From Time to Time (10 page)

But I couldn't let myself sneak back home knowing what I'd done. And I walked to the bridge rail, set my forearms on it comfortably, hands folded, staring down at the black of the river. And now I began allowing memories to rise and sharpen and come to life-not of a dingy apartment or a job I hadn't liked, and the lonely times, but the memories I had just suppressed.

They came without volition, simply appeared as though I were watching a film. I saw four of us sitting on the great wide Fifth Avenue staircase of-yes, the Metropolitan Museum. Saw the enormous blue-and-white banner hung fifty feet above us across the facade. We sat far below it, lounging back on those steps in the late morning of a summer Sunday waiting for opening time. Sat casually talking with a lot of easy joking, no hurry about anything, aware of our pleasure in the feel of the sun and of the day itself. Yes.

And-well, of course the Village. Just wandering through the fine balmy night with-Grace Wunderlich? Yes, it was-the pair of us walking aimlessly, a part of the slow crowd flowing into and out of the open-doored, open-windowed places-the bars, the art shops, the cafes-the air murmuring and alive with voices.

Then a surprise: myself moving fast along a Second Avenue sidewalk at noon, a little warm and humid, the sidewalks jammed. But me moving swiftly along that walk through the crowd like a fish darting through weeds, my shoulders swinging sideways, hips twisting, slipping between, sliding past, darting around. Why was I standing here in the dark smiling at that? Because that had been fun: I was using a skill, the special acquired skill of moving fast through a New York crowd. Crazy, but I was smiling.

Standing in a line along the sidewalk outside the 8th Street Playhouse with Lennie Hindsmith, a fellow artist. We stood hands in pockets, shoulders hunched against a raw, partly rainy, partly misty evening with twenty minutes yet to wait, complaining to each other. This was boring, not worth it, maybe we ought to leave. But staying. Waiting to see a revival of a picture I'd heard and read about all my life, filmed before I was born. And complaining, I nevertheless continued to stand, inwardly and smugly happy with the knowledge that there was no other place in the world where I could be doing just this.

Strolling around the great plaza of Lincoln Center at intermission time with a girl I knew for a while, out in the open there looking up at the people, some in formal evening clothes, behind the glass on the chandelier-lighted staircase, aware that in this particular moment this was the best place in the world to be. Followed instantly by the memory of an Off-Off-Broadway play, or maybe even further off than that, in a moldering building deep in an East Side slum. And to get to it from the street we were finding a way through a nearly solid curbside wall of stuffed black garbage sacks. And the play was dreadful, awful. But . . . you could see a pretty good play in a pretty good theater most any- where. Where else could you see a glorious mess like this?

Ducking across Forty-second Street through a squall of rain, trotting under the canopy into Grand Central Station, down the ramp, across the big marble interior, down a stairway, into a long twisting tunnel, up into an office building lobby, out the doors, and across the street into the building I was heading for, almost bone-dry. Coping. Coping with the place, beating it! Standing in a subway car, hating the graffiti and the word itself, but right there at the door, hip pocket tight against the pole so my wallet couldn't be yanked, knowing my stop without having to duck and look out the window for the sign, first out of the car and up the steps.

A big rat trotting along a gutter late at night, ignoring me, owning the place. Midnight and the asphalt soft under my shoes because it had been hot for a month, even the white twists of dead vapor rising from the manhole cover looking enervated. Howls and screams late at night in the street somewhere far below my windows, never to be explained. What were such memories? Some kind of perversity? Did I like rats? Couldn't say, there at my bridge rail. But I thought of the time I'd flown to San Francisco to see it on a one-week vacation during my first year in New York. On the balcony of a college friend's apartment we sat looking out at that spectacular bay, the day sunny, a little breezy, lots of sailboats. And me nodding, agreeing with what he was telling me: that this was the best place in the United States to live. That the Bay Area was charming, lively yet laid back, and that North Beach was great. That there was plenty to do here, and some very good experimental theater. And that New York was sick, squirming with crime, side by side with truly depraved ostentation; and that it was actually, truly, finished at last. And I nodded and said yeah, and how I envied him his life here. And flew back a day early to the land of the all-night bookstore.

