“…but I don’t like bacon,” Mrs. Gordon was saying in that caressing voice. When she saw the young man, she came quickly to her feet, smoothing her dress, her motions exactly those of someone trying to brush insects from her clothes. She kept her eyes averted from him, and moved past him out into the corridor without saying anything. Mr. D’Allessandro had turned into the console, and was sitting there moving his head to the music that was coming from the speakers.
“Pay no attention,” he said, not looking at Marshall.
The young man moved to the top of the steps in time to see Mrs. Gordon walk out. When he turned, Mr. D’Allessandro was staring at him. “Pay no attention—I—I was telling Mrs. Gordon a story. Something—” He breathed, grimacing, “that happened back when I was doing radio in the war.”
Marshall was silent.
“Well—what’re you doing here, anyway? Aren’t you supposed to be reading commercials on that Spanish program?”
“He didn’t need me this week,” Marshall said.
“Well, what is it, lad?”
“The—two downstairs. Women. They said they were waiting to see you.”
“What?” He rose, brushed at himself, adjusted his pants, moved past Marshall and down the stairs. Marshall stayed where he was, staring from this height at the empty foyer. In a little while, perhaps five minutes, Mr. D’Allessandro came back, climbed the stairs, and went into the booth. He put more music on and seemed to be listening for something inside it, some code or other. Now and again he nodded, as if he’d heard whatever it was and understood it. Minutes passed. Marshall thought perhaps he should just leave him there, but then the older man muttered a word that sounded like, “strudle.”
“Pardon?” Marshall said.
Mr. D’Allessandro repeated it. “Strudle.” He nodded, keeping a kind of time with the music. He was talking to himself. “I don’t believe it. Walk in here with it.”
When Marshall stepped into his line of sight, he sat up, suddenly straight—the chair squeaked—and gave forth a high, startled sound, like a whimper.
“I didn’t mean to bother you, sir.”
“Bother me. You scared the living shit out of me. I thought you’d gone—look, what the hell do you want?”
“I’m sorry.”
D’Allessandro looked at him. “What’re you doing here, anyway?”
Marshall had no answer.
“Did Marcus—does he know you’re here?”
“No, sir. Is he here?”
“He came with two girls from God knows where. Strudle—you know what I mean? Not girls from home. He walked in my building and left them, without even saying anything—” D’Allessandro suddenly sat forward and reached for the young man’s wrists. “He wasn’t—look, when you came in here, what you saw, it wasn’t what it must’ve looked like. Did you—did you see him—when—was he here when you got here?”
“There was just them—the girls,” Marshall said. “Downstairs.”
D’Allessandro’s face had that drastic, grimacing look. He smiled briefly, then sat back and offered a chair. “Sit down, lad.”
Marshall did so.
The older man stared at him. “You believe me, don’t you?”
“Yes, sir,” Marshall said.
He watched the older man adjust the volume on the music, and he saw the trembling in his hands.
“Well, things are shaping up, lad. I spoke to the pastor at Saint Matt’s—a Father Malloy, a very nice old minister, and it looks like we’ll have the use of the cathedral basement for our evening.”
“We don’t call them ministers,” Marshall said.
“Priest. Well, all right. The two are fairly synonymous, I’d suppose.”
“I know one of the priests at Saint Matthew’s—Father Soberg,” Marshall said. “He’s been a friend of the family.”
“Well, I wish I’d been privy to that information,” Mr. D’Allessandro said. “You could’ve done the asking. My blood pressure goes sky high whenever I’m put in the unfortunate position of having to beg for something.”
There was a motion in the doorway, and both of them turned to see Marcus standing there, working a toothpick in his small mouth. Marcus winked at the young man, and then indicated that Mr. D’Allessandro should go on with what he was saying. Mr. D’Allessandro leaned toward Marshall and said, “When the time comes for you to marry, lad—if and when that time comes—be sure to take the trouble of looking very closely and critically at the girl’s family.”
