Finally he let the brightness of the party fade, and once again he was in Indianapolis on a gray, bleak afternoon, alone in an eight-dollar-a-week furnished room.
Happy birthday to me, he thought bitterly. Happy birthday.
He stared at the blotchy green wall with the cheap Corot print hung slightly askew. I could have been something special, he brooded, one of the wonders of the world. Instead I’m a skulking freak who lives in dingy third-floor back rooms, and I don’t dare let the world know what I can do.
He scooped into his memory and came up with the Toscanini performance of Beethoven’s Ninth he had heard in Carnegie Hall once while he was in New York. It was infinitely better than the later performance Toscanini had approved for recording, yet no microphones had taken it down; the blazing performance was as far beyond recapture as a flame five minutes snuffed, except in one man’s mind. Niles had it alclass="underline" the majestic downcrash of the tympani, the resonant, perspiring basso bringing forth the great melody of the finale, even the french-horn bobble that must have enraged the maestro so, the infuriating cough from the dress circle at the gentlest moment of the adagio, the sharp pinching of Niles’ shoes as he leaned forward in his seat—
He had it all, in highest fidelity.
He arrived in the small town on a moonless night three months later, a cold, crisp January evening, when the wintry wind swept in from the north, cutting through his thin clothing and making the suitcase an almost impossible burden for his numb, gloveless hand. He had not meant to come to this place, but he had run short of cash in Kentucky, and there had been no helping it. He was on his way to New York, where he could live in anonymity for months unbothered, and where he knew his rudeness would go unnoticed if he happened to snub someone on the street or if he greeted someone who had forgotten him.
But New York was still hundreds of miles away, and it might have been millions on this January night. He saw a sign: BAR. He forced himself forward toward the sputtering neon; he wasn’t ordinarily a drinker, but he needed the warmth of alcohol inside him now, and perhaps the barkeep would need a man to help out, or could at least rent him a room for what little he had in his pockets.
There were five men in the bar when he reached it. They looked like truck drivers. Niles dropped his valise to the left of the door, rubbed his stiff hands together, exhaled a white cloud. The bartender grinned jovially at him.
“Cold enough for you out there?”
Niles managed a grin. “I wasn’t sweating much. Let me have something warming. Double shot of bourbon, maybe.”
That would be ninety cents. He had $7.34.
He nursed the drink when it came, sipped it slowly, let it roll down his gullet. He thought of the summer he had been stranded for a week in Washington, a solid week of 97-degree temperature and 97-percent humidity, and the vivid memory helped to ease away some of the psychological effects of the coldness.
He relaxed; he warmed. Behind him came the penetrating sound of argument.
“—I tell you Joe Louis beat Schmeling to a pulp the second time! Kayoed him in the first round!”
“You’re nuts! Louis just barely got him down in a fifteen-round decision, the second bout.”
“Seems to me—”
“I’ll put money on it. Ten bucks says it was a decision in fifteen, mac.”
Sounds of confident chuckles. “I wouldn’t want to take your money so easy, pal. Everyone knows it was a knockout in one.”
“Ten bucks, I said.”
Niles turned to see what was happening. Two of the truck drivers, burly men in dark pea jackets, stood nose to nose. Automatically the thought came: Louis knocked Max Schmeling out in the first round at Yankee Stadium, New York, June 22, 1938. Niles had never been much of a sports fan, and particularly disliked boxing—but he had once glanced at an almanac page cataloguing Joe Louis’ title fights, and the data had, of course remained.
He watched detachedly as the bigger of the two truck drivers angrily slapped a ten-dollar bill down on the bar; the other matched it. Then the first glanced up at the barkeep and said, “Okay, bud. You’re a shrewd guy. Who’s right about the second Louis-Schmeling fight?”
The barkeep was a blank-faced cipher of a man, middle-aged, balding, with mild, empty eyes. He chewed at his lip a moment, shrugged, fidgeted, finally said, “Kinda hard for me to remember. That musta been twenty-five years ago.”
Twenty, Niles thought.
“Lessee now,” the bartender went on. “Seems to me I remember—yeah, sure. It went the full fifteen, and the judges gave it to Louis. I seem to remember a big stink being made over it; the papers said Joe should’ve killed him a lot faster’n that.”
A triumphant grin appeared on the bigger driver’s face. He deftly pocketed both bills.
The other man grimaced and howled, “Hey! You two fixed this thing up beforehand! I know damn well that Louis kayoed the German in one.”
“You heard what the man said. The money’s mine.”
“No,” Niles said suddenly, in a quiet voice that seemed to carry halfway across the bar. Keep your mouth shut, he told himself frantically. This is none of your business. Stay out of it!
But it was too late.
“What you say?” asked the one who’d dropped the ten-spot.
“I say you’re being rooked. Louis won the fight in one round, like you say. June 22, 1938, Yankee Stadium. The barkeep’s thinking of the Arturo Godoy fight. That went the full fifteen in 1940. February 9.”
“There—told you! Gimme back my money!”
But the other driver ignored the cry and turned to face Niles. He was a cold-faced, heavy-set man, and his fists were starting to clench. “Smart man, eh? Boxing expert?”
“I just didn’t want to see anybody get cheated,” Niles said stubbornly. He knew what was coming now. The truck driver was weaving drunkenly toward him; the barkeep was yelling, the other patrons backing away.
The first punch caught Niles in the ribs; he grunted and staggered back, only to be grabbed by the throat and slapped three times. Dimly he heard a voice saying, “Hey, let go the guy! He didn’t mean anything! You want to kill him?”
A volley of blows doubled him up; a knuckle swelled his right eyelid, a fist crashed stunningly into his left shoulder. He spun, wobbled uncertainly, knowing that his mind would permanently record every moment of this agony.
Through half-closed eyes he saw them pulling the enraged driver off him; the man writhed in the grip of three others, aimed a last desperate kick at Niles’ stomach and grazed a rib, and finally was subdued.
Niles stood alone in the middle of the floor, forcing himself to stay upright, trying to shake off the sudden pain that drilled through him in a dozen places.
“You all right?” a solicitous voice asked. “Hell, those guys play rough. You oughtn’t mix up with them.”
“I’m all right,” Niles said hollowly. “Just… let me … catch my breath.”
“Here. Sit down. Have a drink. It’ll fix you up.”
“No,” Niles said. I can’t stay here. I have to get moving. “I’ll be all right,” he muttered unconvincingly. He picked up his suitcase, wrapped his coat tight about him, and left the bar, step by step by step.
He got fifteen feet before the pain became unbearable. He crumpled suddenly and fell forward on his face in the dark, feeling the cold ironhard frozen turf against his cheek, and struggled unsuccessfully to get up. He lay there, remembering all the various pains of his life, the beatings, the cruelty, and when the weight of memory became too much to bear he blanked out.
The bed was warm, the sheets clean and fresh and soft. Niles woke slowly, feeling a temporary sensation of disorientation, and then his infallible memory supplied the data on his blackout in the snow and he realized he was in a hospital.