I stood in a pool of white light trying to feel enchanted and cleansed as I’d felt on my first night here. But it didn’t work. I recited more verses by Leopardi to myself, squeezing out some comfort, knowing that if no solace came, then beauty might come in its place, and that beauty on this most sullen noir night in December would be good enough. But nothing came. Then I saw a yellow cab. I hailed it, got in, and was welcomed by the comforting warmth of old upholstery, and the vague acrid smell of curry and cumin. I was in a noir, black-and-white world, and I wasn’t being let out of it.
No sooner in the cab, though, than I asked the driver to take me to Riverside and 112th Street. He’d have to go all the way down to 104th Street, he said, then turn around and head uptown. Did I mind? No, I didn’t mind. All I wanted was to return to the spot where I’d stepped off the bus and gotten lost on the night of the snowstorm. The blizzard had lasted all through the party and hadn’t quite cleared when she walked outside with me hours later. Now I was going back to where things seemed safe no matter how clueless my steps that night. Just me and two silly bottles walking up the stairs by the statue of Samuel J. Tilden.
As the cab passed by her building, I looked up at her window to see if she might be home already. But the car came too close, and it was impossible to look up.
I got off right at the spot where I’d seen the St. Bernard. Or had I imagined the dog while thinking of medieval Weihnachten towns that turn dark and gray and then empty faster than the last grocer can pull down his roller shutters in the winters of pandangst? Who walks alone in the dead of night in Saint-Rémy but madmen and seers and those longing for otherpeoples?
Longing for others. What a concept!
I walked east on 112th Street, aiming for Broadway, but enjoying the suspense, because I knew where I was headed but didn’t quite want to admit it yet. This, by the way, is what I’d do in two days if I decided to go to Hans’s New Year’s party: walk up toward the cathedral, turn right on Broadway, walk down another six blocks, and finally turn right on 106th. Is this what I was planning to do tonight as well? Or was all this a roundabout ploy to pass by her building or, better yet, run into her as she’s heading home on her way back from the bar?
What are you doing?
I was taking a walk in the snow. Or just venting.
Venting?
As in learning to live with myself, now that you’re no longer in my life.
No longer in your life?
From the look of things—
From the look of things you’re the one who walked out, not me.
Yes, but from the look of things. .
From the look of things you should take a hike. If I were to run into her on her way home, I’d more than likely run into the two of them together. Even if he wasn’t going upstairs with her, he’d still have to walk her home. Would she give him her arm when they walked together and burrow under his armpit?
When, as I knew would happen, I approached 106th Street, I began to walk slowly. I didn’t want them to see me. But I didn’t want to see them either. Had they had enough time to order another round before leaving the bar? Then I realized why I was hiding — because I was hiding, wasn’t I? — I was ashamed of skulking like this, of hanging around her house, of spying, on them, on her. Stalker. Stalk-ex!
If I had to bump into her at this late hour, all I’d want is for her to be alone.
What’s wrong?
Couldn’t sleep. Didn’t want to be alone. That’s what’s wrong.
What do you want from me? Spoken with impatience, pity, and exhaustion.
I don’t know what I want. I want you. I want you to want me as desperately as I want you.
Why had I let her walk away from me this afternoon? What was I thinking? A woman walks into your house, is clearly telling you she cares, grabs you by the gonads, and you just stand there, jittery Finnegan running for cover while panic-stricken Shem and Shaun race fast behind, clamoring up the Pelvic Highway.
But if she wasn’t alone and if I had to bump into the two of them, I’d utter a mirthful “Couldn’t sleep” and shrug my shoulders, adding, “I was on my way to the bar, hoping you hadn’t left.” I could just picture the two of them standing together on the sidewalk in front of me, disbelieving glances thrown back and forth, all three of us looking so uneasy. Good night, Clara. Good night, Manattàn. And I’d scurry home, knowing that the first thing I’d want to do was call her and say, Manattàn noir, c’est moi.
On the corner of 106th Street and Broadway I decided to walk one block south, turn on 105th, and come back to 106th by way of Riverside. I wanted — or so I told myself — to take a last, farewell look at her building, especially if I wasn’t going to the party in two days. Could be years the next time I come around here, years and years.
But I knew this was just a ruse to take another peek.
The road down 105th couldn’t have been quieter along the row of white town houses that seemed to slumber in an otherworldly, snowbound era of fireplaces and gas jets and hidden stables. No one had shoveled the snow, and it looked as pristine and wholesome as Rockwell’s towns on snowbound nights.
By contrast, her large building, when it came into view on the corner of 106th Street, bore a minatory scowl on its forefront, as though its Gothic windows and friezes knew of my whereabouts in the snow and, like two distrustful Dobermans, were lying still, almost feigning sleep, vigilant and set to pounce as soon as I took another step. Then I spotted Boris’s light and his side entrance door. I could never tell where exactly he sat, but no sooner would we near the door every evening than he’d always be there to let her in. If I wasn’t careful, he’d spot me. I looked up and to my complete surprise noticed that the lights in her living room were all on. How shameful, I thought, spying.
So she must have gotten home while I was walking slowly down Broadway. This either meant that they had had a hasty round of drinks or had decided against it and simply left the bar soon after me. Or she may never have turned off her lights before leaving this morning. Was she the type to leave her lights on all day? I didn’t think so. Chances were, she’d just gotten home and had turned on the lights in the living room. Maybe watching TV. Unless, of course, she was not alone.
I crossed the street at 106th and Riverside and headed north, trying to catch a glimpse of the other rooms immediately upstairs. These were lit up as well, though I couldn’t tell if their light was being referred from the living room. I was not even sure that one of the side windows belonged to her apartment. She had forgotten to show me around after offering to. I had probably tried not to sound too curious, or too eager, and had finally come out sounding indifferent, which perhaps was why she didn’t insist. I remembered wanting to see her bed but not wanting to show I did. Did she make her bed every day or did she leave it undone?
On the corner of 107th I had to make a decision: either walk back down Riverside or walk over to Broadway, and then loop around 105th once again. In the snow, it might take me ten minutes.
There was something so peaceful about walking. It would allow me to think about things, speak to her in my mind, find reasons to see how all this might work itself out one day, even if I knew that such walks seldom bring answers, that no one resolves anything, much less sees through the fog we burrow in, that all walking does is keep our legs and eyes busy the better to keep our mind from thinking anything. The most I’d be capable of right now would be to think about thinking, which meant sinking deeper into myself, which meant blunting everything else, including my thoughts, which meant spinning something everyone else would call daydreams. Perhaps all this wasn’t necessarily headed downhill — even thinking in this quiet, aimless manner was itself, like amnesia and aphasia, a form of healing when the body comes to the mind’s rescue and ever so gently numbs it, wiping bad thoughts one by one as I’d seen the nurse do with the child who was bleeding from the leg, blotting his cuts with soft, delicate, occasional light dabs with a folded piece of gauze, while with deft tweezers she picked out shard after tiny shard of shattered glass, dropping each one in a plastic trough, trying not to make a sound so as not to scare the boy. All my mind wanted now was to fantasize, because images were like feathers on a bruise, while thoughts flowed like iodine on open sores. She and I together when we’d make up. She and I together on New Year’s Day with those friends she said she wanted me to meet. On the last evening of the Rohmer festival, she and I together.