“Keep it up,” Marcus said. “Mr. Brace likes these comments of yours. They’re like a sort of ammunition.”
Mr. D’Allessandro ignored this. “Word to the wise,” he said, winking. But it was clear that he was quite frightened; the flesh around his mouth was leached of all color. In the tone of someone making an announcement, he went on, “I explained to Father Malloy that we’d had the same sort of arrangement with the previous pastor when our pipes burst before graduation a few years back, and he was very agreeable. We’ve decided to make it a panel discussion about broadcasting and politics, with a focus on the Kennedy years. It’ll be in honor of our late president, of course.”
“It’ll be in honor of your pocketbook,” Marcus said. “You never cared about anything else. Well, that’s partly true.” The little man paused. “Isn’t it?”
“What do you think you mean?”
Marcus said nothing. He stood there working the toothpick in his mouth.
“Pay no attention to the dwarf in the doorway,” said Mr. D’Allessandro.
Marcus came away from the door slowly, and walked over to stand at Mr. D’Allessandro’s shoulder.
Mr. D’Allessandro addressed Marshall. “Do you know the music of Gustav Mahler?”
Marshall indicated that he did not.
“We’re listening to the Sixth Symphony. ‘The Tragic,’ it’s called. This is the adagio.”
Marcus had taken out a nail file and was standing there, meticulously cleaning the nails of his left hand.
Mr. D’Allessandro’s face had pulled back into its grimacing smile, but he went on talking. “They say beauty is only skin deep, lad, but when you’re ugly, you know, it really does show. Top to bottom, it shows, and mind you, the distance between them is sometimes rather negligible—not top to bottom. I didn’t mean the distance between top to bottom is often negligible, though of course it is, isn’t it?” He glanced at Marcus, then fixed his gaze on Marshall again. “Of course, I meant the distance between ugliness and beauty. Winning and losing.”
“Keeping a wife’s loyalty and losing it,” Marcus said.
Mr. D’Allessandro pulled at his collar. “It’s getting close in here, don’t you think?” he said, still addressing the young man.
“Living and dying,” Marcus said.
“Very good.” Mr. D’Allessandro’s tone was that of a teacher with a slow pupil. “Being human and being freakish.”
Marcus put the nail file away, and seemed to coil into himself. “I’m going to get such pleasure out of the end of all this. When it all fails, and Brace lets me have a free hand.”
Mr. D’Allessandro cocked his head slightly; he was listening to the music. “I always loved this passage. It cries out for love and understanding and the acceptance of every monstrosity in nature.” He was still addressing Marshall. “There’s a good lad. Thanks for the visit.”
Marcus had moved back to the doorway. “I’ll be here again tomorrow,” he said.
“Will you have strudle with you?”
The little man gave no answer. He went out and down the stairs, whistling.
“That’s my name for the chippies,” Mr. D’Allessandro said.
“Chippies.”
“Whores.”
“Those were—” Marshall started.
“Absolutely. Remember what I said about learning as much as you can about the girl’s family.” Abruptly, D’Allessandro got out of his chair and made his way into the little bathroom off his office. Marshall heard him
being sick, retching and coughing and sputtering. It went on, and then there was the sound of water running, of the older man cleaning his teeth. Finally, he came back across to the booth and in, took his seat at the console, and slapped his hands down on his knees. “Now,” he said, with that tight smile, “what can I do for you?”
“Me?”
Mr. D’Allessandro seemed impatient. “What did you come to see me for?”
“Oh—I—nothing, really. I saw you at Alice’s party. You looked upset—”
“And you came in to see about me?”
They paused for a moment, hearing the girls laughing in the foyer downstairs.
“Unbelievable,” said Mr. D’Allessandro. He looked for a second like he might have to go and be sick again.
“I was in the area,” Marshall told him. “Visiting Albert. I saw your car.”
“Well, you’re very kind, lad. I’m—I’m kind of busy now, though.”
