The Kiss of the Prison Dancer

by Jerome Richard

  The Kiss of the Prison Dancer

  Jerome Richard

  New York

  For Michael and David

  For their encouragement and advice, I would like to thank Priscilla, Sandra, Tom, Judith and Martin Shepard, and especially my indispensible wife Carolyn.

  The boy hesitated and then ran.…

  1

  Max put on his tie because he believed that people who were well-dressed encountered less trouble in the world. He was only going for a walk in Golden Gate Park, but the newspapers told of hoodlums who hid near the dark walks and beat people up just for the thrill of beating them up, and only last month there had been a murder. His eyes were the only parts of his body that were tired. Perhaps when he got back, he thought, he would be able to fall asleep.

  Squinting through the frameless hexagons of his glasses, he adjusted the tie and then turned quickly away from the mirror. He was fifty-nine, and he knew too well what his face looked like: tiny red streams feeding the brown lakes of his pupils, dark brown hair salted white that edged back from his forehead like snow in March, ending in a small tide of waves at his neck. He also knew the bone structure behind the face, had seen it with the skin stretched tight as old leather and two craters where his eyes should be. He even knew the face behind that one, the face of the university student with dark wavy hair slicked back and parted in the middle, and eyes that were quick and bright.

  Leaving the room was always difficult. First he faced the door and listened for footsteps, then he put on his jacket and his raincoat and checked the clock. It was just after midnight. He turned the page on his desk calendar and June 4, 1977 stared blankly at him.

  In the street Max took a deep breath, pulling it in through his nose. The air was lightly seasoned with ocean, but there was not the sinus-closing fog that got inside his head and chilled his nerves. There were two ways into the park, a tunnel near where he stood and an open path a few blocks away. He stared at the dead eye of the tunnel and then started for the path. Before he went very far, a young couple came through the tunnel, laughing and holding hands. Max decided the tunnel was safe. “Good evening,” he said as he passed them.

  The tunnel went under the park road. He crossed back over the road and sat on a bench in front of a little grove. A car appeared around the far turn. When it slowed up in front of where he sat, he moved to the edge of the bench, as far out of the pool of light as he could get. Then he saw that the driver was a woman and had only stopped because of the lone lamppost that hung over the road. He watched her examine something, a map perhaps or a paper with directions written on it, and then scan the road in both directions. He wondered if he should offer to help and was about to get up when she drove off. Max watched the car until it disappeared around a curve. It often annoyed him that the lights stretched out over the road but there were none over the benches. He looked up. The twisted limbs of a tree, like the old hag of children’s stories, reached out over the bench. “Suppose someone wanted to read?” he asked the old hag.

  He would rather have come to the park during the day, but on weekends it was crowded and crowds made him nervous, and weekdays he worked. His job consisted mainly of filing papers for a charitable organization. He knew that the job itself was charity; he would leave it if there were anything else he could do, but they never even let him finish college so now he spent his days taking papers from a basket and feeding them to a filing cabinet. The keeper of the filing cabinet, he thought, leaning against the back of the bench and listening to the rustle of leaves and the hum of the occasional car. He wanted to be a teacher, a professor of German literature. He laughed. Herr Professor Max Friedman. German literature. He laughed again. “Can’t you see me?” he asked the hag. As if in response there was a noise in the grove behind him and Max jumped up, his heart leaping against his ribs. A bird, he assured himself, or a rabbit.

  Max stepped out on the path and looked around. Only the mad shapes of trees stood between him and the broad avenue outside the park. He listened and could feel his ears prickle as he strained the faint rustle of leaves for other sounds. Now he decided to walk the other way, to the next entrance. Behind him there was a rushing noise and he whirled, but it was only a car on the road. Its headlights blinded Max for a moment, and then it glided peacefully by. Max shook his head at his own foolishness. A little walk, he decided, was just what he needed to tire himself out enough to get to sleep. Otherwise, this would be one of those nights when he lay awake until just before the alarm went off. Once he woke up in the office to find the cleaning lady scrubbing the floors and the windows dark with night and he did not speak to anyone for a week because they did not wake him up. “Suppose I had an important appointment?” he said.

  He picked his way along the path, letting his mind wander back to the days long ago when he walked with Sarah through the Tiergarten in Berlin. He remembered the first time she slipped her hand into his and how sometimes while they walked they would recite poetry to each other. He would memorize a poem before he called on her, saying it over and over in his head as they walked to the park, and then—.

  Suddenly there was a noise in the bushes beside him. Max held his breath. Someone leaped out and landed on the path in front of him, a young man, a boy, poised momentarily with his arms outspread like a bird winged and motionless for just the shadow of a second. Max and the young man exchanged looks, not of surprise so much as incredulity, each of them facing a ghost, before the young man turned, the bird finding the wind, and ran off down the path. Max could still see his face, as if he had left it there when he ran, blond hair on a football with deep, scared eyes and a cupid mouth open as if to talk or scream, a boy seventeen or eighteen, pimples. Then the face vanished too and Max started to breathe again. Another noise came from the bushes. It sounded like someone clearing his throat and Max took it as a warning, thinking that whoever had scared the boy was still in there, and he hurried down the path.

