“I always wanted to see City Hall,” Rosetta said rapturously. “Look at that golden roof. And how clean the steps are.”
“Sure,” someone said. “Black people sweep them every day.”
Barricades had been set up all around City Hall, making it unapproachable, and the police were out in full force. Amalie herded her crew into a line. Too bad Charlie wasn’t here. And too bad Stewart couldn’t see her now. It wasn’t much, organizing her neighbors for a march, but for her it was a daring change. Stewart would have been proud. Yes, Stewart, you would hardly recognize me now. I talk to lawyers and the press, I lobby Albany and call the mayor’s office, I don’t take no for answer. I would talk to God but as you know she’s hard of hearing.
“Where are the songsheets?” people were asking. “You can’t have a march without marching songs.”
“I know some songs,” Ethan Fineman said. “Do you know the one about—”
“—Get away from those holes, Ethan.” Rosetta yanked his arm. There were so many excavations around the park that it looked as though plans were underway to turn it into an island. Construction workers paused in their work and smiled at the marchers, a ragged group of about five hundred.
Amalie signaled to the student activist and he took up his bullhorn. “WHAT DO WE WANT?”
“HOUSING!”
“WHEN DO WE WANT IT?”
“NOW!”
Although she was shouting with the rest, Amalie disliked being on display like this. It was different during the anti-Vietnam war marches, strolling down Central Park West with Stewart and pushing Charlie in his stroller, sharing food with friends. This, with the drizzle and unfriendly tourists, didn’t feel right. In the back of Amalie’s mind was the thought that Hannelore would complain that she was falling behind in her work. Well, let her.
The crowd had grown along with the number of policemen in slickers. Amalie’s group stalled momentarily as a network reporter bore down on her, followed by a cameraman. Amalie put on a welcoming smile. You had to be good to the media. In her calls to various newspapers and TV stations, she’d milked the human interest angle, identifying herself as a young widow (anything to get coverage), and giving capsule sob stories about some of the tenants.
“How about a statement?”
Amalie took a deep breath. “As you know,” she began, “the Division of Housing and Community Renewal—DHCR— is in chaos just three years after its takeover of the rent regulatory system. Real estate firms are receiving preferential treatment, causing hardship for thousands of people. The agency is systematically violating the rent stabilization law and in fact is currently under investigation—”
“Hold it, hold it!” another crew member yelled. “We got some action starting.”
Action? A group of people in wheelchairs and crutches had moved forward just as Amalie was about to launch into the provisions of the Emergency Tenant Protection Act of 1974 which she’d pretty much memorized.
Singing had started up:
Our mayor loves the landlords,
He shall be removed.
Just like the garbage in the harbor,
He shall be removed.
Some of Amalie’s neighbors were arguing with a demonstrator (“Spread the Squatter Movement”). “We can’t support that kind of thing,” her people were shouting. “It’s criminal trespass and it’s wrong.”
“Come on, gang,” Amalie called. “This is politics. You make strange bedfellows…” Here was “Boycott Zucchini,” Succubus Magazine, “Sisterhood Will Smash the State,” His-panic women joking with cops (“Carne para los hombres!”), the welfare families and women in furs (leaky luxury rentals). Futile though it might be, Amalie was feeling exhilarated.
“Why don’t you folks go home?” a young cop asked her.
“Why not join us for a while?” she said. Oh Charlie, wouldn’t you be proud of me.
“Look at all the little kids marching around in the rain,” the cop said. “And all them old people. They should be home watching TV.”
Suddenly a great cheer went up. Someone had appeared on the steps of City Hall. The sun came out at the same time. The police were narrowing the barricaded area, crowding the demonstrators onto the sidewalks. Traffic appeared to have halted in the neighboring streets. It was strangely quiet. Lights revolved gently around City Hall Park, the twirling orange or red lights from parked police cars, Con Edison trucks, telephone repair vans, highway maintenance vehicles—all equipped with beacons. The crowd faced the man on the steps, jockeying for position.
