SIX

I AM READY. I know it as soon as I wake up. Once again my sleep has been dreamless. I am on my side. The room is warm. Danny is already gone and, though I did not hear them enter, my three young guardians have taken up his vigil. I will shave this morning, and dress in my good black suit. I can smell raisin wine. Like our father, Simon used a lime preparation to remove the hair from his face. Razors were forbidden. It must be the same with my cowboys. I remember that fragrance also. It was not unpleasant.

Manuel sleeps in a corner of the room, underneath the window, his head resting against the wall. My own monkey lies where Danny slept last night, the bedspread across the lower half of his body. He too sleeps on his side. Well, I wish you long life also, Ruben Fontanez. But you should begin practicing now. The years go by, you see. His knees are folded toward his chest. In his hands he holds a doll. My other warrior is at the window, surveying the street from behind the window shade.

Under my pajama top I scratch at my chest, and come away with curled hairs pressed between my fingers. You look peaceful now, my monkey, but I am not fooled. Harry Meyers does not forget so quickly. He remembers the dream. He remembers the pins. In the restaurant I was gentle with you. Now, with your mother’s death, I will not press you. But soon, my monkey. Soon. Harry Meyers will know.

“Good morning,” I say, and my two monkeys stir.

“What’s the good word?” Marty asks. He raises the window shades. Ruben rubs his eyes. He is still on his side. Manuel lights a cigarette. “You feeling any better—?”

“Yes,” I say, and sit up. “Yes.” The aching in my side has left, and I feel, in truth, as if I have been sleeping for years. My head is clear. I wonder, in fact, if more than one day has passed since Marty and Danny consummated their agreement.

“Good,” he says. “I told you, didn’t I? Sleep and fruit juices. Then let nature take its course, right?” He ruffles Manuel on his greasy head, then comes closer. “And keeping this room warm. That’s important. The Mandans used to have steam baths where they used wild sage—guaranteed to knock a cold out of a man within half a day—” He grinds the knuckles of his right fist into the top of Ruben’s skull. “How’s it going, Ruben baby?” he asks.

Ruben pushes his hand away. He is not smiling. “I dream of my mother,” he says.

“It figures,” Marty says, and walks away from him. “You want me to fix us some chow for breakfast—?” He opens the refrigerator. “Soft boiled eggs would be the best thing for you. Keep off fried stuff for another day or two, till your system’s cleaned out—”

“I dream of my mother,” my monkey says again.

“So what do you want us to do—?” Marty asks. He shakes his head. “Big deal. Listen, Ruben baby, the old lady’s dead—kicked the bucket, gone, passed away, kaput, finished, muerto, on ice—you understand? You got guilt problems, you peddle them somewhere else, you hear?”

“Her mouth was full of dirt—” He goes on as if he has not heard Marty. His voice is strong. “All my younger brothers and sisters danced around her.” He lifts the bedspread from his body and comes toward me, the doll in his hand. “They would not let me into their circle. I stood behind—”

“Listen, I said to cool it, Ruben,” Marty says as he carries eggs and milk from the refrigerator to the kitchen table. “If that dirt in your pocket’s bothering you, just give it here and I’ll find good use for it—”

Ruben tugs at my pajama sleeve. “Her mouth was full of dirt, Mister Meyers.” His eyes, I see, are an olive-green shade, tending toward brown at the edges. I am certain they change to shades of gray also. It would depend on the lighting. “Mi madre, Mister Meyers. Mi madre. What I gone to do?”

The doll in his hand, I see, is not the one of me. That still rests on my night table. This one is larger. The head has been fashioned around a light bulb and under the white and pink paint, I see the vague columns of newsprint. “I am an old man,” I say, and pull my sleeve away from him. His eyes are desperate. “Mi madre, Mister Meyers. Mi madre. What I gone to do?”

Marty is suddenly behind him, and, with the back of his hand he whacks my monkey on the side of his head. “Snap out of it now,” he says. “Shake it up, Ruben. You heard what Meyers said—we don’t need all this stuff about your old lady’s funeral while—”

Ruben whirls around and, with his forearm, he slams his leader across the chest. His eyes are on fire. “You don’t tell me what to do about my mother,” he says. “¡Batardo!” he hisses. Manuel rises and moves toward his friends. I see him touch his side pocket. “I not scared of you, man—” Marty looks at Manuel, then at Ruben.

“Okay, okay,” he says, and turns his back to us. “Take it easy. Cool off—” He faces us and smiles. He has decided quickly. “It’s okay if you dream about your mother—and I’m sorry if I said anything, right?”

My monkey’s hands drop to his sides. The fire leaves his eyes. He breathes quickly and shrugs his shoulders. Marty is at his side at once, his arm around him, his mouth close to my monkey’s ear. He walks him to the window, then back to the kitchen, and as he whispers, Ruben nods his head up and down. A dream is only a dream, Ruben Fontanez, I think. But Marty will take care of you. There is no need for Harry Meyers to intercede. He must prepare for other things. Manuel too sees that the crisis is past. He returns to his corner. His eyes look out above the window ledge.

I put my bathrobe on. We could continue to live like this for years, I know. They would take care of me. Danny and Marty would be in charge. Well. If they have been considering such an arrangement, that is their business. It is nothing to me. Ruben is at my side. “You will see, Mister Meyers,” he says. “When it is time, we will rescue my brothers and sisters and take them to live with us.”

“You like your eggs real soft or a little on the medium side?” Marty asks.

“Medium,” I say.

I listen to the sound of pans and silverware. You should not encourage them, Harry. Do not fool yourself. You have been part of the arrangement also. It has not been unpleasant for you. It is all right to keep the earth, my monkey. It is nothing. The Spanish claimed that the Marranos cut out the hearts of Christians. They used them to work the magic which enabled them to escape the Inquisition. You would enjoy the story, but Harry Meyers will not tell it to you. Your envelope will have to be enough, I am afraid.

“I make this doll last night, after you leave. What you think?”

“You have a talent,” I say. I look into my monkey’s eyes. They are deep-set. His nose is slightly hooked. Who knows, Ruben Fontanez, I think, perhaps somewhere in your past, before the journey across the Atlantic, there were underground Jews in your history also. It would explain things. I look more closely at the doll and see that the nose is quite large. The pins have not yet been placed. There are hairs glued to the pipe cleaner arms.

“I mean, what you really think?”

“I would not show it to him, if I were you,” I say. “He might not understand—”

Ruben laughs. “Man,” he says. “I not stupid.” Marty places a glass of juice in my hand and I drink. It is apricot nectar again and it is very soothing. “You want some jam on your toast?” he asks.

“All right,” I say.

“Ruben’s right, you know,” Marty says, as he returns to his work. “Now I’ve got nothing against your friend—but in our position we can’t afford to take chances, right? That’s why Manny’s watching the street now.” He unscrews the lid of a jar. He is enjoying himself. If his life could be spent planning such things, I think, he would always be happy. “We’ll hang around a little while, then we’ll have to set up our lookout from somewhere else.”

