And now all the rest. First of all the hotel, that hotel called… what was it called; he’d passed in front of it so many times and still the name wouldn’t come. Old age, that was why. The devil with old age, stupid old man, it’s those idiots who’ve lapsed into second childhood with their silly games! Better try Tourist Information. “Hello, Miss, I’d like the names of three or four hotels near to Central Park, the best, mind you, and their telephone numbers.” “Just a second.” A few hundred seconds! Rosario Jr. was signalling from the counter that the pistachio ice-cream was melting. “Yes, you can tell me, I’m writing them down. Plaza, Pierre, Mayfair, Ritz Carlton, Park Lane, . that’s enough, thank you.” I may as well make the calls, the ice-cream has completely melted. Rosario Jr. can only throw it away. No rooms at the Plaza, of course, this city is full of millionaires, same thing at the Pierre. Nice if there were something at the Mayfair, where there’s a first-class restaurant, Le Cirque: he’d been there before so he knew he could count on a good midnight supper after the Opera. “See if you can’t find a room for me, it’s only for one night.” “Sorry, sir, everything’s taken, nothing I can do.” Devil take you then. The Park Lane, at last, there had to be a room in those forty-six storeys. “Yes, I’ll hold it for you, Mr. Franklin. Good evening and thank you.” He was worn out. But now it was done; time enough to call for the parcel tomorrow, better not keep all that money at the hotel, and he could rent a dinner jacket tomorrow, too. Of course Bolivar was waiting for him, well, let him wait, and so he left the cafe and took a taxi to the Battery because he wanted to touch the Statue of Liberty, according to his usual rite, and then to sit on a bench, look at the bay and the seagulls and think of Dolores. He tossed a cork into the water, filthy water, filthy pavements, even the Statue was filthy, the whole city was filthy. Two women wearing transparent plastic raincoats handed him their camera with a silent plea, then posed, with the forced smiles proper to a photograph. He framed them in the viewer, trying to include a skyscraper or two in the background, as they had indicated. Strange, he thought, that little shutter which opened and shut like an eye, click, and transfixed a passing moment, beyond recall, for eternity. Click. “Thank you.” “Don’t mention it. Good evening.” Click. A second. Ten years gone by like a second. Dolores gone, irretrievable, and yet she had been there only a second before, smiling against a background of skyscrapers, at this very spot. Click: ten years. Suddenly the ten years weighed on his shoulders, and the fifty years of his life, as heavy as the tons of that stone and metal colossus. Better go straight to Bolivar’s and get it over with and rent the dinner jacket on the way; it was crazy to keep all that money around overnight, another violation of the rules, but they were crazy to hand him over such a sum for delivery. What did it mean? Were they testing his efficacy or counting the years of his old age? A gala first performance at the Metropolitan, a dinner jacket and thousands of dollars in cash. Quite a joke.
It was a joke, Bolivar, I was only joking. After having been all too imprudent he chose to make an awkward excuse. Bolivar’s big, curly-haired head, the glass-enclosed office of the noisy workshop, the parcel tied up in brown wrapping-paper; “Of course, old man, there has to be some joking every now and then; by the way, how’s business?” “I can’t complain, car accidents are on the increase, ha-ha.” Bolivar. That gypsylike face with eyes like those of a devoted dog, the Firestone overalls, ten years of a friendship with no real friendship to it; no questions asked, no information given, nothing like who are you, what do you do, where are you going, how do you live, nothing. Just a handshake, how’s business, have a cigarette, here’s something for you. “But who gives it to you, Bolivar, where do you get it, who brings it, I’d like to know.” Bolivar only stared at him with eyes wide-open, “What sort of question is that, what’s got into you?” “Nothing, really, all of a sudden I was curious, I’m growing old.” “Come now, you’re a young man, Franklin.” “No, I’m growing old, I know it, and they know it, too. Soon I’ll be no more use to them, they’ll throw me out, you know how it goes, Bolivar, in fact, you may be the one to get rid of me, one day you’ll get the orders.” “What the devil are you saying, Franklin?” “Nothing, I was joking, Bolivar. I’m in a mood for joking today. I snapped a photograph of two women tourists and with that single click of the camera ten years went by, something that can happen, you know.” “I’ll go with you to the door, Franklin, but by the way, is it true that they’re sending you to the theatre? What theatre is it?” “What sort of a question is that, what’s got into you? Questions like that are out, I’ll see you another time.” “I was joking, too, Franklin. Hasta la vista.”