(Anyway, reading over this scene in the restaurant I find I am absurdly pleased with it. Yes, it could have happened that way. That is is Mickey's voice I've put there, and I expect that people who know him, if they read the above, would agree. And I find that reality has swum in to inhabit the fiction I created, and I am absolutely sure that if Mickey read it he would say, Yeah, I recall it just like that. So I write the second kind of history here. As did Bracegirdle, I imagine, although he was an honest man, and I am not.) Mickey's voice I've put there, and I expect that people who know him, if they read the above, would agree. And I find that reality has swum in to inhabit the fiction I created, and I am absolutely sure that if Mickey read it he would say, Yeah, I recall it just like that. So I write the second kind of history here. As did Bracegirdle, I imagine, although he was an honest man, and I am not.) I should mention now that shortly after this event I stopped into one of those electronics shops on Sixth Avenue to buy a cell phone battery and for reasons I can't quite recall...no, actually I do recall. As noted, I have a mind more disorderly than I would prefer and have been in the habit of scrawling down random notes about this and that when they occur to me, in the pages in the back of that aforesaid diary. Unfortunately, I sometimes find I can't read what I've written: see urty abt. srtnt see urty abt. srtnt would be a typical notation. But while I was in the shop my eye fell on a digital voice-activated recorder, a Sanyo 32, and I thought to myself that here was a solution to my disorder and I purchased it for seventy-two bucks. It is the size of a cell phone and it records two solid hours in high-quality mode. Since I bought it, the last two hours of my life's sound track has been saved for later listening. It has been invaluable to the present exercise. would be a typical notation. But while I was in the shop my eye fell on a digital voice-activated recorder, a Sanyo 32, and I thought to myself that here was a solution to my disorder and I purchased it for seventy-two bucks. It is the size of a cell phone and it records two solid hours in high-quality mode. Since I bought it, the last two hours of my life's sound track has been saved for later listening. It has been invaluable to the present exercise.

After lunch, I ran Mickey back uptown in the Lincoln. He'd drunk most of the wine with the couple of gimlets and he was fairly well oiled. When Mickey gets like this he invariably talks about his three wives. The first Mrs. H. was his college sweetheart, Louise, a strapping blonde from a fine old New England family, who doled out s.e.xual favors standing up under the balcony and the hanging ivy of her Barnard residence hall, as we all did in those days, and somewhat more intimate ones in our apartment. She started letting him f.u.c.k her in senior year after she had the ring, another jolly tradition of those times. I recall weekend mornings in the apartment, Mickey in his maroon velour bathrobe (or dressing gown as he pretentiously called it) making fussy coffee with a Chemex, and Louise swanning in, faintly embarra.s.sed at the sight of me at the kitchen table, but carrying it off with cla.s.s. She usually apppeared on these occasions in black tights with one of Mickey's oxford dress s.h.i.+rts on top, an outfit I have ever since considered wildly erotic. (Tights were underwear in those days; I have never quite become used to girls racing around town exhibiting their bodies in them-always a certain vibration in the s.c.r.o.t.u.m.) She also appeared without bra, as she was an early adopter of that style, and she had lovely, pointed, jiggly ones too.

The a.s.sumption at these matinees was always that Mickey was the big stud with the mistress, while I was the poor but honest s.e.xually deprived grind, and didn't we all giggle at this play! In fact, at the time I was getting rather more s.e.x than I could handle from a woman named Ruth Polansky, a thirty-six-year-old librarian at the Farragut Branch of the New York Public Library. This I kept secret from my roommate and everyone else, out of embarra.s.sment for myself and a credible fear for Ruth's job. Is this germane to the story? In a way, if only as evidence of how early my training in s.e.xual dissemblage began. I suppose there is nothing quite so explosive as an affair between a teenaged boy and a woman of a certain age, in which the peak capacity of the male is matched by the hunger of the female. The French exhibit a certain awe at such affairs and have a whole literature on this subject, but in America it is (Mrs. Robinson!) treated only as farce.

Our particular affair was farcical enough, for our major problem was finding a place to do it in. She lived with her mother and I lived with Mickey Haas, neither of us had a car, I was dest.i.tute, as I've mentioned, and a librarian's pay did not run to springing for hotel rooms. Miss Polansky and I had been acquainted for years, and she had been an interested observer of my adolescent growth and the acc.u.mulation of heavy musculature that attended it. She was a small, pale woman with silky colorless hair that she wore in a ponytail, making her look younger than her age. Unusually, for that era, she was divorced, which added a certain spice to my fantasies about her, which began at about age twelve. As I (falsely, I suppose) reconstruct it, she brought me along quite skillfully, using my interest in theater to turn my thoughts toward the sort of erotic life not generally available in high schools at the time. She gave me books, plays: Williams, Ibsen, Tea and Sympathy Tea and Sympathy, erotic French poetry, and Ulysses Ulysses, these last on loan from her private collection. It is in any event not hard to seduce a teenage boy in a book-smelling, steam-heated library on a drowsy winter afternoon. She didn't mind the pimples. She complimented my eyes. s.e.xy, she said, bedroom eyes.