I walk to the table and sit down. Ruben sits across from me. I crack open my egg. “I’m not saying I don’t trust him, I’m not saying I do—we just can’t take chances, that’s all.” I sprinkle some salt on my egg and watch Ruben do the same. “We were just waiting for you to get up, see, so we could tell you our plans. You ought to know—”

Ruben smiles. “Tonight,” he says, fondling his new doll. “Tonight I take this to the Black Mass.” His eyes flash. “We find out the truth—”

“Bruja, right, Ruben?” Marty says, and he joins us at the table. He gives me my toast and winks at me. “Bruja—”

Ruben nods. “In Harlem,” he says. “I will bring the doll and place it on the altar and we will know the truth.”

Marty chews his piece of toast. Let me tell you something: if the choice for Harry Meyers were death or baptism, he would choose baptism. “They gonna have a live virgin tonight?” Marty asks him.

Marty is reaching him. “Aiee—” Ruben cries, and holds the sides of his head. I hear a sound from across the room.

“Keep your eyes on the street,” Marty orders. Manuel obeys. Marty turns to me. “He’s not telling you stories, Meyers—they hold these things up there, with girls sprawled on the altars and all this voodoo stuff—” He taps with his fork against his cup. “And who are we to say whether it’s cock-eyed or not, right? One of these first days we might find out a lot of things aren’t as cock-eyed as we thought. And I’ll tell you something else.” His eyes narrow. I see a spot of egg yolk trapped in his braces. “They get some results. The stuff works. And that’s all that counts in this world—”

I smell the tea brewing. The fragrance of raisin wine is lost. When I return, perhaps I will take my cowboys on a field trip. Such a mass would not seem strange to them, I am certain. But you know that already, don’t you, Ruben Fontanez. You have looked in their windows. I wonder: I think you would have chosen death, but who can know such things. The great Rebbe Sholem stayed up for one thousand days and one thousand nights reading Torah in order to attain communion with the prophet Elijah. There is such a thing as Satan’s Chassidism, you see. I have heard the cowboys argue about it. “You want to come?” The question is from Marty.

“I am an old man,” I say, and shrug.

“You not so old,” Ruben says. “There’s a man—” He looks to his leader, a question in his eyes. Marty considers. Then he gives his consent. “There’s a man up in Harlem, he real old. Nobody know how old he is.”

“We talked it over last night,” Marty says to me. “And we decided to put it to you—if you want to meet him or not—”

“You like him a lot, Mister Meyers,” Ruben says. “You never meet anybody like him. Some people say he is one hundred years old—”

“I’m not saying yes, I’m not saying no,” Marty says. “If you want to believe it, you believe it.” He has his green bag ready.

“You never see anybody so black,” Ruben says. I think of Jackson in his powder-blue earmuffs. For one night, at least, I have escaped, but I am certain Danny will request a telling of the story when he returns tonight. “He is our leader, Mister Meyers.” His voice drops. “Even Marty let him—”

“Cool it, Ruben,” Marty orders. His voice is sharp.

“I am sorry. But it the truth, Mister Meyers—like I tell you once. There lots of kids around the city making it like us, and we all—”

Marty slaps Ruben across the knuckles with the back of his spoon. “You finished eating?” he asks. “This place is beginning to give me the willies. The sooner we split out and take up our lookout, the better I’ll like it.” He stands and Ruben does the same. “You had another note this morning,” he says to me.

I nod. It does not matter. Marty goes on. “Okay, now this friend of yours probably won’t go to the cops, but you never can tell, right? We’ve got to cover ourselves—”

“All right,” I say.

“So don’t think we’re—you know—deserting you or anything—”

“Of course,” I say. I wonder, in truth, what it was like during the three days that Jackson and Gil lived in their hotel room together. It is something to consider, I suppose. The medical reports were inconclusive.

“I’ll stay on the roof over there and watch the street,” Marty says. “Ruben, I want you to get up on top of this building, to make sure he doesn’t come in through the backyards, and Manny, just to be sure, you’ll guard the basement—” I sip my tea. My glands, I can tell, have subsided even more. I touch my neck. Along the right side there is a single friendly gland which insists on staying with me. Under my fingertips it rolls by itself. “We’ve been too careful for too long to let anything slip now, right? They won’t get me, Meyers, you understand? Not now—”

I nod. Marty is slightly puzzled by the expression on my face, but it is not enough to stop him. “Another thing—I almost forgot,” he says. “You had a visitor this morning. Some joker with a seeded roll wrapped in a napkin—”

“Morris,” I say. “We were boys together—”

“Well, he trailed it out of here pretty quick when he saw us—so who knows who he’ll be gabbing to.” He smiles from the side of his face. “You should have seen him, though—Ruben called him a cowboy and the guy nearly flipped—”

I turn to my monkey. He looks down. “I sorry, Mister Meyers,” he says. “I tell you the truth, I remember what you tell me in the restaurant about him. I just want to have some fun—” I begin to laugh with my guardians. “We try to call him back from the stairs, but he move too fast for us—”

“It is all right,” I say. “I will explain to him this weekend in the park.”

Marty pats me on the shoulder. “That’s what I like to hear, Meyers—”

“In fact,” I say, “I will return to school on Monday.”

Ruben claps his hands. “See—?” he says to Marty. “I tell you. Mister Meyers got real spirit. He the only teacher at our school who—”

“Cool it, Ruben,” Marty says. He turns to me. “We’ll see about that on Monday. You—”

“I said I will return on Monday.” I say it calmly. I do not need to ask permission anymore, you see.

“Maybe yes, maybe no,” Marty says. “Meanwhile we’ll stake out this place and keep an eye on you—”

“When will you go to work?” I ask.

“That’s our business,” he says. He does not wish to continue the discussion. “Okay, Manny—” he calls. “Let’s move out.”

“No,” I say. “I am sorry, but it is not your business.” I am on the offensive now, you see. Marty stands up. I will shave and put on my good black suit. It is decided. “If I am keeping you from going to work—”

“We’ll manage, Meyers—you don’t worry about us, hear?” He slings his green bag over his shoulder, but his eyes are somewhat uncertain. You cannot intimidate Harry Meyers for long. Marty will have to learn also. “You’ve got enough of your own stuff to worry about—”

I turn to Ruben. “I would like to meet Manuel’s sister,” I say to him.

“You like her a lot, Mister Meyers.” His eyes glow. “I want to bring her here to meet you, but Marty—”

“Women are a jinx,” Marty says. “How many times do I have to tell you that—?”

