He sent a telegram from New Haven… to the address on St. Nicholas Avenue, where Langston was staying… he had heard through the grapevine about the Guggenheim… the journey out to Los Angeles to write scripts… he jots in his notebook that he enjoyed the train ride down along the coast… he sat on the south side as his classmate had recommended… observing the scenery of autumnal New York Sound… the water indifferent in its blue undulations… vanishing intermittently behind screens of greening trees and warehouses… he slipped down for the holiday the Americans celebrate to honor the Genoese Columbus… he would miss a single lecture… but will be able to catch at least a weekend matinee… he has told no one though he may send Salvador and Elías each a letter… he paused to photograph the great vault of Grand Central Terminal… from the taxi to the New Yorker Hotel he stared up into the midday sky… the height of the towers astonished him… he imagined the shadows sleeping in the caverns between them…. the pace, still more fervid than Mexico City at lunchtime… all the colors of these people, their vivid, hungry faces… some made him forget that there was a Depression… others’ eyes scored their suffering right into him… he saw through to their inner solitude… you should not stay up in Harlem, a friend had written… they rioted in March, another warned, attacking every white person… another said it was fine, spend a night at the Theresa… No problems for Mexicans but Negros are forbidden there… he wanted to explore that and other neighborhoods… perhaps he would venture up there even before meeting with Langston… after a nap that first evening he wandered the streets… then took the subway down to the West Village… ambling slowly around Washington Square, avoiding the beggars, cars and buses… he happened upon the Italian district… a meal of pasta with red wine… in a little tavern he downed a few drinks… his eyes lingering on the men but he said nothing… no one to help relieve his loneliness… he knew there were places nearby… a bottle of whisky and a pack of cigarettes… he retraced his steps back to Times Square…. the doorman’s gaze tracking him inside… he sat at his desk and worked on several drafts of poems… smoking a cigarette he penned a new one… then the meal and trainride hit him and he lay down… stretched across his bed atop the covers… studying the sliver of midnight sky, scarred with stars… he wondered how well or if the poet even remembered him… no messages at the front desk, he will call the number he has tomorrow… friends had sent him the names… of several countrymen and other Latin Americans to meet… new Yale friends provided him with others… there are other writers he would love to encounter… his intention during his return after the new year… he thinks of Salvador, of his Agustín, Lazo, not the German… and falls fast asleep….
He peers at the telegram and tries to recall… the poet’s face remains an empty screen… he met so many people in Mexico City… he should consult his notebooks, carbons… so much he will never put into print… he ponders, which one could this one be… the party after Rafael’s, at that apartment… not the movie director, not Salvador, but Xavier… quickly they loom into view, the immense eyes, hawkish nose… wide mouth, glass vase complexion… a tiny beautiful thing, almost passarine… he is trying to figure out if he will even have a minute to respond… should he call anyone else, or meet this man alone… the premiere of the play is just over a week away… everything that could go wrong already has… because of the rich ofay producer-director… whose changes have warped his vision… into something monstrous, a mess on stage… who keeps demanding more of his royalties… silence from his drama agent, Rumsey… despite his constant appeals… maybe he should let Max handle this too… he sips his coffee and smiles at Toy… his second mother, Em his father… his own mother sent a brief letter from Cleveland wishing him well… her sincerity and false confidence as evident as her shaky hand… the tumor cannibalizing her insides… how can he be there and here… always the need for more cash… how can he even think to write that novel… poems keep grinding themselves out of him… the trip to Minnesota days ago feels like it took place last century… all those students cheering at his words… how to bring that world more frequently into view… maybe he has mixed this poet up with someone else… so many there, such beauty… if only he had a Beauty now to listen to him… lean on, lie beside as he barely slept… black, Mexican, it wouldn’t matter… the sunlight crept in though he had only just halted a nightmare… the cast on stage performing and the theater empty… Jones refusing altogether to pay him… critics writing reviews condemning the language and structure… he could use the air and light of Central Avenue now… the beach and orange groves, those California Negroes… even the tenements and singsong patter of his Cleveland and Chicago neighbors… he hugs Toy goodbye and heads out… more battles at the theater await him… he knots his scarf against the October chill… feels the telegram folded into fourths atop cards in his jacket pocket… the subway platform not so busy at midday… the train whining its swift approach… he finds a seat in the middle of the car… exchanges glances with a silver haired man who winks, slyly… shall I make a record of your beauty… he extracts a poem tucked inside the script from his portfolio… uncaps his pen, begins to mark it up… he realizes only as the train slumbers into 34th Street… that he has missed his stop….