They see a play, a movie, an opera with a friend in it, two operas. He has heard tell of a Hamlet opera—a Hamlet of the Garment District with roles altered. Where does he know the gray-haired man from? They’ve turned left at the far corner where he was to have met Efrain. From England? from Chile? from Rome? from gatherings where he sits and listens and does not ask questions and feels like a Jew in a Cracow suburb? The old Nobel scientist from Florida—Switzerland by way of Florida where he lives now—stood in front of a blackboard and said there are no vacuums, and later was interrupted by a student bearing socialist manifestos, issuing garbled challenges by which the old man’s beautifully economical physics was not touched, for students here don’t cut through so—so fiercely, with cool passion—the way students back home used to—to the salient contradiction, the contradiction, the suddenly grasped contradiction!—though it is true, too, that the old man was good, very good. Better than a Nobel economist who comes to one’s mind at this crowded, empty moment who is of course right about money but about nothing else. And when Clara said on his return, "If there are no vacuums, what have we instead? What takes their place?" And he laughed until, like swimming in his employer’s pool in winter so in the long run he couldn’t stop, couldn’t stop swimming, but then dizzily did, he was stopped by the famous physicist’s answer which he passed to his wife Clara: "There are only areas of low energy."
A scene he’s absent from is what he gathers across Seventh Avenue. A theater set, the cast for a moment parting like a curtain, like the space between the great charges of steam wasting up out of a hole in the street, and the fatherly broad man with the greenish tweed jacket and Amy, her bright pale hair in a single brain, and the boy, gaining the far sidewalk, swing off left, so the eye moves ahead of them to the open-front fast-food Greek eatery to a dark-olive-faced young man in a khaki jacket, trousers, beret, all khaki but for one detail and he’s standing at the counter watching the sidewalk as much of it as he can see and Seventh Avenue and theoretically the unsuspected far corner on the west side where the eye watches him, seeing what he cannot see because it’s around the corner of the restaurant’s open front on the sidewalk; so the eye unclouded by a dangerous tweed cap that’s been pocketed, and uncluttered by the aching dozen of all different simultaneous thought clustering about the half-known name of the fatherly man with the two young companions, feels this group who now on the far sidewalk approach the open front of the fast-food place where Efrain, for it is and must be Efrain, waits with the one non-khaki detail visible upon his person, and the cars build up between the eye of the immigrant beholder who ought to be building something now himself but has left it in his native land destroyed and is touring some place that turns into scenes of his own absence, a scene across the avenue: the three reach the souvlaki place Giro II (!)—someone’s head chattering away against the vertical barbecue, la par ilia, which in Chile they may even toast you with—and are visibly hailed by Efrain who eases over to shake hands with Mayn—yes—and be presented to the two young people; yes, Mayn was the name, Mayn it is, the name as sure as his coincidental second materialization walking up the Upper West Side block five floors below the window of Clara and her husband’s flat and as certain as Mayn’s first appearance in Florida days after Allende’s speech to the UN months and months ago at a point on the planet’s surface free of visual interruption so one felt oneself standing on the planet, until late, late at night long after this friendly newspaperman named Mayn (who made you think the big events were not so big nor necessarily elsewhere) had—yes—asked if he thought people were interchangeable: while an old friend sat behind them at the Voice of America table beaming Apollo 17 information to, among other targets down the long continent below this one, a large room or a next room where an old good friend at last and still for a moment in power might turn from debt rescheduling which will always be with us to copper and back again but only to substitute one for the other and never admit a tie-in no matter what a CIA economist might urge, an old old friend a medical doctor with an inflated government staff who did not himself know how soon life would replace him.
