Oh, Play That Thing by Roddy Doyle
—What did Mildred tell you? I asked.
—I don’t want to rat on a girl. Especially that girl.
—It’s too late to stop.
—I know, he said. —I know. She came back once or twice.
—Once or twice?
—Four times. She was a welcome sight. And we got to talking. Mildred, though; she didn’t give me that one.
—What did she call herself?
—Miss Boulez, he said.
—Boulez?
—Yes, he said. —And, well, on visit number three, I told her I was Henry and, well, she told me she was Shy.
—Shy?
—That’s right. Shy Boulez. Has a ring to it, don’t you think?
It wasn’t Mildred.
—So, he continued. —We got to talking. And. She said she’d get rid of them for me.
—The Levines?
A gun, a knife.
—Yes.
—Kill them?
—Yep. Not those words, exactly. Not quite so bluntly put. But, yes. We can get them prunes out of your hair, daddio. They were her words.
—Fuckin’ hell.
He coughed.
—So, you don’t offer that particular service?
—No.
—So, who does?
—Probably Miss Boulez.
—Alone?
—Probably.
—My God, he said. —To think.
He hung on to the counter. I’d never seen a happier man.
I walked.
Through the night. Bad eyes on my back. The corners were sharp. A gun, a knife. A brick dropped from a roof. I kept going. In ev-ery way. I turned – east. A shadow – gone. A skid, car, a cough. Ahead, and west. East, ahead, west again. Waiting for me. Old faces kept me company.
—I felt sorry for the guy. He’s a sweetie.
—So we’re – you’re going to drill his wife’s brothers because you think he’s a sweetie?
—Not for nothing, daddy. I said it would cost him.
It was cold. She sat on the bed; she was wearing her coat.
—What made you think I’d do it?
—Seen the wedding picture, remember.
—Forget the fuckin’ picture. Who have you been talking to?
—No one, she said.
—Who have you been talking to?
—No one.
She didn’t look at me.
—Honest.
—Listen, I said. —I’ve killed men before.
—See? I knew.
—Shut up, I said. —D’you want to know why I killed them?
—Tell.
He fought like a lion with an Irishman’s heart.
—The idea was put into my head.
—How many?
—I came here to get away from killing.
—Could be a fire.
—No.
She was looking straight at me now.
—I know other guys, she said.
I lifted the window and climbed onto the fire escape. I could still hear her when I got to the sidewalk.
—Just a little fire. You owe me, daddio.
Old faces kept me company. Critical Eyes Are Sizing You Up. There was nothing new about this place.
I walked.
Corners. Streets. A gun, a knife. East, west, straight ahead. I don’t see you again. You hearing that? A shadow. Be fucking missing. I stopped. I listened. Kept my hands out of my pockets. Walked a big square, took corners, passed corners, dared what lay ahead. Didn’t run, didn’t try to hide. Better and better.
I saw him.
Joe. The corner.
The hat. Fedora, like my own.
Gone.
A wind swayed in from New Jersey. It pushed into my face. A surprise at every corner. The rot from the river, the fat smell from National Biscuits; no man would shoot me in the fog of baking figs. Runkle Brothers’ chocolate factory, and I walked into the stink that was Owney Madden’s secret brewery. And better. A Chelsea slaughterhouse killed everything. It held me up, beat away the lies of the chocolate and malt. The wind was punching; I fought for my hat. He is the man who owns Broadway. I pushed across the avenues. Sixth, Seventh. No one could creep up in this wind. Let me carry your Cross for Ireland, Lord.
And there he was.
& Son.
The undertaker’s boy. He stood there. Away from the wall. Didn’t move, just watched me watching him. Hand in coat. I saw him; he watched me. I didn’t stop. I didn’t look back.
—What about my Mildred? said Hettie.
I’d just told her I was going. America was a big place.
—What about her? I said.
—She will go with you?
—I don’t know.
—You will ask her?
—She mightn’t—
—Ask.
—Okay. Why, though?
—She needs fresh air. Henry. Ask.
Joe again.
Gone. Behind the corner.
Hooper. The boards still on him. Gone.
* * *
—Say! You proposing or something?
—No.
—Only, I wouldn’t say no.
—Business, Mildred.
