The Brooklyn Follies

by Auster, Paul

  HARRY: I heard it on the radio that Sunday afternoon. I was only half listening to the program, but someone was talking about human existence, and I liked the way it sounded. The laws of existence, the voice said, and the perils we must face in the course of our existence. Existence was bigger than just life. It was everyone’s life all together, and even if you lived in Buffalo, New York, and had never been more than ten miles from home, you were part of the puzzle, too. It didn’t matter how small your life was.

  What happened to you was just as important as what happened to everyone else.

  TOM: I still don’t follow. You invent a place called the Hotel Existence, but where is it? What was it for?

  HARRY: For? Nothing, really. It was a retreat, a world I could visit in my mind. That’s what we’re talking about, no? Escape.

  NATHAN: And where did the ten-year-old Harry escape to?

  HARRY: Ah. That’s a complicated question. There were two Hotel Existences, you see. The first one, the one I made up that Sunday afternoon during the war, and then a second one, which didn’t get going until I was in high school. Number one, I’m sorry to say, was pure corn and boyish sentimentality. But I was just a small fellow back then, and the war was everywhere, everyone talked about it all the time. I was too young to fight, but like most fat, dumb little boys, I dreamed of becoming a soldier. Ugh. Oh, ugh and double ugh. What empty dolts we mortals be. So I imagine this place called the Hotel Existence, and I immediately turn it into a refuge for lost children. I’m talking about European children, of course. Their fathers had been shot down in battle, their mothers were lying under the ruins of collapsed churches and buildings, and there they were, wandering through the rubble of bombed-out cities in the cold of winter, scavenging for food in forests, children alone, children in pairs, children in gangs of four and six and ten, rags tied around their feet instead of shoes, their gaunt faces splattered with mud. They lived in a world without grown-ups, and because I was such a fearless, altruistic soul, I anointed myself as their savior. That was my mission, my purpose in life, and every day for the rest of the war I would parachute into some demolished corner of Europe to rescue the lost and starving boys and girls. I would struggle down burning mountainsides, swim across exploding lakes, machine-gun my way into dank wine cellars, and each time I found another orphan, I would take the child by the hand and lead him to the Hotel Existence. It didn’t matter what country I was in. Belgium or France, Poland or Italy, Holland or Denmark – the hotel was never far away, and I always managed to get the kid there before nightfall. Once I’d guided him through the formalities of registering at the front desk, I would turn around and leave. It wasn’t my job to run the hotel – only to find the children and take them there. Anyway, heroes don’t rest, do they? They aren’t allowed to sleep in soft beds with down comforters and three pillows, and they don’t have time to sit down in the hotel kitchen to eat a helping of lamb stew with all those succulent potatoes and carrots steaming in the bowl. They have to go back into the night and do their job. And my job was to save the children. Until the last bullet had been fired, until the last bomb had been dropped, I had to go on looking for them.

  TOM: What happened after the war was over?