The one visual interruption high, white, steaming on the face of Florida’s eastward-empty beach-coast lifted off above the fires that it and its voyage were based in and turned away toward that horizon that only instruments made manifold; and he had felt not at the outer top of the turning Earth as earlier that warm December evening but at a deepening bottom urged further by the presence by then beside him, on the infield at the Press Site (like a dig) looking off over the silhouetted heads of photographers and, across the inlet-river, of a man so unlike Mayn when it came he knew, he had predicted this other man, this journalist-operator Spence (who would be more threat than help before they finished because his proposition was important as well as an intrigue, and yet he seemed paired further with Mayn, this Spence: were they brothers in arms? for one didn’t know or want to, but Spence had concluded he a mere marginal economist with Allende’s precarious regime was knowingly in the employ of a foundation marginally central to the ongoing American war effort hence must know much more about a certain Santiago junta’s life-support system, spring-loaded to—upon re-entry—course-correct for target arrival, but Spence would find out even what one did not know one knew), would warn him against the agreeable, inquiring Mayn whom Spence had seen him in conversation with by the Voice of America table, for the old microphone was a finer power than all incendiary ignitions banging and cracking each other into a disappearing century’s nucleus. But that finer power of wave and vocal cord dissolves too in all the words using it, and many mouths mouth People Power but Clara laughs and he grazes her hand, and they talk, they have always talked.
Efrain looks across Seventh Avenue and with his shoulders and hands is telling Mayn and Mayn’s friends that a person was not here who was supposed to be here, but Amy won’t recognize Efrain’s name for him (if sounded), because it’s another alias, the name Foley knows. Her eyes were bright once—it was this week surely—when she took a messenger’s manila envelope, brought it to his office, and explained basketball to him. Setting a pick, charging, traveling, occupying a position before an opposing player charged into you, all most logical. He himself was once a footballer, he found himself discussing with her his assistant the fine art of centering the white ball from the corner so far away it was almost not on the field or in the game, curving the ball softly back into the heads and legs in the goal mouth, the whole mind of the goal mouth. An old woman on this new corner of his touches the immigrant elbow, a striking person, white-haired with a mole on her jaw, hand in hand with a tall, thin, glowering elderly man not as old as she but lined and stretched by the long haul and preserved in vinegar and by some long, possibly original, preoccupation, who steps away from her as she says, "What is your name?" A random man, asked what his name is, a verbal promontory who reads books from cover to cover all week in the midst of a life that feels like an interruption, he has Some answer or other for her, while her escort stands away, irritated, and the answer seems to please her: "Alias . . . Alias is my name." She sidles off amused, saying, "Alias, Alias"—a well-known and interesting name (not "Mayn," which he had almost said in the night light) and she’s nodding in recognition, and then the elderly man, compelled by community or by love’s hermitage, explains, "Her concentration span isn’t much now, you know."
As if he would know—and she goes off, taking away with her some message or glancing light from him, this random man. There are no random events, which could be as sad as our ideas of them. In New Jersey a group of Cubans stand in unison and snap into flame their thunderbolt-emblem cigarette lighters in honor of Pinochet.
While over there across the street, Efrain is charming those three. He’s recently released. Maybe he is the Hamlet of the Penn Station district.
The wait has upped the noise, the noise level’s a hood coming down over the skull and lowering over forehead and eyes to the bridge of the nose and tickling the rims of the nostrils u
ntil dizziness can be relieved only with something to eat or drink or some talk, but the four people across in the fast-souvlakia are not eating, and the boy is looking at Amy, who glances more cool than calm at her watch, she wants to go, but is this because she’s figured out who Efrain was meeting and planning to introduce to Mayn and has thought fit to miss the meeting? Mayn is the trouble, but how about Efrain, you don’t need talk to tell you that Efrain made the arrangement to meet Mayn. Efrain takes in all three, while the boy looks at Amy and she keeps looking at Mayn but not wanting anything. Efrain’s eyes see the street too, the far sidewalk far as the corner where a bald man with a distinguished mustache pushes his right hand into a bunched-up cloth cap in his pocket.
A man who now moves toward Efrain but out of his sight, moving east toward Efrain’s side of the avenue, moving across Seventh in a mob of basketball fans jostling each other quite dangerously, perhaps thirty percent returning to New Jersey. Amy and Mayn and the boy have come out of the restaurant. They have turned away toward Thirty-fourth Street, and the unknown or unseen fifth person moves without having decided what to do, moving with a crowd of shouting fans, young, strong, drunk, elbowing each other so that the tweed cap somehow comes half out of the pocket as they all make the corner where half an hour and more ago he was to have met Efrain.
