Alfau asked him whether he had plans to go anywhere after Veniero’s, and Mr. Tuttle said, To the Chelsea Hotel, naturally, since his room was already paid for, and having been a regular for so many years gave him the right to check in at noon, two hours ahead of the scheduled time. Having said this, he consulted his pocket watch and got to his feet. Alfau followed suit and asked if he could come along. Mr. Tuttle said he didn’t mind. On the way over, covering the distance on foot, the Shadow briefly explained what kind of life he led in the bowels of Manhattan, and Alfau told him, also concisely, about the Knights Incoherent and their activities. Very interesting, Mr. Tuttle observed as they arrived at the entrance of the hotel. It just so happens, Alfau pointed out, that this very afternoon we are having a gathering. We get together in the Persicope, maybe you know it. It’s very close to the entrance to the underground city you used today. It would be an honor for the Knights to welcome you as their guest. Unless you have other plans, he added, remembering that the Shadow had told him he had ordered a cake of his own accord. Do you plan on celebrating your birthday with anyone? I’m not sure, Mr. Tuttle said, with women you never can tell. I’m with you, Alfau said, tapping him on the shoulder, and pulling a piece of paper from his pocket he wrote down the address of the Periscope and gave it to him. When you find out whether you’re going to be alone or not, and if you feel up to it, you know where we are. We get together on the floor above the bar—it’s a gray door. The password, Alfau added before leaving, is ¡Viva Don Quijote! Mr. Tuttle read the address and walked off across the lobby with a melancholy air.
When Alfau arrived at the Periscope, he told the knights present at the time that a very special guest might show up at the club later that evening, and went on to recount his peculiar encounter of a few hours before. That day’s meeting began on schedule: a debate over the advantages and disadvantages of Soviet communism. In the heat of the argument, the Knights Incoherent (particularly Alfau, who was a rabid anti-communist, and thus in the minority) forgot that there was any likelihood of that dapper gentleman who got along so well with the current president of the Order (it was a rotating shift) making an appearance. Soon enough, they were about to come to blows, and the echo of the primary combatants’ crescendo of cursing still hung in the air (You, sir, are a fucking fascist! Aquilino Guerra had shouted at Felipe Alfau—And you’re a goddamned Stalinist murderer! was his response, as Jesús Colón held this august personage back by his arms) when they heard a knock at the door. Shut up for one fucking second, damn it! Henry Martínez ordered. The echo was allowed to die. Regaining his composure, Alfau worked loose from Colón, took three wide steps, and slid open the cover of the peephole at the door (they did things right). ¡Viva Don Quijote! someone said from the other side in a voice that managed to be both gruff and timid. Alfau let him in, of course. The newcomer wore a frock coat, top hat, and a green polka-dot bow tie (therefore different from the black one he had been wearing that morning). He walked in very slowly because he was carrying a cake bearing three unlit candles. It’s not much, he said, looking contrite. I only ordered a cake for two, but my date didn’t show up. Alfau adopted a serious expression and tapped Tuttle on the shoulder for the second time that day. Come in, please, he said. Make yourself at home. The Shadow put his cake on a table and removed his hat. Aquilino took the frock coat and hung it on a bronze hanger. Alfau dashed to the bar and returned with a bottle of González Byass sherry and glasses for everyone. Rogelio Santana, who was Jesús Colón’s guest, lit the three candles. Before blowing them out, Mr. Tuttle begged for silence: no ridiculous songs. Sulking, the Knights Incoherent and their guests shook their heads as if reproaching him for thinking they would ever do such a thing. When they finished the cake, Alfau proposed a special vote to decide if the newcomer could be awarded the title of Honorary member of the Order. The five founding members left Mr. Tuttle for a moment with the other guests and deliberated for a few minutes in a corner. Returning to the table, Martínez, the permanent secretary of the Brotherhood, informed the guests that the motion had passed unanimously. At Colón’s request, it was resolved not to continue with their interrupted political discussion and from then on the conversation flowed through calmer channels. When Mr. Tuttle excused himself, it was formally agreed to invite him to celebrate his remaining birthdays at the Periscope. Two more, said Mr. Tuttle, signaling with white-gloved fingers, and poured himself another sherry with that taciturn air that never abandoned him. None of them, neither Alfau nor any of the other Knights Incoherent, would ever see him save on one of his birthdays.