  HARRY: I gave up my dreams of manly courage and noble self-sacrifice. The Hotel Existence shut down, and when it opened again a few years later, it was no longer sitting in a meadow somewhere in the Hungarian countryside, and it no longer looked like a baroque castle plucked from the boulevards of Baden-Baden. The new Hotel Existence was a much smaller and shabbier affair, and if you wanted to find it now, you had to go to one of those big cities where real life began only after dark. New York, maybe, or Havana, or some dingy side street in Paris. To enter the Hotel Existence was to think of words like hobnob, chiaroscuro, and fate. It was men and women eyeing you discreetly in the lobby. It was perfume and silk suits and warm skin, and everyone always walked around with a highball in one hand and a burning cigarette in the other. I’d seen it all in the movies, and I knew how it was supposed to look. The regulars downstairs in the piano bar sipping their dry martinis. The casino on the second floor with the roulette table and the muffled dice bouncing on the green felt, the baccarat dealer whispering in an oily foreign accent. The ballroom on the lower level with the plush leather booths and the singer in the spotlight with her smoky voice and shimmering silver dress. Those were the props that helped get things started, but no one came just for the drinks or the gambling or the songs, even if the singer that night was Rita Hayworth, flown in from Buenos Aires for one performance only by her current husband and manager, George Macready. You had to ease yourself into the flow, get a few shots into you before you could settle down to business. Not business, really, but the game, the infinitely pleasurable game of deciding which person you would go upstairs with later that night. The first move was always with the eyes – never anything but the eyes. You would let them wander around from this one to that one for a few minutes, calmly drinking your drink and smoking your cigarette, testing out the possibilities, searching for a glance that might be aimed in your direction, maybe even luring someone with a little smile or a flick of the shoulder to start looking at you. Men and women both, it didn’t matter to me. I was still a virgin in those days, but I already knew enough about myself to know that I didn’t care. Once, Cary Grant sat down next to me in the piano bar and began rubbing my leg. Another time, the dead Jean Harlow came back from her grave and made passionate love to me in room four-twenty-seven. But there was also my French teacher, Mademoiselle Des Forêts, the slender Québecoise with the pretty legs and the bright red lipstick and the liquid brown eyes. Not to speak of Hank Miller, the varsity quarterback and hotshot ladies’ man of the senior class. Hank probably would have punched me to death if he’d known what I was doing to him in my dreams, but the fact was that he didn’t know. I was only a sophomore then, and I never would have had the courage to address such an august figure as Hank Miller during the day, but at night I could meet him in the bar at the Hotel Existence, and after a few drinks and some friendly small talk, I could take him upstairs to room three-oh-one and introduce him to the secrets of the world.

  TOM: Adolescent jerk-off material.

  HARRY: You could say that. But I prefer to think of it as the product of a rich inner life.

  TOM: This is getting us nowhere.

  HARRY: Where do you want us to go, dear Tom? We’re sitting here waiting for the next course, drinking a splendid bottle of Sancerre, and entertaining ourselves with meaningless stories. There’s nothing wrong with that. In most parts of the world, it would be considered the height of civilized behavior.

  NATHAN: The kid’s in the dumps, Harry. He needs to talk.

  HARRY: I’m aware of that. I have eyes in my head, don’t I? If Tom doesn’t approve of my Hotel Existence, then maybe he should tell us something about his. Every man has one, you know. And just as no two men are alike, each man’s Hotel Existence is different from all the others.

  TOM: I’m sorry. I don’t mean to be a bore. This was supposed to be a fun night, and I’m spoiling it for both of you.

  NATHAN: Forget about it. Just answer Harry’s question.

  TOM (a long silence; then in a low voice, as if speaking to himself): I want to live in a new way, that’s all. If I can’t change the world, then at least I can try to change myself. But I don’t want to do it alone. I’m alone too much as it is, and whether it’s my fault or not, Nathan is right. I’m in the dumps. Ever since we talked about Aurora the other day, I haven’t stopped thinking about her. I miss her. I miss my mother. I miss everyone I’ve lost. I get so sad sometimes, I can’t believe I don’t just drop dead from the weight that’s crushing down on me. What’s my Hotel Existence, Harry? I don’t know, but maybe it has something to do with living with others, with getting away from this rathole of a city and sharing a life with people I love and respect.

  HARRY: A commune.

  TOM: No, not a commune – a community. Th
ere’s a difference.

  HARRY: And where would this little utopia of yours be?

  TOM: Somewhere out in the country, I suppose. A place with a lot of land and enough buildings to accommodate all the people who wanted to live there.

  NATHAN: How many people are you talking about?

  TOM: I don’t know. It’s not as if I’ve worked anything out yet. But both of you would be more than welcome.

  HARRY: I’m flattered that I’m so high on your list. But if I move to the country, what happens to my business?

  TOM: You’d move it with you. You make ninety percent of your money through the mail as it is. What difference does it make what post office you use? Yes, Harry, of course I’d want you to be a part of it. And maybe Flora, too.

  HARRY: My dear, demented Flora. But if you asked her, Bette would also have to be invited. She’s ailing now, you know. Trapped in a wheelchair with Parkinson’s, the poor woman. I can’t say how she’d react, but in the end she might welcome the idea. And then there’s Rufus.

  NATHAN: Who’s Rufus?

