“I know. All right. About ten days ago I was working. I’m a historian, an infantry major assigned just now to the Center of Military History. I’m a specialist in World War One. These days I work at the main branch of the New York Public Library at Forty-second and Fifth, and one day something happened.
“I had a stack of books in front of me. Taking notes. I was copying out names, German names and military titles. Going slow, printing carefully, getting the Kraut spelling absolutely right. And out of the blue I felt a sudden”—he hesitated—“well, rage. And I mean rage; absolutely unexplainable. It just took me over. Instantly. Like somebody had walked up and slapped me across the mouth. And I said—this was out loud, you understand; me sitting there at one of those long tables they have, heads all over the place turning to look at me. I said, ‘Damn you. Oh, God damn you!’ And I was kind of struggling, fighting to push the chair back and get to my feet.
“Then I more or less came to. Just standing there, everybody staring; I must have been loud. Well, I walked out of there pretty fast, and stood out on the Fifth Avenue steps for a while, cooling off. Thing is, I don’t know why I said that. I just do not know. After a while I made myself go back, staring everyone down, and resume my work.” He stopped, waiting.
“Go on.”
“Well, not the next day. There was the weekend, and then it must have been Monday I was back at work. In the main reading room again. I’m there when they open, every weekday and Saturday. And I stay till they throw me out. But this time, thank God, I’d taken a break. I was out on the steps having coffee. There’s guys out front with carts selling coffee and stuff.”
“I know.”
“Miserable coffee. But something to do. I give myself a ten-minute break, by the clock, in the middle of the morning, and another in midafternoon. And the quickest lunch I can manage. And I drink the lousy coffee because I don’t smoke. I did, but I quit. It’s been—”
“Come on now.”
“Okay. It happened again. A terrible anger. Sudden. Out of nowhere. A rush of it. I could feel my face go red, my collar choking me. Raw emotion with nothing to explain it. And I said, ‘You son of a bitch. Oh, you bastard. You did it, you did it!’ There was a woman standing next to me—those steps get crowded—and I just trotted down the stairs, tossed my cup at a trash basket, coffee and all, and got the hell out of there. I couldn’t help but look back, and you know”—he smiled—“she was still there, not even watching me. I was just another New York crazy far’s she was concerned. But I was still wild. Walking along, going fast, headed north but going nowhere I knew of. And if I could have grabbed him by the throat, I’da never let go.”
“Grabbed who! Quick!”
The patient shook his head. “I don’t know. Just don’t know. But the feeling did not go away; for a while it got worse. Finally it eased off, but I didn’t go back. Not that day. Quit early and went home, first time in years. I keep a little apartment in the East Village; I’m up here a lot; the Army pays for it. My real place is in Washington. And that’s about it. I don’t know what the hell is going on. Do you?”
“Not yet.”
“I see. I gather you think I’ll be coming back.”
“For a time maybe.” The doctor picked up the patient-information sheet from his desk. “Maybe we should get this finished up. You married?”
“No.”
“Ever been?”
“No.”
“Okay.” He made a check mark. “And you’re how old: thirty-seven, thirty-eight?”
“Thirty-nine, and if you’re really asking how come I’m nearly forty and never been married, it’s simple: I haven’t time. I like women; quite a lot. Sexually, and just for themselves. Women are nicer than men, they’re better people; I have women who are friends, and women usually stay my friends. I’ve had a lot to do with them, and expect to continue, and I hope that takes care of that. But what I like most—better than women, men, cats or dogs—is work. Life is work, and work is life, that’s my opinion. It’s why we’re alive; procreation is just to keep the thing going. I have fun, I have pleasure apart from work. I go to movies, have a drink, see friends, men and women; I do what everyone does. But that’s only recreation. What I really do is work. Sixteen hours a day often, and for day after day when I know I should. Twenty hours if need be. There’s no way I could be married.”
“Well. You haven’t asked me this, and it’s not why you’re here. But there are other years to come, you know, other kinds of years.”
“I know it. And I’ll be old and lonely, all that. But these are the years that matter. And this is how I’m going to spend them. Nothing is more important: I’ve got things to do, and they’re going to be done. I’m a ruthless son of a bitch, Doc, and I’m not kidding. Ruthless with myself, too.”
“Yes. Okay.” He stood, so did his patient, and—skilled at ending his sessions—the doctor led the way to his office door, the other man following, opened it, then waited for the almost inevitable last question or, occasionally, the final withheld-until-now revelation.
This time it was a question. “You have any clue at all on this?”
“No. And you don’t want guesses.”
“Okay, Doctor. I call you Doctor, by the way?”
“My name is Paul. Call me Paul.”
“Okay, and my name is Prien, Ruben Prien. Call me Rube.”
“Okay, Rube. Make an appointment with my secretary as you leave. I’ll see you soon.”
But he was wrong. Rube Prien never came back.
3
HE’D BEEN ON HIS WAY to keep the appointment four days later, a Friday, walking north on lower Fifth Avenue toward the doctor’s office on Sixty-second Street. As often as possible, moving about the city, Rube Prien walked, a chance for exercise. This morning he wore a sharply pressed olive-green gabardine suit, a white shirt, maroon knit tie, tan cap. The day was sunny and cool, and he noted, pleased, that after nineteen uptown blocks, usually overtaking other pedestrians, he was not perspiring. He believed that meant he was in condition.
Shoulders, elbows, and legs moving easily, the rhythm of it a pleasure, the air pressing his face, he felt his mind at rest, very nearly not thinking at all. But some twenty blocks later, crossing Fifty-ninth Street—glancing appreciatively over at the Plaza Hotel—to walk along now beside Central Park, he felt a little nudge of . . . apprehension? Unease? Something. It grew and then very suddenly it had him again. He felt it in his stomach, felt it building very fast, and he glanced around, afraid he was about to yell, curse, go out of control. On past Sixty-second Street, not even glancing east toward the building in which he had an appointment; turning to walk across the Park at Seventy-second; sweating now, hurrying, angry, scared, eyes bright with curiosity. Further west, then north again, block after block.
Then he was walking through a shabby, run-down little industrial area, cars solidly parked on both sides of the narrow streets, wheels up over the curbs. The sidewalks along which he walked were scattered with paper and plastic wrappings, newspaper fragments, plastic cups, crushed cans, pull tabs, food containers, bottles, broken glass. Buzz Bannister, Neon Signs, read an unlighted neon window sign in a dirty-white stucco building, windows crowded with stacked cardboard boxes. Fiore Bros., Wholesale Novelties; a heavy padlock on the door, a broken shoe lying in the doorway. No one in sight, not a soul. On he walked, fast, going somewhere, knowing which way to turn at corners, getting there.
Then it ran out. And he stood on the walk helpless as a dog who’s lost the scent. He walked on uncertainly. Stopped to glance around for something, anything familiar, not finding it. Walked on looking for a street sign.