The primary seduction occurred in the staff room at the library. She had a fifteen-minute break, the other librarian was at the front desk. We did it in a chair, close to a radiator that hissingly leaked steam, although it had nothing on Mrs. Polansky. I lasted only a few minutes but that was enough to send her into a remarkable paroxysm, during which, because she did not wish to attract the attention of the library patrons, she caused volumes of air to issue from between her clenched teeth, since which time I have always found the whistle of escaping steam to be lubricious. I did not get to hear her full-throated cry of ecstasy until the city began closing libraries on Tuesday and Thursday afternoons and I was able to start using my old room in the family apartment while Mutti was working at the hospital.

We had a window of about three hours between noon and when my sister returned from school, of which a good deal was consumed by the subway ride from uptown Manhattan to eastern Brooklyn, so that we were clawing off our clothes from the instant the front door clicked shut. Mrs. Polansky was not the noisiest o.r.g.a.s.mer I have ever encountered, but she was a contender, producing at the peak a series of deep, loud organlike groans; and it was only to be expected, given the farcical nature of our affair, that one day, after our typical exertions and having arranged our clothes for the world, we should have encountered Mutti sitting at the kitchen table. She'd taken the afternoon off for some reason, and I never knew how long she'd been sitting there. Her face was unreadable as I introduced Mrs. P. as a math tutor helping me with my algebra. Ruth extended her hand and Mutti shook it, quite correctly, and offered coffee.

I haven't thought of that afternoon in quite some time. I really don't like thinking about that apartment at all, especially the kitchen.

Back to Mickey and his wives. Louise, as I said, was the first, and lasted the usual seven years. By then it was the height of the s.e.xual revolution, and Mickey wanted his share, which was not all that hard for a professor to pick up, and so then there was Marilyn Kaplan, the eternal grad student. By this time Mickey had a couple of kids and a dog in his big Scarsdale house, and so it cost him a bundle to slake his l.u.s.t for Marilyn. Of the three wives, Marilyn is the most cla.s.sically beautiful: big black eyes, glossy long chestnut hair, and the great American girl body, long legs, thin waist, cannonball b.r.e.a.s.t.s. She was a staunch feminist of the high 1970s school, utterly contemptuous of the male gaze, while attracting it without cease, and waxing great upon the advantages it conferred. She produced another child, and after some three years vanished with a fellow from, I think, Berkeley, an epicene bis.e.xual of flawless politics, or so I gathered. As Mickey explained it, the problem was largely intellectual: he simply was not on her level with respect to literary theory. This was something nearly as important to her as s.e.x, at which, according to Mickey, she was the dominant partner and of boundless energy and inventiveness.

I heard her lecture once. Mickey took me, a lecture called something like "Privileging the Text in the Late Comedies: Speech Act Theory and Discursive Formation in Shakespeare." I did not understand one single word of it, and told Mickey so, and he tried to explain to me about Foucault and Althusser and Derrida and the revolution in the study of literature of which Marilyn was an ornament, but I could see that his heart was not in it. Mickey's problem, I gathered, was that while he could talk the current critical talk, and did it surpa.s.sing well, his heart was not really in it, for he loved loved Shakespeare, and loving anything was apparently a bourgeois affectation concealing the machinations of the oppressive patriarchy. Marilyn thought she could change him, thought she could blow some fresh air into his paternalistic, bourgeois view of literature, but no. And he had never made her come, not like Gerald-from-Berkeley could, or so she told him. She left him the kid, though. Shakespeare, and loving anything was apparently a bourgeois affectation concealing the machinations of the oppressive patriarchy. Marilyn thought she could change him, thought she could blow some fresh air into his paternalistic, bourgeois view of literature, but no. And he had never made her come, not like Gerald-from-Berkeley could, or so she told him. She left him the kid, though.

Number three was, or is, Dierdre, who was his editor at Putnam, a Kevlar and piano-wire item, who pursues perfection in all things. She is now (we are back on our drive) the main subject of complaint, for Dierdre is a la mode to the max. For Dierdre to have the wrong refrigerator, attend the wrong party, appear at the wrong club or resort, or have the wrong sort of house in the Hamptons, would be a kind of social cancer, and she now wishes to produce a perfect child, at which Mickey is rather balking, having three already. He told me a long anecdote about...

You know, I forget what it was about. Tiles? A German appliance? Conception strategies? Who gives a s.h.i.+t, but the point was that she was costing him a bundle, as was the first wife and the first set of kids, and the boy from Marilyn (Jason) was acting up, and he was spending a fortune in special schools and psychiatrist bills, and because of the market and the too numerous fastener heirs, he was seriously pinched. (I offered a loan, got laughed at, ha-ha, it's not that bad yet.) Such b.i.t.c.h sessions are a normal part of my friends.h.i.+p with Mickey. I suppose he's listened enough to mine, although I have had only the one wife. The peculiar thing, though, about Mickey's wives is that, by chance, I have f.u.c.ked each of them, although not ever during the period in which they were married to him. I would never do that.

