In the crowded subway train, they stood close to the door, Key reading his paper, which he held before him with one hand, the other reaching up for a handhold. His absorption was complete: it was as if he had already forgotten the whole thing, wiped the slate clean. Nothing — not even life and death — could be allowed to come between Key and the stock market. For a moment, Blomberg felt himself becoming angry and bitter, it distressed and shamed him to be thus helpless and at the mercy of another, and so appallingly dependent, moreover: particularly as in the very moment of his self-indulgence he could so sharply visualize, in advance, his telephone call to Noni, and her terrible disappointment. “Hello, Noni — it’s no good.” “Oh no, Blom; no, oh no!” “Yes, Noni, it’s no good. It’s absolutely no good; I can’t raise a single solitary cent more. We’ll have to put it off. We’ll have to wait. We’ve got to think of something else …” “But Blom, we can’t wait, we can’t, you know we can’t, we’ve got to go now!..” And then the dreadful waiting silence, in which they would both listen, as it were, for the sound of comfort, relief, or some impossible reprieve, some sudden and wonderful Christmas tree of an idea which would make everything as simple as daylight. But in vain. They would know that it was in vain. Mexico, that fabulous land, that land of savage ghosts and bloodstained altars, began to swirl and vanish like smoke, undulated once more away from them, foundered like a red cloud. And with it, Noni’s dream.
The train had climbed up out of the subway into the bright light of Canal Street, swaying lightly, the noise died behind them, now they were stopping. Key folded his paper, looked up with amused and primmed mouth. He said:
“Where were you.”
“I was in Mexico already. And enjoying every minute of it.”
He said it bitterly, as they went out on to the elevated platform, and until they had descended the wooden stairs and emerged into the street, Key made no answer. They walked, side by side, toward the far corner of the station front, past the drugstore, the florist, the shoe shop.
“I’ve got fifteen minutes,” Key said, “just time for a nice little nightcap. Not that I won’t have to have another when I get to Concord. Gosh, when I think of Dooley and that car—”
He smirked, and chuckled, remembering; they turned sharp right and entered the horseshoe-shaped bar. As they swung themselves on to the stools, the little white-mustached bartender nodded smiling, and said:
“Whisky?”
“Two!”
The hand was already on the bottle; the glasses were already on the mahogany. Key sipped water through the sparkling cracked ice, then neatly tipped into it the bright jigger of liquor. He said:
“And when do you think you’ll get back?”
“Don’t know. That’s one of the catches. Nobody here knows exactly how long it takes. Might be two weeks, might be a month or more. It’s wonderful, Key, how little anyone knows here about Mexico. Even the railway tickets, they don’t know about — apparently nobody ever dreamed of going down by day coach, without a Pullman, before — I’ve had three different quotations on the cost, and chosen the cheapest: Mr. Albumblatt, at the South Station. Bargaining for railway tickets is a new one! Jew against Jew.”
“Well, I wish you luck. And send me a postcard of the doings.”
“Thanks for nothing.”
“Keep the change.”
“Which reminds me. They don’t even know how often we’ve got to change. Or where. You’d think we were going to the South Pole, or an uncharted jungle! All we know is we’ve got to change at St. Louis, one o’clock the next day, and wait there four hours. After that, we seem to be in a desert. We’ll be like the babes in the wood — none of us ever went west of the Hudson before.…”
Something, in the way he had spoken the last two sentences, sounded a shade too despairing; he hastened to correct the impression, by giving a little laugh, adding:
“But I suppose it will be kind of fun. I’ve always wanted to see my own country first!.. Hadn’t you better be moving, Key?”
“Yeah. I’d better be moving.”
Key looked up sidelong at the clock, finished his drink, then with every appearance of leisure took out his wallet, opened it with an air of faint surprise, his eyebrows slightly raised, and extracted from it what looked like a folded check. The perforated edge! He proffered it between two fingers, and smiled cynically.
“You don’t deserve it, Kid, but there’s your hundred. Buy yourself some candy on the train! And if you could get some sense into the head of that crazy woman—”
He was already in easy motion towards the door which led from the bar into the hotel lobby.
“Thanks, Key.”
“Forget it.”
“I can’t tell you what this will mean to Noni.”
They passed through the lounge bar, entered the vast sonorous hall of the station. A truck passed with chattering bell. Key turned, putting out his hand.
“Good luck, Blom. I’m going to run. But I wish to God it was you she was marrying!”
They shook hands silently, then Key began to lope towards his platform, with a final sidelong grin, and wave of the arm, which were somehow almost derisive. In a moment, the absurd little figure was out of sight; and in another Blomberg was standing in an illuminated telephone booth, still smiling to himself while he dialed. Mexico came round him like a cloud of strange voices and faces, swarmed into and over him, he felt himself trembling a little; it was all beginning, despite everything, and despite his own profound incredulity, to be true. It was true! Fantastic, but true. Noni’s voice, very light and bright, very warm and near, came over the telephone:
“Hello?”
“Noni! Blom speaking. Now be calm. Do you understand? Calm. Be nothing but calm, for I’ve got good news.”
“I’m already calm, Blom. I knew you had.”
“Hell, you mustn’t take the wind out of my sails like that, you confounded woman, you! What fun do I get out of life?”
“Well, I can’t help it, can I, if I know? What have you got.”
“I’ve got, to be exact, one hundred, one hundred, bucks. Count them.”
“Key gave it? Bless his heart.”
“Key gave it, bless his heart!”
“That’s lovely.”
“It is, and I’m now on my way to the South Station to get the tickets from my dear friend Mr. Albumblatt. Did you hear? Albumblatt. Sounds like a piece of music by Bach! The latest quotation was about sixty-four, so I’d better take it. Now do you want me to come and help you pack? Or shut up the house, or anything? Or do you want to see me. And will you tell Gil, or shall I.”