Little misunderstandings of no importance : stories

SLEIGHT OF HAND

Because, at bottom, habit is a rite; we think we’re doing something for our pleasure but actually we’re i carrying out a duty that we’ve imposed upon ourselves. Or else, it’s a charm, he reflected, perhaps habit is a kind of exorcism, and then we feel it as a pleasure. Was it really a pleasure to take the ferry from the Battery, that Saturday, among the crowd of dazed tourists, to make the crossing, which inevitably gave him a squeamish feeling in his stomach, to walk around the enormous granite pedestal and look at seagulls and skyscrapers? No, no pleasure, he admitted to himself, or, rather, no longer a pleasure. It was a rite, obviously in remembrance of an excursion made for the first time years ago when Dolores was still there. We had looked up at the enormous bulk of Liberty, holding out her torch like a promise. To whom, and for when? Then it had a different meaning, it was a pilgrimage and at the same time a talisman, a send-off for the first transaction. Perhaps now it was for Dolores, he was doing it for her, in her memory; it was a continual, repetitive action, like that of a man who refuses to change his habits for fear of obliterating a memory. For the same reason he liked to take the subway to Brooklyn Heights, to wander around streets lined with decaying nineteenth-century houses. He could still hear her voice and the typically South American double s sound when she spoke of her devotion to “La Caussa.” Like “Rossario”, for “Rosario” the icecream parlour in Little Italy, which was also part of the rite, a tribute to times gone by. Dolores liked Italians, more than he did in spite of his Sicilian mother. The old proprietor had died two years ago, now the place was run by his Americanized son, there was no one he knew, only anonymous faces; a pistachio ice-cream and a glass of club soda, please. He and Dolores used to sit in a booth in one corner; the partition had a panel of black leather bearing a framed view of Mount Etna. Tired. Yes, he was tired. La Causa, an evening at the Opera. What a bright idea! Every now and then they had these ideas. He’d have liked, just once, to meet them. Where were they, anyhow? New York, London, Geneva, where? They managed the money and transmitted orders, in a clean, efficient, silent manner, from far away. A post-office box, an assumed name, come in once a month, sometimes months with nothing to do, absolutely nothing, silence, sometimes a ticket like this one, from one day to the next. “The Met, Sunday, 2 November, fourth row orchestra, Rigoletto, Scene 7, deliver at Sparafucil mi nomino, take the usual rake-off, viva la causa.” That was all, together with the ticket for the first seat on the fourth row, whence the entire row could be surveyed with only a slight inclination of the head. Idiots. “For the rest, try to take care of it yourself.” The rest was quite a lot. He went to the toilets, stopping on the way at the pay phone to call Bolivar. There was an infernal noise in the workshop, but that didn’t matter; the conversation was brief: “Do you have it?” “Yes, I have it.” “I’ll be right there.” “I’ll expect you.” He didn’t hang up right away, which was breaking the rules, he knew, but he was furious; those idiots are sending me to the Opera, they’re playing at James Bond. When he hung up it was abruptly, as if the telephone were to blame.

And now all the rest. First of all the hotel, that hotel called… what was it called; he’d passed in front of it so many times and still the name wouldn’t come. Old age, that was why. The devil with old age, stupid old man, it’s those idiots who’ve lapsed into second childhood with their silly games! Better try Tourist Information. “Hello, Miss, I’d like the names of three or four hotels near to Central Park, the best, mind you, and their telephone numbers.” “Just a second.” A few hundred seconds! Rosario Jr. was signalling from the counter that the pistachio ice-cream was melting. “Yes, you can tell me, I’m writing them down. Plaza, Pierre, Mayfair, Ritz Carlton, Park Lane, . that’s enough, thank you.” I may as well make the calls, the ice-cream has completely melted. Rosario Jr. can only throw it away. No rooms at the Plaza, of course, this city is full of millionaires, same thing at the Pierre. Nice if there were something at the Mayfair, where there’s a first-class restaurant, Le Cirque: he’d been there before so he knew he could count on a good midnight supper after the Opera. “See if you can’t find a room for me, it’s only for one night.” “Sorry, sir, everything’s taken, nothing I can do.” Devil take you then. The Park Lane, at last, there had to be a room in those forty-six storeys. “Yes, I’ll hold it for you, Mr. Franklin. Good evening and thank you.” He was worn out. But now it was done; time enough to call for the parcel tomorrow, better not keep all that money at the hotel, and he could rent a dinner jacket tomorrow, too. Of course Bolivar was waiting for him, well, let him wait, and so he left the cafe and took a taxi to the Battery because he wanted to touch the Statue of Liberty, according to his usual rite, and then to sit on a bench, look at the bay and the seagulls and think of Dolores. He tossed a cork into the water, filthy water, filthy pavements, even the Statue was filthy, the whole city was filthy. Two women wearing transparent plastic raincoats handed him their camera with a silent plea, then posed, with the forced smiles proper to a photograph. He framed them in the viewer, trying to include a skyscraper or two in the background, as they had indicated. Strange, he thought, that little shutter which opened and shut like an eye, click, and transfixed a passing moment, beyond recall, for eternity. Click. “Thank you.” “Don’t mention it. Good evening.” Click. A second. Ten years gone by like a second. Dolores gone, irretrievable, and yet she had been there only a second before, smiling against a background of skyscrapers, at this very spot. Click: ten years. Suddenly the ten years weighed on his shoulders, and the fifty years of his life, as heavy as the tons of that stone and metal colossus. Better go straight to Bolivar’s and get it over with and rent the dinner jacket on the way; it was crazy to keep all that money around overnight, another violation of the rules, but they were crazy to hand him over such a sum for delivery. What did it mean? Were they testing his efficacy or counting the years of his old age? A gala first performance at the Metropolitan, a dinner jacket and thousands of dollars in cash. Quite a joke.

