Her Name Was Lola

41 No Answer

July 1997. Max turns on Fujitsu/Siemens, says, ‘Take me to Moe Levy’s place.’ Fujitsu/Siemens shrugs, hums a little, and sets him down in a desolation where the policemen walk in fours when they (rarely) go there. Sodden mattresses, rusty bedsprings, and broken prams litter the concrete yard. The lift doesn’t work, which is just as well since it seems to be used as a toilet. Max walks slowly up five flights, pausing to rest from time to time. A long balcony overlooks the yard and he goes from door to door (all of them covered with graffiti) until he finds one with the name Levy under the bell. He rings but the bell doesn’t work. He knocks but there’s no answer. He knocks again and keeps it up until he hears footsteps. ‘Whaddaya want?’ says a voice. Male? Female? Max is unsure.

‘I want to talk to Moe,’ he says.

‘Not here,’ says the voice. The footsteps recede.

‘Where is he then?’ says Max.

No answer.

‘When’s he coming back?’ says Max.

No answer.

‘I don’t understand it,’ says Max to himself. ‘What’s he doing in a dump like this?’

No answer.