“The Indians would not let women be with them when they made their weapons,” Ruben says. “Marty has explained to us—”

Marty rolls his eyes. He is impatient. I am sorry, my young guardian, but this is the way it must be. “Look—you bring her here, you’re asking for trouble, that’s all. You can take it from me.” He points and Manuel goes back to the window. Then he sighs and sits down in the easy chair. “Okay, Meyers,” he says. “Let’s keep things straight between us—what’s the gripe? I’ll tell you what—we’ll work the night shift, when your friend gets back to take over, okay? That make you happy?”

From inside my night table I remove my shaving kit. “I will return to work on Monday,” I say, and I smile. “It is decided.”

“Okay, okay—but what’s that got to do with us keeping a lookout for this guy who’s after you—?”

“I think I would like to take a walk,” I say.

Marty rubs his chin. “So—?”

“So there is no need for you to continue—”

“Okay, okay. I got the picture,” he says, cutting me off.

I tell him that he does not understand. I am not ungrateful. I appreciate what he has done for me, but I want to get out some before I return to teaching on Monday. My monkey is delighted and he does not try to hide his happiness. Only Danny, I think, would be as happy about such a change in me. Perhaps I will take Ruben and his young lady to the restaurant with me one day next week. We will see. Sarah would be proud. It was what she always wanted, after all. Ruben asks me again about going to the mass and this time I say that I will consider. I have other things to do before then, though.

“Here,” Marty says. “I forgot,” and from his green bag he takes out a book. I know at once what its title is. I thank him and put it beside the gift my monkey has brought me. “We’re even,” he says. It is a more expensive edition this time, in Spanish. “And I’ll tell you something else,” he adds. “That stuff you and Ruben been reading about freezing people—you don’t really put any stock in that hocus-pocus, do you?” Ruben’s eyes flicker. It would not be a bad idea if he were to take the pins from my doll and use them for somebody else. “I mean, some of that mechanical heart stuff is okay—I was reading it all before you woke up—but anybody knows you can’t freeze internal organs and then thaw them out right.” He gets no response from Harry Meyers. “Sure,” he says. “Freeze what you want—but nobody’s been able to preserve even a mouse for a single day. It all goes cock-eyed in the thawing—”

He will not stop talking now, but it is all right. Harry Meyers is not disturbed by his theories. Nor is my monkey, I see. The cowboys know: all matter contains sparks of God. I take the doll in my hands, from where Ruben has left it on the pillow. I twist the pins and feel no pain. Perhaps you are right. Harry Meyers is not so old. “And don’t you think for a minute that we’re gonna let you go walking by yourself—” Marty is saying. “Around here, you could be knifed and you’d lay in some ditch over in Central Park for a month before anybody’d stop to see what was the matter—”

I take a clean shirt from the bottom drawer of my dresser. Danny’s pajamas, I see, are folded neatly on my desk chair. His suitcase stands between my dresser and my desk. In the frame, Sarah and a younger Harry Meyers appear to be very happy. “You stayed in number 171 last night, didn’t you?” I say, and Marty nods his head. He says that all the derelicts and runaways in the city use such buildings. The police do not bother with them, especially in winter.

“There is no need for you to follow me,” I say. If visitors come by while I am out, they will have to wait. I am ready to accept Ruben’s invitation, you see. It is not fair, I tell them, now that my cold has disappeared, for them to lose another day’s work. I will see you in action, my monkey.

“You sure?” Marty asks. He does not like the idea, of course, but it is difficult for him to say so.

“I am sure,” I say.

Ruben can hardly restrain himself. “Oh man, Mister Meyers—I been waiting to show you how we work—we really gone to surprise you!”

“Okay, okay,” Marty says. “It’s your skin, Meyers. But if you land up flat on your back again, don’t say I didn’t try to talk you out of it—”

I assure him I will not. I must shave now, I say. Marty tells me not to waste time. Now that both Morris and Danny know about them, he says, it is best to hurry from my room. He reminds us about the man from the orphanage who is tracing Ruben’s whereabouts, about Mr. Greenfeld, and about the men who search for him. He pauses. I know that he would like me to ask who it is that follows him, but Harry Meyers will not give him the satisfaction. It is not the time for such things. I will do nothing with your vague clues, my young fugitive. Before long, you see, the theories will be stripped away. We will see what we will see.

Marty’s reminders have made my two monkeys uneasy. They pace nervously in my tiny room. Through the window I see that the sun is shining brightly over West 76th Street. It did not snow yesterday, despite predictions, so there will be no slush, no ice. There are no great dangers. Mr. Greenfeld will sleep in the lounge. Marty will evade his father and his father’s doctors. Ruben has little to fear. He is right, after all. One monkey more or less means little to anyone. They already have his brothers and sisters as hostages. They can play a waiting game.

When I am finished shaving I stop in the hallway. Somebody new has moved into the empty room next to the Oriental. I hear words from a television set. The coughing is that of an old man. I listen at Mrs. Wenger’s door. There is no sound. I knock and hear something move inside. That is all. I just wanted to be sure. I return to my own room and step out of my pajamas. When I return tonight I will take a bath. As I change into my good suit, my monkeys do not look at my body. I do not look at it, either. I know it well. My three guardians keep their backs to me, their eyes on the street.

I tie the laces of my shoes, and, after my jacket is on, select a tie. I put my overcoat on. “I am ready,” I say. I take the mop. Marty, however, grabs it from me. “Don’t be a hero,” he says, as we leave the room. “If you get tired, say the word.”

On the third floor, Mrs. Wright opens her door to greet us. I smell liquor on her breath. Behind her a plaque in brilliant colors explains why God gave his only begotten son. Still, she has little affection for my three students, I can tell. I explain to her that they are from my official class. On the second floor landing, I knock at Nydia’s door, but there is no answer. “She must be in the park with the baby,” I say.

“If we’re going to work, let’s go,” Marty says.

“I was not suggesting we visit her,” I say.

“Sure,” my sullen warrior responds.

I show them the hall closet on the first floor, for the mop, and I notice that the visiting hours have been taken down from the wall. That is just as well, I think, since Harry Meyers will no longer be receiving visitors. If such a thing happens again I will need larger accommodations. Danny is right. At the very least, a room with another door, to provide for all the entrances and exits. One of the young men who shares the garden apartment opens the door and asks how I am feeling. I introduce him to my three students and he smiles. His apartment smells of cologne.

“I am going for a walk,” I say.

He tells me to enjoy myself and I realize that he undoubtedly envies me, to have three such young friends. Ruben cannot stop smiling. I look at him. “I remember,” I say to him.

He shrugs. “I no mean nothing, Mister Meyers,” he says.

“I remember,” I say again. In truth, I am not angry. My hand moves, impulsively, as if to touch his forehead. But I keep it at my side.

There are no messages in my mailbox this morning. Ruben tells me that he did not mean anything. There were things he did not understand. “Lo siento, Mister Meyers.” Again I tell him that it is all right. He believes me. He talks to me of what Marty has taught him about the Indians, of heemanehs and berdaches, skilled in embroidery, cooking and weapon-making. “It not so bad to be a fag if you an Indian,” he says.