Young in New York, and feeling that you're beginning to know it fairly well; feeling its pull, its growing hold, finding and appreciating-oh, so much-that can't be found anywhere else because it doesn't exist anywhere else. And oh, how smug, yes, but I didn't care, and standing there on the bridge feeling more knowing about that city than I'd ever really been, enjoying the secret patronizing superiority over everyone else who didn't know and didn't understand the infinite variety and excitement of this strange place-I knew I was readlv. I wanted back, now; had to see it once again.

The fear, the wanting to stay where it was safe, wasn't gone but quiescent, ignored and overwhelmed by the pull of wanting to be there one more time. And at my bridge rail I again began the process of return, but with more power; confident and willing it; knowing what I needed to do, and doing it swiftly. I felt it begin, the actual little movement, the queer feeling of the shift into drifting-time. Standing motionless, looking down into the black water, releasing myself from my own hypnosis, I felt the drifting-time ending-and then, abruptly, the sudden, swift, exciting, and unmistakable sense of new place.

I knew where I was, really knew, feeling no surprise as I turned, feeling only a rush of elation at the great sparkling walls of light rising in tiers like a strange mountain range, and glittering to make your heart stop. There it stood, nothing else like it, nothing, nothing, Manhattan Island in the last of the twentieth century.

The sudden sight of other bridges startled me for a beat; I'd forgotten. In my mind I can dance as well as Gene Kelly, but I began walking sedately enough down toward the shining city. Then-I really can sing as well as Gene Kelly-I very softly began my favorite of all the New York songs. "I'll take Manhattan and my all-time favorite rhyme, "the Bronx and Staten . . . Island, too. I was out of words already, but I knew the tune: "Dah, dah, dah, dee . . . dah, dee! I'd walked onto the East River Bridge, and now, feeling good, I walked down off the Brooklyn Bridge.

Manhattan smelled a little, not much; I'd simply lost my immunity to exhaust fumes. A cab sat waiting, roof light on, just beyond the bridge roadway, I don't know why. Maybe people did come walking off the bridge at one in the morning, or maybe he didn't really want a fare. I took the door handle, not opening it: "You free? And he turned off the roof light, and leaned back a little to catch my destination before he would say he was free. "Plaza Hotel, I said, getting in, and he surprised me: "Yes, sar, he said politely, pushing the meter flag down. When we started up and passed under a streetlamp, I saw he was truly black, Jamaican, I think.

I sat leaning out the open cab window a little to look both out and up at the city I was returning to, when the cab slowed to pull in at the Fifth Avenue entrance, and I was pleased to see the old hotel again. I'dl been in and out of the Plaza often enough, but in the nineteenth century it was-for me-gone. Not yet built, of course, only the plaza here. Now-for me-here it was back again.

I had my exit planned. Before the cab was fully stopped I was hopping out, beckoning to the cabby: "Come on in! And you can bet he did, parking brake snarling, ignition off, and out fast and right on my heels.

The man at the desk was tall, lean-an athlete's build-and remarkably handsome; his nameplate on the desk said, Michael Stumph Manager. When I said hello, I included my best smile, and said, "My plane was late, so I'm late too, but I hope you have a room for me.

"Do you have a reservation?

"I'm sorry, I don't.

His fingers moved through some cards. "A single? he said deadpan, not a glance at the big cabby just behind me, and I had to smile: he could do "imperturbable very well.

"Well, Mike said, smiling a little too now, winking at the cabby, who grinned-we were a happy bunch all of a sudden- I can give you a nice single on the Park side. I didn't ask the room rate, I wasn't interested, just said that would be great. He waited while I printed my name on the registration card, then read it upside down. "And how will you be paying for this, Mr. Morley? Check or credit card?

I was all set for him, my left hand lying on the counter, loosely clenched. "Neither, I said, "in gold, opening my hand to let a dozen gold coins spill onto the marble. It was fun, and his eyes widened. Then Mike Stumpf topped me.

He reached out, fingers spreading like a spider's legs, and drew the scattered coins together, lifting his hand, fingers closing, and the coins followed to rise into a neat stack. Like cutting a deck of cards, he split the stack into two equal smaller stacks side by side, then again drew them up between his fingers, the coins magically interleaving, into a single stack once more. I said, "I've tried that all my life. Never did it even once, and never will.

