by Amor Towles
Creeping from the corners of his memory came the realization that he was still in the fat man’s coffin. He could feel along his shoulders the smooth, pleated silk of the lining and, behind that, the sturdiness of the mahogany frame.
He wanted to raise the lid, but how much time had passed? Was the tornado gone? Holding his breath, he listened. He listened through the pleated silk and polished mahogany and heard nothing. Not the sound of the wind whistling, or of hail falling on the coffin lid, or of the church bell swinging on its hook unattended. In order to be certain, he decided to open the coffin a crack. Turning his palms upward, he pressed at the lid, but the lid wouldn’t budge.
Was it possible that he had become weakened with hunger and fatigue? Surely, not that much time had passed. Or had it? Suddenly, it occurred to him with a touch of horror that in the aftermath of the storm, while he was unconscious, someone might have happened upon the open grave and shoveled the mound of topsoil onto the coffin, finishing the job.
He would have to try again. After rolling his shoulders and flexing his fingers in order to restore the circulation to his limbs, he drew a breath, put his palms again against the inner surface of the lid, and pushed with all his might as the sweat that formed on his brow ran in droplets into his eyes. Slowly, the lid began to open, and cooler air rushed into the coffin. With a sense of relief, Ulysses gathered his strength and pushed the lid all the way back, expecting to be gazing up into the afternoon sky.
But it wasn’t the afternoon.
It looked to be the middle of the night.
Raising a hand gently in the air, he saw that his skin reflected a flickering light. Listening, he heard the long, hollow horn of a ship and the laughter of a gull, as if he were somewhere at sea. But then, coming from a short distance, he heard a voice. The voice of a boy declaring his forsakenness. The voice of Billy Watson.
And suddenly, Ulysses knew where he was.
An instant later, he heard a grown man howling in anger or in pain. And though Ulysses didn’t yet understand what had happened to himself, he knew what he must do.
Having rolled onto his side, with a great sluggish effort he raised himself onto his knees. Wiping the sweat from his eyes, he discovered by the light of the fire that it was blood, not sweat. Someone had hit him on the head.
Rising to his feet, Ulysses looked around the fire for Billy and for the man who had howled, but no one was there. He wanted to call out for Billy, but understood that to do so would signal to an unknown enemy that he had regained consciousness.
He needed to get away from the fire, outside of the circle of light. Under the veil of darkness, he would be able to gather his wits and strength, find Billy, and then begin the process of hunting his adversary down.
Stepping over one of the railroad ties, he walked five paces into the darkness and took his bearings. There was the river, he thought, turning on his feet; there was the Empire State Building; and there was their encampment. As he looked in the direction of Stew’s tent he thought he saw movement. Quietly, almost too softly to hear, came the voice of a man calling Billy, calling him by his given name. The man’s voice may have been almost too soft to hear, but it wasn’t too soft to recognize.
While remaining in the darkness, Ulysses began circumventing the fire moving carefully, quietly, inevitably toward the preacher.
Ulysses stopped short when he heard Stew call his name. A moment later he heard the clang of metal and the thud of a body falling to the ground. Feeling a flash of anger with himself for being too cautious, Ulysses prepared to charge into the encampment when he saw a silhouette emerge from the darkness, moving unevenly.
It was the preacher using Stew’s shovel as a crutch. Dropping the shovel on the ground, he picked up the boy’s flashlight, switched it on, and began searching for something.
Keeping an eye on the preacher, Ulysses crept to the edge of the fire, reached over a railroad tie, and retrieved the shovel. When the preacher gave an exclamation of discovery, Ulysses stepped back into the darkness and watched as he picked up Billy’s knapsack and sat with it in his lap.
In an excited voice, the preacher began talking to himself about hotels and oysters and female companionship while withdrawing Billy’s belongings and tossing them on the ground—until he found the tin of dollars. At the same time, Ulysses began moving forward until he was directly behind the preacher. And when the preacher, having slung the knapsack over his shoulder, leaned to his left, Ulysses brought the shovel down.
With the preacher now lying in a heap at his feet, Ulysses felt himself heaving. Given his own injury, the effort to subdue the preacher had taken all his immediate strength. Worried that he might even faint, Ulysses stabbed the shovel into the ground and leaned on its hilt as he looked down to make certain the preacher was unmoving.
—Is he dead?
It was Billy, standing at his side looking down at the preacher too.
—No, said Ulysses.
Astoundingly, the boy seemed relieved.
—Are you all right? asked Billy.
—Yes, said Ulysses. Are you?
Billy nodded.
—I did like you said, Ulysses. When Pastor John told me that I was alone, I imagined that I had been forsaken by everyone, including my Maker. Then I kicked him and hid beneath the firewood tarp.
Ulysses smiled.
—You did well, Billy.
—What the hell is going on?
Billy and Ulysses looked up to find Stew standing behind them with a butcher knife in hand.
—You’re bleeding too, Billy said with concern.
Stew had been hit on the side of the head so the blood had run down from his ear onto the shoulder of his undershirt.
Ulysses was suddenly feeling better now, more clearheaded and sure of foot.
—Billy, he said, why don’t you go over there and fetch us the basin of water and some towels.