It was a joke, Bolivar, I was only joking. After having been all too imprudent he chose to make an awkward excuse. Bolivar’s big, curly-haired head, the glass-enclosed office of the noisy workshop, the parcel tied up in brown wrapping-paper; “Of course, old man, there has to be some joking every now and then; by the way, how’s business?” “I can’t complain, car accidents are on the increase, ha-ha.” Bolivar. That gypsylike face with eyes like those of a devoted dog, the Firestone overalls, ten years of a friendship with no real friendship to it; no questions asked, no information given, nothing like who are you, what do you do, where are you going, how do you live, nothing. Just a handshake, how’s business, have a cigarette, here’s something for you. “But who gives it to you, Bolivar, where do you get it, who brings it, I’d like to know.” Bolivar only stared at him with eyes wide-open, “What sort of question is that, what’s got into you?” “Nothing, really, all of a sudden I was curious, I’m growing old.” “Come now, you’re a young man, Franklin.” “No, I’m growing old, I know it, and they know it, too. Soon I’ll be no more use to them, they’ll throw me out, you know how it goes, Bolivar, in fact, you may be the one to get rid of me, one day you’ll get the orders.” “What the devil are you saying, Franklin?” “Nothing, I was joking, Bolivar. I’m in a mood for joking today. I snapped a photograph of two women tourists and with that single click of the camera ten years went by, something that can happen, you know.” “I’ll go with you to the door, Franklin, but by the way, is it true that they’re sending you to the theatre? What theatre is it?” “What sort of a question is that, what’s got into you? Questions like that are out, I’ll see you another time.” “I was joking, too, Franklin. Hasta la vista.”

In order to persuade the taxi driver to take him for the short distance between the hotel and the Opera House, he thrust a fifty-dollar bill under his nose. No arguments with anybody, and no running the risk of walking with all that money on him, and a dinner jacket. It would be like saying: Mugger, mug me. The driver took the money and didn’t even turn on the meter. A driver of the kind that lines up in front of the Park Lane, sporting a bow tie and with good manners, one of a rare species. He got out amid the crowd. Lights making it bright as day, smart turnouts near the fountain, a social event. The entrance was already filled with people. He checked in his overcoat and scarf at the cloakroom and looked around. His contact wasn’t there, so his intuition told him. He went to the foyer — an orange juice with an olive, thank you — yes, his contact was here, among the crowd. Sometimes he had singled him out at first glance, but that was in less crowded places — the library of the Hispanic Society, the toy department of Altmans, the Tourist Information Office on Times Square. He surveyed the scene. Too many people, too much light, too much red velvet. He went into the orchestra section and all the way to his seat. From this vantage point he could watch his neighbours arrive, that was an easier process. Some of his neighbours were already seated and he began to examine their faces. A Japanese, around thirty years old, with gold-rimmed glasses, an impenetrable expression, profession uncertain. A fifty-year old intellectual in the company of a fair-haired younger man with pale hands and delicate features. A middle-aged couple, the husband probably a Boston lawyer. A blonde girl sitting next to an older man, hard to say whether they were together: if so, then he was a big businessman and she was his girlfriend, they certainly weren’t married, although he was wearing a wedding ring. Then two young couples, well-off newlyweds from out of town, and an old gentleman in a dinner jacket too large for him, two possibilities: either he had been on a drastic diet or else the dinner jacket was rented. Finally, a dark young man, with a close-clipped black moustache and smooth, glossy hair, a Latin-American type, took the seat next to his. The gong sounded.