—Well, gee, I reckon getting hitched to you would be a good business move. And fun with it.
—Fine, but are you coming with me?
—Where?
—Anywhere. Somewhere new. Really new.
I owed Hettie, and I liked Mildred. Knee to knee, we’d discover America.
—Like Florida? she said.
—Now you’re talking. Or Texas. They won’t know what hit them. The two of us, Mildred.
—When?
—Tonight. Tomorrow.
—Gee, Henry, you’re sweeping me off my feet. Sure you don’t want to marry me?
More men, corners.
No shadows now, no doubts.
Two men. Side by side, a solid wall standing while I passed.
A gun, a knife.
&Son, and another.
I began to feel angry. I began to change my mind. I’d get a gun and stay. I wasn’t running from these cunts. I don’t see you again. I weighed them as I passed. I counted them, filed faces. They came no nearer.
—Don’t know, Mister Glick.
—No idea?
Joe shrugged. I wanted to grab his fuckin’ neck. He looked straight back at me.
—None at all?
—Fast Eddie, he said. —He could get you a piece, I bet.
He shrugged again and looked away, and forced his eyes back to mine. I stared at him. I watched him sweat on this November day.
—Tell me, I said.
—What?
He knew I’d changed the subject.
—Just tell me, Joe.
He held my stare.
I don’t see you again.
—Swear to God, Mister Glick. There’s nothing to tell. He held my stare, until he was half asleep in front of me.
—How come you’ve never been hit, Joe?
I walked away.
—Don’t know, Mister Glick, he shouted. —My turn next, I bet.
I looked back. He smiled, and waved.
The coop was empty. The baths were full. The air trapped the stink with a cold hard hand.
Two boys were suddenly there. Caps and knickers, rolling shoulders; brothers.
—Where’s Eddie?
—Private property, bub. Slip off it.
The air fattened their skinny voices. Small lads, trained to box, but wild – I saw it in the eyes and in the knives that sliced the fumes at my nose.
—Be a sport and beat it.
—Be a sport and stay.
—Ain’t seen Olaf in days and days and days.
—Does that worry you? I asked.
—Happens time to time, said the half-sister.
She stood at the apartment door, and she wasn’t letting me in.
—You owe me, daddy. Remember.
—No.
—Don’t matter if you do or do not. You
still do.
—Why?
—Lop-eared daddio. Autosuggestion. Taught you all about it. Remember?
—Yeah.
—Yare. So now’s the time.
I turned; the hall was empty – no one on the stairs.
—Holy smoke. What has you so jumpy?
She touched my nose.
—You are like a rabbit.
—What do I owe you?
—You’ll be surprised.
—I don’t want to be surprised.
—Oh yes, you do.
She held my hand. Black coat, grey fur lying on her neck. Heels tapped the time. She said nothing. Men on corners stood back, the guys and coppers; they let her lead me past them. The skin you love to touch. She didn’t look at me.
So now’s the time.
She didn’t have to look. She had me in her hand. Nowhere else I could go.
in ev-ery way
let me carry your cross
I don’t see you again
you hearing that
so
now’s the time
the soap of beautiful women
I am the man who owns
broadway
her
heels
tapped
the
time
beats
am I right
as it sweeps
for Ireland
as it cleans
for smokers like yourself
am I right
daddio
She was talking. Her mouth there, red and beautiful.
—Know where we are, daddio?
She was looking at me now.
—Know where we are?
Smiling. Frowning.
—Answering?
I got the word.
—Where?
Under the El. Didn’t know which line.
—Death Avenue, daddio.
The street darkened by the tracks and the rusting scaffold that held it in the sky. And darker because of the dying year and walls that came too close to the tracks.
Now’s the time.
Right now.
Shadows moving – slouching, darting. Under the El. Bodies on the sidewalk. Bums and hoboes too far gone for the Bowery. I has a crippled sister, I works hard to support. A hand reached for her foot; she sailed over it. But when we knocks off Saturday, till Monday I can sport. She walked me through it, a stench beyond despair. Right down the middle. Men, women got out of her way.
I could feel it, the approaching train. The tracks above began to vibrate, and girders; right over us now, the light, the dark and falling sparks. I could feel it rattle me, shake her grip on my hand, pound the human ruins around us. But I couldn’t hear it.