On March 16, 1965, Mr. Tuttle showed up at the headquarters of the Order with a cake and two candles. The following year, there was only one candle on the cake. He had always been a man of few words, and hated toasts, but on that occasion, before blowing out the lonely candle burning atop his cake, Mr. Tuttle said: Thank you, my friends, it has been a great honor getting to know you and being a member of the Brotherhood. He took a deep breath before adding: This will be the last time we will see each other. On March 16, 1966, there was an open house at the Periscope and the place was packed. The Knights Incoherent argued about politics as vehemently as always, but as the debate dragged on, it became increasingly apparent that an undercurrent of anxiety was slowly undermining the discussion, until at last it waned. Near seven, everyone was staring at the clock, a Festina with black numbers neatly sculpted on a faded yellowish background. A few inches above the slot for the winding key, there was a small blue rectangle in the shape of a double door. When the second hand grazed the lowest part of the circle, one of the guests exclaimed: Half a minute till seven! The Knights Incoherent, all seated at a long table on top of a stage, presiding over the large room, held their breaths to a man, eyes glued on the Festina. The little hand swept the left side of the clock with a desperate languor. All anyone could hear in the Periscope was the clanging of the heating pipes mixed with the intestinal noises of Aquilino Guerra, who had eaten clams and beans. When the second hand and the minute hand came together, the little blue doors burst open and out sprang a cuckoo so small it could have been a hummingbird. The tiny bird chirped seven times and went back inside. The Knights Incoherent shifted their eyes from the Festina to the front door, but no one rang or knocked. The first one to break the silence was Martínez, who made his way to the back of the room cracking his knuckles; Guerra lit a cigarillo and threw the pack into the center of the table for whomever wanted to join him; Colón started looking through a copy of the New York Times, although he had read it from beginning to end that morning; the rest of them busied themselves with various delaying tactics, including Rogelio, Guerra’s cousin, who began to clip his fingernails over a wastebasket. The guests watched the movements of their hosts as if they were witnessing a Grand Guignol performance. At seven fifteen, Alfau opened a bottle of González Byass and poured a round, even setting up a glass for their absent member, conspicuously placed at the head of the table. Martínez proposed a toast, but Alfau reminded him that Mr. Tuttle hated them. Guerra suggested observing a minute of silence, but Colón called him a jinx. My grandfather advocated trying to figure out what had happened, and Martínez asked how. Alfau insisted that the only thing that could be done was to go on with their gathering as if nothing had happened—nothing had happened, after all—but this proved impossible. There was an oppressive sadness in the air that prevented the Knights Incoherent from concentrating on anything. Around nine, they realized that they had to act. Someone suggested that a few of them grab a taxi and go to the Chelsea Hotel. After much give and take, it was decided that Alfau would lead the mission, and select his troops accordingly. He picked Colón and my grandfather. When they got to the hotel, they went right to the front desk—the clerk wasn’t sure what to make of them. Alfau showed him a picture of the group, taken one year ago, and pointed at Mister Tuttle. The clerk frowned and told them to have a seat in the lobby, and—photograph in hand—went in search of the manager. The manager came out, stood before them, and c
eremoniously preened the long, pointed ends of his mustache, which were oiled with Brilliantine. Looking the picture over, he asked them if they were related to the guest. My grandfather said no, they were not. Friends, acquaintances, colleagues? Jesús Colón said they were all members of a club, to whom Tuttle had been admitted three years ago, although he only ever attended on March 16th, to celebrate his birthday.