“Can everyone hear me?” The man’s voice carried to every corner of the crowd. “They’re cooperating up there,” he said genially, pointing to the sky. Some people cheered. The man was very tall and even from where Amalie was standing it was evident that he was blooming with the kind of health depicted on packaged white bread. “My name is Howard F. Johnson and I’m the mayor’s special assistant on housing.”
Boos and hisses and calls for the mayor himself.
“It’s a pleasure to talk to you today,” Johnson said. Some of the demonstrators applauded. People will applaud for anything, Amalie thought. “I hope you’ll excuse some of the construction. We’re renovating the press wing and the work hasn’t proceeded as rapidly as we hoped—”
“Get on with it…” The crowd was becoming restive. There were isolated catcalls.
Johnson rambled on about priorities. “…seems humorous of course that I should be telling you about the city’s problems…”
“Stop the rent gauging,” someone shouted. “Gouging, gouging,” Amalie muttered.
People were straining against the barricades as the police warned them to move back. “Our children are dying…!” “Shame…!” “Open it up, open it up…!” The man on the steps could barely be heard now.
“Treating people like pigs!” screamed an elderly man, waving his cane.
“Revolution!” a child yelled. Ethan Fineman of course, right next to Amalie.
The crowd surged forward. There was a crack and a roar. They had broken through the barriers, sweeping aside the police and moving toward the City Hall steps. The speaker backed up the steps toward the doorway.
Amalie found herself wedged solidly by bodies pressing against her on all sides. The marshals were yelling to the crowd to break it up. There was no way to move forward or backward. Amalie could see no further than the dandruff on the jacket in front of her. She couldn’t even reach into her purse to pull out her smelling salts.
Ethan had begun to cry. “Stop pushing, stop pushing! I’m being squished.”
Amalie grabbed his hand. “Hold on to me. We’ll get out of here.”
Police whistles were blowing. “Push hard,” she said to Ethan. “Don’t let go of my hand.” Like a bull she butted through the crowd and toward the street.
“Watch out! Give the man some air…”
Me next, Amalie thought, sweating. Think of Ethan. Have to get through.
“Where’s my mom? I want my mother,” the boy was crying.
“Don’t stop.” She yanked him hard, tripping over people’s feet, hearing curses. She could see the street, the edge of the curb. It was full of policemen, some with upraised billy clubs. The sun was blazing on their helmets.
“Look here, officer—” It was the bartender from 2A, gesticulating at a policeman who was holding Rosetta by the arm. “Aren’t you exacerbating the situation?”
“Who axed you.” The cop tightened his grip.
“Ma! Ma!” Ethan pushed his way to his mother.
“It’s all right,” Rosetta said nervously. “Amalie, get him out of here.”
“I want to go home,” Ethan sobbed. “I’m thirsty.”
“You know the regulations,” the policeman said. “You need a permit to parade on the roadway.”
“I tell you I was pushed,” Rosetta said. “I wasn’t parading.”
“Stepping off the sidewalk is an offense unless you have a permit. You’re blocking traffic.”
Amalie thought of Charlie. How frightened he must have been facing this same kind of obdurate force. “There is no traffic,” Amalie said, wishing she’d been there for Charlie when he was picked up in front of Dow Chemical. “Be reasonable, officer.”
There was no moving traffic, only parked vans and trucks, beacons revolving steadily. And now a throbbing noise filled the air. A low-flying helicopter. Was the mayor returning? The police were momentarily confused. The cop let go of Rosetta and stared at the sky. Ethan took advantage of his inattention to kick him in the shins.
“You little scum!” The officer yelled, grimacing with pain. “Grab that kid and take him in!” he shouted to the nearest policeman.
Rosetta screamed. “No! He’s just a baby. Say you’re sorry, Ethan, please.”
The helicopter was circling. People were running aimlessly, trying to get away from it as though expecting to be sprayed with something lethal. “They’re just counting us,” Amalie said, but no one was paying attention. She managed to grab Ethan again and shoved him at Rosetta and the bartender. “Get away. Hurry.” Then she sat down at the wounded officer’s feet, right on the roadway.