I couldn’t hear it.
Beep Beep had said it.
—You ain’t arrived till you don’t hear the El.
And now I couldn’t. I could hear the traffic, her heels, voices
– My sister goes out washing – and her voice – This a-way, daddy – horses, brakes as she stepped us onto the street, but not the train that hammered the world down onto our heads.
I’d arrived.
—Death Avenue, she said.
This was my town.
—Don’t worry you?
—No.
—Big brave daddio.
—Where are we going?
—Right here.
I was going nowhere.
I was thinking now, looking. Front Wheel and Axle Alignment. A garage to the right. No one in it. No car at the open door. Coming and going, a door to the left, quick men disappearing. Old, frayed posters shaken by the departing El – Clear Heads Choose – long-dead offers.
Men everywhere.
Fuck them.
Waiting. Not hoboes, not lost. There for me.
She was bringing me.
By the hand.
To a door.
Another bare black door.
I could think. I could run. Simple as that. Nothing to it.
Where?
I could think.
Every corner was guarded. I could run – only as far as they wanted me to run. I was caught. But I was thinking.
She lifted her free hand and tapped the door.
I wasn’t running.
Her glove killed the knock. She let go of my hand. Now. She pulled slowly at each finger. Now. The glove kept coming. I could run, dash under the El and run, tap tap, get out from under the line and run, get in among the people hard and lost enough to be wandering this patch.
Now.
They knew my hand was free. They knew I’d run. They’d see me all the way. They knew I was pushing to a decision.
They were inside.
Three, four times her knuckles kissed the paint. There’d be black flakes clinging to them. Her hands were long.
They were waiting. Behind the arches, pillars, in cars that crept behind me. I looked. Two guys half a block away. Standing still among hundreds.
I’d go in.
—’Bout time, she said, as we heard a lock being pulled.
There’d be less of them inside.
I watched the door opening.
She had my hand.
—I got him here.
I ran a finger over her knuckles; I felt grains of old paint.
She led me.
Into darkness.
—Is this him?
That surprised me. The voice male, but not a hard man’s. And the question.
I couldn’t see. The door closed as I entered. It brushed my elbow but no one followed it.
—This is he, she said.
I still couldn’t see. I held her hand, read her movements. She was talking to one man. No turning, to include others. Her feet stayed still.
—Got some heat in the place today? she said.
—Yes.
Yes. Not yare or yeah.
—Goodie, she said. —That’ll take the sting out of it.
A man who said yes could still point a gun. I held her hand and watched; I could see the side of her face. I followed her eyes, and met the man.
He was alone.
In a narrow hall.
He was alone.
Three, four closed doors. A stairs behind him. Empty, as far up as I could see.
A small man, no one behind his back. An empty corridor further behind. Not small, but shockingly thin. In a suit that added nothing to him. He peered at me through lenses that put his eyes inches ahead of his face.
—Hello, he said.
—This is Brotman, she said.
—Max, he said.
I was still alive.
—What’s the story? I said.
—What do you mean?
—Why am I here?
—You did not tell him? he asked Olaf’s half-sister.
—Didn’t have the time.
—Come now, he said. —You can’t expect this gentleman to—
—Stow it, Max, she said. —Remember that honesty-of-the-moment spiel you ladled out last week?
—Yes, I do.
—Well, there, see. I didn’t tell him. To save the moment, you know.
I saw Brotman looking at me.
—I’m afraid I do not know your name, he said.
—Rudolph, she said. —Like Valentino. Right, daddio?
I didn’t answer her.
—Want me to tell him, Max? she said.
—Please.
—You’re gonna fuck me, Rudolph.
And I watched the man’s huge eyes close, and open.
—That sound like hardship, daddio?
I didn’t answer.
—Answering?
—No.
I listened.
Footsteps, high above us – gone. Someone singing somewhere, outside.
—I should explain, said Brotman.
I said nothing.
—Go to it, Max, said the half-sister.
—I am a publisher, Mister—
I said nothing.
—I am
a publisher.
He coughed.
—Smut, I said.
—Too right, daddy, she said. —The big dirt.
—No, said Brotman. —No, no.
But he smiled at her.
