•
In the afternoon, Humbert looks over the newspapers. He considers the space they devote to city politics excessive. He reads an article about the alarming spread of herpes, an article on Policarpo Paz García, an article on Fats Waller, an article on unhappiness. He comes across an interesting piece of news: a week before, a man had become a millionaire by playing the lottery. As soon as he collected the money, and before spending a cent on anything else, he went to a casino and bet the lot of it, right down to the last penny. “Surprisingly,” the paper says, “he won and multiplied his millions in such a way as to become one of the most notable multi-millionaires not only in the city, but in the entire country.” Humbert sees a very clear moral to the story: you should never be satisfied with what you have achieved. He also finds the word “surprisingly” out of place: “A thing could happen. If it did happen, that means it could. If it could, then, there was nothing surprising about it.”
He also reads a review of the Nina Hagen concert and looks for quite a while at a photo of Cherry Vanilla, who performed at the Ritz. He looks closely at an ad for the Mudd Club. Turning the pages, he comes across the ad for the Metropolitan Opera. Marino DelNonno was singing Madame Butterfly. It’s been ages since he’s been to the opera. . The music has never meant a thing to him, and he finds the libretti ridiculous, but he loves the sets. He calls to see if there are seats for that evening. There are.
Helena is in the living room, reading a book with illustrations by Folon: into a building that is nothing more than a windowless cube, a stream of men is entering through one door and leaving through the other, going on to enter another, similar building, and once again leave it, and once again enter another. .
“Would you like to come to the opera?”
“What’s got into you?”
“They’re doing Madame Butterfly.”
“What a bore.”
He phones again and reserves one ticket. He puts on his tuxedo. In front of the mirror that takes up an entire wall of the room, end to end, he combs his hair and, unhappy with the results, musses it up again. He puts on a white scarf, picks up his coat, makes sure he has the little notebook in his pocket, gives Helena a kiss on her left cheek, opens the door, closes it, goes out to the garage, takes out the car (a Chevy Malibu, full of dents), and, before going to the theater, stops at the gas station to fill up the tank.
•
The performance leaves him cold. He finds the scenery (the only thing he was really interested in) very unimaginative. He does take a lot of notes, though. He wouldn’t mind designing scenery, perhaps not so much for the opera as for classical theater. How can he tell if DelNonno has sung well or poorly? What’s it to him if he sang well or poorly? He had almost fallen asleep and had only stayed awake by sketching a view of the stage, the figures of some of the singers, a few profiles of the ladies and gentlemen surrounding him — whose expressions, on seeing him scribble so dutifully, lead him to think they must have taken him for a critic. He remembers it with amusement as he leans on a wall by the door Marino DelNonno will be exiting through.
Finally he comes out, escorting a slim woman with red lips, well-defined eyebrows, and a raincoat that hangs open to reveal an impeccable black tuxedo. She is wearing shoes with stiletto heels, an enormous black bow tie with her white shirt, and she is clinging to DelNonno with joy. They get into the black sedan that is waiting for them. Humbert is already in his own car, following them at a prudent distance. That woman must be Hildegarda. The black sedan drops them off in front of a luxury building in Midtown. Humbert doesn’t even consider waiting around. If this is where they live, they might not come out again until the following day, unless they are going to meet up later with friends. But at that time of night, if they are going to meet up with friends somewhere other than their own house, maybe they weren’t going home, and this is precisely the house of the friends. Before leaving, he takes down the number of the building and the street.
•
When Helena gets in, Humbert calls out to her from the studio. He has finished up a few canvases that he had left off in the middle weeks ago, and he’s painted two more, from the notes he took at the opera. Helena gives him a kiss, looks at the paintings, and asks him what he’s doing up at that hour.
“I was so engrossed in the painting that I didn’t realize what time it was.”
They go to bed, and, even though at first Helena isn’t quite sure at the beginning she’s in the mood, they have passionate sex. They turn out the light, and four hours later, Humbert has breakfast, gets dressed, picks up the car, drives around, and parks in front of the building DelNonno went into the night before. He buys a sandwich and a newspaper at a deli and eats and reads in the car.
Towards noon, Marino DelNonno leaves the building and stops a cab. Humbert writes in his little notebook: “Series of photos: on someone’s trail.” He thinks that trying to go up to the DelNonnos’ apartment would be fruitless because they live in one of those buildings where the doorman announces the name of each visitor over the internal telephone. He spends an hour and a half trying to come up with a ruse, unsuccessfully. What he does do, though, is fill up the little notebook with notes, and if that doesn’t exactly offset his failure to come up with a scheme, it is gratifying, at least.
At 1:15, the woman appears at the door of the building: she is wearing a black raincoat (shiny, very tight in the waist, with a very full skirt), a black hat, great big round earrings, black gloves, black stockings, and black shoes, shiny and high-heeled.
The girl takes a bus; Humbert follows it methodically, trying not to miss her stop. When she gets off of the bus, close to the cathedral, he parks the car in the first space he finds and fills the parking meter with coins.
He watches her walk in front of him. He finds her attractive. He imagines her in Heribert’s arms, soft and warm. He gets an erection. He takes out the little notebook. He takes notes as he walks.
He has no doubts about how to approach her. Using the most common, cheesy approach of the neighborhood guys from his teenage years, without more ado he asks her where they’ve seen each other before.
“Did we meet at. .? Were you at the Yacht Club on a motor. .? No. Then at that quiche place on. .? No, no. Were you at the Paquito D’Rivera concert last week? No, not there. At the opera. That’s it. I’m sure. I know you from the opera. You were at the Met last night, weren’t you?”
The woman smiles, and in that moment, Humbert is certain he will never know if she did so out of politeness or because the line had amused her.
“Why did you smile just now? Where are you going? What dumb questions, I’m sorry. Am I bothering you? Do you mind if I walk along with you?”
It doesn’t matter to him that she doesn’t answer. On the sidewalk a silver-painted bald man is imitating the movements of an automaton to such perfection that the group of rubberneckers gathered there gives him an ovation. Humbert would like to be capable of performing in public, doing something like that man is doing. He takes out the little notebook and jots down in the last remaining corner: “Silver-painted man moves like a robot. Reflect upon this. Body art?” He adds another line: “Hildegarda’s face, watching him: joyful.”
“What are you writing down?”
“I take notes so I won’t forget what I have to do.”
The woman smiles at him. Humbert thinks it is the prettiest smile anyone has ever smiled at him. He would like to kiss her on the spot. He wants to embrace her, feel the warmth of her body. He wants to kiss her from her toes to her eyelids. He wants to caress her, make love to her (make love to her?) without even undressing her. He would have gone to the ends of the earth with her, traversing deserts and streams, glacial crevasses. . Note in notebook: “Review (and, if necessary, recover) romantic symbolism.” He takes her hand and kisses it.