  Far ahead he saw the boy appear in the light of the next streetlamp. He turned and threw something, but it hit a tree and bounced back into the path. The boy hesitated and then ran, disappearing suddenly like some magician’s bird. That’s where the exit must be, Max thought, but he had run as far as he could and he had to stop to catch his breath. He looked back. He had only gone twenty yards but no one was coming so he looked ahead to see what the boy had thrown. Max walked as quickly as he could, ran a few paces, then walked some more. He stooped down and picked up a small stone, wondering why the boy threw it away, or carried it at all, but when he looked closer he saw that it was not a stone, it was a button, a fancy one with a raised design. He put it in his pocket and ran again until he came to the Park exit.

  There was no one there. A few cars were all the movement in the street. Max leaned against the bus stop and breathed deeply. Perhaps it was just a game, he thought. Maybe the boy was playing hide and-seek with his friends and I scared him. He walked home, not feeling any more sleepy than he had an hour earlier.

  Max rented a room from a retired couple named Thompson whose only son worked for an oil company in Venezuela. When he first came to San Francisco he rented an apartment near the foot of Nob Hill, but when he looked out his window all he could see were the houses across the street and when he lay in bed at night he could hear the footsteps of people going to other apartments in the building. There was a nice little park on top of the hill. He liked to sit there and look out over the city which, from that height, resembled cities in the Middle East, but his legs resisted the climb and it embarrassed him to be seen leaning against one of the fancy buildings towards the top of the hill, resting and working his lungs like a leaky bellows. Down the hill there was nothing but cheap bars and ni
ghtclubs, too shoddy to walk through during the day and too noisy to live near at night, so one day he answered an ad and moved into a large room upstairs in one of the houses that stand shoulder to shoulder in the Richmond district out near the park. From that room he could see the sky, even when he lay in bed. He did that a lot: lie in bed and look at the sky. It didn’t matter if the sun was shining or if rain fell like God’s tears on his window.

  At first Max thought he would have someone to talk to in the old couple and they must have too, but Max wanted to talk about books and they only wanted to discuss what they read in the newspaper or saw on television. Even when they asked him about Europe it was only so they could tell him about their son in Venezuela. But Max didn’t want to talk about Europe and he didn’t care about Venezuela or their son, even if he was living in what they still called his room. So he spent his time reading and taking long, slow walks, going straight to his room again when he returned, and only stopping to chat and sometimes watch television with them at the beginning of the month when he paid his rent.

  They were sitting in front of the television set when he came in and Max realized it was not yet one o’clock because they always watched the late show which was over at one before they went to bed. Max thought he had been gone for hours. He did not bother to say hello, he seldom did, but Mrs. Thompson turned around and waved to him. He went upstairs and lay down to see if sleep would come. If he felt it coming, he would get undressed.

  It was a large room and the bed in it was meant for two. He sometimes wondered if they got it after their son moved out or if he actually slept in such a big bed himself. He didn’t like it and wanted to ask for a narrower one, but he didn’t know how to explain it.

  One corner of the room was provided with a stove and a small refrigerator. He called it his kitchen. If sleep did not come, he would warm some milk and take it back to bed with him. He closed his eyes and saw again the frightened face of the boy in the park and how the boy ran and all the running he had seen in his life. And then he was aware that something was different. In the past, even in America, whenever he saw someone run he expected to hear gunshots. Even when someone ran for a bus, even in a movie—he remembered one he saw not long ago where there was a track meet and as the athletes with the big numbers sewn on the backs of their undershirts burst from their blocks, Max was certain the starter would turn his pistol on them—running meant that gunshots were sure to follow. But not tonight. The boy ran down the park path and Max heard nothing but his footsteps. That was something. He looked at the blue numbers on his forearm and wondered if those would ever go away.

  Angry with himself for thinking about the numbers, he got up and splashed milk in the pan, spilling a little of it on the floor. He mopped it up while the milk in the pan warmed and then he poured it into a glass and took it to bed where he settled down with the warm milk and a book. He didn’t like warm milk. He read until the milk cooled and then he drank it down in three gulps and got up to brush his teeth and cross the date off on the calendar.

  Later, he dreamed he was in a forest. He could hear the beating of drums and a great white bird kept fluttering to the ground in front of him and taking off again, leading Max deeper into the woods. He wanted to go back. Through the dream came the thin high sound of a siren. Max turned over, but he did not wake up.

  2

  At work the next morning, Max hummed to himself a German lullaby while he waited for the mail that would give him something to do. Another man worked in the room with Max, also a refugee. His name was Shmuel and his job was to open the mail, passing the appropriate letters to Max. He also sent out the applications and in between he carried folders to whoever needed them. Shmuel sang wordless songs to himself while he worked, but he sang them out loud though Max had often asked him not to. Sometimes Max hummed louder when Shmuel sang until it sounded as if a Chassidic cantor had been captured by a swarm of bees. Shmuel had another habit that annoyed Max: he would get to know which cases specially interested him and when a letter came about that case he would shout out and bring it over all by itself like the next installment of a novel. Max waited, hummed, and kept one eye on Shmuel. Sure enough: “Hooray,” cried Shmuel, “another letter from Mrs. Greenberg.” He waved the letter in the air. “Bring it with the rest of the mail,” Max said, but it was no use. Shmuel slid his letter opener through the envelope and brought Mrs. Greenberg’s letter over to Max.