—Do you believe in free speech? he asked me.
—Sweet, she said. —Must be fifty and still thinks he can get something for nothing.
This time I answered; I couldn’t help it.
—It’s a good idea, I said. —But I don’t believe in anything.
—Pow.
Shut up, shut up – but I couldn’t.
—I can hope and wish, I told him. —But I never believe.
He nodded.
—You are not American.
I said nothing.
—But, please, he said. —Let me show you some books.
He turned and took some steps, into the corridor. He stopped and turned back to us.
—Please.
I saw his hand and a white cuff, inviting us to follow. Her hand held mine again.
—Let’s check out the merchandise, Rudolph.
—What’s going on? I said.
—Trust me, she said.
Brotman walked past the first door, to the second in the corridor, and stopped. It was darker here. I heard him open the door, heard a step; there was light and he walked into the room.
A room full of books, and nothing else. Walls and pillars of books. I looked around for Granny Nash. I could smell the old witch in these new books. And brown cardboard boxes. Some empty, lying around. Some taped and piled near the door.
—Please, he said. —Come in. Come in.
The room seemed to contract as we went further in. He picked a book off a pile and handed it to me.
—By one of your countrymen, I think, said Brotman.
I read the title.
Ulysses. James Joyce.
—Are you familiar with the work? he asked.
—No.
—There are those who are determined to copper-fasten that situation. They do not want that book read. By anyone. Except, perhaps, themselves. You are Irish?
I said nothing.
He took back the book before I had time to open it.
—And this one.
I now held The Fortunes and Misfortunes of the Famous Moll Flanders.
—You know it?
—No.
—But you have heard of Robinson Crusoe.
—Yes.
—Perhaps you have read it.
—No.
He pointed at the book.
—The same author. Published first in 1722, and they still try to keep it from our eyes.
The title was gold, on good black leather. I opened it. Under the title and the name of the chap who’d written it, there was a drawing of a fine-looking bird, her dress hanging off her, showing two top-notch tits and a long half-mile of leg. There was a lad in garters and a three-cornered hat holding her arm, a club held high in his free hand, his eyes glued to Moll’s chest. She looked frightened, but not all that frightened.
—I don’t want to rat on a girl. Especially that girl.
—It’s too late to stop.
—I know, he said. —I know. She came back once or twice.
—Once or twice?
—Four times. She was a welcome sight. And we got to talking. Mildred, though; she didn’t give me that one.
—What did she call herself?
—Miss Boulez, he said.
—Boulez?
—Yes, he said. —And, well, on visit number three, I told her I was Henry and, well, she told me she was Shy.
—Shy?
—That’s right. Shy Boulez. Has a ring to it, don’t you think?
It wasn’t Mildred.
—So, he continued. —We got to talking. And. She said she’d get rid of them for me.
—The Levines?
A gun, a knife.
—Yes.
—Kill them?
—Yep. Not those words, exactly. Not quite so bluntly put. But, yes. We can get them prunes out of your hair, daddio. They were her words.
—Fuckin’ hell.
He coughed.
—So, you don’t offer that particular service?
—No.
—So, who does?
—Probably Miss Boulez.
—Alone?
—Probably.
—My God, he said. —To think.
He hung on to the counter. I’d never seen a happier man.
I walked.
Through the night. Bad eyes on my back. The corners were sharp. A gun, a knife. A brick dropped from a roof. I kept going. In ev-ery way. I turned – east. A shadow – gone. A skid, car, a cough. Ahead, and west. East, ahead, west again. Waiting for me. Old faces kept me company.
—I felt sorry for the guy. He’s a sweetie.
—So we’re – you’re going to drill his wife’s brothers because you think he’s a sweetie?
—Not for nothing, daddy. I said it would cost him.
It was cold. She sat on the bed; she was wearing her coat.
—What made you think I’d do it?
—Seen the wedding picture, remember.
—Forget the fuckin’ picture. Who have you been talking to?
—No one, she said.
—Who have you been talking to?
—No one.
She didn’t look at me.
—Honest.
—Listen, I said. —I’ve killed men before.
—See? I knew.
—Shut up, I said. —D’you want to know why I killed them?
—Tell.
He fought like a lion with an Irishman’s heart.