“Yes, sir.”
Downstairs, the girls had gone. The library was empty, a sunny room full of dust motes and shadows.
He drove up the street to Natalie’s tall, dark-brick apartment house and sat with the car idling, watching the front door. It was getting late. The late-afternoon sun had gone behind the building. He leaned down in the seat to look up at what he remembered to be her windows. They were curtained, and no light shone in them. Other windows in the facade were lighted now, and twice he saw young men go into the building. He imagined that they had come to see her. But each time they came out with others—one with another young man and one with an elderly woman. Finally, he turned the car off, got out, and hurried in the increasing chill across the street, his heart pounding in all the veins along his neck and face. In the dim, echoing foyer, he looked over the blur of labels above the mailboxes for her name. And here it was, “Natalie Bowman.” Some part of him watched from a kind of inner distance as his hand reached for the little bell and pushed it. Nothing. No sound. He waited. This was about the time that Alice would be expecting him to call her at home. He felt the weight of his promise. It was getting late. The wind moaned in the high, arched frame of the entrance, and it seemed that the whole building creaked. He pushed the button again and waited, shivering a little now.
When the outside door opened in a rush of air, he almost yelled. An elderly couple walked in. “Excuse us,” the woman said. “Who did you want to see?”
“Natalie Bowman?”
“Fourth floor. She must not be in.”
“Thank you,” Marshall said and edged past them, out into the street.
And there Natalie was, at the corner, having just crossed. She wore a white scarf and a long, dark trench coat, and she walked slowly along the street, holding her purse over one shoulder, two fingers hooking the strap. She stopped before the young man and smiled. “You vere looking for me, Walter?”
“I thought I’d stop by,” Marshall said.
“How sweet. I almost missed you. I went for a valk.”
You are so beautiful, he wanted to say. There was a lovely, soft, rose flush in her cheeks; her hair shone against the white of the scarf.
“Are you going somewhere?” she said.
“No.”
“We could go on a date, maybe.” She smiled.
He had the decided impression that she was being sardonic with him. He said, “I just wanted to say hello.”
She said, “Don’t be glum.” She reached over and touched his cheek. “Let’s go to the Cafe Lounge. Can’t we, hmm? It’s right down there.” She pointed to an area of open asphalt above the parking lot of the school. There was a row of buildings on the other side of this area—back entrances and an alleyway.
“Shall we?” she said.
He nodded. She took his hand as they walked, and he felt something begin to give way in the muscles along his spine. They crossed the open area and entered the alley, which led out onto Connecticut Avenue. The Cafe Lounge was up the street to the right. It was closed.
“I never know what day it is,” Natalie said. “Today is not Saturday, but Sunday. And tomorrow is not Sunday, but Monday.”
The drugstore at the circle was open, and they walked up there. The neon above the entrance looked brilliant against the pale sky. Inside, there were only a couple of women in nurses’ uniforms at the counter. Natalie led him to a booth along the left wall, beyond the counter. She took her scarf off, and her coat, settling into the booth, and he took his place across from her, unable to believe this was happening yet feeling, too, in spite of all efforts to block out the thought, that it was precisely as he had hoped.
“So,” she said, folding her hands on the table before her. “What vill you have?”
“Coke,” he said.
“Nothing warm?”
The waiter came to them, a young, balding, red-haired man with long, thin arms and spidery, skinny, freckled fingers. “Something to drink?” he said. “The grill is down, so we only have cold sandwiches to eat.”
“Ginger ale for me,” Natalie said.
“That sounds good,” said Marshall.
“Two of them,” the waiter said, moving away.
Natalie sat, smiling at him. “How nice you came to see me.”
“I was in the neighborhood.”
“Lucky for me.”
He said, “I almost missed you.”
“And where are your other friends?”
“I haven’t seen them.”
“Do you ever drink vhiskey?”
“I’ve tasted it.”
“I like it in my ginger ale. It warms you from inside.”