Louise and I had a single long afternoon about two weeks before she got married. She said she loved him and wanted to have his children, but simply could not bear the thought of never doing it with another man and she said she always had a sneaker for me (her word) and wanted to see what it was like before the gate clanged shut. She was a somewhat nervous lover, and it was clear that Mickey had not proceeded past the introductory course, whereas Mrs. Polansky had given me an entire curriculum. That was it, and she never mentioned it, or sought more, and I don't think she ever told Mickey, even when he took up with Marilyn.

Who I'd met at a literary c.o.c.ktail to which I was invited by one of my clients, about six months before he hooked up with her. She was ranting on about fascists fascists in her English lit department, and I made a mild comment about how that word had a technical meaning and it was not particularly wise to use it in so broadly figurative a sense, lest we be unguarded if the real thing came along again, as it very well might, since it had its attractions, obviously. She laughed at me, because to her in her English lit department, and I made a mild comment about how that word had a technical meaning and it was not particularly wise to use it in so broadly figurative a sense, lest we be unguarded if the real thing came along again, as it very well might, since it had its attractions, obviously. She laughed at me, because to her fascist fascist was what you called someone you disliked, and their response was always to deny it. n.o.body except some brainless hicks in Indiana or Idaho ever admitted to actually espousing fascism. For obvious reasons, I have read deeply in the history and literature of that philosophy, and, being a little drunk, gave her a ma.s.sive dose. I don't think she'd ever heard a coherent argument that did not start with was what you called someone you disliked, and their response was always to deny it. n.o.body except some brainless hicks in Indiana or Idaho ever admitted to actually espousing fascism. For obvious reasons, I have read deeply in the history and literature of that philosophy, and, being a little drunk, gave her a ma.s.sive dose. I don't think she'd ever heard a coherent argument that did not start with her her a.s.sumptions, but with a completely different set-that s.e.xual and racial oppression were natural, for example, and that it was as absurd to be ashamed of them or to suppress them as it was to be ashamed of s.e.x; that absolute power to grind the faces of one's enemies was delightful and also not something to be ashamed of; that democracy was pitiful; that it was ecstasy to bind one's will to that of a leader; that war was the health of the state.... a.s.sumptions, but with a completely different set-that s.e.xual and racial oppression were natural, for example, and that it was as absurd to be ashamed of them or to suppress them as it was to be ashamed of s.e.x; that absolute power to grind the faces of one's enemies was delightful and also not something to be ashamed of; that democracy was pitiful; that it was ecstasy to bind one's will to that of a leader; that war was the health of the state....

When I was finished, she a.s.serted that n.o.body could possibly believe any of that s.h.i.+t, and I pointed out that, historically, many people did, that it had in fact been wildly popular some decades ago among people just as smart as her, including Martin Heidegger and my grandfather, who, I informed her, had been a member of the Waffen-SS. She thought I was joking, I a.s.sured her I was not, and I invited her to my place to see my collection of inherited n.a.z.i memorabilia, something that I am almost certain she had never previously been invited to do. She came along, I showed her my stuff and told her my stories. It had a perverse erotic effect on her, for I suppose it represented the instantiation of the famous line by Plath, although every woman does not love me and I am not an actual fascist. She did actually want the boot in the face, however, in the form of violent s.e.x and some other rough stuff. I don't much care for that sort of thing, but I felt obliged to play the gentleman (in a manner of speaking) on this occasion. She was a sewer-mouth o.r.g.a.s.mer, another thing I don't much like, and I did not call her again, nor see her until Mickey invited me out for a drink to meet his new amour sometime later and there she was. We pretended we had never met.

Dierdre publishes a client of mine. We met at my office, something to do with this author using characters that had appeared in previous work jointly copyrighted with another author. We exchanged glances. She was wearing a s.h.i.+mmery blouse and very tight slacks, and when she rose to rummage something out of her briefcase, I admired her a.s.s and the thin thighs that depended from it, and the clear-cut interesting s.p.a.ce between them, as wide as a pack of cards. She gave me another look as she returned. This was, I must admit, a s.e.x and the City s.e.x and the City sort of thing. I called her, and the usual. She turned out to be one of those women who likes to get well impaled on one and then m.a.s.t.u.r.b.a.t.e. She had no padding at all and left a painful bruise on my pubic bone from the grinding. As against that, she was a nightingale, which I rather enjoy, a long series of tuneful notes during her several drawn-out climaxes. We had a few dates-this was about five years ago-and then I called and she was busy and called again and the same, and that was it. I did not regret the termination. I think she found me a little stuffy, and I found her a little shallow. When I met her some months prior to her wedding to Mickey, she also pretended not to have met me, and perhaps she had indeed forgotten our routinized little fling. sort of thing. I called her, and the usual. She turned out to be one of those women who likes to get well impaled on one and then m.a.s.t.u.r.b.a.t.e. She had no padding at all and left a painful bruise on my pubic bone from the grinding. As against that, she was a nightingale, which I rather enjoy, a long series of tuneful notes during her several drawn-out climaxes. We had a few dates-this was about five years ago-and then I called and she was busy and called again and the same, and that was it. I did not regret the termination. I think she found me a little stuffy, and I found her a little shallow. When I met her some months prior to her wedding to Mickey, she also pretended not to have met me, and perhaps she had indeed forgotten our routinized little fling.

