Frank shook his head. "They've forgotten me," he said. "They don't need us any more. They need new writers. In 1933 I still had all sorts of plans. Now I have none. I'm an old man. It's awful to be old. It creeps up on you and you don't know it. But now I know. Do you know when it dawned on me? When I realized that the Nazis had lost the war and that maybe I could go back. Go backl What for? Where to? I'm finished."
No one answered. I looked out the window at the clear winter sky. The room trembled as trucks rumbled past Frank and Hölzer took their leave.
"I suppose you've heard about Carmen getting married," said Kahn.
"Tannenbaum told me. But it's so easy to get divorced in this country."
Kahn laughed. "Good old Robert! Any more words of comfort?"
"No. Except that you're better off than Frank or Holzer. You're not seventy-five and you're not a matinee idol."
"Did you hear what Frank said?"
"Yes. That he's finished. And has nowhere to go. That he's suddenly become an old man. We're not old men."
Kahn was a man of iron discipline. But for all his composure I could see that he was shattered. I laid it to Betty and Carmen and thought it would pass. "It's a good thing you didn't come to the funeral," I said. "It was horrible."
"She was lucky," Kahn said. "She died at the right time. If she'd gone back, she would have died of disappointment As it is, she died with hope in her heart. I know she despaired at the end, but she still had a spark of hope."
I saw there was nothing I could do to help him. He was running around in circles like a constipated dog. He rejected the slightest attempt at consolation in advance. It was plain that he wanted to be alone, and, besides, I was tired. Only one thing is more tiring than running around in circles, and that is trying to keep up with someone else who is doing it
"See you tomorow," I said. "I've got to get back to work. But why were you hobnobbing with Frank and Hölzer? You never used to be a masochist"
"They were at Betty's funeral. Didn't you see them?"
"No. There was such a crowd."
"They came straight here from the funeral parlor. They wanted me to cheer them up. I'm afraid I let them down."
I left. It was almost a relief to be back with Silvers in bis somewhat baroque, yet wholesomely businesslike world.
"Isn't your friend on Fifty-seventh Street taking a winter vacation?" I asked Natasha. "Why wouldn't he go to Florida, for instance? Hasn't he got asthma or bronchitis or something? Isn't this cold weather bad for him?"
"It's the heat that disagrees with him. He always goes away in the summer."
"That doesn't help us right now. It's terrible to be a poor lover in America. Where does sex take place in this country?"
"In cars."
"But what if you have no car?" I couldn't help thinking of the spacious Rolls-Royce with the built-in bar. But maybe, I consoled myself, Fraser himself couldn't drive and the chauffeur was my guardian angel. "What do all these healthy young men do without brothels? In France they are open at ten o'clock in the morning, psychiatrists are unknown, and you hardly ever hear of a nervous breakdown. Anyway, that"s how it was before the war."
I was sitting in a wobbly armchair, upholstered with the same plush as the furniture in the lobby—and in all the other rooms from cellar to attic. The mysterious owner of the hotel must have hijacked a carload of plush thirty years before.
Natasha was lying on the bed. On the table in front of us were the remains of our dinner, supplied by the delicatessen, that magnificent institution, the salvation of all kitchenless Americans, where you can buy hot roast chickens, cakes, cold cuts, canned goods, luxurious toilet paper, dill pickles, caviar (black and red), bread, butter, and Band-Aids—in short, everything but condoms; for them you must go to the drugstore, where a white-clad clerk dispenses them with a hushed conspiratorial air.
I put a kettle of water on the electric hot plate. Then I lit a White Owl cigar to mask the smell of coffee that would inevitably seep out in the corridor. There was no real danger; though cooking was officially forbidden, nobody cared. But when Natasha was there, I was cautious; maybe the invisible owner would come creeping through the corridors. He had never done so, but that was what made me suspicious. Too many things that never happened had happened in my life.
As I was pouring the coffee, someone knocked at the door, softly but persistently. "Hide under my coat," I said. "Pull in your head and legs. I'd go see who it is."
I unlocked the door and opened it a crack. The Puerto Rican woman was outside. She put her finger to her lips. "Police," she whispered.
"What!"
"Downstairs. Three cops. Be careful Maybe search hotel. Be careful."
"What's going on?"
"You alone? No woman?"
"No," I said. "Is that why the police are here?"
"I don't know. About Melikov, I think. Not sure. Maybe search. Arrest woman if find."
"Why? On account of Melikov?"
"Don't know. Better hide."
In the bathroom, I thought But if the police found Natasha in the bathroom, it would look even worse. She couldn't get away if the cops were downstairs. Damn it, I thought, what can we do?
Suddenly Natasha was standing beside me. She had dressed in two seconds flat. She was perfectly calm. "It's Melikov," she said. "They must have picked him up."
