He knows where. He knows instinctively.
Dan is on the telephone, no there is something wrong, the sequence is wrong, there is something he will not allow himself to see. Dan is talking in his coldly soothing voice. The telephone is trembling in his hand, but Dan keeps talking calmly and interminably, infuriatingly, as the telephone trembles. Arrangements, people, let me help, what do you want, Dan? can’t you leave me alone? can’t you hear that goddamn ticking clock? don’t you know what it is saying? can’t you stop? can’t you stop? can’t you please for God’s sake stop?
“There we go,” the barber said. Buddwing opened his eyes. The barber was taking off the apron, raising the chair. He looked at himself in the mirror.
“She gave me a haircut,” he said.
“What?” the barber answered.
“Well, long ago.”
“Who?”
“I don’t know,” Buddwing said. He smiled weakly. “How much is that?”
“Seventy-five. Like I told you.”
Buddwing reached into his pocket and took out a dollar bill. He handed it to the barber and glanced at the clock. It was 11:15. “Keep the change,” he said recklessly, and then walked out.
His head was still throbbing as he turned the corner onto Park Avenue. Janet was standing under the canopy, looking up the avenue impatiently when he came up behind her. He put his hands up quickly, circling her face and covering her eyes. She gave a startled little shriek, and then relaxed against his hands and said, “Let me see. Who can it be? Your hands are very gentle, you must be very nice, whoever you are. Let me see.”
“Well?” he said.
“Mmm, I like your hands on my face. I’m never going to guess.”
“You have to guess.”
“Give me a clue,” she said, moving back and a little closer to him. “Are you very handsome?”
“Yes, terribly.”
He could feel her body against his, feel every slightest move she made.
“Are you very tall?”
“Very tall.”
“And very young?”
“No, I’m very old.”
She pulled his hands from her eyes with her own, and whirled into his arms. “You’re young,” she said seriously. She kissed him swiftly on the mouth and said, “We’re going to get arrested.” She moved away from him, taking his hand. They began strolling up the avenue. “Where would you like to go? It’s only eleven-thirty, and we have the whole day.”
“There’s a slight problem,” he said.
“There are no problems,” she answered.
“Yes, there are.” He reached into his pocket and took out the remaining dollar and the dime and the nickel. He held them on his palm and said. “This is all the money I have.”
“There are still no problems,” she said. She grinned and added, “I should have realized you were a gigolo. Do you want to walk a little?”
“No,” he said.
“What do you want to do?”
“I want to make love to you.”
“Oh?”
“Yes.”
“I told my analyst about you,” she said, ignoring his statement.
“What did he say?”
“Nothing. He just sat there. At least, I think he was sitting there. I can’t see him because he’s always behind me. For all I know, he knits or cleans his nails or goes to the window and sails paper airplanes.”
“What did you expect him to say?”
“I expected him to say nothing, which is what he always says. Do you mean what did I want him to say?”
“Yes.”
“I wanted him to say, ‘Why, Sam Buddwing sounds like a wonderful person, God bless you, my child.’ But I don’t need him to tell me that.” She squeezed his hand. “I live on Eighty-ninth Street, you know.”
“No, I didn’t know that.”
“Yes. Where I got into the cab. Eighty-ninth and Broadway.” She paused. “I tried to get an apartment on the East Side, near the school, but I couldn’t.” She paused again. “I live alone. A lot of the kids have roommates, but I don’t. My parents live in the Bronx, on Kingsbridge Road. Do you know where that is?”
“Yes. I used to live in the Bronx.”
“Oh, really? Where?”
“Well, it was a long time ago.”
“Yes, but where?”
“I... I don’t remember.”
“That’s a fine example of mental block, isn’t it?”
“I suppose so.”
“If your parents are anything like mine, I’m not surprised. I sometimes wish I could just block them out of existence. Boy, did they raise a stink when I moved. But my brother had left the year before, you know, so I insisted on equal rights. Women are entitled to equal rights, don’t you think?”
“Absolutely.”
“Sure. Did you want to come home with me?”
“If that’s where you want to go.”
“I don’t know where I want to go, Sam, or what I want to do,” she said seriously.
“Then let me decide.”
“I don’t like other people making decisions for me.”
“Then let’s walk.”
“I don’t want to walk.”
“Well... what do you want, Janet?”
“Oh, I don’t know,” she said petulantly. “Let’s walk.”
They walked in silence for several blocks.
“My brother’s a writer, did I tell you that?” she asked at last.
“Yes.”
“The Pied Piper.”
“What do you mean?”
“With his rats.”
Again, she went silent. Buddwing, walking beside her, suddenly knew how he could find out who he was. The idea was so simple that he wondered why he had not thought of it before this. He would simply go to De Pinna’s, where the obviously hand-tailored suit he was wearing had come from, and ask them who had ordered the suit. He was sure they would have a record of some sort, and perhaps the tailor might even recognize him. There was, of course, the danger that they would tell him the suit had been made for the director of Central Islip, but even that would not be so bad because then he would at least know for sure he was Edward Voegler.
“Mike hasn’t decided which school he wants to belong to yet,” Janet said. She saw the puzzled look on Buddwing’s face, and said, “My brother. The schools of writing.”
“Are there different schools?” he asked.
“Oh, yes, dozens,” she said knowingly.
“Why doesn’t he try combining them all?”
“No, no, Mike has to find his own chemin. That’s what he calls it. He keeps pecking away at his typewriter and telling me, ‘Jan, I’ve got to find my own chemin.’ And I’m the one one seeing an analyst.” She shrugged. “He’ll never make it, you know. I can tell.”
“How can you tell?”
“Just by looking at him. I go into that apartment, and he’s living there like a pig, you know, an absolute pig. His underwear is all over the floor, and there are dirty dishes in the sink, and cigarette butts everywhere you look, and he sits at that typewriter like some kind of beat mystic or something, and he barely looks up when I come in.”
“Why do you go?”
“Well, I love him, you know,” Janet said simply. She shook her head. “But he isn’t going to make it, and I know he’s not, and I wish I had the courage to tell him. I have this horrible vision of one day going there, ten years from now, and knocking on the door. The whole area will have been reclaimed by Lincoln Center, except for the building Mike lives in. I’ll go into his apartment, and the rats will have taken over. Mike’ll be sitting at that crumby table he uses for a desk, in a typing position, but all his bones will have been picked clean by the rats.” She shuddered and clutched his arm and said, “Oh, that’s horrible, isn’t it?”