Sticking his knife through his belt, Stew came alongside Ulysses and looked at the ground.
—Who is it?
—A man of ill intent, said Ulysses.
Stew shifted his gaze to Ulysses’s head.
—You better let me take a look at that.
—I’ve had worse.
—We’ve all had worse.
—I’ll be all right.
—I know, I know, said Stew with a shake of the head. You’re a big, big man.
Billy arrived with the basin and towels. The two men cleaned their faces and then gingerly dabbed at their wounds. When they were done, Ulysses sat Billy down beside him on one of the railroad ties.
—Billy, he began, we’ve had quite a bit of excitement tonight.
Billy nodded in agreement.
—Yes, we have, Ulysses. Emmett will hardly believe it.
—Well, that’s just what I wanted to talk to you about. What with your brother trying to find his car and having to get you to California before the Fourth of July, he’s got a lot on his mind. Maybe it’s for the best if we keep what happened here tonight between us. At least for now.
Billy was nodding.
—It’s probably for the best, he said. Emmett has a lot on his mind.
Ulysses patted Billy on the knee.
—One day, he said, you will tell him. You will tell him and your children too, about how you bested the preacher, just like one of the heroes in your book.
When Ulysses saw that Billy understood, he got up in order to speak with Stew.
—Can you take the boy back to your tent? Maybe give him something to eat?
—All right. But what are you going to do?
—I’m going to see to the preacher.
Billy, who had been listening behind Ulysses’s back, stepped around him with a look of concern.
—What does that mean, Ulysses? What does that mean that you’re going to see to the
preacher?
Ulysses and Stew looked from the boy to each other and back again.
—We can’t leave him here, explained Ulysses. He’s going to come to just like I did. And whatever villainy had been on his mind before I crowned him is going to be there still. Only more so.
Billy was looking up at Ulysses with a furrowed brow.
—So, continued Ulysses, I’m going to take him down the stairs and drop him—
—At the police station?
—That’s right, Billy. I’m going to drop him at the police station.
Billy nodded to indicate that this was the right thing to do. Then Stew turned to Ulysses.
—You know the stairs that go down to Gansevoort?
—I do.
—Someone’s bent back the fencing there. It’ll be an easier route, given what you’ll be carrying.
Thanking Stew, Ulysses waited for Billy to gather his things, for Stew to put out the fire, and for the two to go back to Stew’s tent before he turned his attention to the preacher.
Taking him under the armpits, Ulysses raised him up and draped him over his shoulders. The preacher wasn’t heavier than Ulysses had expected, but he was gangly, making him an awkward burden. Shifting the body back and forth by increments, Ulysses tried to center it before he began walking in short, steady strides.
When he reached the staircase, if Ulysses had stopped to think, he might have rolled the preacher down the steps to preserve his own strength. But he was moving now, and he had the preacher’s weight evenly distributed across his shoulders, and he was worried that if he stopped he might lose his balance or his momentum. And he would need them both. Because from the bottom of the stairs, it was a good two hundred yards to the river.
Duchess
Woolly’s sister came into the kitchen like a ghost. Appearing in the doorway in her long white robe and crossing the unlit room without a sound, it was like her feet didn’t touch the floor. But if she was a ghost, she wasn’t the harrowing sort—one of those that howl and moan and send shivers down your spine. She was the forlorn sort. The kind of ghost who wanders the halls of an empty house for generations, in search of something or someone that no one else can even remember. A visitation, I think they call it.
Yeah, that’s it.
A visitation.
Without switching on the light, she filled the kettle and turned on the burner. From the cabinet she took out a mug and a tea bag and set them on the counter. From the pocket of her robe, she took out a little brown bottle and set it beside the mug. Then she went back to the sink and stood there looking out the window.
You got the sense that she was good at looking out the window—like maybe she’d gotten a lot of practice. She didn’t fidget or tap her feet. In fact, she was so good at it, so good at getting lost in her thoughts, that when the kettle whistled it seemed to catch her by surprise, as if she couldn’t remember having turned it on in the first place. Slowly, almost reluctantly, she left her spot at the window, poured the water, picked up the mug in one hand and the little brown bottle in the other, and turned toward the table.
—Trouble sleeping? I asked.
Caught off guard, she didn’t cry out or drop her tea. She just gave the same little expression of surprise that she had given when the kettle whistled.
—I didn’t see you there, she said, slipping the little brown bottle back in the pocket of her robe.
She hadn’t answered my question about whether she had trouble sleeping, but she didn’t need to. Every aspect of the way she moved in the dark—crossing the room, filling the pot, lighting the stove—suggested this was something of a routine. It wouldn’t have surprised me in the least to learn that every other night she came down to the kitchen at two in the morning while her husband slept soundly, none the wiser.
Gesturing back toward the stove, she asked if I’d like some tea. I pointed to the glass in front of me.
—I found a little whiskey in the living room. I hope you don’t mind.
She smiled softly.
—Of course not.
After taking the seat opposite mine, she trained her gaze on my left eye.
—How does it feel?
—Much better, thanks.