  HARRY: The young man who works behind the counter at the bookstore. The tall, light-skinned Jamaican with the pink boa. A few years ago, I found him crying his heart out in front of a building in the West Village and brought him home. By now, I’ve more or less adopted him. The bookstore job helps pay his rent, but he’s also one of the best drag queens in the city. He works on the weekends under the name of Tina Hott. A fabulous performer, Nathan. You should catch his act sometime.

  NATHAN: Why would he want to leave the city?

  HARRY: Because he loves me, for one thing. And because he’s H.I.V. positive and scared out of his wits. A change of scenery might do him some good.

  NATHAN: Fine. But where are we going to come up with the money to buy a country estate? I could chip in something, but it wouldn’t be nearly enough.

  TOM: If Bette wants to join us, maybe she’d be willing to open the coffers and help.

  HARRY: Out of the question. A man has his pride, sir, and I’d rather croak ten times over before I asked that woman for another penny.

  TOM: Well, if you sold your building in Brooklyn, that might raise enough to swing it.

  HARRY: A mere drop in the bucket. If I’m going to spend my waning years in the boondocks, I want to do it in grand style. No bumpkin stuff for me, Tom. I turn myself into a country squire, or the deal is off.

  TOM: A little here, then, and a little there. We’ll think of some other people who might want to get involved, and if we pool our resources, maybe we can pull it off.

  HARRY: Don’t fret, boys. Uncle Harry will take care of everything. At least he hopes he will. If all goes according to plan, we can expect a large infusion of cash in the near future. Enough to tip the balance and make our dream come true. That’s what we’re talking about, isn’t it? A dream, a wild dream of removing ourselves from the cares and sorrows of this miserable world and creating a world of our own. A long shot, yes, but who’s to say it can’t happen?

  TOM: And where is this “infusion of cash” going to come from?

  HARRY: Let’s just say I have a business venture in the works, and we’ll put the matter aside until further notice. If my ship comes in, the new Hotel Existence is a sure thing. If it doesn’t – well, at least I’ll have gone down fighting the good fight. A man can’t do any more than that, can he? I’m sixty-six years old, and after all the ups and downs of my … my somewhat dubious career, this is probably my last chance to walk off with some big-time money. And when I say big, I mean very big. Bigger than either one of you can imagine.

  CIGARETTE BREAK

  At the time, I didn’t take any of this talk seriously. Tom was in low spirits – that was all – and Harry was simply trying to cheer him up, to put some wind in his sails and lift him out of the doldrums. I must say that I liked Harry for humoring Tom and playing along with his impractical fantasy, but the idea that Harry would actually leave Brooklyn and move to some remote country settlement struck me as pure nonsense. The man was made for the city. He was a creature of crowds and commerce, of good restaurants and expensive clothes, and even if he was only half gay, his closest friend turned out to be a black transvestite who went to work sporting a pair of rhinestone clip-on earrings and a pink feather boa. Put a man like Harry Brightman in some rustic backwater, and the neighboring peasants would run him out of town with pitchforks and knives.

  On the other hand, I felt reasonably certain that Harry’s business venture was on the level. The old reprobate had some new deal cooking, and I was burning with curiosity to find out what it was. Even if he didn’t want to talk about it in front of Tom, I hoped he would make an exception for me. My opportunity came just after we ordered dessert, when Tom excused himself and went into the bar area to smoke a cigarette (his newest tactic in the ongoing campaign to shed some pounds).

  “Big money,” I remarked to Harry. “Sounds interesting.”

  “The chance of a lifetime,” he said.

  “Any particular reason you don’t want to talk about it?”

  “I’m afraid of disappointing Tom, that’s all. Some minor issues still have to be worked out, and until the business is settled, there’s no point in getting overly excited.”

  “I have some extra money lying around, you know. Quite a lot, in fact. If you need another investor to go in with you, I might be willing to help.”

  “That’s very generous of you, Nathan. Fortunately, I’m not looking for a partner. But that doesn’t mean I wouldn’t welcome your advice. I’m fairly confident my associates are on the up-and-up – but not one hundred percent confident. And doubt is a burdensome thing to live with, especially with so much at stake.”