—The idea was put into my head.
—How many?
—I came here to get away from killing.
—Could be a fire.
—No.
She was looking straight at me now.
—I know other guys, she said.
I lifted the window and climbed onto the fire escape. I could still hear her when I got to the sidewalk.
—Just a little fire. You owe me, daddio.
Old faces kept me company. Critical Eyes Are Sizing You Up. There was nothing new about this place.
I walked.
Corners. Streets. A gun, a knife. East, west, straight ahead. I don’t see you again. You hearing that? A shadow. Be fucking missing. I stopped. I listened. Kept my hands out of my pockets. Walked a big square, took corners, passed corners, dared what lay ahead. Didn’t run, didn’t try to hide. Better and better.
I saw him.
Joe. The corner.
The hat. Fedora, like my own.
Gone.
A wind swayed in from New Jersey. It pushed into my face. A surprise at every corner. The rot from the river, the fat smell from National Biscuits; no man would shoot me in the fog of baking figs. Runkle Brothers’ chocolate factory, and I walked into the stink that was Owney Madden’s secret brewery. And better. A Chelsea slaughterhouse killed everything. It held me up, beat away the lies of the chocolate and malt. The wind was punching; I fought for my hat. He is the man who owns Broadway. I pushed across the avenues. Sixth, Seventh. No one could creep up in this wind. Let me carry your Cross for Ireland, Lord.
And there he was.
& Son.
The undertaker’s boy. He stood there. Away from the wall. Didn’t move, just watched me watching him. Hand in coat. I saw him; he watched me. I didn’t stop. I didn’t look back.
—What about my Mildred? said Hettie.
I’d just told her I was going. America was a big place.
—What about her? I said.
—She will go with you?
—I don’t know.
—You will ask her?
—She mightn’t—
—Ask.
—Okay. Why, though?
—She needs fresh air. Henry. Ask.
Joe again.
Gone. Behind the corner.
Hooper. The boards still on him. Gone.
* * *
—Say! You proposing or something?
—No.
—Only, I wouldn’t say no.
—Business, Mildred.
—Well, gee, I reckon getting hitched to you would be a good business move. And fun with it.
—Fine, but are you coming with me?
—Where?
—Anywhere. Somewhere new. Really new.
I owed Hettie, and I liked Mildred. Knee to knee, we’d discover America.
—Like Florida? she said.
—Now you’re talking. Or Texas. They won’t know what hit them. The two of us, Mildred.
—When?
—Tonight. Tomorrow.
—Gee, Henry, you’re sweeping me off my feet. Sure you don’t want to marry me?
More men, corners.
No shadows now, no doubts.
Two men. Side by side, a solid wall standing while I passed.
A gun, a knife.
&Son, and another.
I began to feel angry. I began to change my mind. I’d get a gun and stay. I wasn’t running from these cunts. I don’t see you again. I weighed them as I passed. I counted them, filed faces. They came no nearer.
—Don’t know, Mister Glick.
—No idea?
Joe shrugged. I wanted to grab his fuckin’ neck. He looked straight back at me.
—None at all?
—Fast Eddie, he said. —He could get you a piece, I bet.
He shrugged again and looked away, and forced his eyes back to mine. I stared at him. I watched him sweat on this November day.
—Tell me, I said.
—What?
He knew I’d changed the subject.
—Just tell me, Joe.
He held my stare.
I don’t see you again.
—Swear to God, Mister Glick. There’s nothing to tell. He held my stare, until he was half asleep in front of me.
—How come you’ve never been hit, Joe?
I walked away.
—Don’t know, Mister Glick, he shouted. —My turn next, I bet.
I looked back. He smiled, and waved.
The coop was empty. The baths were full. The air trapped the stink with a cold hard hand.
Two boys were suddenly there. Caps and knickers, rolling shoulders; brothers.
—Where’s Eddie?
—Private property, bub. Slip off it.
The air fattened their skinny voices. Small lads, trained to box, but wild – I saw it in the eyes and in the knives that sliced the fumes at my nose.
—Be a sport and beat it.
—Be a sport and stay.
—Ain’t seen Olaf in days and days and days.
—Does that worry you? I asked.
—Happens time to time, said the half-sister.