Marty sighs. “Don’t mind him, Meyers—you tell him something once, he makes a production out of it.” Manuel is at our heels, looking up and down the street. “The coast’s clear,” Marty says. “This way—” And we walk toward Broadway. It is even warmer today than I had thought it was. In the crevice of my chin there are drops of sweat. At the corner, a crowd congregates outside the Riverside Funeral Chapel. I see the long black limousines lined up at the exit. The cars of the visitors are double-parked along both sides of the street. Sarah looks down on all of us.

Manuel is tugging at Marty’s sleeve. He points and I too see the policeman who waits for us at the corner. “Listen, Meyers,” Marty says. “It’ll be best if you don’t stay too close to us—just to be safe. You never know, right?”

“But I promise him!” Ruben objects. “I tell him when he better he gone to see us in action—”

“Just hold your horses,” Marty says. He is very tense. “I got it all planned—don’t worry.” We draw closer to him. “For everybody’s sake, it’s best if Meyers doesn’t associate himself with us. Look: if we want to keep using the building there for a hideout—and if we’re gonna be able to stay in the vicinity to keep an eye on Meyers here—there’s no point in Johnny the Cop beginning to make any connection between him and us, right?” He lets his words linger in the air. I should not have worn a jacket under my overcoat. “Remember, he’s got a reputation in this neighborhood. People know him—and you can bet the city’ll be checking with all your teachers from school, right?”

Ruben nods. In the windows of the top floors I see faces of old men and women, looking down. They have several days still until their government money arrives. But the checks are always on time. On that morning of the month they wait downstairs. Next year Harry Meyers will join them. If they read this morning’s newspaper they will know who the funeral is for. None of them, I see, stands directly in the middle of the window.

“Okay then,” Marty is saying. “If we want to be able to maneuver freely from now on, the four of us, listen to me. The best thing, see, is for you to stay about a half block behind us.” He is talking to me, I realize. “We’ll keep an eye out so we don’t lose you—” At the corner, cars are honking and a second policeman appears and waves them on. A young Puerto Rican boy peddles his Associated Food shopping cart through the traffic. I look behind and see that the garbage-can woman is crossing Columbus Avenue. Morris should try to get her to join his home. I will mention it to him. The doorman of building number 190 holds a car door open for one of his clients. On the other side of the street a couple passes, hand in hand, and I cannot tell which one is the man. They walk gracefully and Ruben’s eyes follow them also. We do not look at one another. Danny’s doll sticks out of his jacket pocket.

“We’ll wait for you in the subway,” Marty says. “And you can come in the same cars with us, so long as you don’t let on you know us, okay?”

I nod. It has been less than two weeks. I did not realize how much I missed my neighborhood. It will be difficult to move next year. “You gone to be surprised,” Ruben says. “Keep your eye on us—”

They move away from me. I wait and then follow. At the corner, most of the people seem glad to see one another. They laugh, they chatter, they kiss. The women wear fur coats. “At weddings and funerals,” I hear a woman say. Her hair is dyed a bluish shade of gray. From inside the chapel, the widow exits, a handkerchief at her mouth. A young man supports her by one arm. One of the funeral directors is giving instructions to the Negro limousine driver. They are very gentle as they lead the widow to the car. I must wait for her to pass. The sidewalk clears and people sob quietly. Ahead of me, I see that Ruben has backtracked to make certain I know they have turned the corner. Manuel glares at the policeman. Marty may be right about him. I would not doubt it. The widow is in the limousine now. She pleads with her son to allow somebody else to get in beside her, and she looks helplessly out of the car window. “You heard?” a man says to me.

I look into his eyes but I do not know what he is talking about. There is something familiar about his face. “She wants me,” he says. “It’s terrible, terrible, that it should happen this way—when—” He gestures with his hands, disgusted, and gives me a brief hug. “I’m glad you came,” he says. “Believe me—” Then he is in the limousine. He sits in one of the folding leather chairs in the back. He waves to me. I do not move. The limousine edges away from the curb and the crowd is in motion once more. I smell the perfumes of middle-aged women. I move forward through their chattering. My monkey will make dolls of all of you, I think. If he could call Morris a cowboy, there is little he is not capable of. You should not look at Harry Meyers that way! I push forward, using my elbows, and I vow that I will not allow such people to come during visiting hours. Ruben will post the rules. Marty and Manuel will stand guard.

“Don’t push so much, mister!” The voice comes from a man who seems almost as small as my smallest monkey. Under his coat, he wears a double-breasted suit. His breath smells like old socks, the smell of the synagogue at the end of Yom Kippur. I do not know how old he is, but it is not my fault if the man who died was younger than he was. “Don’t fool with me,” I say, and shove him aside. Ruben slips from view. At the corner the crowd is thinner. People bargain with one another for rides home. They should have arranged things before, I think.

Don’t you be a fool, Harry Meyers. The voice comes to me directly, so that I stumble. Ahead of me, halfway toward 75th Street, on Amsterdam Avenue, my three boys wait. I am dizzy suddenly and a young helper from the funeral parlor has his eye on me, a jar of smelling salts in his hand. I do not need his aid, do you hear me? But what is this, Harry, I ask myself. A man is dead and you play games with three children. Is this a proper way to finish things—to wander around after two monkeys and a crazy fifteen-year-old? You are in such a hurry to get through the crowd, aren’t you, Harry. For what? Dolls, fruit juices, Indians, visiting hours. It is you who are playing the fool, Harry Meyers. Don’t you know that? I walk forward anyway, following. The young man sees that I am all right. He looks to the others. But my heart pounds fiercely and my shirt, I know, is already wet from sweat. Don’t you play the fool, Harry Meyers. There have been enough games. Enough. The sidewalk rises slightly but I am careful. I slow down and I continue walking in a straight line. A man is dead and you play games with three children. It is insane, Harry.

They are in front of Al’s Lock and Key Store now. In truth, they seem quite small. Despite Marty’s beret, there is nothing conspicuous about them. They are only boys. I call to them but my lips do not move. Monday I will return to work. Harry Meyers will finish what he starts. He has no choice, after all. I should have stopped the dinners years ago. It will be more difficult now, but they will end. For now, though, I will follow my three students. It is pointless to try to get out of it after I have asserted myself. Marty would know how to manipulate such a change. You can be certain of that. This then, I suppose, is what has been decided, and your doll was not the cause, Ruben Fontanez. You can be certain of that also. My name is Harry Meyers, you see, and I have been teaching at John D. Wells Junior High School in Williamsburg since 1926 and at the end of the year, a month before I am sixty-five, I will be retired. And I will leave the pictures in the glass case. All right?

