Train moving backwards into Fartbrook station. Two police lift away the harmonica man. Doors close. Train on into the tunnel. On the floor, a little smear of blood glistening. A crunched mouth organ. Clucking voices. Bold and fearless. Up there a picture. Miss Rapid Transit. Selected by a Jury. Hobbies are dancing and ice skating. Mine are women, money and religion.
Transit train's sound spreading out on the night. Lifting up out of the dark underground to cross a bridge on the water. Clicking on the track. Driving snow melting down in the light glimmers of sweeping waves. Wind on the windows. That darkness. And beyond are the ships waiting at sea.
Smith hurrying along the cold concrete station, past the bumping posts at the end of the line. Look again at the address. Standing on steps facing a snowy deserted sidewalk. Street of dark wooden houses, large and shuttered. Ocean waves pounding a beach. Out there the lights of a ship, a towering dim glow on the high sea.
Smith high stepping, in his sandals, following former footprints down this street. Man with a newspaper in a lighted window. Sitting in his shirt sleeves with the warmth of his little wife. Slippers under a kitchen table, a plate of two potatoes and sauerkraut. Yas I yam frank-futter. Memorable meal.
A police patrol car cruising gently by. George Smith walking past the looming shadow of a temple in the snow. Police looking Smith up and down from their enclosed darkness. And pulling away again. Bonnif ace says they stopped him when he was carrying a little bag, asked him what the piece of rope was for. To practice knots. And the piece of cheese. To eat. And George how could one say, for suicide and catching rats. They brought Bonniface under suspicion to the police station. Where he asked for water and a game of chess. And they asked with warm mystery, where does a guy like you come from. And they gave him a cell, and night's rest. Taking up a little collection of money in the morning to see him on his way.
Lonely street lamp on a cold pole in the ground. Telephone wires humming in the sea wind. Slow rhythm of ocean thunder. A number up over the entrance, in faded gold on glass. One six seven two. Mine are the first footprints in the snow to the door. Two little shrubberies. Card in the window. Fink, Bladder and Ball, nature cures. Tired soulless entrance. Butts stubbed out in a sand bucket. Press the button. Elevator doors open. Step in. Press floor five. Up we go. I'm late and sad. Don't know what I'll say. So far away from the glamour of the city.
Color green, general in the long narrow hall. Smell of old carpeting, newspapers, garlic, and limburger. Door 5C. So hard to present oneself seriously in sandals stepping out of a blizzard, lugging a paper parcel Hear a voice I know inside, Momma, I'll go. Out of all these doors, streets, miles, through tunnels under the highways. And doors everywhere. Hello. Miss Martin lives here.
"Mr. Smith, I thought you were never going to come. What happened. Your feet."
"I kicked a vending machine to pieces when it failed to produce. Toes too swollen to get into a pair of shoes."
"O dear."
"Meant only to give a little kick but the impertinence of the instruction signs, machine fully automatic, I kicked it, I'm afraid, to pieces. And it produced."
"Come in, we're going to have a few sandwiches. I hope you like tongue."
Smith shuffling. Shaking snow from shoulders. Stepping into a thin hall. Miss Martin leading him to a lighted room.
"And I want you to meet my mother. Mother this is Mr. Smith."
"I'm so glad to meet you Mr. Smith, Ann has told me so much about you."
"I'm afraid these sandals, Mrs. Martin, are the result of an accident. I'm delighted to meet Ann's mother. Ann's been such a splendid help to me through so many unforseen difficulties."
"You can see Mr. Smith we're very modest here. I've always had to look after Ann since my husband died. Ann take Mr. Smith's coat."
"Sure Mom, I was just waiting till the greetings were over."
"We just put up the card table, Mr. Smith, with some snacks on it. Not much, Ann and I are not big eaters, until well you know, until Ann — "
"I quite understand Mrs. Martin."
"Well may as well be honest."
"Of course."
"Ann, you know, was the apple of her father's eye."
"Mom please, Mr. Smith doesn't want to hear all that."
"Ann is such a spoilsport, Mr. Smith. Maybe you'd like a glass of beer."
"Yes, that would be fine Mrs. Martin."
"Ann get Mr. Smith a bottle of beer."
Mrs. Martin sitting on the deep and crimson sofa, with white lace embroidery on each arm. Two thick red glass ashtrays. A piano. A sheet of music on the dark stool.
"Does Ann play, Mrs. Martin."
"We gave her lessons. You know how children are, Mr. Smith, they don't appreciate those things until it's too late. You are musical Mr. Smith?"
"No, not really, Mrs. Martin. Just like to listen."
"I'm sure you must like classical."
"I'm fond of several classical pieces."
"So is Ann. Would you bring in the cream spread Ann."
"You like cream spread?"
"Yes."
Ann Martin. She came in carrying a little tray. With the cream spread. Pineapple and pimento. White and brown bread sandwiches. A bottle of cold beer with the little perspiration on it. Ann Martin pouring for George Smith. Who sat now deeply in the sofa, legs crossed having tucked up the white socks high to avoid showing leg hair. Wind whistling round the windows. A photograph of sand and shore on the wall. Another of a little girl with her father and mother, standing with hot dogs in front of a roller coaster.
"You're looking at the picture, Mr. Smith. Taken of us when Ann was just six, always eating frankfutters, never eat anything that would stick to her ribs. Her first ride on the roller coaster. That's her father. He was an engineer. He worked on the bridge across the bay where the train runs. He was killed working on it."
"I'm sorry."
"Long time ago now. Ann has been my whole responsibility."
"I understand Mrs. Martin."
"She means everything to me, Mr. Smith. Her happiness is my happiness."
"I understand Mrs. Martin."
"Please Mom."
"Don't interrupt me while I'm talking Ann, Mr. Smith knows and understands. That's why I've had him come out here. I know you're a gentleman of the world. Well I understand that too. I can be modern in my outlook.
But when you see everything you've worked for just go in one night of carelessness, one moment when a girl's defenses are down."
"Mom you promised, you told me you wouldn't — "
"Now Ann Mr. Smith understands. He's a man of the world, you're not. You're an innocent young girl, don't pretend to Mr. Smith boys flocked after you, because they didn't. But Bobby from downstairs is a boy who has wanted to marry you since you were eight years old, now that's a long time, and Bobby is nicely situated now. He's moving right up. But that chance is gone. How would Bobby explain you off in this dress sticking out a mile as you went up the aisle, why his job wouldn't be worth a cracker."
"Mom you just promised me you wouldn't."
"I know what's best, Mr. Smith understands, don't you Mr. Smith."
"Yes."
"What do you expect him to say Mom, when he's out in this berg. Who wants to marry Bobby. I wouldn't let him touch me if I were a corpse."