Same here, the manager of the Chelsea Hotel said. Although I didn’t know anything about his birthday. He always makes his reservation far in advance—I mean, he has a permanent reservation and always calls two months in advance to confirm it. He always books room 305, one of the more inexpensive ones. This year he did the same as always.
He asked the clerk to bring him the reservation book.
Aha, here it is. He confirmed on January 16.
An uncomfortable silence ensued.
Well, don’t just stand there like a log. Go tell him his friends from the Periscope are here to see him, urged Alfau.
Let’s remain calm, my friend. Calm and cordial. When the clerk came to see me with the photo I asked him to call your friend’s room, but he’s not answering the phone, which means that he is not there.
What kind of reasoning is that? Alfau chided him. If something’s happened to him, he wouldn’t be able to answer no matter how many times you called.
I asked our friend here, interjected my grandfather, pointing to the clerk, and he confirmed he saw him go in but not come out; on top of which, if you look behind the desk you can see that his key isn’t in its slot.
Guests often take their keys with them when they go out, the manager said, now concentrating his preening on the right point of his mustache exclusively.
You know perfectly well that Mr. Tuttle is in his room. But you don’t want to cooperate—which, if you don’t mind my saying so, strikes me as rather risky.
Risky?
Perhaps he’s had some sort of accident. If we delay much longer, it may be too late.
What the hell are you talking about, sir? asked the manager. Mr. Tuttle most likely just wants a little privacy. He’s up in his room, doing who knows what, and isn’t answering the phone because he doesn’t feel like it.
In point of fact, we have reason to believe something very serious has happened. His life might be in danger—that’s why we’re here. Actually, it may already be too late. Why can’t we just go up and knock on the door? Alfau asked. He seemed to be getting more upset with every new exhortation.
We take our guests’ privacy very seriously, sir. It’s a sacred trust—especially at a place like the Chelsea. I take it you’re familiar with our reputation? We can’t just go up and open a door, especially if we suspect the guest is inside. Who knows what we could find in there? I’m very sorry, gentlemen, I just can’t. I’m sure you’ll see my point if you’d just calm down.
Colón stood right behind Alfau, ready to hold him back in case he lost control. As of yet, the Catalan contented himself with raising his voice. His rage was such that the manager’s resolution began to crack.
How many times do I have to tell you that each minute that passes is crucial? Do you give a damn about your guests’ lives or not?
Hedging his bets, Colón took this opportunity to grab Alfau by the arms, just in case—which was providential, as it was this gesture that made the manager relent.
José, get me the duplicate key to room 305, he said to the clerk, and up they all went. The manager banged on the door for a full five minutes, putting more and more strength into it until he was forced to give up. Now as unsettled as the others, he put the key in the lock.
David said—as Ben reported—that it was a sight he’d carry with him to the grave. It was a small room, with a checkered marble floor and a small window that looked out into an inner courtyard. It was sparsely furnished: a single-door armoire, a narrow desk, a chair—where Mr. Tuttle had left his frock coat, top hat, and watch—and, incongruously, a bed with a canopy whose green curtains were drawn. A stool had been knocked over and lay on its side in the middle of the room. Mr. Tuttle was hanging from a polka-dot bow tie that he had tied to a hook he had nailed into one of the ceiling beams himself—as the presence of a hammer on the table proved. His tongue was lolling out and his face was swollen and purplish. Around his crotch was a wet mark that ran down the seams to the hem of his pants, which was still dripping into a yellow puddle on the marble tile.
For some reason, before taking his life, Mr. Tuttle had removed his undergarments, which were black, and put his clothes back on. On top of the small wooden table by the armoire, the hotel staff and the delegation of Knights Incoherent could see a pair of socks and a union suit.
OPIUM
[From a notebook dated 1972.
Text revised in January 1991.]