I follow them past the back wall of the Beacon Theater, past the Dori Donut Shop, the telephone company. The old men and women line the benches around Verdi Square, pigeons at their feet. Beyond them I see the sign for the Rutgers Church, the Hotel Westover. The corner of 72nd Street, where Broadway and Amsterdam Avenue crisscross, is filled with people. If I know Morris, he is sitting in Horn and Hardart’s right now, trying to kid with the women who sit in the front section, the one that is roped off for those without escorts. My three children enter the subway kiosk and I follow them across the street. They wait for me on the downtown side of the turnstile. I give the man a dollar and he gives me five subway tokens. I will need some for next week.

The writing on the subway pillars does not interest me. I do not look at the people who wait on the platform. I do not look in the mirrors of the gum machines. I follow my orders and stay at a distance. My three young men confer at the front end of the platform, where it narrows like the bow of a ship. An express train leaves from the uptown side. I look down and watch a thin stream of water flow through the grime and filth between the subway tracks. The steel rails are smooth and silver. Manuel shuffles his feet nervously. In the subways he cannot smoke. I think of his sewer babies and wonder about Ruben’s question: if they grow up by themselves, will they know how to speak. I see the lights of the Broadway Local as it enters the station at the far end and sways powerfully toward us. Ruben points. I step back. In the first car, the Negro train conductor appears to be asleep. Sewer babies, dinners, translations, frozen bodies: don’t you play the fool, Harry Meyers. Enough. Finish what you have started. You have no choice, after all. But do not play the fool.

The fluorescent lights in the subway car seem too bright. The car is no more than half full. The rush hour is past. That is something I do not look forward to. In the spring, the smell of bodies is something terrible. It is worse when I return from my cowboys than when I go in the morning. Then I can still smell the fragrances of secretaries’ perfumes. The doors close and we rumble away through the dark tunnel. Marty enters my car and he holds his drums under his arm. He looks my way but acts as if I am a stranger. My two monkeys pass through the opening between the first and second car, and Ruben slides the door closed behind them. Manuel sits in the corner. Above him is an advertisement of a blond woman with a large open mouth. I think of getting off at 66th Street and walking back home, but that would be pointless, I know. I wonder where Manuel’s sister is. Despite the fact that I will no longer have to ride the subways, I do not look forward to the summer. When my windows are open at night the noises keep me awake. Across the street, under the rooms of the old people, the chattering from the Puerto Rican families is endless. I will never sleep on my back. That is certain. Harry Meyers does not fool himself about such things. I remember the sound of beer bottles breaking on the pavement, of radios playing Latin American music. They are louder in hot weather. Perhaps I will move before then.

At 66th Street I close my eyes. I trust Marty to tell me when it is time to get off. The sound of the train knocking through the tunnels is comforting. I have always slept well in subways. There is a high-pitched screeching as we curve toward 59th Street, but it does not bother me. I am feeling much better. The sweat on my back is drying. I touch my throat and cheeks, pleased by their smoothness. Tonight I will convince Danny that there is no further need for him to stay with me. I touch the side of my throat and at first I cannot find the friendly gland. I place it. I am reassured.

The train stops but I do not open my eyes. I hear people shuffle in and out. Next to me I feel somebody’s arm, but there is enough room. I am not pressed. Don’t you be a fool, Harry Meyers. It is the voice again, though this time, I think, I am merely remembering the sound. I do not stumble or grow dizzy. I do not even sway. It is all right, though, all this talk of whether I will sleep on my back or my side, of cowboys, of monkeys, of Manuel’s sister, of glands. It means nothing. I know now, you see. I have told you. I am Harry Meyers and I have been teaching at John D. Wells Junior High School since 1926 and at the end of this year, a month before I am sixty-five, I will retire. I know that my three guardians are at the other end of the car and that I am following them. In truth, it is less complicated this way. Let things run their course. A few silly thoughts can remain. We do not need to dismiss them all at once. It would not be natural for Harry Meyers to deny what he cares about, after all. It is true that he plays games with children, but it is also true that he cares about them. He would not deny it.

It is a thought I can live with. Marty is right about my room giving one the willies. There is no need any longer to accumulate money. I have put away more than enough to defend myself from clinics and welfare. A new room, an air-conditioner, a trip, some mild adventure—if these too are games, that will be all right. Well. It will not be easy to separate from them. I feel drowsy. I will sleep well again tonight. Perhaps, when I have returned to school, I can tell them that the police know something. They have seen us together, I will say. They are interviewing me. We will separate as friends. I wish them well.

And there will be no more dinners. I will think of something there also. Marty is right. One must cope. The tunnel grows longer, pinching together at the end. Specks of light flicker as they move toward the bottom. I see the widow being supported by the young man. A man is dead and you follow three crazy children. I hear more noise.

I open my eyes and see the waists of people all around me. I look over my shoulder and see the sign: Times Square. I do not recall stopping at 50th Street. I cannot see to the front end of the car. Perhaps we have already been separated. I do not look at the words on the newspaper that the man standing in front of me holds. Near me, somebody is carrying his lunch. I smell tuna fish. My eyes close again. It is just as well. There is no need to check the Times. Whoever it was, let him rest in peace. It is nothing to me. The doors to the train remain open. I hear the air release itself from the brakes. We idle. It is warmer now. There are more important things to be done. I must telephone the Yeshiva before sundown and explain to them. If I lose the job, though, that will not be a catastrophe either. I have enough money. The doors close. We are moving again. I feel myself relaxing. Things are very black. A pleasant drumming sound rolls through the car. I wonder if we will ride all the way into Brooklyn. Perhaps we will visit Marty’s Mohawk friends in Gowanus. It is no small thing to build a bridge. Simon and I walked over the Brooklyn Bridge together, I remember. Sarah and I did not, though we talked of doing it. The Japanese Gardens were sufficient for us, I suppose. Who is Sarah, Harry.

I try, but it is difficult to remember anything that happened to me before I was five years old. The trip to the chicken farms in New Jersey—I cannot, it seems, remember anything on the other side of it. If Marty introduces me to his friends, I wonder what I will say to them. Someone steps on the toe of my right foot. I open my eyes. People are pushing backwards and there is a clear aisle down the center of the subway car. I hear somebody singing in Spanish. There is drumming. Manuel comes shooting down the open aisle, his feet moving with incredible speed, his arms waving, his face contorted in its own ecstasy.