  “Put it down already,” Max said.

  Shmuel put the letter in the tray on Max’s desk. Then Max took the letter out and began to read it. Shmuel looked over his shoulder.

  “This is my job, Shmuel, thank you. The letter is confidential.”

  “I’m not a gossip columnist.”

  “You’re not supposed to read the clients’ letters.” But Max held it up where Shmuel could see it. Once he refused to let Shmuel read a letter and Shmuel sulked all morning and did not open the rest of the mail.

  Shmuel expressed sympathy between his teeth. “That poor woman,” he said, going back to his desk.

  Mrs. Greenberg’s husband had disappeared three years ago; now another man wanted to marry her and this had brought her to the agency for advice. Max had seen several such cases in the last ten years, but this one had suddenly become interesting when Mr. Greenberg showed up again. He had established a good business in Mexico and Mrs. Greenberg was writing to say that he wanted her to go to Mexico with him and she would like to go but she thinks she is pregnant by the second man, could she come in for advice. If she were his client, Max thought, he would tell her to sleep quick with the husband and then tell him it was his child. But she was not his client. Max took Mrs. Greenberg’s folder out of the file, put the letter in it, and put the folder in the box for Shmuel to take to Dr. Resnick. Resnick would advise her to tell everything to the husband right away and if he really loved her he would still take her back to Mexico with him. Advice like that Max could write her on a postcard. He wondered why he didn’t become a psychiatrist.

  When Shmuel brought the rest of the mail, Max quickly thumbed through the letters and applications and saw that it would not be easy to make the work last until five o’clock. When he first came to the agency he worked quickly, often finishing before it was time to go home, but when he asked the director of the agency for more work, he was told there was nothing else and the director looked disappointed, so Max learned to make the papers last until five o’clock each day. He made one pile of the letters that required answers and another of the applications and letters that went into folders. While he worked at this Shmuel read the newspaper; he would have nothing to do until Max gave him the day’s folders to distribute.

  “I see you had a little excitement out your way last night,” Shmuel called across the room.

  “What excitement?”

  Shmuel came across the room with the newspaper, his short legs going very fast as they always did and his back slightly bent, as if he were riding a bicycle, and spread it out on Max’s desk. Max had noticed the headline earlier on the bus, but the person who was sitting next to him turned the page and all Max saw was something about a murder. Now he saw that a girl had been raped and killed in Golden Gate Park. A man out walking his dog late at night had found the body, or rather his dog had. The girl was seventeen; she had been raped and then her neck slit with the jagged edge of a broken beer bottle. There was a picture of the girl’s body covered with a sheet lying in a small grove which the caption said was not far from the park entrance on Tenth Street.

  “Terrible,” Max said.

  “You didn’t know?”

  “No,” Max said.

  Shmuel left the paper with him, picked up the folders, and started on his rounds. Max glanced at the story again, but did not read it. Stories like that depressed him. He only remembered that he had been in the park last night and that there had been someone in the bushes, maybe even the murderer, and he was glad that nothing happened to him. Poor girl, he thought, putting the newspaper aside and
picking up a letter from a woman who wanted to know if the agency could help her find her son who had run away from home.

  Shmuel returned just before twelve and took out a cream cheese and lox sandwich and a small jar of pickled herring. Max waited until the hour and then he went to the luncheonette around the corner and ordered a toasted cheese sandwich and a malted. They didn’t actually make malteds. No one did anymore and they told Max that several times. They only made milk shakes without the malt that had become too expensive. Max understood. He drank the milk shakes, but he kept calling them malteds out of habit. Someone left the newspaper on the table and Max was looking at the picture again, trying to place the grove, when the waitress came with his order. She looked over his shoulder at the story. “A maniac,” she said. “One of those sex maniacs. You’re not safe anywhere.”

  “They were in the park,” Max told her.

  “I’d like to catch the guy that did it,” the waitress said. “I’d strangle him with my bare hands.”

  She was a big, blond woman. Max looked at her hands. He wanted to tell her that he lived near the park, but she turned away to greet a new customer. He studied the picture again, the hand sticking out from under the sheet, and then his eye caught the shape of the sheet as it humped over her legs which were still spread and he turned to the editorial page.

  The afternoon crept across his desk in a procession of papers, but every time he stopped working he saw again the grove with the girl’s body lying sprawled and sheet covered on the grass and as the afternoon wore on the grove seemed more and more familiar.

  “You’re not taking a break?” Shmuel asked at three o’clock.

  “I want to finish early today. I have an appointment.”

  Shmuel took a thermos of tea out of his desk. “A woman?” he asked.