Efrain now has turned left out of the restaurant toward him, toward this corner of Thirty-third; and what seemed in the mineral glare of the souvlaki place the one detail not khaki is right there in the pocket of his loose military jacket. But, perhaps under Amy’s backward gaze, a decision has been taken as five fans veer up the block and he with them as Efrain has to stop to let them pass and is so close that Efrain as they pass does not feel the long white business envelope lifted from his pocket nor begin (as yet) to imagine what the tall blonde girl he’s just met with Mayn and this highly alert youth deduces as she looks back again to see a man she knows in confidence to be a distinguished foreign economist pick a pocket—or worse—while the potential light of her sharp gaze is followed, even after she turns again and sees Mayn flag a crosstown cab, by the eyes of the boy, slight of limb though tall enough, eighteen or twenty with a load of cared-for, wavy dark hair, who thinks he knows what her cool eyes have seen and seems then to absorb her light and forget her in contemplation of a visiting tall, bald man with a known mustache, who meets his eyes reflectively—which is the most signal thing that has emerged in these glancing turns of event—and bends into a downtown taxi that materialized at the curb, the avenue is downtown, all taxis therefore.
He has felt at once the boy-man’s eyes seeing what there is of him through the cab’s back window, homing on his brain (though Clara would laugh at such imagination from him) and was glad of the round-faced black man in the driver’s seat, and has given the address uptown, thinking he didn’t mean to take a cab.
Foley’s envelope has the five-day return-address box number instead of "— Prison," or "Correctional Facility" the Americans say, though how many know they do? The envelope comes unsealed too easily. He will explode the taxi if the driver is his personal DIN A agent. The letter hangs fire. Is it the margin narrowing his private personal life to one last light that will not escape him even into the heart of his life’s companion and must turn toward political anger to see if it is in him?
With this secrecy of the code directing one to a pay phone on upper Broadway, this meeting, and so forth, who is Foley protecting? His correspondent? Efrain? Efrain said on the phone he had to stay out of sight but then was bringing people together right and left. Was the clandestine process protecting Foley? His letter this time, one felt, would not concern itself with the long haul, with the Utopian sewage or a free-enterprise postal system, or deep-Earth steam power lately Foley’s passion running nuclear coolers without coal(I), a nuclear-powered prison!, and running electrical transformers without oil, by piping water miles down into chambers of molten rock a thousand degrees hot to bring it back as steam to make turbines reel with rage and joy. Foley’s privileged correspondent replied that he could see the steam project erupting in volcanic magma spews loading the sky with geothermal plumbing exploding sky-high which if the pieces went high enough were reassembled for use in orbit. But Foley—at his end of this slow joke-by-mail never knowing when he might get a live visit—retorted that clean power was the only answer, one of his contacts had told him what was going on in New Mexico. Yet in the end Foley can see an ultimate nothing but brain power nakedly moving Earth by intercommunication. And if you wanted to talk about volcanoes Foley would be glad to discuss Hibok Hibok, or Paricutin which came up out of a cornfield, or, his mysterious contact’s favorite, Krakatoa in 1883 which blew stuff seventeen miles up into the atmosphere and created legendary sunsets for years.
Had the letter been opened? Or come unstuck? Let the letter not matter. Hungry people matter. In the short run, too. An educated Cuban who announces himself anti-Castro long before he finds himself in prison on a spurious charge of planting weapons in a Korean grocery in Manhattan known to be a Cuban socialist cell will not (should he escape) be denied sanctuary in Chile, it stands to reason, unless he is known to have Allende friends. Clara heard the rumors before her husband did but knew that the man he first visited in prison here was a friend of a friend, and that’s all there was to it.
The dizzy buzzing in his ears wheels right to left. He tucks the back flap inside the envelope. Heart running fast and heavy as two magnets. Cabdriver missed the light, he’s been doing something up in the front seat. Has a French name. What if he is Hamlet? And his district is in motion. Why have they missed the light? They’re stopped at a red light. He slides the envelope inside his jacket into his wallet pocket. He hears music and hums like Hamlet thinking.