My own faithful monkey shakes his hips behind Manuel. To the left, Marty crouches over his drums, his hands tapping wildly. Nobody reads. All eyes are on them. Manuel spins. In his right hand Ruben is holding Marty’s beret. He shakes the coins in it so that they jingle like a tambourine. He charms his audience with Spanish lyrics, a tale of the most famous dancer of San Juan. I do not believe the intricate rhythms that pound from Marty’s lap. Manuel flies in front of me, Ruben bends down, my pygmy monkey somersaults across his back. He leaps through the air, cartwheeling, flipping his narrow body, making wet sounds from his mouth. Ruben jingles the coins in Marty’s beret. All around me people reach into their pockets. Marty rolls his head from side to side, making clicking sounds with his mouth, grunting to his beat. I can see the Rebbe hopping around on one foot. The music is joyous. Who will go disguised from country to country as Ruben Fontanez, I wonder. People are smiling. “Aiee—!” Ruben shouts and Marty rattles his fingertips against his two drums with increasing speed. One hardly hears the subway. Things seem silent. Manuel dances with abandon, then streaks down the middle, and, as the drum roll stops, he flips over in midair, without touching anything. He lands on his toes, then collapses, his thighs split against the dirty floor.

There is some applause. Ruben jingles his cap and goes quickly from person to person. He winks at me. His eyes are deliriously happy. They are gray now. I was right, you see. It depends on the lighting. The train is slowing down. We move into Pennsylvania Station. Ruben is gone. People have resumed their former positions. Entrances and exits are made. We continue to 14th Street. I look at Marty, who wipes sweat from his forehead, and I recall what Ruben said to me in the restaurant about listening under the windows of the Yeshiva. Let me tell you something: I have seen dancing teams before. One does not ride the New York subways five days a week for forty years and see nothing. But they are the best. None of the Negro groups from Harlem, none of the Puerto Rican teams, not even the gypsies—none can compare with my own subway three. You can believe me when I tell you.

Ruben gives the money to his leader. They talk, then make their way through the crowd, toward the third subway car. An elderly woman in a Persian lamb coat pats Manuel on the head and puts something silver in his palm. Marty’s face is fierce with pride. I do not blame him. You would be also. I hum to myself. Then I hear the drumming. I see the people who hold the straps above me lean toward the third subway car. Ruben’s voice mingles with the iron sound of the train. I catch only phrases. “Amarle fué jugar con candela…salvo por un pelo…”

When we reach 14th Street, I rise from my seat and follow my workingmen. In the third car Ruben is still making his rounds. Business is good, I see. I go ahead of my students and find a seat in the fourth car. The doors close. The crowds have diminished. Only a few people are standing. Marty sits on the floor this time, his back against the doors at the center of the car. “¡Mira!” Ruben cries to his audience. “¡Mira!” Marty taps on one of his drums with both hands, then on the other. The beat is slow at first. Manuel’s body is elastic. His eyelids droop. He snaps his fingers. The tempo increases. Ruben jingles his coins and I must stop myself from clapping. My body sways. I close my eyes briefly and see my father on the couch. His eyes are closed also. My eyes open and Manuel is turning upside down before me, his hands spinning him from the floor of the moving train. “Aiee—!” Ruben screams and Manuel takes his place at the end of the car. He streaks toward the middle. His body seems feather light as he twirls upside down. I hear the gasp of breath this time. Then Ruben is collecting. “Gracias, señora…gracias… Mucho gracias…”

Your charm is undeniable, Ruben Fontanez. The Rebbe would appreciate a visit, I am certain. If you want to invite him to the Black Mass, that would be all right also. Marty walks alongside Manuel, his arm across his monkey’s wiry shoulders. I think of the verse written above the prayer room of my cowboys: All my bones shall praise the Lord. Perhaps I will meet Marty’s Mohawks also. I reach inside my overcoat, inside my jacket, into my back pants pocket. I wipe my forehead with a handkerchief and leave a line of soot on it. We are moving again. Those who have paid for the show look into the next car. Those who did not make donations are bound by their guilt to keep their eyes fixed in their own car. While the train moves I step between the cars. I grasp a handrail. Orange and green signal lights flash by. Below, I know, is water, blackness, wooden ties, silver rails, refuse.

Perhaps it is my subway three who will descend into the sewers and lead the children forth, singing and dancing. It is a story Marty can tell forever. The variations are endless. We are at Park Place. Diagonally across from me, in the far corner, my subway three take a break. It is all right. They are entitled also. At Wall Street I rise and follow them into the sixth car. The train descends into a tunnel and as my monkeys dance and sing, I know, the Hudson River flows above us. Ruben has stopped at the far end of the car and his singing is directed to a beautiful young girl. Her eyes, though, are on me. My heart quickens. Her hair cuts the sides of her face in straight lines. It is coal black and hangs past her shoulders. Her eyes slant slightly. Her cheeks have a high flush to them. Her skin is earthy. She can be no more than thirteen or fourteen years old. I am certain of it. Her mouth is full and sensuous, without paint, and under her thin coat she wears a gypsy’s blouse that reveals the full length of her throat, the spread of her shoulders. Ruben sings of a soldier killed in battle, a young wife crying at home. In her lap the girl rolls a strand of orange beads between her slender fingers. Her mouth opens and I cannot catch my breath. I cough, but I do not take my eyes away. She smiles at me and her lips are gentle. I see her tongue. I remember Mary Santini and I feel your warmth also, Sarah. Ruben is gone. Manuel tap-dances from side to side. The pounding of Marty’s bongos echoes that in my own chest. The jingling of coins is frantic. She brushes her hair back with her hand. I think she is laughing at me. Her eyes are soft. Does she know? Ruben is to my left now and his gray eyes tell me that he sees what is happening. Perhaps this will be your next present for your teacher, Ruben Fontanez. Together, we will violate Marty’s rules. Manuel heads for the center of the subway car, but she does not look at him. I hear people gasp. Our eyes remain on one another. My monkey has told you about me already. I am certain of it. You would do what he says. I rub my fingertips against my palms. There is moisture there, and inside me I feel an aching which reaches to the bones. I will tell you of the dream, Ruben Fontanez. Then you will be certain. Listen to me, Ruben Fontanez. You have not even reached your full height yet. We slow down and the curved mosaics outside the windows tell us that we are at Clark Street, Brooklyn Heights. The river is not above us anymore. You know, don’t you. Your young lady will feel her body grow, her shape change. Things will be more definite. When the train stops, I close my eyes. They will tell me if it is time to get off. If Marty were not your leader I think you would do it. I assure you I would not require much. Merely the touch. I see you smiling, Ruben Fontanez. The pins do not matter. I believe what you said. You would do it to warm an old man’s bed. “You not so old, Mister Meyers.” Ah, Ruben, Ruben, it is all right. I do not open my eyes to listen to you. Your eyes are almost green now. You have your own dreams. I will rest quietly in my room, I assure you. You will leave us alone. It is all right with me if you watch over us. Does she know. I feel a drop of sweat slide under my left arm. I cannot open my coat. I dig my nails into the plastic cushion under me. Merely the touch, Ruben. That is all. The music begins again. A dream is only a dream, Harry. Don’t you be the fool.