And now le roi s’amuse. But what king and king of what? Victor Hugo’s king was a king of ghosts and assumed names, he amused himself not at all. But Verdi’s Duke, yes, he knew how to go about it. Delia mia incognita borgheseI Toccare il fin dell’avventura io voglio, My adventure with that unknown girl of the people I would pursue — he sang it with the self-assurance of a star aware that the evening was his: you’ve come from all over New York to hear me, I’m the world’s greatest tenor, here’s my calling-card. Immediate applause from a public easy to please, present for a social occasion. The scenery was vulgar, Mantua’s ducal palace hardly good enough for a Hollywood set, too much pale pink and pale blue, terrible, really, better give your eyes a rest. He bent his head ever so slightly and looked down the row of seats. The blonde girl had put on a pair of designer glasses with fake diamonds on the stems, and seemed to be concentrating. Her probable companion seemed more distracted, his eyes were following the Contessa di Ceprano, who was crossing the stage with a lady-in-waiting: sometimes mezzo-sopranos have generous but not overflowing figures and the kind of beauty just right for a businessman in his sixties. Anco d’Argo i cent’occhi disfido/se mi punge una qualche belta. The hundred eyes of Argo I defy/If a beauty strikes my eye. The Japanese had a tic in his left eye, he blinked twice in succession and then raised his eyebrow, imperceptibly, sending no clear message. The two out-of-town couples were bubbling over with happiness. One of the brides, the less ugly of the two, had a trace of lipstick at the corner of her mouth, perhaps because of the hurry to get there on time and a quick make-up in the taxi; if it were called to her attention she’d die of embarrassment. The intellectual was bored, he must have been the only one with the good taste not to care for the opera; his fair-haired companion seemed equally bored for the opposite reason. The old gentleman, on the contrary, was carried away, his lips silently forming Monterone’s words, tu che d’un padre ridi al dolore sii maledetto, may you be cursed for laughing at a father’s sorrow. Hypothesis: he was no connoisseur or he wouldn’t be carried away by a performance like this one. Alternative hypothesis: he was a connoisseur of feelings, moved by Caruso and Neapolitan songs, but connoisseurs of this kind don’t go to first nights at the Opera. The probable Latin-American, young and well-dressed, who looked like a heartbreaker, was equally out of tune with the opera. He seemed aware of being scrutinized and turned a receptive eye, staring back, first briefly, then at greater length. The chorus had embarked on the final aria of Scene 6, but the Duke stood above them all; piu speme non c’e, un’ora fatale fu questa per te, all hope is lost, this hour was fatal for you. Curtain, thundering applause. The young man looked at him again and winked, then whispered into his ear with a strong Italian accent: “His Italian is bad and, like all tenors, he’s vain.” He smiled back and nodded assent. Franklin, you’ve botched it, he said to himself, wishing he could leave.

But the scenery of the alleyway was passable, more realistic and less vulgar. The baritone was an excellent Rigoletto and a good actor as well. He asked how payment was to be made and Sparafucile, the gun for hire, sang in answer: Una meta si anticipa, il resto si da poi. Half in advance, the rest later. He turned his head around, looking down the line of faces in a quite obvious manner. The conductor was taking it very slowly, dragging everything out with long pauses! He spelled out the dialogue from his own memory, then stopped and waited. Here it was. Sparafucile laid one hand, grandiloquently, on his heart and stretched out the other arm: Sparafucil mi nomino! The blonde girl turned her head sideways, and their eyes met. She gave a slight nod — she had a half-smiling, malicious mouth. She transferred her attention back to the stage and did not turn again. Botched once more, Franklin. Then he thought, no, it’s not possible. He slipped his hand under his jacket, the money was there, evenly distributed under the wide elastic belt; he touched it to make sure, then closed his eyes and let his thoughts wander in space and time, leaving the Opera House and the music far behind.

He waited for her on the edge of the crowd in the foyer, at the beginning of a passageway; she arrived with a trace of a smile still on her lips and walked resolutely towards him. She was the contact, no doubt of it. “Good evening, would you like a drink?” “No thanks, I’d rather do business right away; I imagine you left a box of chocolates at the cloakroom. Shall we exchange checks? If, on the other hand, you’ve the money on you, let’s go to a telephone booth, where I can use this big evening bag. I had to look all over to find this size.” Her voice was steady, indifferent. High cheekbones, brown eyes, good-looking. Thirty perhaps, or forty, hard to tell. She lit a cigarette and looked quietly at him. An easy, professional manner. “Not now,” he said, “sorry, it’s not the moment. At the end of the opera, if that big businessman doesn’t get in the way.” “What businessman?” “The one sitting next to you.” “Don’t be silly, I came alone, never saw him before in my life, but I don’t understand why you’re making me wait until the end.” “You’ll understand later.”

