waved her away. “I’m fine, Mrs. Bradford. I’m fine.”
“I’m not so sure about that. I tried to find something for you to eat with your coffee, and your refrigerator’s totally empty. There’s nothing in there but iced tea and some Japanese pickles.” She leaned forward, an expression of concern on her face. “Mr. Nakayama, you need someone to look after you.”
I assured her again that I was fine and that all I needed was sleep, and so, after one last disapproving shake of the head, Mrs. Bradford took her leave.
But I haven’t been able to fall asleep, and I’m not sure that sleep will come to me tonight. My mind keeps working like an engine that is idling too high. I can’t keep myself from going over what happened today at Perennial, when I went to do the screen test for Bellinger’s movie. I cannot stop reliving the troubling details—of the screen test itself, and of my meeting with Josh Dreyfus that followed it.
Dreyfus had instructed me to come at 3 o’clock, my first indication that the day would not go well. I like to work in the morning, when my mind is sharp and my body still full of