The Puerto Rican woman made hurried signs. "Quick. You come my room. Pedro come here. Understand?"
"Yes."
"See you later," said Natasha, and followed the woman. Pedro, the Mexican, emerged from the shadow of the corridor, hiking up his suspenders. "Buenos tardes, senor. Better this way."
I understood. If the police came, Pedro was my guest and Natasha the woman's. Much simpler than the melodramatic Anglo-Saxon solution of climbing through toilet windows and escaping over icy rooftops. A Latin solution. "Sit down, Pedro," I said. "Cigar?"
"Thank you.. Better a cigarette. Many thanks, Sefior Roberto. I have my own."
He was nervous. "Papers," he mumbled. "Tough spot Maybe they won't come up."
"No papers? You can say you left them home."
"Not so hot. Are yours any good?"
"Pretty good. But who wants to tangle with the police?" I was nervous myself. "Care for some vodka?"
"Too strong. Better keep a clear head. But I'd like some coffee."
I poured the coffee, which Pedro drank quickly. "What's this business about Melikov?" I asked. "Do you know?"
Pedro shook his head violently. Then he closed one eye, cupped his hand, held it up to his nose and sniffed.
"Is it true?" I asked.
He shrugged his shoulders. I remembered the hints Natasha had thrown out "Is there anything I can do?" I asked.
"Nothing," said Pedro. "Just keep quiet Anything you do will make it worse for Melikov. Is there a little more coffee, Sefior Roberto?"
I gave him the rest. Better put the hot plate away, I thought You never know what the police can use against you. "A piece of cake with your coffee?" I asked.
"No, thank you. I'm too nervous."
I put the hot plate in my suitcase and looked around to see if Natasha had left any traces. Only cigarette butts with lipstick marks. I opened the window as quietly as I could and threw out the contents of the ash tray. Then I crept to the door, opened it, and listened.
I heard faint sounds from the lobby. Then steps on the stairs. The police. I knew that tread, I had heard it often enough in Germany, Belgium, and France. I closed the door quickly. "They're coming," I said.
Pedro dropped his cigarette. "They're going upstairs," I said.
Pedro picked up his cigarette. "To Melikov's room,"
"Do you think they've got a search warrant?"
He shrugged his shoulders again. "A warrant? With poor people?"
"I see what you mean." I ought to have known. Why should New York be different from anywhere else in the world? My papers were good, but not so very good. Pedro was probably in the same situatio
n. As to the Puerto Rican woman, I didn't know. The only thing I was sure of was that they would let Natasha go, but they could hold the rest of us till kingdom come. I cut off a big piece of the Sara Lee chocolate cake and stuffed it into my mouth. The food in police stations is notoriously bad.
I looked out the window. There was light in some of the windows across the court "Where's your lady friend's room?" I asked Pedro. "Can we see it from here?"
He came to the window. His curly hair smelled of some sort of sweet oil. He looked up. "No. It's right on top of us. You can't see it from here."
We had quite a long wait. Now and then we opened the door and listened. Not a sound. The hotel guests seemed to know what was going on, and no one stirred from his room. Finally I heard the unmistakable heavy steps coming down. I closed the door. "I think they're leaving," I said. "I guess they were only interested in Melikov."
Pedro heaved a sigh of relief. "Why can't they leave people alone? What's the harm in a little snow if it makes a man happy? Over there they're killing millions with their bombs and here they get all hot and bothered about a little white powder."
His eyes were moist, and the whites were tinged with blue. He probably used cocaine himself, I thought "Have you known Melikov long?" I asked.
"Not so long."
I shut up. What business was it of mine? I wondered if anything could be done to help Melikov. No, I decided— anyway, not by foreigners with dubious papers.
The door opened. It was Natasha. "They're gone," she said. "They've taken Melikov with them."
Pedro stood up. The Puerto Rican woman came in. "Okay, Pedro, we go."
"Many thanks," I said to her. "You've been very kind."
She smiled. "Poor people help each other."
"Not always."
Natasha kissed her cheek. "Thanks for the address, Raquel."
"What address?" I asked when we were alone.
"For stockings. She's got the longest I've ever seen. They're hard to find. Most stockings are too short. Raquel showed me hers. They're marvelous."
"Pedro was less entertaining."
"Naturally. He was scared. He takes cocaine. And now he'a got a problem. Hell have to find another pusher."
"Was Melikov one?"
"The gangster who owns this hotel forced him. If he'd refused, he'd have been fired. He'd never have found another job. Too old."
"Is there anything we can do for him?"
"No. Only the gangster can help him. Maybe hell get him out. He's got a very smart lawyer. Hell have to do something. Melikov might talk if he didn't."
"Who told you all this?"
"Raquel."
Natasha looked around. "Where's the cake?"
"Here. I ate the rest."
"Is that what danger does to you?"