She is gone, of course. My three students have returned to the car we came from. They work in the other direction now. There is no need to ask you about it, my wild-eyed monkey. Harry, Harry, let things run their course. Finish what you have started. It is too late for anything new. Forget what you crave, no matter what Ruben says. The aching cannot come often. Do not deny that you care, only stop the games. Leave the pictures in the case. Tell Danny what you have to tell him. Who is Sarah, Harry.

The performances continue. Above the windows there is an advertisement that you should read, my subway three. They had you in mind, I am sure.

EMPLOYERS!
HIRE BEGINNERS
Eager to earn and to learn
YOU CAN TRAIN THEM YOUR WAY!

Well. We know what your reaction would be, don’t we, Ruben Fontanez. I can hear you. I wonder what percentage Marty gives you, and who represents Manuel. But I will make no trouble. It is too late to start anything new. I am certain you will do all right. It is good that I have come out of my room for the day, I know, but I am not so certain the subway ride has been a good thing. We move from car to car and business continues to be good. I am feeling weary again, though. It is to be expected. Manuel is tireless. It will be best, after all, if Marty’s rules remain in effect. They signal to me at Franklin Avenue and I follow them up and over the stairs to wait for the Lexington Avenue Uptown Express. We are not far from the Brooklyn Museum now. Manuel, if you will dance up the sides with the cowboys, I would assure you a good audience. After Borough Hall, the train is virtually deserted. My two monkeys sit across from me. Their leader has decided it is safe and he comes and sits by my side.

He looks straight ahead and his lips barely move. He tells me that this is the best morning they have had in weeks. Their luck has been excellent. Not a single policeman has boarded the trains we have worked in.

“With things the way they are we really have to be careful now,” he says. “I mean, some of the cops just look the other way when they see guys like us trying to make a buck—but some are real mean bastards and we have to spend half our time just trying to shake them, you know what I mean?”

“Yes,” I say.

“It’ll be best if you don’t talk to me,” he says. “I just wanted to let you know that we’re gonna be getting off soon to take a lunch break. If you’re feeling bushed and want to get back home, I wanted you to know that’s okay with us.” Under cover of his jacket, Manuel is puffing on a cigarette. He blows the smoke into an empty cigarette pack. “That Manny, he’s really something—he’s afraid if he gets too big so people don’t think he’s a cute little kid—you know, the way all these women smile at him—he thinks some other little spic’s gonna take away his job.” He looks in my face for a response. I give none. “I don’t say yes, I don’t say no. I’ll tell you the truth, though, Meyers—not many people would reach into their pockets if they knew they’d been seeing a fifteen-year-old putting on our act. They don’t mind if me and Ruben look older, but—” The rest of his words are lost in the rush of the train. We have already passed the Bowling Green station, so I suppose I will not meet your Brooklyn friends today, Marty. Let me tell you something else: I am sorry you have explained to me why it is that Manuel smokes so furiously. I look at him now, releasing the smoke into the empty cigarette pack, and I am uncomfortable and sad. There is no need to tell you this. I am thrown forward slightly by the rocking of the train, but I do not lose my balance. I remain seated, a few inches forward, my hands braced against the seat. I hear you again, telling me that Manuel would do anything for you. He is a loyal friend. All right. I believe you. Still, I am uncomfortable knowing.

It is all right if you cannot remember anything beyond five years old, Harry, don’t you see? Not everything needs to be revealed. There is hardly time, after all. A Negro man appears at the end of the subway car, tapping a cane against the floor. His sign asks us to help him buy a seeing-eye dog. Marty reaches into his pocket, and, as the man passes us, puts some coins into his cup. His eye sockets, I see, are scarred.

“We’re in the same business, the way I look at it—” Marty says. An elderly couple to our left is encouraged by Marty’s action. The man nods his head up and down, mumbling his gratitude. “Anyway, this guy’s really blind—he does all right this way. Better off without the dog—” Then he explains how to tell the difference between the fake and the genuine blind men in subways, but I am not interested in his theories. And I am not interested in why you are running away, my cunning friend. “I did a lot for Manny,” he tells me. “I could tell you stories about the things he had to do to make money before I came along, right?” He is angry for some reason. “So if you want to help out, Meyers, the thing for you to do is to tell your boy Ruben to cool it, you know what I mean?” I do not nod. I do not, in fact, know what he is talking about. We have passed Broadway and Fulton Streets. There are more people in the car. Businessmen with fresh haircuts read their papers and reports. They stay away from my two monkeys. Manuel has stopped smoking. Perhaps, once again, I have missed something. But that is all right also. “I mean, the way I see it, the world’s got kids like them by the bazoojies, right?—and it’s up to somebody to make sure they get what’s coming to them—” The man to my right reads the New York Times editorial page, but I do not try to make out sentences. I see the photographs of the famous men who have passed away within the last twenty-four hours. Marty’s drums stay in his green bag. We are at the Brooklyn Bridge-Worth Street station and Marty has stopped talking to me. He clicks his tongue and Ruben and Manuel rise. We exit from the train and walk alongside the green iron gate. Marty recommends that I stay behind them. “When we get outside, though. Nobody can tell here. It’s okay.”

Ruben and Manuel flank me on the left. “What you think, Mister Meyers?” Ruben asks. Manuel is almost a full head shorter than Ruben. They push through the turnstile ahead of me. Marty nudges me with his elbow. He tells me that before I awoke this morning, he and Ruben had been debating one of the proposals in the magazine articles. They were wondering about my opinion. In those states which permit capital punishment, the condemned man would be offered a choice: death or permanent anesthesia. A skilled medical team would use the man’s brain and body for experimental studies. I have read the article, of course. I have considered the proposal. I think I know your feelings, my monkey, dolls or no dolls. You would want to be finished with things also, wouldn’t you. And your leader wants only to solidify his control over you now. I sense it. Still, I should answer the question. I look at Marty. It is a strange peace you attempt, my young drummer. I think you would be glad at this point to allow Ruben such a slight victory. You would like me to confirm his fears. You must maintain morale in your organization. All does not go well between you. Before, in the subway car, you were trying to tell me something. Well. It is nothing to me. Harry Meyers does not need extra years.

“So they tinker with my brain,” Marty is saying. “Let them have a good time. What’s it to me—?”

“Tell him, Mister Meyers!” Ruben is pleading with me. Manuel lights a cigarette. In this instance, I think, Harry Meyers would choose death. But you should not think it is because he has been intimidated, my friend.

“And who knows what might happen in the future, right? One of these first days they might…”

My ears are closed to him. “Tell him, Mister Meyers—!” Manuel blows the smoke into the air. In the change booth a gray-haired woman arranges copper tokens in stacks. “Tell him—” I see a policeman appear from the other side of the booth. He has spotted the smoke. I let myself fall a step behind. Ruben is too upset to notice. Marty is fixing his beret. Only Manuel senses something. He looks at me from under his heavy lids.