He said nothing.
“We could go back to my apartment and have some, maybe.”
“I don’t think you can buy it on Sunday.”
She leaned across the table and murmured, “I know. I have some at home. In the cabinet.” She stood and moved to the counter, where she told the waiter that she would like the ginger ales to go.
Marshall watched her come back to the booth, marked the grace and curvature of her, and the nerves of his stomach tightened. All this was happening.
“You know, you don’t look twenty-six,” he managed when she sat down. “You look closer to my age.” His voice had caught on the last word. He took a breath, swallowed involuntarily.
“Do you think a woman should go on a date vith a younger man?” she said.
“Why not?” This came forth with a sound like a laugh mixed with a cough.
“You’re so nervous. It’s nice how nervous you are. Some men are so sure all the time. Cocksure, like roosters.”
He looked around the room. There were big, glass-framed pictures on the walls, of city scenes—the Lincoln Memorial and the reflecting pool in the rosy light of evening, the tidal basin at dawn, the Capitol building bathed in brightness against a night sky. Briefly, he had no recognition of any of it. In the next booth, a very old woman sat drinking coffee alone. She had a newspaper open in front of her. Marshall hadn’t seen her come in.
The waiter called to Natalie from the counter. She put her coat on and walked over to pay for the drinks. She insisted on paying for them, though Marshall protested. The drinks were in a white paper bag, which she handed to him. They walked back to Eighteenth Street and up to her building in the washed light of low sun. The air was very cold now, and she pulled her coat collar tight at her throat. On the elevator, she said, “If I go with you, it is less strange than you might think.”
“Excuse me?” he said.
“I have been vith someone—vould be thought stranger for a partner than you.”
“I don’t understand.”
“You are so young. That makes you strange for me.”
He couldn’t respond to this.
“But you’re not strange.” She smiled cryptically, then shook her head, seeming to pout. “Never mind.”
His gorge was threatening to spasm. He held the bag with the drinks in it, and followed her down the dim hallway to the black door with a bronze number four on it
. Here, there was an odor of wood and dust and several kinds of cooked food. She fumbled with the keys, talking about how tired she was. Marshall took a shallow, murmuring breath, shifting the bag to his other hand. Opening her door, she entered and turned to face him, gesturing with her lovely hand for him to pass through into the small kitchen. He did so, and she turned the light on behind him. Several roaches scurried out of sight along the wall and out of the sink. It was a tiny room, with a single lightbulb hanging from a wire at the center. A narrow, smudged window looked out on an alley, a brick wall. He walked to this window, then turned to see that she had remained behind, in the living room, so he joined her there. On the walls were pictures of horses, and a large portrait of her with a muscular, deeply tanned, dark-haired man wearing a flattop haircut. She walked around Marshall and back into the kitchen, and he followed. Other snapshots, also of her and this man, were taped to the refrigerator.
“Is this your—boyfriend?” he said.
She made a small, snickering sound. “That’s my older brother. Max.”
She removed her coat. “He is a policeman now. In Düsseldorf. No—the—the one I talk about—that is someone else. A big secret.” She looked at him as if she expected him to ask her to reveal it. But then her expression changed. Something went through her, a pang, and then a form of resolution. It was there, in her amazingly lovely face. “No, you wouldn’t like to know this. And anyway, it is over now. A long time.”
“How long?”
She thought a moment. “Two years.” Then she sighed. “Almost.”
“I don’t understand,” he said.
“It makes no difference how long…”
He had set the bag on the rickety card table. She opened it and lifted the drinks out. “Go have a seat, please, Walter. I’ll fix the refreshments.”
He went into the living room, to the couch, and sat down. Behind him was the window, looking out on Eighteenth Street. He could see Connecticut Avenue, the backs of buildings through the trees. The sun and shade of the city looked almost geometrical from here.
Good Evening Mr. and Mrs. America, and All the Ships at Sea Page 26