The theater district was curiously still at this hour. It must have been six or a little after, he supposed, and everyone seemed to have gone indoors in preparation for the evening. The girl was walking rapidly, but he sensed she still was in no hurry to get anywhere, since she stopped every now and then to study the photographs outside a theater, or to read a three-sheet as she was doing now, her face turned in profile, forehead, nose, jaw, and throat combining in a sweeping fluid line that denied its own thrust and achieved a look of serene order. She turned toward him briefly, as though sensing his intent gaze upon her, and he turned away quickly and lighted a cigarette under the marquee of a theater, but not before he had seen the deep brown flash of her eyes and felt an exultant rush of joy at this last confirming aspect of her features. He busied himself shaking out the match and putting the cigarettes back into his pocket until, from the corner of his eye, he saw her begin to walk again.
Her movements all seemed impulsive and unpremeditated. She walked almost completely past Mackey’s and then suddenly arrested her step and turned toward the window as though the decision had been made abruptly and without prior thought. She studied the theater posters there, nibbling on her thumb, and then abruptly turned away again — in mid-glance as it were — and began walking rapidly again, cutting across the street and into Shubert Alley. He followed her through the narrow passage, aware of the silence of the streets, aware of distant voices only as muted sections of an orchestra, the abrupt whine of a truck starring behind him at the Times delivery depot, the hollow echo of a newsboy shouting his headlines on Broadway, the pleasant hum of two dancers chatting outside the Shubert, and then they came into 45th Street, and she turned right toward Broadway, and he suddenly realized she knew he was following her.
What had earlier been a direct utilitarian walk now became a subtly seductive prance. She stepped out with a deliberate sway now; she brought each foot down firmly as if sensuously aware of the high-heeled shoes, as if certain each clicking jog would send a subsequent tantalizing ripple to her behind. Where her movements had been sudden and disjointed before, they became studied and deliberate now. She turned her head to look at signs and passersby, showing her profile, tilting her nose, her face assuming a studied look of indifference that sang to him loudly. She tossed her short hair, she smiled at a small boy carrying a shoeshine box, she stopped at the window of a petshop on Broadway and rapped the glass, trying to catch the attention of the puppy inside, and then turned her face fully to Buddwing, with a sudden raising of her eyes, blinding, and turned away to lead the pursuit.
He knew he would have to approach her soon.
There was a muted excitement on Broadway as the city tentatively ventured outdoors in search of Saturday night. She was waiting for his approach, he knew that now, waiting with an impatience that was wearing thin, seemingly oh so interested in everything that was happening around her, the teen-agers lounging outside the Paramount, the Times Square fags boldly sniffing the air, anticipating the darkness that would soon enshroud them, a tenor saxophone starting in one of the bars, “How High the Moon” with a split reed, the Bronx women in their mink stoles and their escorts in Saturday night blue, entering restaurants and studying marquees, the shopgirl hurrying home with a small white cake box dangling from a string, the girl who stood on the sidewalk bent over a newsstand, delicately picking the New York Post from the stack of papers, her long black hair hanging over one eye, her sneakered feet in an unconscious ballet position. The city was poised, coiled as tight as a spring, and all of it was interesting to her, oh so goddamn interesting, she examined it minutely with her eyes, she sniffed each savory aroma, her ears caught each innuendo of sound, but he knew she was anticipating him, and he knew he would have to approach her fast or lose her. She stopped to wait for a light change on Broadway and 43rd, and he took a deep breath and walked up to her.
“Hello, Grace,” he said.
She turned as though discovering him in surprise. “Hello, Seymour,” she said.
“Is that my name?” he asked.
“Is Grace mine?”
“Yes.”
“Then yours is Seymour.”
They began walking together naturally, as though they had met by prearrangement and were now idly filling each other in on the day’s activities.
“I don’t think Seymour is the right name for me,” he said.
“I don’t think Grace is right for me, either,” she answered.
“It’s the perfect name for you.”
“No, I’m not at all graceful. And I’m much too short. A girl named Grace should be at least five-seven.”
“You’re about five-four,” he said.
“Yes, I am.”
“You’re tall.”
“How long have you been following me?” she asked.
“When did you discover I was following you?”
“I asked first.”
“I saw you on the dock.”
“I saw you when I stopped to look at the sign outside the St. James.” She paused. “What’s your name?”
“What’s yours?”
“Grace,” she said, and smiled.
“Okay, mine is Seymour.”
“I’m not really Grace. Why do you call me that?”
“Because that’s your name.”
“No.”
“Then what is it?”
“I’m not sure I’ll tell you.”
“Okay. Would you like a cup of coffee or something?”
“Sure.”
“Well, I don’t have any money,” he said.
“Then why’d you ask me if I wanted coffee?”
“I thought you might like some,” he said. He paused thoughtfully, and then said, “You have a beauty spot near your left shoulder, haven’t you?”
“No,” she said. “I haven’t.”
“Yes, you have.”
“You must be thinking of another Grace.”
“No, I’m thinking of you.” He held out his right hand. “You gave me this ring.”
“I’m sorry, but I didn’t.” She looked at the ring. “I wouldn’t have given you a ring with a cracked stone.”
“What kind of ring would you have given me?”
“I wouldn’t have given you any ring at all.”
“Besides, the stone wasn’t cracked when you gave it to me. I broke it yesterday.”
“How?”
“I banged it against the wall.”
“Why’d you do that?”
“Because you got me angry.”
She stopped in the middle of the sidewalk and looked at him curiously, her brown eyes narrowing. “You really do think you know me, don’t you?” she said.
“Yes, I really think so,” he said.
She kept staring at him. “You know, you say it with such... certainty that... you make me feel I ought to know you.”
“Well, I think you ought to,” he answered.
“Yeah, huh? Why?”
“Well, I’m a very nice person to know.”
“Mmmm,” she said, and she smiled. “I thought I was pretty hip,” she said, and she shook her head.
“What do you mean?”
“I’m falling for the oldest line in the world.”
“What line?”
“‘Haven’t we met before? You remind me of someone I know.’ That one.”