"Just takes a little practice, he said easily, and the hotel manager was gone: without a change in a thread of his suit or hair of his head, it was Get-Rich-Quick Wallingford who stood smiling at me now, and I knew this man had played a lot of cards in his time and knew his way around more than this lobby.

I had my story ready; wallet, checks, credit cards stolen at the airport. But I was a coin dealer: gold only, U.S. and Edwardian English coins. Here from Chicago a couple times a year, usually staying here or at the Algonquin. Something that bothers me a little is that I enjoy lying. Once I start, the convincing details flow out effortlessly; I don't even have to think. Tomorrow, I went on, bringing my folded money belt from my coat pocket and setting it on the counter to let the other coins inside it clink, I'd be selling each of my coins for-I wasn't sure of this-several hundred dollars apiece. Take as many as you like for security and, please-so this cabdriver doesn't kill me-advance me a hundred in cash.

G.R.Q. Wallingford Stumpf knew what these coins were, and he simply nipped the top coin off the stack, saying, "One is more than enough, and now the coin appeared on the back of his hand between knuckle and finger joints. And by slightly moving his fingers as though playing a piano, he made the coin walk back and forth across the backs of his fingers, flip-flopping heads to tails, tails to heads, back and forth so easily. I'd have given him the gold piece to be able to do that. "I'll give you a receipt for this, he said, the coin disappearing into his closing palm, "and you can sign for the hundred.

I felt marvelous signing the receipt. Each of my hard-earned nineteenth-century dollars had become worth about forty here. I had over twenty-five thousand dollars, and from my hundred dollars' cash I gave the cabby a ten for the six-dollar fare, and added another ten. "That's for being a good boy.

"Welcome to New York, boss, he said. Then Michael Stumpf accepted my invitation, and we went into the Oak Bar for a nightcap.

In my room I turned on the television, clicking slowly through the channels just to enjoy the novelty of it again; what I saw had not improved. Then I got out the Manhattan phone book, looking at the new cover with some interest. Sitting on the bed, the phone book on my lap, I opened it, and found the Danziger listing, a fairly long one. I hesitated, then moved my finger down the column . and found it-Danziger,E.E.-and smiled. Should I call him right now? I wanted to, but it was far too late. I'd phone in the morning and invite him to lunch; I'd be glad to see Dr. D, and knew he'd be glad to see me. I was tired, as though I'd traveled for hours, the two drinks I'd had downstairs helping the feeling along. I switched on the air-conditioning, mostly for the pleasure of being able to, and got to bed.

The light out, I waited, knowing sleep would be along quickly. A police car or ambulance howled down in the streets somewhere. Should I have come back? Was it wise? A car drove over a manhole cover, wump-wump, and I smiled, and in my head sang, I'll take Manhattan, the Bronx and Staten . .

CHAPTER 8

RUBE PRIEN SAT in the windowless little street-level office of the

Project; sat on the edge of the worn oak desk, swinging a foot, looking around: at the out-of-date wall calendar still reading

Beekey's, at the framed photographs of long-gone moving crews.

He was nervous, therefore irritable; hated waiting. He stood, walked a step or two to the street door, and opened it wide, turning back to the desk. He sat down and hopped right up again, back to the door to almost close it, leaving it ajar by an inch. He studied this narrow gap of daylight, then opened the door perhaps half an inch more, and returned to his desk.

Outside, approaching along the walk on the same side of the street, Dr. E. E. Danziger walked toward this door fairly rapidly, a tall, thin, elderly but not-quite-old man in a dark topcoat and tan felt hat. This was late morning, temperature around fifty, the sk a high-up even gray. He glanced at a band of faded black-and- white lettering-BEEKEY BROTHERS, MOVING AND STORAGE-running around the roofline edge of the great blank-walled brick building that filled the block just ahead. It looked the same:

Was it possible that it was? That for the past three years the Project had gone on very well without him?

Now he stopped at the corner of the l)uildiflg to look at the weathered gray door there, and thought he knew why it stood invitingly ajar. Thought he knew that if he accepted this tacit invitation, pushing the door open and stepping in, he would seem to have agreed that he belonged here still, still had the right to walk in. But he was not going to make this meeting so easy for