“Hey kid—”

They are gone, in three directions. Their speed is amazing. Ruben streaks up the left staircase, Marty the right. And faithful Manuel is bravest of all. He runs directly past the policeman, his cigarette clutched between his fingertips, his narrow body evading the policeman’s grasp. It would, in fact, be difficult to hold such a boy. As for Harry Meyers, he is busy purchasing five additional tokens. The policeman starts after Manuel, but he is already out of sight. The man turns to the original exit and shrugs. I stare at him. His jaw is unsteady. He would like to do something that would not leave him appearing foolish, but Harry Meyers will not help him, I can assure you. He stands in the middle of the arcade, his action thwarted. Another train is approaching. The policeman moves now, and leans against the wall, muttering to himself. His words are louder for my benefit: epithets about Puerto Rican children. I show no response. He does not think of making a connection between Harry Meyers and the subway three. We are safe, I know. He slaps his nightstick into the palm of his hand to demonstrate his authority.

I deposit a token and push back through the turnstile. I am done following. I would not trade jobs with you, my friend. If I were to spend my life underground I should prefer not to work alone. When we first met, Marty said something about a position in his organization. I laugh to myself. I do not hold anything against him. He has his reasons, I am certain. Everybody is entitled to a theory. I go down the passageway leading to the uptown express. I glance behind, but the steps are those of a delivery boy carrying parcels on his shoulder.

It is a good thing he did not associate us with each other. Marty, you were careless. But Harry, in truth, you were most careless. Things are nearly done and you take foolish chances. Who knows what stories would be printed if all were known, if their presence in your room were reported in the newspapers. As for sheltering Ruben, it is difficult to know how your monkeys and cowboys would respond to such news. One thing is certain, though: you would no longer be Mad-Man Meyers. And it is best, with less than half a year remaining, to work from habit, to continue with the weapons you are familiar with.

I board the subway car and do not pay attention to those around me. Our train travels across the center set of rails. Beyond them, through the openings between moldy girders, I see the signs for the local stops: Canal, Bleeker, Spring, Astor Place. Above me a set of lights has gone out. Between cars a Negro boy in a red baseball cap surveys us all. A transit policeman pushes him aside, roughly, and swaggers through our car. It would be quite easy, as he passed, for a passenger to slip his gun from his holster. Manuel, I am certain, has considered the possibility.

At 14th Street I wander the corridors and make my way down a long ramp to the crosstown line. My shoes pinch my feet. I have not worn them for almost two weeks. Things seem lifeless here without you, my subway three. I am sorry I did not have time to tell you how exciting your performance was. Tonight will be too late. It too would only prolong matters. It will be difficult to disappoint you, Ruben Fontanez. You will know anyway, though. Soon. Your bones spread every day. You cannot do this forever. Perhaps this summer, you also, Manuel, will find that even the cigarettes cannot stop nature from taking your trade away from you. Marty can advise you then, if you are still working together. I would not count on it, though. My instincts tell me something there also.

The crosstown subway is old and I am more comfortable in it. Red plastic cushions do not interest me much. I prefer varnished straw. I see the boy in the red baseball cap riding in the adjacent car. His face is very black. He stands, but not in the doorway. He learns things also. I should have left my room earlier. There was no need to stay that long. I must, I suppose, have wanted certain things.

I choose to get out at Sixth Avenue. I will change at 59th Street and exit by Central Park. There is no need to pass by Verdi Square again. It is all right to help Nydia. If things are explained properly, Carlos will understand. In the D train I close my eyes. My throat feels strained. Perhaps I should visit the doctor, as Marty suggested. It is still winter and my resistance is not all it should be. I should get ready. Soon I will resume my odyssey. I will travel back and forth again, locked in subway cars with other people’s breath, enclosed in classrooms with my students’ assorted germs. I will climb the stairs, and push through the supermarkets, and who can predict what my dreams will be like. I will tell you this, though: I would not mind seeing Manuel perform again. There is grace in his body, and I would have to agree with the others that there may be more ways than one to measure a C.R.M.D. I will avoid you, Mr. Greenfeld. It will be best that way. I am not sure I would be able to restrain myself. When the frustrations mount, I will have my monkeys to work on, of course, but there will be little pleasure in that. If my three guardians want to maintain their present hideout, there is nothing I can do about it. And there is nothing I can do about your sandblasted cheek, don’t you see? I do not fool myself. When I have decided more definitely, and my move is completed, I can let Danny know, I suppose. In a year, perhaps. When I am settled again. It would not do any harm. He does not have so much in this life.

I change for the AA train at 59th Street, and travel two more stops, to 81st Street. I get out at the front end and walk up the stairs. I look across the street at the stone wall which surrounds Central Park. I am too tired to take a walk now. At this point, until you reach the Great Lawn, it is uphill. In the playground I see the children climbing in the monkey bars and swinging in the swings. The mothers rest on the benches. I do not buy a paper from the man at the newspaper stand, nor do I take the shortcut by the planetarium, through Theodore Roosevelt Park. Columbus Avenue would depress me. I will need my strength. I proceed along Central Park West. Long lines of schoolchildren wait outside the museum with their teachers. Above them Theodore Roosevelt is flanked by an American Indian and an African. Why should I look at the children. I continue. I can see Ruben leading a charge into the giant war canoe in the lobby of the museum. Still, I do not look at the children. I sense, though, that their faces are different shades of brown, their bodies restless. What can it all mean to them, I wonder.

At the corner of West 77th Street I look up at the turrets of the museum, where the huge eagles watch over us all. The sun is not as strong as it was earlier and the building has a pinkish cast to it. It makes me think that it has been raining. The streets are dry. I pass the New York Historical Society. There are no lines of children here.

The fronts of the brownstones and graystones do not interest me today. There are few trees on West 76th Street. I do not want to meet Morris. I do not look for the garbage-can woman. I would rather not encounter anybody. The top sections of the old tenement windows at Columbus Avenue are made of beautiful stained glass. A sign in front of Sam’s Hardware announces a sale. By this time, I am certain, my subway three have resumed their work. It is colder. There are no limousines parked at the far corner and that is just as well also.

In my room, the radiator has just gone on. I listen to its clanking. Danny’s suitcase reminds me of what is to come. It was good of Marty to replace the book. We are all entitled to our theories, after all. Who can say what any man would do were he born with such spots. All right. Morado, Ruben Fontanez. Morado. I do not look at the magazine article, but I do not move it from my night table. My doll smiles at me. The pins mean nothing. I hang my coat in the closet and take off my jacket. In another day, perhaps, I will take a hot bath. Now I should avoid chills. I will undress in a minute.

I pull down one shade, then move to the other window. An ambulance is waiting in front of the Park West Hospital, double-parked. A man with a white beard moves under me to the synagogue. Across the street, leaning against the hood of an old yellow Buick, looking in my direction, I see the boy in the red baseball cap. He looks straight at me and he smiles slowly from his black face. What is left of the sunlight flashes from a gold front tooth.