  “How about another dinner, then? Just the two of us. You can lay the whole thing out for me, and I’ll tell you what I think.”

  “Sometime next week?”

  “Just pick a day, and I’ll be there.”

  ON THE STUPIDITY OF MEN (2)

  At eleven o’clock the next morning, I stopped in at one of the local jewelry stores to buy a substitute necklace for Rachel. I didn’t want to disturb the B. P.M. by ringing her bell on a Sunday morning, but I specifically asked the saleswoman to show me any and all pieces they carried that bore Nancy Mazzucchelli’s mark. The woman smiled, said she was an old friend of Nancy’s, and then promptly opened a glass cabinet from which she extracted eight or ten examples of her work, placing them on the counter for me one article at a time. As luck would have it, the last necklace turned out to be almost identical to the one that now slept at night in the cash register at the Cosmic Diner.

  I was planning to head straight back to my apartment. A couple of anecdotes had occurred to me while walking to the store, and I was eager to return to my desk and add them to the ever-expanding Book of Human Folly. I hadn’t bothered to count up the entries I’d written so far, but there must have been close to a hundred by then, and from the way they kept coming to me, surging up at all hours of the day and night (sometimes even in my dreams), I suspected there was more than enough material to go on with the project for years. Not twenty seconds after leaving the store, however, who should I run into but Nancy Mazzucchelli, the B.P.M. herself? I had been living in the neighborhood for two months, had taken long walks every morning and afternoon, had gone into countless shops and restaurants, had sat outdoors at the Circle Café watching hundreds of people stride down the avenue, but until that Sunday morning I had never once caught a glimpse of her in public. I don’t mean to imply that she had escaped my notice. I look at everyone, and if I had seen this woman before (who was no less than the reigning monarch of Park Slope), I would have remembered her. Now, following our impromptu meeting in front of her house on Friday, the pattern abruptly changed. Like a word you add to your vocabulary late in life – and which you then start hearing everywhere you turn – Nancy Mazzucchelli was suddenly everywhere I turned. It began with that Sunday encounter, and from then on scarcely a day went by when I didn’t run
into her at the bank or the post office or on some street in the neighborhood. Eventually, I was introduced to her children (Devon and Sam); her mother Joyce; and her Foley-walker husband, Jim, the James Joyce who was not James Joyce. From total stranger, the B.P.M. rapidly became one of the fixtures of my life. Even if she is referred to only seldom in the future pages of this book, she is always there. Watch for her between the lines.

  That first Sunday, nothing of any importance was said. Hi Nathan, hi Nancy, how are you, not bad, how’s Tom, beautiful weather, nice seeing you, and so on. Small-town chat in the heart of the big city. If there is any detail significant enough to report, it would be the fact that she wasn’t wearing her overalls. The day was unusually warm, and Nancy was dressed in a pair of blue jeans and a white cotton T-shirt. Because the shirt was tucked into the pants, I could see that her stomach was flat. That didn’t mean she wasn’t pregnant, of course, but even if she was in the early days of her first trimester, she hadn’t been wearing the overalls on Friday to mask any bulge. I made a mental note to tell Tom about it the next time I saw him.

  First thing Monday morning, I sent the necklace to Rachel, along with a short note (Thinking of you – Love, Dad), but by nine o’clock that evening I was beginning to worry. I had mailed my letter to her on Tuesday night. Assuming it had gone out early Wednesday morning, it should have reached her by Saturday – Monday at the latest. My daughter had never been much of a letter writer (she did most of her communicating by e-mail, which I didn’t have), and therefore I was expecting her to contact me by phone. Saturday and Sunday had already come and gone without a word, which meant that Monday had to be the day she would call. Anytime after six, when she came home from work and read my letter. No matter how badly I had offended her, I found it inconceivable that Rachel wouldn’t respond to what I had written. I sat in my apartment waiting for the phone to ring, but by nine o’clock nothing had happened. Even if she had decided to put off calling until after dinner, dinner would have been over by nine. A little desperate, a little afraid, more than a little embarrassed by how desperate and afraid I was, I finally summoned the courage to dial her number. No one there. The answering machine clicked on after four rings, but I hung up before the beep sounded.