Somewhat depressed now by these reminiscences, I vouchsafe them only to lay the groundwork, necessary to the unfolding of this tale, of my increasingly pathetic yearning for the erotic. Dierdre was s.e.xy but not erotic; there is no deep life in her. Ingrid is erotic, if a little detached, there is always a distance when we're together and I suppose that's why I visit her. Artists, I have found, are often like that; it all goes into their work. My estranged wife, Amalie, is far and away the most erotic woman I have ever known, the life force boils out of her, and everything she touches attains beauty. Except me.

Does "erotic" have an antonym? Thanatotic, perhaps. Is that a word? Clearly the thing is itself real, for don't we all delight in death? Violent death especially, what pleasure! Don't we show it in all its fictive detail to our children tens of thousands of times? Although not the reality: no, NASCAR racing excepted, here's the one remaining area where we acknowledge the difference between IP and Real Life. Real death is the last embarra.s.sing thing. And there's surely an aesthetics of death, the opposite of all those sprightly Impressionist scenes and the luscious nudes of Boucher, an aesthetics that I believe reached its apogee during the regime for which my grandfather made the supreme sacrifice. Contra Mies, this appeal has nothing to do with mere functionality. The American P-47 Thunderbolt was an effective and formidable weapon, arguably the best fighter-bomber of the war, but it looks looks like something out of the Disney studio, plump and bulbous, as if it should have its prop emerging from a smiley face. The Stuka on the other hand looks just like what it is: terror from the skies. Again, the Sherman tank looks like something a toddler would pull on a string; the Panzer VI Tiger is obviously an elaborate machine for killing human beings. Not to mention the terrific uniforms, the regalia. And this thing here in my hand. like something out of the Disney studio, plump and bulbous, as if it should have its prop emerging from a smiley face. The Stuka on the other hand looks just like what it is: terror from the skies. Again, the Sherman tank looks like something a toddler would pull on a string; the Panzer VI Tiger is obviously an elaborate machine for killing human beings. Not to mention the terrific uniforms, the regalia. And this thing here in my hand.

The Germans call it a Pistole Pistole-08, a null-acht null-acht, but everyone else calls it a Luger. This is in fact the very item brandished when Mom and Dad met: yes, she lied about that, for here it is. It is a special presentation model awarded to old granddad when he won the Knight's Cross with Oak Leaves and Swords. G.o.d knows what it's worth, thousands and thousands to the peculiar little men who collect this s.h.i.+t. On the left side of the walnut grip is an inlaid diamond lozenge quartered red and white with black letters inlaid in the center

[image]

and on the right side we find an inlaid miniature in silver of the decoration; the recipient's name, his rank, and the date are engraved on the receiver. Himmler apparently conferred it with his own pudgy white hands. My mother was unclear as to what the medal citation was, but it involved killing a truly spectacular number of Russians while commanding a panzer regiment on the eastern front during the late summer of 1943. It still makes me sweat a little to look at it and hold it, it is so totally awful a thing, but for some reason I have never been able to sell it or toss it in the river. It's loaded too, with the original Parabellum 9 mm. And I know it works. Perhaps I will do some plinking with it later. I am a pretty good pistol shot as a matter of fact. My brother, Paul, taught me how during a leave after his first tour. I met him down at Fort Bragg and we went out into the piney woods one afternoon and blazed away with a military Colt .45 and a Soviet Makarov 9 mm he had picked up in Vietnam. He taught point-and-shoot combat style, speed above everything because the average pistol target was seven feet away or less.

Anyway, I dropped Mickey off at Columbia, and as he left the car he said, "Let me know when the niece calls-if she finds that ma.n.u.script, tell her I'd love to have a look at it."

I said I would and we drove off south. On the ride back I thought about my long relations.h.i.+p with Mickey Haas, especially its s.e.xual aspects. I had to acknowledge a certain contempt for the man, which is, I believe, inevitably a part of any really intimate long-term friends.h.i.+p. My brother, Paul, would call this feeling part of our fallen state, that we cannot love unreservedly, that we must consider the beloved less than we believe ourselves to be, in at least one way. I suppose this is, though hurtful, a good thing. We all have a tendency toward self-wors.h.i.+p, and one of the prime functions of a good friend is to keep this in check. I know he thinks I am a dull old dog, and not nearly as smart as he is. Perhaps true; certainly I am not nearly as famous. I don't write popular best-selling books, I am not wors.h.i.+pped by legions of students, I am not a premier member of the National Academy of Arts and Letters, nor do I have his Pulitzer Prize. He must also think I am something of a fool for love, or at least s.e.x. He is certainly privy to the tale of my peccadilloes, save the three exceptions I have noted. He was terribly affected when Amalie and I broke up. She's perfect for you, he said at the time, listing her virtues. He was correct. Too perfect for me by far, but it's hard to get that notion across to another.