"No. Just a precaution. And Pedro drank the coffee. Do you want some?"
"No, I'd better get out of here. The police might come back."
"I guess you're right I'll take you home."
"No, stay here. Somebody might be watching the lobby. If I'm alone, I can say I was visiting Raquel. Isn't it exciting?"
"Too exciting for me. I hate excitement"
She laughed. "I love it."
I took her to the head of the stairs. Suddenly she had tears in her eyes. "Poor Vladimir," she muttered.
She went down quickly and very erect. I went back to my room and cleared the table. Clearing tables has always made me sad, probably because it reminds me of the im-permanence of all things, even of a lousy chocolate cake. In a sudden access of rage I opened the window and threw out what was left of the cake. Let the cats have a party, now that mine was over. I went downstairs. There was no one in sight; people have a way of avoiding places where the police have been. I crept through the orphaned lobby. You never really appreciate a man until he's gone, I thought a truth all the more crushing for being so banal. I thought of Natasha—it would be harder now to smuggle her into my room. A wave of self-pity swept over me. It had been a gray day. Weighed down with past partings, I had thought of the partings to come, feeling utterly wretched because I could think of no way out. I dreaded the night and my bed; I was afraid of being sucked in by my nightmares. The only hope, I thought, was to go for a walk and get good and tired. I went back to my room for my coat Fifth Avenue was deathly still. In the light of the street lamps the shops glittered like glass coffins, as though rain had frozen on the panes. I heard my own footfalls and thought of the police and then of Melikov languishing in some cage. Suddenly I felt very tired and turned back. It occurred, to me for no reason at all that now in February the almond trees in Sicily must already be in blossom. I walked faster and faster; someone had told me that brisk exercise relieves sadness, but I was too tired to notice whether it worked.
XXXII
The weeks melted away like the snow in the streets. For a while I heard nothing of Melikov. -Then one morning he was back. "Is it all over?" I asked him.
He shook his head. "I'm out on bau. I'm coming up for trial."
"Have they got anything on you?"
"Let's not talk about it, Robert. And for your own good, don't ask questions. The less you know in this town, the better off you are."
"I understand, Vladimir. But you've lost weight. Why did they hold you so long?"
"No questions, I said. Believe me, it's better that way. And keep away from me."
"No," I said."
"I mean it But now let's have a drink of vodka. It's been a long time."
"You're not looking well. You look thin and sad."
"I'm seventy. Had a birthday in jail. And I've got high blood pressure."
"There are cures for that."
"Robert," said Melikov under his breath, "there's no cure for trouble. I don't want to die in jail."
For a moment I listened to the drip drip drip of the melting' snow outside. Then I said very softly: "Can't you do what I've always done in times of danger? This is a big country and nobody checks on your papers. Besides, each state has different laws."
"No, Robert. I don't want to be a hunted man. I'll just have to take my chances. Maybe the people who bailed me out can help me." He forced a smile. "Let's just drink our vodka and hope for a good heart attack while I'm still at large."
In March the Vriesländers announced their daughter's engagement—to an American. They were married in April. Vriesländer decided to give two receptions—rone for Americans, the other for refugees. He was determined to become more American with each passing day, and he regarded his daughter's marriage to a genuine American as an important step in this direction. But at the same time he wanted to show us stateless waifs that, though he soft-pedaled his origins, he was not utterly unfaithful to them. The first reception, the real one, so to speak, was confined to his new connections and to a few selected refugees who were already naturalized or at least held academic positions. The other was for the deserving poor. I had no desire to go, but Natasha made me. She had developed a passion for the Vriesländer goulash and hoped I would bring home a jar of it.
As Vriesländer put it, this party was a kind of leave-taking, but at the same time it marked the beginning of a new era. "Our forty years in the wilderness are almost over," he said.
"Where is the Promised Land?" Kahn asked.
"Right here!" said Vriesländer in astonishment "Where else would it be?"
"Then it's a victory celebration!"
"Jews dont celebrate victories, Mr. Kahn," said Vriesländer. "Jews celebrate escapes."
"Will the young couple be here?" I asked Mrs Vriesländer.
"No. They've gone to Florida on their honeymoon."
"To Miami?"
"No, to Palm Beach. It's more exclusive."
I looked around. The same faces as usual, but the atmosphere had changed. Vriesländer gave a party for refugees every few months, chiefly to provide all these lost souls with a haven and gathering place. In this emigration, as in countless others before it, assimilation began with the second genera
tion. The children went to American schools and slipped effortlessly into American ways. Not so the first generation, who found it as difficult to change their habits as to learn English. They clung to each other and, thankful as they were for American hospitality, felt they were living in a comfortable prison without walls.
Tannenbaum was there. He was again playing the part of an S.S. man, but this time in the theater. "I'm here to stay," he announced. "New York is the only place where we're not treated as foreigners and intruders."
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