And when he lies back easy in the leather seat and looks out the window, he meets Efrain’s body, and knows the letter could be trouble, like an engulfing cloud that wraps round him and Clara and the cloud is targeted, only the cloud, but that would be enough to include them in.
He finds Efrain standing above him on the curb apart from him staring past the cab he is in, looking around for a man wearing a tweed cap until he happens to glance at the cab under his nose, the cab of the unknown person in the back seat who doesn’t blink, as the light conveniently changes and Sir Isaac Newton jolts your vertebrae, and Efrain claps his hand to his side like a holster and digs his hand then into his pocket.
And as he wheels wildly as if to see the thief, the moderately impressive fact is observed that he does not reach for the pocket on the other side, the right side. For he knows where the letter was. Does it matter in the long run? An episode in Foley’s private life and fantasies maybe no more, no plot, no intrigue involving other inmates anti-Castro, maybe no Chile, maybe just a letter by hand.
"You are from Ah-ee-tee," the passenger says to the cabdriver, and puts on the cloth cap.
"Yes," says the man with a look up into the mirror. "And you?" A he and a he, and a hee-hee-hee.
The passenger leans so his nose is almost against the steel divider screen, and three hundred or is it two hundred and fifty years of what-have-you, sophistication, responsibility, family, and geography in the mind start to speak for him words he wanted to speak to that unknown Puerto Rican Efrain, and to the man he buys his coffee from, and to a neutral econometrist who says in the long run "it" evens out, and to Lord Keynes who said In the long run we are dead, and to the man Mayn who probably knows the words by now, and to one’s grown children but so young—Efrain’s age—wandering a muddy street past breeze-block housing named La Hermida, named Joao Goulart— but in Santiago no one wanders any more—or up against it in a sports stadium; blinking up from the bottom of a limestone mine that will not be mined; working perhaps for the regime—and to whoever wants him dead, if anyone—and the words are I am from Chile—yet the words turn into one spoken word: "Chileno."
"Lejos de casa," the driver says with an accent, turning left on Thirty-second, which is the long way to the
Upper West Side but with lanes of cars to their right it would take him two blocks to drift across Seventh to turn right and get over to Eighth Avenue, which goes north. Escape the scene, but to do what then? Go home. Home is Clara.
"Far from home, yes," the passenger agrees. And smiles; and, feeling the American language close, adds to the man in front of him, "You know it," and it comes to him that he is over that dizziness, it will not visit him again.
Then he remembers, and tells the man, "Your parking light reflector’s broken."
And while the man knows, the passenger wonders how he himself saw such a thing in his haste to get into the cab.
known bits I
a. The bike stood there and had no business on the subway platform. Ten-speed blue Fuji with a lock clamped on the rat-trap for safe travel. Hands were on the bike and it was being pushed onto the Lenox Avenue express by a white man but there was no room for it, so it was not definitely being pushed onto the train. Gray-bearded man with an orange leather headband and black sweatshirt with the hood back pushing that definitely beautiful bike, the front (quick-release) wheel on the car, the remainder of the bike on the platform. Gray beard on platform holding the saddle and one handlebar. Georgie the owner of the other hands receiving the bike gladly onto the too-crowded train, Georgie smiling waiting to take delivery, while the graybeard jerk’s smiling on the platform but not because a bike’s got no place in the subway.
Other rush-hour people reached to get it onto the jammed car where there was no space, man in green beret holding other handlebar, girl in pink T-shirt with her hand next to his. And what Georgie definitely needed was a henchman on the platform end to distract the graybeard jerk-owner of bike so it could be taken from him onto the subway car in time for the doors, both operative, to shut, leaving the graybeard on the platform outside looking through the glass window at his ten-speed inside, not smiling any more then, unless he had been intending to make a donation of that bike to a world that was a good place. A bike to build on, though moving.
Women and Men Page 73