Why, though, really? Did he really understand why? No, he didn’t, and he didn’t want to think about it. Exactly. Because I’m tired. Because I snapped a photograph. Because Dolores is gone, because too much time has passed, because, because, because, that’s all. Because I want to have some dinner. “Come and have dinner with me.” They left their seats while the audience was on its feet to call the tenor back to the stage. She followed him in silence. At the cloakroom he picked up his coat and scarf and showed her his hands, palms upward: “Nothing up my sleeve, no chocolates. I left the money at the hotel, if you want it, just come by, but first I’m going to have some dinner, I’m hungry as a wolf, I’ve had nothing to eat since yesterday, when I had a melted pistachio ice-cream.” “What hotel are you at?” “Never mind, if you want the money come to dinner with me, if you’re not hungry then you can just watch me eat.” She laughed and slipped her arm into his: “Let’s decide in the taxi, I opt for Lutece, the best French restaurant in New York. This evening deserves a French dinner.” “Fair enough.” Silence in the taxi except: “It’s against the rules, you were supposed to slip the money to me at the Opera.” “True, I agree. But no more of that now. Let’s concentrate on French cooking.”

They chose an inconspicuous table. “Waiter, take away all these candles, one’s enough, we want subdued light… Shall we go overboard?” “Yes, let’s.” “Then oysters to begin with, and champagne, not too cold.” “What’s your name?” “It doesn’t matter. Call me Franklin, how about you?” “Call me what you like.” “Perfect, Callmewhatyoulike is a lovely name, more like a surname, isn’t it, but whatever you say, Callmewhatyoulike.” That’s the way it all starts sometimes, with a joke, and then a conversation is sparked and carried on, that is, if the channel is working. It was working, wine helped. He did most of the talking: the East River, years ago, trips to Mexico, enthusiasms, dead friends, all ghosts. “I’m tired,” he said, “I’m all alone, I’ve had enough…” Pineapples in brandy to top it off, and two cups of coffee. “Waiter, bring me a big box of chocolates, please.” He asked her to excuse him for a moment and went to the lavatory, where he threw away the chocolates and filled the box with dollars. On the way back he paid the bill, bought a rose from the cloakroom girl and laid it in the box. “Here,” he said when he had come back to the table, “the very best chocolates, I had them with me the whole time. Forgive my playing games with you.” She took a look inside. “Why did you do it?” “I needed company, for too many years I’ve been dining alone. I hope the dinner was to your taste, and now excuse me again, I’m going to bed, thanks for your company, Callmewhatyoulike, and goodnight, I doubt if we’ll meet again.”

As he crossed the room he left a generous tip with the waiter, “Merci, Monsieur, au revoir,” his legs were holding out, he was only slightly drunk, no headache, only a pleasurable sensation. She caught up with him when he was already in the taxi, slid in beside him and said decisively, “I’m coming with you.” He looked at her and she smiled. “I’m alone, too. Let’s keep each other company, just for tonight.” “The responsibility is yours, Callmewhatyoulike… Driver, the Park Lane, please.”

“Let’s leave the curtains open so we can see the city by night, New York is something to see from a fortieth floor, so many lights, so many people, so many stories behind all those windows, put your arms around me, it’s lovely standing here, just look at that building, it’s like an ocean liner, if it were to slip anchor and take off into the night it wouldn’t surprise me.” “Or me either.” “What’s your name? Callmewhatyoulike is a surname, tell me your first name, invent it if you must.” “Sparafucile’s my name.” “That’s better Sparafucile Callmewhatyoulike; it’s been wonderful, I felt I really loved you, a way I haven’t felt for years: excuse me while I go to the bathroom.”

The bathroom lights, too bright as usual, too bright for even a theatre dressing-room. He looked at himself in the mirror. Under the dazzling reflector his baldness was painful to note, but he didn’t really care. He rinsed his mouth and rubbed his forehead. He might even have whistled. Her makeup kit lay on the marble shelf. He couldn’t say why he opened it, sometimes we make such gestures out of sheer intuition. It’s a funny feeling to find yourself in a make-up kit. But there was his photograph, between the face powder and the mirror, a full-length picture, captured by a telephoto lens, on the street, somewhere or other. He held it between his thumb and forefinger for a few seconds before he could draw any conclusion. She couldn’t know who he was, much less know him personally. She wasn’t supposed to. He looked hard at the image staring out at him from the coarse-grained paper on which pictures snapped by a telephoto lens are often printed, an anonymous man in the crowd, the face a little thin and drawn, Franklin. In his imagination he saw the viewfinder framing his face and his heart. Click. While he was turning the doorknob he thought of her big evening bag; now he knew that there was something in it besides money; if he’d wanted to think about it earlier he’d have realized… but perhaps he hadn’t wanted to think. He was sorry, he reflected, not about the fact in itself, but about all the rest. Because it had been wonderful. He’d have liked to tell her he was sorry that she had to be Sparafucile; it was too bad and also funny because everything had seemed different. But he knew he wouldn’t have time.