Moreau explained to me how access to the smoke rooms in the opium den worked. To preserve secrecy, clients were given cards with directions to different entrances whose locations changed every few hours. These points of entry could be found in all sorts of locales, from the shabbiest to the most luxurious. My guess is that there’s a whole maze of passages that connect a web of hidden rooms in homes and shops. The police had been bought off, while they in turn have placed double agents inside the Chinese mafia, so that the relationship between the two has become a hall of mirrors. For security reasons, new “entry” cards are being issued all the time.
I looked at the back of the card Moreau had just given me. You see that gray band? Scrape it off for the address of your entrance. But as soon as the inscription comes into contact with the air, it begins to fade, and in a matter of minutes it’s gone. Also, the Frenchman went on, if you don’t show up at the place within two hours, the address is no longer good.
What happens then?
Nothing, but when you get there, it could be a flower shop or a children’s clothing store, in which case all you can do is buy a bouquet of flowers or a jumper. Or a pound of shrimp if you end up at a fishmonger’s, he added, laughing and faking a punch to my stomach. In any case, all the addresses are in Chinatown.
He didn’t tell me how much he had paid for the card, but I knew from Louise that they were expensive.
A few friends of mine are going there today as well, he said, I don’t know if you’ve met them. Louise and Mussifiki will be there too. So have fun.
Do I scratch for the address now?
Whenever you want, as long as you’re there in the next couple of hours. I bought your ticket at noon. All right, see you later.
I scratched the surface of the card with a quarter.
The address was 120 Mott Street. Below it was a phrase that seemed to be pulled from the I Ching: The cranes have built their nests in the snowy garden. I watched the letters fade and put the card back in my pocket. I took the subway to Canal Street and walked north up Mott. I left behind a throng of restaurants, shops, street stalls, specialty stores, teahouses, and a temple with an enormous golden Buddha. I crossed Canal and passed the last fish stores, fruit stands, and warehouses. 120 Mott is half a block north of Grand Street. I stood in front of a wooden door painted brown. I pressed the bell and heard a frayed voice over the intercom. I didn’t understand a single word, but when it stopped, I spoke the password as clearly as I could: The cranes have built their nests in the snowy garden, I said. A young woman holding a baby in her arms turned the corner and didn’t take her eyes off me until she had gone past. I heard the buzzing of the door and went into a space that looked like a store that had been recently ransacked. The metal shelves on the walls were empty. On the paper covering the wall nearest the street there was the outline of a piece of furniture that seemed to have just been removed after years in the same spot. In the back, behind a wooden counter, there was a sickly man, with a gruff face, looking like a Sicilian from central casting. He had a three-day beard, a black vest and beret, a white collarless shirt, and his fists clenched with knuckles pressing into the counter. Behind him was a red door.
The card,
he demanded when he got tired of looking at me.
I took it out of my pocket and placed it face up on the counter. The front of the card was violet, colored with the silhouette of a crane above a row of Chinese characters. The man glanced at it and lifted a part of the counter, letting me by. I reached to grab the card, thinking I could keep it, but the Sicilian (supposing that’s what he was) held it down with a finger and signaled toward the red door with his chin. After I went in, the door clicked shut behind me, leaving me in complete darkness. All I could see was a crack of light at the end of the hallway. I groped my way forward slowly, my hand on a damp wall, until I came to a light switch and flipped it on. Farther away, a bulb barely casting any light came on. There were puddles on the floor. A few yards ahead the water swarmed with life. I moved forward, my feet splashing. A multitude of reddish eyes turned toward me, and the hallway filled with high-pitched squeals. I had interrupted a congregation of rats engaged in something or other I probably didn’t want to know about. For a moment, I thought they were going to attack me, but soon their shadows shot off in all directions and they disappeared. Some darted through my legs. I stepped around a bundle that gave off an unbearable stench and did my best not to figure out what it might be.
Call Me Brooklyn Page 24