She stood at the apartment door, and she wasn’t letting me in.
—You owe me, daddy. Remember.
—No.
—Don’t matter if you do or do not. You
—Why?
—Lop-eared daddio. Autosuggestion. Taught you all about it. Remember?
—Yeah.
—Yare. So now’s the time.
I turned; the hall was empty – no one on the stairs.
—Holy smoke. What has you so jumpy?
She touched my nose.
—You are like a rabbit.
—What do I owe you?
—You’ll be surprised.
—I don’t want to be surprised.
—Oh yes, you do.
She held my hand. Black coat, grey fur lying on her neck. Heels tapped the time. She said nothing. Men on corners stood back, the guys and coppers; they let her lead me past them. The skin you love to touch. She didn’t look at me.
So now’s the time.
She didn’t have to look. She had me in her hand. Nowhere else I could go.
in ev-ery way
let me carry your cross
I don’t see you again
you hearing that
so
now’s the time
the soap of beautiful women
I am the man who owns
broadway
her
heels
tapped
the
time
beats
am I right
as it sweeps
for Ireland
as it cleans
for smokers like yourself
am I right
daddio
She was talking. Her mouth there, red and beautiful.
—Know where we are, daddio?
She was looking at me now.
—Know where we are?
Smiling. Frowning.
—Answering?
I got the word.
—Where?
Under the El. Didn’t know which line.
—Death Avenue, daddio.
The street darkened by the tracks and the rusting scaffold that held it in the sky. And darker because of the dying year and walls that came too close to the tracks.
Now’s the time.
Right now.
Shadows moving – slouching, darting. Under the El. Bodies on the sidewalk. Bums and hoboes too far gone for the Bowery. I has a crippled sister, I works hard to support. A hand reached for her foot; she sailed over it. But when we knocks off Saturday, till Monday I can sport. She walked me through it, a stench beyond despair. Right down the middle. Men, women got out of her way.
I could feel it, the approaching train. The tracks above began to vibrate, and girders; right over us now, the light, the dark and falling sparks. I could feel it rattle me, shake her grip on my hand, pound the human ruins around us. But I couldn’t hear it.
I couldn’t hear it.
Beep Beep had said it.
—You ain’t arrived till you don’t hear the El.
And now I couldn’t. I could hear the traffic, her heels, voices
– My sister goes out washing – and her voice – This a-way, daddy – horses, brakes as she stepped us onto the street, but not the train that hammered the world down onto our heads.
I’d arrived.
—Death Avenue, she said.
This was my town.
—Don’t worry you?
—No.
—Big brave daddio.
—Where are we going?
—Right here.
I was going nowhere.
I was thinking now, looking. Front Wheel and Axle Alignment. A garage to the right. No one in it. No car at the open door. Coming and going, a door to the left, quick men disappearing. Old, frayed posters shaken by the departing El – Clear Heads Choose – long-dead offers.
Men everywhere.
Fuck them.
Waiting. Not hoboes, not lost. There for me.
She was bringing me.
By the hand.
To a door.
Another bare black door.
I could think. I could run. Simple as that. Nothing to it.
Where?
I could think.
Every corner was guarded. I could run – only as far as they wanted me to run. I was caught. But I was thinking.
She lifted her free hand and tapped the door.
I wasn’t running.
Her glove killed the knock. She let go of my hand. Now. She pulled slowly at each finger. Now. The glove kept coming. I could run, dash under the El and run, tap tap, get out from under the line and run, get in among the people hard and lost enough to be wandering this patch.
Now.
They knew my hand was free. They knew I’d run. They’d see me all the way. They knew I was pushing to a decision.
They were inside.
Three, four times her knuckles kissed the paint. There’d be black flakes clinging to them. Her hands were long.
They were waiting. Behind the arches, pillars, in cars that crept behind me. I looked. Two guys half a block away. Standing still among hundreds.
I’d go in.
—’Bout time, she said, as we heard a lock being pulled.
There’d be less of them inside.
I watched the door opening.
She had my hand.
—I got him here.
I ran a finger over her knuckles; I felt grains of old paint.
She led me.
Into darkness.
—Is this him?
That surprised me. The voice male, but not a hard man’s. And the question.