Several days later, according to my diary, Ms. Maldonado put through a call; I had alerted her to its possibility and stressed the importance thereof. The voice was young, pleasant, somewhat throaty. You know what this is about then, eh? The aboot aboot and the terminal syllable marked her as a Canadian. Foreign-nearby, as the ads used to say. I found it immediately attractive, and I invited her to drop by the office, but she demurred. She'd rather meet me in a neutral place, for reasons she would explain when we met. Where, then? She was working, she said, in the New York Public Library, in the Brooke Russell Astor Reading Room of the Rare Books Division. I said I had some things to clear up, but that I could meet her there at four. She said she looked forward to meeting me. and the terminal syllable marked her as a Canadian. Foreign-nearby, as the ads used to say. I found it immediately attractive, and I invited her to drop by the office, but she demurred. She'd rather meet me in a neutral place, for reasons she would explain when we met. Where, then? She was working, she said, in the New York Public Library, in the Brooke Russell Astor Reading Room of the Rare Books Division. I said I had some things to clear up, but that I could meet her there at four. She said she looked forward to meeting me.

I resumed my task of the day, which was suing some poor slob of an artist on behalf of a giant corporation. This is the daily bread of the IP lawyer. Someone had appropriated the logo of a national chain to comment on the madness of consumerism. The original logo is a little risque (t.i.ts), and the artist had made it more so, and it had shown up on popular posters and T-s.h.i.+rts and the corporation was not amused. I can do cease-and-desist orders of this type in my sleep, or on this occasion, with my mind on my coming date with the mysterious heiress of Bulstrode, whose name I now knew was Miranda Kellogg.

Omar dropped me off at the Fifth Avenue entrance to the great beaux arts pile of the library at a quarter to four. The two stone lions, Patience and Fort.i.tude, who according to New York lore are supposed to roar when a virgin ascends the steps, were mum. I took the elevator to the third floor and arranged admission to the locked Astor room, just off the main reading room. Memories here: I spent a significant portion of my middle-school years sitting at those long wooden tables. I would subway up from Brooklyn and stay the whole day, supposedly researching a school paper (this was before the Internet, of course, and before Mrs. Polansky struck) but mainly enjoying the anonymity, the company of strangers and scholars, and the utter un-Mishkinity of the place. My first really adult experience.

I spotted her right away, at a long table in one corner. Apart from a gentleman manning the official desk, she was alone in the richly paneled room. Her hair was blond, worked into two miniature braids pinned up over the ears. Amalie wore her hair that way when we were courting, and absurd as it is I have always been a sucker for that style. Her neck was bared and deliciously vulnerable; women's necks are, in my view, the most underrated secondary s.e.xual characteristic in our culture, and one that always gets me in the vitals. I stood there for minutes just watching her turn pages. Then, in the mysterious way that has never been successfully explained to me, she became conscious of my stare and turned abruptly. Our eyes met. I nodded. She smiled dazzlingly and rose and came toward me. She didn't really look like the young Amalie, not feature by feature, but she had that same leonine grace; somewhat shorter than average, she wore a short gray skirt and a beautiful glowing pink silk blouse. Dark stockings, elegant ankles. She held out her hand and I grasped it. She had grape green eyes, just like Amalie's. She said You must be Mr. Mishkin. I'm Miranda Kellogg. I couldn't speak for a moment. Electricity ran up my arm and I am afraid I held the grip a little too long. This is ridiculous, I recall thinking.

THE B BRACEGIRDLE L LETTER (5) (5).

As I neared my house that even I hearde the noyse of womans cryes & entering therein I found my father laying harde upon my poore mothere with his sticke, which I had never seen before now nor ever thought to see. The case was this: Margaret the mayde had founde in my motheres presse a papiste crucifixe & beades & brought them straightways to my father, & hym thinkynge all these yeares he had tabeled & bedded a secrete papiste grew mad with it & stroke oute in a furie, my mothere protestynge that such kickshows were alle she hadde of her mother mere keep-sakes, yet it availed naught. And though I knew my father was in his rights I could not beare it & made to stay his arm saying have mercie she is your wyfe: but he cryed she is no wyfe to me anie more & stroke at mee too & at that I coulde not holpe but presse hym away & he felle harde upon the floor. Wee two-I mean my mother & mee then kneelt to aide him if we could: in truth he was not hurt sore but in his pryde & he cried plague take you both, you shalnot stoppe a night more in my house, I have not wyfe nor sonne no more.

