They chose an inconspicuous table. “Waiter, take away all these candles, one’s enough, we want subdued light… Shall we go overboard?” “Yes, let’s.” “Then oysters to begin with, and champagne, not too cold.” “What’s your name?” “It doesn’t matter. Call me Franklin, how about you?” “Call me what you like.” “Perfect, Callmewhatyoulike is a lovely name, more like a surname, isn’t it, but whatever you say, Callmewhatyoulike.” That’s the way it all starts sometimes, with a joke, and then a conversation is sparked and carried on, that is, if the channel is working. It was working, wine helped. He did most of the talking: the East River, years ago, trips to Mexico, enthusiasms, dead friends, all ghosts. “I’m tired,” he said, “I’m all alone, I’ve had enough…” Pineapples in brandy to top it off, and two cups of coffee. “Waiter, bring me a big box of chocolates, please.” He asked her to excuse him for a moment and went to the lavatory, where he threw away the chocolates and filled the box with dollars. On the way back he paid the bill, bought a rose from the cloakroom girl and laid it in the box. “Here,” he said when he had come back to the table, “the very best chocolates, I had them with me the whole time. Forgive my playing games with you.” She took a look inside. “Why did you do it?” “I needed company, for too many years I’ve been dining alone. I hope the dinner was to your taste, and now excuse me again, I’m going to bed, thanks for your company, Callmewhatyoulike, and goodnight, I doubt if we’ll meet again.”
As he crossed the room he left a generous tip with the waiter, “Merci, Monsieur, au revoir,” his legs were holding out, he was only slightly drunk, no headache, only a pleasurable sensation. She caught up with him when he was already in the taxi, slid in beside him and said decisively, “I’m coming with you.” He looked at her and she smiled. “I’m alone, too. Let’s keep each other company, just for tonight.” “The responsibility is yours, Callmewhatyoulike… Driver, the Park Lane, please.”
“Let’s leave the curtains open so we can see the city by night, New York is something to see from a fortieth floor, so many lights, so many people, so many stories behind all those windows, put your arms around me, it’s lovely standing here, just look at that building, it’s like an ocean liner, if it were to slip anchor and take off into the night it wouldn’t surprise me.” “Or me either.” “What’s your name? Callmewhatyoulike is a surname, tell me your first name, invent it if you must.” “Sparafucile’s my name.” “That’s better Sparafucile Callmewhatyoulike; it’s been wonderful, I felt I really loved you, a way I haven’t felt for years: excuse me while I go to the bathroom.”
The bathroom lights, too bright as usual, too bright for even a theatre dressing-room. He looked at himself in the mirror. Under the dazzling reflector his baldness was painful to note, but he didn’t really care. He rinsed his mouth and rubbed his forehead. He might even have whistled. Her makeup kit lay on the marble shelf. He couldn’t say why he opened it, sometimes we make such gestures out of sheer intuition. It’s a funny feeling to find yourself in a make-up kit. But there was his photograph, between the face powder and the mirror, a full-length picture, captured by a telephoto lens, on the street, somewhere or other. He held it between his thumb and forefinger for a few seconds before he could draw any conclusion. She couldn’t know who he was, much less know him personally. She wasn’t supposed to. He looked hard at the image staring out at him from the coarse-grained paper on which pictures snapped by a telephoto lens are often printed, an anonymous man in the crowd, the face a little thin and drawn, Franklin. In his imagination he saw the viewfinder framing his face and his heart. Click. While he was turning the doorknob he thought of her big evening bag; now he knew that there was something in it besides money; if he’d wanted to think about it earlier he’d have realized… but perhaps he hadn’t wanted to think. He was sorry, he reflected, not about the fact in itself, but about all the rest. Because it had been wonderful. He’d have liked to tell her he was sorry that she had to be Sparafucile; it was too bad and also funny because everything had seemed different. But he knew he wouldn’t have time.
CINEMA
The small station was almost deserted. It was the station of a town on the Riviera, with palms and agaves growing near the wooden benches on the platform. At one end, behind a wrought-iron gate, a street led to the centre of the town; at the other a stone stairway went down to the shore.
The stationmaster came out of the glass-walled control room and walked under the overhanging roof to the tracks. He was a short, stout man with a moustache; he lit a cigarette, looked doubtfully at the cloudy sky, stuck out a hand beyond the roof to see if it was raining, then wheeled around and with a thoughtful air put his hands in his pockets. The two workmen waiting for the train on a bench under the sign bearing the station’s name greeted him briefly and he nodded his head in reply. On the other bench there was an old woman, dressed in black, with a suitcase fastened with a rope. The stationmaster peered up and down the tracks then, as the bell announcing a train’s arrival began to ring, went back into his glass-walled office.
At this moment the girl came through the gate. She was wearing a polka-dotted dress, shoes laced at the ankles, and a pale blue sweater. She was walking quickly, as if she were cold, and a mass of blonde hair floated under the scarf tied around her head. She was carrying a small suitcase and a straw handbag. One of the workmen followed her with his eyes and nudged his apparently distracted companion. The girl stared indifferently at the ground, then went into the waiting room, closing the door behind her. The room was empty. There was a large cast-iron stove in one corner and she moved toward it, perhaps in the hope that the fire inside was lighted. She touched it, disappointedly, and then laid her straw handbag on top. Then she sat down on a bench and shivered, holding her face between her hands. For a long time she remained in this position, as if she were crying. She was good-looking, with delicate features and slender ankles. She took off her scarf and rearranged her hair, moving her head from one side to the other. Her gaze wandered over the walls of the room as if she were looking for something. There were threatening signs on the walls addressed to the citizenry by the Occupation Forces and notices of “wanted” persons, displaying their photographs. She looked around in confusion, then took the handbag she had left on the stove and laid it at her feet as if to shield it with her legs. She hunched her shoulders and raised her jacket collar. Her hands were restless; she was obviously nervous.
The door was flung open and a man came in. He was tall and thin, wearing a belted tan trenchcoat and a felt hat pulled down over his forehead. The girl leaped to her feet and shouted, with a gurgle in her throat: “Eddie!”