I had left Harlem in such high spirits that when I got back to Woolly’s sister’s house, I’d completely forgotten the beating I’d taken. When she answered the door and gasped, I practically gasped back.
But once Woolly had made the introductions and I had explained the spill I’d taken in the train station, she got a cute little first aid kit out of her medicine cabinet, sat me here at the kitchen table, cleaned the blood off my lip, and gave me a bag of frozen peas to hold over my eye. I would have preferred using a raw steak like a heavyweight champ, but beggars can’t be choosers.
—Would you like another aspirin? she asked.
—No, I’ll be all right.
We were both quiet for a moment as I took a sip of her husband’s whiskey and she took a sip of her tea.
—You’re Woolly’s bunkmate . . . ?
—That’s right.
—So, was it your father who was on the stage?
—He was under it as often as he was on it, I said with a smile. But yeah, that’s my old man. He started out as a Shakespearean and ended up doing vaudeville.
She smiled at the word vaudeville.
—Woolly has written to me about some of the performers your father worked with. The escape artists and magicians . . . He was quite taken with them.
—Your brother loves a good bedtime story.
—Yes, he does, doesn’t he.
She looked across the table as if she wanted to ask me something, but then shifted her gaze to her tea.
—What? I prompted.
—It was a personal question.
—Those are the best kind.
She studied me for a moment, trying to gauge whether or not I was being sincere. She must have decided I was.
—How did you end up at Salina, Duchess?
—Oh, that’s a long one.
—I’ve barely started my tea. . . .
So, having poured myself another finger of whiskey, I recounted my little comedy, thinking: Maybe everyone in Woolly’s family liked a good bedtime tale.
* * *
• • •
It was in the spring of 1952, just a few weeks after my sixteenth birthday, and we were living in room 42 at the Sunshine Hotel, with pops on the bedsprings and me on the floor.
At the time, my old man was what he liked to call betwixt and between, which just meant that having gotten fired from one job, he had yet to find the next job to get fired from. He was spending his days with his old pal, Fitzy, who was living across the hall. In the early afternoons, they would shuffle off to scour around the park benches, fruit carts, newsstands, and any other spots where someone was likely to drop a nickel and not bother to pick it back up. Then they would head down into the subways and sing sentimental songs with their hats in their hands. Men who knew their audience, they would perform “Danny Boy” for the Irish on the Third Avenue line and “Ave Maria” for the Italians at Spring Street station, crying their eyes out like they meant every word. They even had a Yiddish number about the days in the shtetl that they’d roll out when they were on the platform of the Canal Street stop. Then in the evenings—after giving me two bits and sending me off to a double feature—they would take their hard-earned pay to a dive on Elizabeth Street and drink every last penny of it.
Since the two of them didn’t get up until noon, when I woke in the morning I would wander the hotel looking for something to eat or someone to talk to. At that hour, it was pretty slim pickings, but there were a handful of early risers, and the best of them, without a doubt, was Marceline Maupassant.
Back in the twenties, Marceline had been one of the most famous clowns in Eu
rope, performing for sold-out runs in Paris and Berlin, complete with standing ovations and lines of women waiting at the backstage door. To be sure, Marceline was no ordinary clown. He wasn’t a guy who painted his face and tromped around in oversize shoes honking a horn. He was the real McCoy. A poet and a dancer. A man who observed the world closely and felt things deeply—like Chaplin and Keaton.
One of his greatest bits was as a panhandler on a bustling city street. When the curtain came up, there he would be, navigating a crowd of metropolitans. With a little bow, he would try to get the attention of two men arguing over headlines by the newsstand; with a doff of his crooked hat, he would try to address a nanny whose mind was on the colicky baby in her care. Whether with a doff or a bow, everyone he tried to engage would go on about their business as if he weren’t even there. Then when Marceline was about to approach a shy young woman with a downcast expression, a nearsighted scholar would bump into him, knocking his hat from his head.
Off in pursuit of the hat Marceline would go. But each time he was about to grab it, a distracted pedestrian would send it skidding in the other direction. After making several attempts at retrieval, to his utter dismay Marceline would realize that a rotund police officer was about to step on the hat unawares. With no other choice, Marceline would raise a hand in the air, snap his fingers—and everyone would be frozen in place. Everyone, that is, except Marceline.
Now the magic would happen.
For a few minutes, Marceline would glide about the stage, skating in between the immobile pedestrians with a delicate smile, as if he hadn’t a care in the world. Then taking a long-stemmed rose from the flower vendor, he would present it shyly to the downcast young woman. He would interject a point or two to the men who were arguing by the newsstand. He would make faces for the baby in the pram. He would laugh and comment and counsel, all without making a sound.
But as Marceline was about to make another circuit through the crowd, he would hear a delicate chiming. Stopping at center stage, he would reach into his shabby vest and remove a solid gold pocket watch, clearly a vestige from another time in his life. Popping the lid, he would regard the hour and realize with a doleful look that his little game had gone on long enough. Putting the watch away, he would carefully take his crooked hat from under the fat policeman’s foot—which had been hovering in the air for all this time, a feat of gymnastics in itself. Brushing it off, he would place it on his head, face the audience, snap his fingers, and all the activities of his fellow men would resume.