So weeping both full bitterlie I left with my mother & a few thynges of our own, me hyring a barrow to carry these fornitures, she near dieing for shame. Now by chaunce I had the gold from the Ordnance that payed for the gonnes 68 12s. so wee were not paupered & could hyre a room for the night in an inn the Iron Man in Hart Lane by the old Crutchedfriars, 3d. the night & keep. The next morn leavyng some smalle monnaie with my mother I took boat to Gravesend & then back to t.i.tchfield as I had come up. My maistre was well-pleazed his gonnes had a.s.saied well but frowned harde when I told hym what had come to pa.s.s at my fatheres house & harder stille when I sayde I had uzed his gold to keep us the night & my mother some daies after: & promised I would paye it back everie pennie, & pleadeth the necessitie. But he gave me the lie saying I had gamed or drunk it up & hoped to gull hym with this tayle of papistes: in short, we fought, me not able I feare to keep Christian forebearance as I should nor honor my maistre as I should, for I could not beare his cantings hym being hymselfe a greate liar & keeping a wh.o.r.e besydes. Which I tolde oute to the whole house & his wyfe there too & was greate dissensioun in that house after. Next day I was dismissed with but the clothes on my backe & no ticket of leave neither.

t.i.tchfield being 65 Englishe myles from London it ben some tyme for me to walk back, slaepyng under hedges & stealing fruit & egges may G.o.d forgive my sinne. Arrivyng late at the Iron Man I found my mother well enow being kept goode compagnie by a faire young mayde the master's daughter of the house, which wase you my Nan from what connexion we first met & afterward loved, as thou knowest. But mayhap oure sonne grown to a knowinge age, which may the good Lord allow, knows it not so I tell it heere.

Now had I to earn oure bread & keepe, mee a lad not 16 years & I thought mee of the Tower & those I had met there & would they give me werke & so I repaired there straightway & asked for Mr Hastynges: he cometh, I tell him alle oure lamentable plight as I have heere tolde & he scries me close saying, well, lad, we can have no papistes nor yet puritans in the Tower, one it would be my head to doe & the other I cannot beare to have around mee, for I sit but one sermon in the weeke & that o' Sunday & need not prayeres & canting other daies. Where-upon I sayde I too was done with them. Then Mr Keane hearing this sayeth Hastynges we must trye him like a gonne, ho to Southwark. So over-bridge went wee, & drank much sacke (which I never did before) & saw bear-baytes & dogge-baytes, lewde shews, &c.: and they carried me to the stewes & bought me a punk but G.o.d be thanked I spewed & was soe sick I mounted her but scarce enow to count a sinne & they laughed much & made bawdry jestes upon me, but Mr Keane sware I wase no puritan withal but a mere two-pounder falconet, could spew little shotte well enow but did not burst my breech & so wast proved.

6.

Crosetti, bearing the rolled and wrapped maybe-invaluable ma.n.u.script under his arm, waited out on the deserted street for nearly half an hour, which he thought excessive. What was she doing in there? Although he had occasionally waited as long for women to get ready to go out. Although they weren't going to the prom. He looked at his watch and paced and felt the craziness pluck at his mind.

She emerged wearing one of her black outfits, as if going to Glaser's to work, and he wondered why. Maybe Bulstrode insisted on a certain formality, in which case he would be disappointed in Crosetti, who needed a bath and a shave and was wearing a T-s.h.i.+rt from a Springsteen concert, grubby jeans, and Nikes. He did not, however, complain to her about the waiting.

Nor did she apologize. Instead, she nodded at him casually and started off. He did not ask any questions about their destination, resolving to play it cool. He could be an international man of mystery too. They walked to Van d.y.k.e and took the 77 bus to the Smith Street station, where they boarded the F train and rode noisily in silence to Manhattan. At Houston Street she got up and trotted from the car, and when he caught up with her he could not resist asking her about where they were going. Crosetti was not at heart cool.

"Mermelstein's," she answered. "They're the last wholesaler of fine binding leather in the city."

"They'll sell you retail?"

"Mr. Mermelstein likes me."

"Really. Does he...?" Crosetti made a pawing gesture. They were walking on the station steps, and she stopped abruptly and said, "He does not. You know, I'm really sorry I told you that about Sidney. Are you going to trot it out every time I mention a business connection with a man?"

"It's erased from my mind as of this very minute," said Crosetti, genuinely abashed, but also feeling a little manipulated. He also wondered why she was going to a wholesaler. Everyone in the old book trade in New York knew that the center of the bookbinding business was in Brooklyn, in Borough Park. He was about to ask her that but then stopped and figured it out for himself. Book dealers and major collectors had contacts among the regular bookbinders. If one of them were offered a Churchill Voyages Voyages at a fire-sale price, he'd check around with the bookbinder trade to see if the book had been doctored. It would not occur to any collector to imagine that the seller had done it solo, from raw materials. He was rather pleased with himself for having figured this out, any penetration of Rolly's deviousness being to the good. at a fire-sale price, he'd check around with the bookbinder trade to see if the book had been doctored. It would not occur to any collector to imagine that the seller had done it solo, from raw materials. He was rather pleased with himself for having figured this out, any penetration of Rolly's deviousness being to the good.

They walked east on Houston to an old commercial building near Second Avenue, where, in a pungent loft containing perhaps an acre of various animal skins, Crosetti leaned against a bale of the stuff and watched Rolly negotiate for a considerable time with an elderly man in a skullcap, a rusty black suit, and carpet slippers. They seemed to be having a good time, and Crosetti noticed with interest that Rolly had subtly changed her delivery. She smiled more with Mermelstein, actually laughed a time or two, and in general seemed a louder, more aggressive person than the one he knew, more...dare he think it?...more Jewish? Her speech had also taken on the pace and accent of the outer boroughs.