I couldn’t see. The door closed as I entered. It brushed my elbow but no one followed it.
—This is he, she said.
I still couldn’t see. I held her hand, read her movements. She was talking to one man. No turning, to include others. Her feet stayed still.
—Got some heat in the place today? she said.
—Yes.
Yes. Not yare or yeah.
—Goodie, she said. —That’ll take the sting out of it.
A man who said yes could still point a gun. I held her hand and watched; I could see the side of her face. I followed her eyes, and met the man.
He was alone.
In a narrow hall.
He was alone.
Three, four closed doors. A stairs behind him. Empty, as far up as I could see.
A small man, no one behind his back. An empty corridor further behind. Not small, but shockingly thin. In a suit that added nothing to him. He peered at me through lenses that put his eyes inches ahead of his face.
—Hello, he said.
—This is Brotman, she said.
—Max, he said.
I was still alive.
—What’s the story? I said.
—What do you mean?
—Why am I here?
—You did not tell him? he asked Olaf’s half-sister.
—Didn’t have the time.
—Come now, he said. —You can’t expect this gentleman to—
—Stow it, Max, she said. —Remember that honesty-of-the-moment spiel you ladled out last week?
—Yes, I do.
—Well, there, see. I didn’t tell him. To save the moment, you know.
I saw Brotman looking at me.
—I’m afraid I do not know your name, he said.
—Rudolph, she said. —Like Valentino. Right, daddio?
I didn’t answer her.
—Want me to tell him, Max? she said.
—Please.
—You’re gonna fuck me, Rudolph.
And I watched the man’s huge eyes close, and open.
—That sound like hardship, daddio?
I didn’t answer.
—Answering?
—No.
I listened.
Footsteps, high above us – gone. Someone singing somewhere, outside.
—I should explain, said Brotman.
I said nothing.
—Go to it, Max, said the half-sister.
—I am a publisher, Mister—
I said nothing.
—I am
He coughed.
—Smut, I said.
—Too right, daddy, she said. —The big dirt.
—No, said Brotman. —No, no.
But he smiled at her.
—Do you believe in free speech? he asked me.
—Sweet, she said. —Must be fifty and still thinks he can get something for nothing.
This time I answered; I couldn’t help it.
—It’s a good idea, I said. —But I don’t believe in anything.
—Pow.
Shut up, shut up – but I couldn’t.
—I can hope and wish, I told him. —But I never believe.
He nodded.
—You are not American.
I said nothing.
—But, please, he said. —Let me show you some books.
He turned and took some steps, into the corridor. He stopped and turned back to us.
—Please.
I saw his hand and a white cuff, inviting us to follow. Her hand held mine again.
—Let’s check out the merchandise, Rudolph.
—What’s going on? I said.
—Trust me, she said.
Brotman walked past the first door, to the second in the corridor, and stopped. It was darker here. I heard him open the door, heard a step; there was light and he walked into the room.
A room full of books, and nothing else. Walls and pillars of books. I looked around for Granny Nash. I could smell the old witch in these new books. And brown cardboard boxes. Some empty, lying around. Some taped and piled near the door.
—Please, he said. —Come in. Come in.
The room seemed to contract as we went further in. He picked a book off a pile and handed it to me.
—By one of your countrymen, I think, said Brotman.
I read the title.
Ulysses. James Joyce.
—Are you familiar with the work? he asked.
—No.
—There are those who are determined to copper-fasten that situation. They do not want that book read. By anyone. Except, perhaps, themselves. You are Irish?
I said nothing.
He took back the book before I had time to open it.
—And this one.
I now held The Fortunes and Misfortunes of the Famous Moll Flanders.
—You know it?
—No.
—But you have heard of Robinson Crusoe.
—Yes.
—Perhaps you have read it.
—No.
He pointed at the book.
—The same author. Published first in 1722, and they still try to keep it from our eyes.
The title was gold, on good black leather. I opened it. Under the title and the name of the chap who’d written it, there was a drawing of a fine-looking bird, her dress hanging off her, showing two top-notch tits and a long half-mile of leg. There was a lad in garters and a three-cornered hat holding her arm, a club held high in his free hand, his eyes glued to Moll’s chest. She looked frightened, but not all that frightened.