“What the hell are you doing, lady? Where’s that kid?” Amalie closed her eyes. When I open them, she thought, Rosetta and Ethan had better be gone. She could hear the helicopter and another sound. Drilling. All around City Hall they had begun to drill, digging deeper and deeper into the ground. No wonder there were so many construction workers. They were going to isolate the terrain and everyone on it. Amalie opened her eyes. Rosetta and Ethan had disappeared.
Two strong hands closed around her upper arms. “What’s the charge, officer?” she asked pleasantly, twisting her head so she could see his face and badge number. If he broke her arm she hoped to faint immediately and then find herself in a private room in Mount Sinai Hospital, overlooking Central Park.
“Interfering with arrest and parading on the roadway.”
As she was escorted into the police wagon she said, “You realize of course that in Gregory vs. Chicago—”
“Not interested.”
She was handed into the crowded van filled mostly with people under thirty who greeted her with applause. One girl was crying. Amalie squeezed in next to her. “Don’t worry, honey.” She put her arm around her. “It’s just a formality. My kid does this all the time. You’ll call your parents. I’ll call my son. In no time we’ll be out of there. You think they take credit cards?” As the van lurched forward, she felt very sick indeed.
“Can I get you something else?”
“Charlie, stop tiptoeing around me as though I were an invalid. I’m just tired, that’s all.”
The phone hadn’t stopped ringing but Charlie was taking the calls, mostly from other tenants, including Alex. He had made a few calls himself to friends, affecting a casual tone when he said that his mom had been in the clink. “Imagine what dad would have said.” Charlie tucked a blanket around her ankles though it was eighty degrees.
“No big deal.” Amalie was enjoying Charlie’s attentions. “Everybody gets arrested nowadays. Even fancy ladies who don’t scoop up their poodle’s poop.” Easy to be blasé now that she was home in one piece. Charlie had been napping when she called him. Lucky he was home. He came down with whatever money was in the house, the $100 for groceries. She figured she could send him to the bank if there was going to be a whopping amount set for bail or a high fine. But the judge waved her away tiredly when her turn came—“Dear lady, go home”—and dismissed the charge. Amalie was somewhat offended. Perhaps he thought she had lost her way while shopping on Nassau Street. The processing had gone quickly for her, but they were being harder on the kids, fingerprinting them and detaining them for hours. She’d walked out with Charlie after three hours. He had seen a few of his friends there and seemed ashamed of having slept through the demonstration. There were no phone calls from Berger MicroPubs.
Mrs. Konarski stopped by with Genghis Khan. “Such a miscarriage of justice, they took you away, Mrs. Price. Always I wanted to see this place. We thought you were hippies when you moved here, may your husband rest in peace.” Charlie was flipping the TV dial. “So much riffraff was there today. And the landlord persecutes people like me. I gave him at Christmas, I gave under the table, over the table…”
“Tell me, Mrs. Konarski,” Amalie asked with sudden inspiration, “have you read Gogol? Can you teach me a little Russian?”
“Why you didn’t ask me a few years ago? Now is no time left.”
“Shh. I’ve got CNN. Look, mom, there’s City Hall.”
“I gave beautiful interview,” Mrs. Konarski struggled to the edge of the couch. “They promised it for 6:30.”
Over newsreel shots the anchorman described the crowd as mostly well behaved tenants whose spirits were undampened by the drizzle. (A groan from Charlie.) A few minor scuffles but no major incidents. “Which goes to show that you can fight City Hall. Chuck?” “Violence on the docks, startling testimony in the Iran-Contra hearings, and a breakthrough in space, after these messages.”
At that moment the phone rang and Charlie picked it up. “Yeah,” he said frowning, and handed the receiver to Amalie.
“Who…?” she mouthed but he shook his head.
It was Evan Diaz, calling to congratulate her. “Wow, you sure are telegenic,” he said. “I happened to turn on the news and there you were.”
“You want my autograph?” she said dryly.
“I was going to call you anyway. Are all your evenings tied up now that you’re a star?”