He remarked on this as they left with a small roll of fine calf wrapped in brown paper.

"Everybody does it," she replied lightly. "You talk to someone, you take on a little of their shtick, their affect. Don't you?"

"I guess," he said, but thought, Yeah, but I'm something to begin with, and what, my sweet, are you? He rehea.r.s.ed this line, thought about voicing it, declined. Instead he said, "So, where to now?"

"Take the F to Fourteenth Street and the Broadway train up to Columbia. We have an appointment with Dr. Bulstrode in forty-five minutes."

"Can we get something to eat first? I haven't had anything to eat since last night."

"You ate all my cookies."

"Oh, right, sorry. Your elderly cookies. Carolyn, what is going on on with you? Why don't you live like a regular person, with furniture and food in the house and pictures on the wall?" with you? Why don't you live like a regular person, with furniture and food in the house and pictures on the wall?"

She started walking toward the subway entrance. "I told you. I'm poor."

He hurried to catch up with her. "You're not that that poor. You have a job. You make more than I do. Where does it go?" poor. You have a job. You make more than I do. Where does it go?"

"I don't have a mother I can live with," she said tightly.

"Thank you. That puts me in my place."

"That's right. I'm not sure you understand. I am completely completely alone in the world, with no backup at all. No brothers, sisters, cousins, aunts, uncles, G.o.dfathers. I have a clerk's salary with no benefits. If I got sick I'd be on the street. I've alone in the world, with no backup at all. No brothers, sisters, cousins, aunts, uncles, G.o.dfathers. I have a clerk's salary with no benefits. If I got sick I'd be on the street. I've been been on the street, and I'm not going to go back." on the street, and I'm not going to go back."

"When were you on the street?"

"That's none of your business. Why are you always so snoopy? It gets on my nerves."

The train came and they boarded it. When they were under way and in the zone of privacy generated by the subway's roar, he said, "I'm sorry. I get it from my mother. She sits down next to someone on the subway and in two stops they're spilling their life's story. You know, Carolyn, most people like like to talk about themselves." to talk about themselves."

"I know and I think it's a waste of time, people blathering on about their hard luck. Or fis.h.i.+ng for compliments. Oh, no, Gloria, you're not really that fat. Oh, your son's at Colgate? How proud you must be!"

"But that's what people do do. I mean what else do you talk about? Books? Bookbinding?"

"For starters. I told you I wasn't a very interesting person, but you don't seem to want to believe it."

"You're a fascinating person, in my opinion."

"Don't be stupid! I have a very dull life. I go to my job, I come home, I work at my craft, I count the days until I can get to a place where I can really learn what I'm interested in."

"Movies," said Crosetti. "We could talk about movies. What's your favorite movie?"

"I don't have one. I can't afford to go to movies. And as you obviously know, I don't own a television."

"Come on, girl! Everybody has a favorite movie. You must have gone to movies in your hometown." This got no response. He added, "Which was where?"

"Okay, what's your your favorite movie?" she asked without much interest, after a pause. favorite movie?" she asked without much interest, after a pause.

"Chinatown. You're not going to tell me where you come from?"

"No place special. What's it about?"

"What's it about? You never saw Chinatown Chinatown?"

"No."

"Carolyn, everybody everybody saw saw Chinatown. Chinatown. People who weren't born when it came out saw People who weren't born when it came out saw Chinatown Chinatown. There are movie houses in...in Mogadishu Mogadishu for crying out loud, that ran it for weeks. Best original screenplay ever written, won an Oscar for that, nominated for eleven other awards...how can you not have seen it? It's a cultural monument." for crying out loud, that ran it for weeks. Best original screenplay ever written, won an Oscar for that, nominated for eleven other awards...how can you not have seen it? It's a cultural monument."

"Not of my culture, obviously. This is our stop."

The train screamed to a halt at 116th Street and they left the car. She took off with her characteristic impatient stride, and he trotted after her, thinking that his initial impression of Carolyn Rolly as a vampire or some other sort of unearthly creature had been fairly accurate, if she really hadn't seen Chinatown Chinatown.

They arose from the underground and walked through the n.o.ble gates into the Columbia campus. Crosetti had occasionally come up here to catch movies at film society showings and always felt, as he now did, a vague sense of regret. At age twelve his mother had brought him up to the campus and shown him around. She'd received her library science degree here, and he knew she had wanted him to attend. But he was not the kind of grind who could get the grades necessary for a white New Yorker to win a scholars.h.i.+p, and paying cash for an undergraduate degree on a cop's pension and a librarian's salary was out of the question. So he'd gone to Queens College, "a perfectly good school," as his mother often loyally remarked, and also, "if you're a success n.o.body cares where you went to college." It did not rankle a lot, but it rankled; and on the occasions when he had to come up to the campus, he found himself studying the faces of the undergraduates and listening to s.n.a.t.c.hes of their conversation to see if he could observe a major gap between their supposed Ivy-level smarts and his own. Which he could not.

Carolyn Rolly, he knew, had attended Barnard, just across the street. He knew because he was the filing system at Sidney Glaser Rare Books and had used this position to examine her resume in detail. He did not at the moment think much of a Barnard education, since it had failed in her case to provide a familiarity with Chinatown. Chinatown. This was why she was so stuck-up, a Seven Sisters girl, after all, and probably brilliant too, since she said she was poor and clearly This was why she was so stuck-up, a Seven Sisters girl, after all, and probably brilliant too, since she said she was poor and clearly she she hadn't failed to get a scholars.h.i.+p. hadn't failed to get a scholars.h.i.+p.

In a mood to needle, he said, "So...back at the old campus, hey, Carolyn? I guess it brings those dear old Ivy League college days back. Look, if there're any special customs like not walking on a particular plaque or bowing to a statue or something, you'll let me know-I wouldn't want to embarra.s.s you or anything."

"What are you talking about?"

"You and your college days. Cla.s.s of '99, right? Barnard?"

"You think I went to Barnard Barnard?"

"Yeah, it was..." Here he stuck, but she instantly understood the reason.

"You little spy! You read my resume!"

"Well, yeah. I told you I was interested. I went through your underwear drawer too while you were sleeping."

At this he thought he noticed a look of real fear whip across her features, but it was gone in a flash, replaced by one of amused contempt. "I doubt that," she said, "but for your information I didn't go to Barnard."

"You lied on your application?"

"Of course I lied. I wanted the job, and I knew Glaser was a Columbia alumnus and his wife went to Barnard, so it seemed like a good idea. I came up here, picked up some of the talk, learned the geography, audited a couple of cla.s.ses, studied the catalogs. They never check resumes. You You could say you went to Harvard. If you had, I bet Glaser would be paying you a lot more money." could say you went to Harvard. If you had, I bet Glaser would be paying you a lot more money."

"Good G.o.d, Rolly! You don't have any morals at all, do you?"

"I don't do any harm," she said, glaring. "I don't even have a high school high school diploma, and I don't want to work in a sweatshop or do cleaning, which is the only kind of jobs a woman can get without one. Or wh.o.r.e." diploma, and I don't want to work in a sweatshop or do cleaning, which is the only kind of jobs a woman can get without one. Or wh.o.r.e."

"Wait a minute, everyone everyone goes to high school. It's compulsory." goes to high school. It's compulsory."

She stopped walking and turned to face him, dropped her head for several breaths, and then looked him straight in the face. "Yes," she said, "but in my case, when my parents were killed in a car wreck I went to live with my crazy uncle Lloyd, who kept me locked in a root cellar from age eleven to age seventeen, as a result of which I didn't have the opportunity to attend high school. I got raped a lot though. Now, is there anything else you'd like to know about my G.o.dd.a.m.ned past life?"

Crosetti gaped and felt his face flush. He could see liquid trembling on her lower eyelids. "I'm sorry," he croaked. She turned and strode rapidly away, almost running, and after a miserable moment he skulked after her into a tan brick building with a columned entryway and up two flights of stairs, stumbling a little because he was kicking himself so hard. Okay, end of story, expunge her from his mind, he'd done it G.o.d only knew how many times before, no stranger to rejection, not usually quite quite this stupid, not this stupid, not quite quite so much his own stupid fault, but still he could go out cla.s.sy, do this business with Bulstrode, a little correct nod and handshake afterward, walk off. G.o.d! How could he have been so tooth-hurtingly dumb! Woman tells him she doesn't want to talk about her past, so of course he does nothing else, and...but here they were, she knocking tap-a-tap on frosted gla.s.s and a plummy voice from within, "Yeh-ehss." so much his own stupid fault, but still he could go out cla.s.sy, do this business with Bulstrode, a little correct nod and handshake afterward, walk off. G.o.d! How could he have been so tooth-hurtingly dumb! Woman tells him she doesn't want to talk about her past, so of course he does nothing else, and...but here they were, she knocking tap-a-tap on frosted gla.s.s and a plummy voice from within, "Yeh-ehss."

The man was wearing a vest, or what he would have called a waistcoat, and as they entered he was slipping on the brown tweed suit jacket that went with it: a short plump man in his fifties, with smooth dull pale brown hair worn medium long and arranged so as to hide a bald patch in the center. Jowly, with round tortoisesh.e.l.l gla.s.ses. Hand when shaken unpleasantly soft and moist. Crosetti hated him already; it made a pleasant change from the current self-contempt.

They sat. She did the talking. Bulstrode was interested in the provenance, the age and origin of the volumes of the Churchill in which the ma.n.u.script had been found. She gave these details tersely and, as far as Crosetti could tell, accurately. While this went on he looked around the office, which was small, not much larger than a suburban bathroom, with one dusty window looking out on Amsterdam Avenue. A single gla.s.sed-in bookcase, books on only one shelf, otherwise full of stacked papers, untidily arranged. Besides that, two wooden armchairs (in which Rolly and he were sitting), a standard wooden desk somewhat battered, a scatter of papers and journals thereon, and a large framed photograph, whose image Crosetti could not see, although he s.h.i.+fted and peered to the extent propriety allowed.