“Pretty much.” She really did not want to see Evan now. That last conversation with him had left a bad taste in her mouth. “I’ve got some people here, Evan, so I have to go.”
“Sure,” he said. “I’ll catch you another time.” I hope not, Amalie thought.
Mrs. Konarski was getting up to leave, disappointed and complaining about the outside agitators who were provoking the landlords, like that boy with the bullhorn.
He had called earlier to wish Amalie luck with the struggle. “If you need us, give us a call.” Us is who? she wanted to ask but she was tired and the grammar was peculiar. Which reminded her again of Stewart’s complaint that form was so important to her that it often held her back from life, from opportunities. But wasn’t that so of Charlie who had held out for the perfect demonstration last week? Maybe that’s why he hadn’t gone to City Hall. He knew it would fall short. That didn’t stop me, Stewart, she thought. You had me figured all wrong.
Chapter 11
On the metal cabinet containing duplicates of the company files sits a stuffed vulture, the bird being the official symbol of Hannelore’s hometown in Germany. The tail contains a music box that plays “Lili Marlene.” Marshall likes to listen to it sometimes when he and Hannelore are having sex in her apartment. She can never tell what kind of mood he’ll be in.
This Friday evening, for instance, he hardly looks at her, undresses quickly, and before touching her says, “You should be seeing other men. This isn’t healthy.”
“I am not interested in the California style. I was not brought up like that.”
Marshall laughs. “What do you know about California anyway. How about Frank McCullough? He’s probably free.”
“With him every word is filth. He is not a gentleman.”
“Unlike me, right?” Marshall pours himself a drink, swallows it quickly and lies down. “No, don’t take it off.”
Hannelore glances at the clock. When he’s finished, in about five minutes, she’ll go down the list of staff names to see who is desirable and who is not, for the Vermont company.
“Is that good, baby—tell me, is it good?” Marshall always asks the same question.
“It’s good, it’s wonderful,” Hannelore pants while thinking that it might be useful to try to retain Lisa the receptionist because of the Mafia connection.
“Show me you love it, baby. Move with me.”
Hannelore moves and moans. “God, I love it…I a
m crazy about you, Marshall.”
“Yeah, I know.” He grunts and lets her go. “You have a great ass.”
Marshall seldom compliments her. “You could have it more often,” she says primly.
“Don’t crowd me, baby,” he warns. “It’s just right this way. You might get bored otherwise.”
“I have been thinking,” Hannelore says a few minutes later. That’s Marshall’s signal to turn on the TV. Even though he respects and even fears Hannelore sometimes, her voice grates on him.
She mentions the comptroller’s name. “But you can’t let him go. He knows your accounts back and forth. He helped you with that real estate deal on Broome Street.”
“Uh huh.” Marshall turns up the sound. The news shows a demonstration in front of City Hall. An elderly woman holding a salivating Pekinese dog is being interviewed. Ah for the days of commitment. Where did he go wrong? He always turned out for these things when he was at City College. Sometimes his conscience quivers in the middle of the night, like an upset stomach. Though he gives generously to worthy causes, he is no longer a participant.
“Then we come to Najeed,” Hannelore continues. You need her for the dirty work. We don’t have to worry about her. She will never give up the job even if we move to Siberia.”
“Look at all those people in wheelchairs—Jesus!” Marshall watches the screen intently.
“A bunch of crazies.” Hannelore barely glances at the picture. “No respect for law and order.”
There’s a quick shot of a woman who looks like Amalie. Come to think of it Marshall didn’t see her in the office today. “Was what’s her name at work today? Amalie?”
“She called in sick,” Hannelore says, going into the kitchen. “Maybe she had a job interview.”
“God forbid,” Marshall says under his breath. He’s remembering their awkward conversation early in the morning outside the hotel in Vermont. Amalie is probably one of those people who go through life unaware of the effect they have on others. He’s watched her in the office, noticed her cordiality to everyone. She remembers whose kid is sick, whose husband has a heart condition. Although bereaved, she smiles at everyone. Doesn’t show off her prodigious education. He wants very much to be in Vermont with her.
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