The elevator slid to a stop with the faintest hint of motion; the door opened with a mechanical whisper. André found himself unconsciously following its example.
“Thank you,” he said in a subdued tone of voice and walked quietly across the carpeted corridor to tap diffidently on the door of 614, almost directly opposite the elevator. He suddenly seemed to realize that while inaudibility might be properly appropriate to the edifice, it scarcely resulted in doors being answered unless the tenant happened to have his ear to the panel; at the same moment he discovered the doorbell set quite conspicuously in the door jamb and pressed it firmly. He swung about with a broad smile, presenting his back to the little peephole which he knew might be used. Facing him was the elevator operator. André winked at him in friendly fashion, forgiving all, and waited. There was the sound of the peephole cover being opened and closed, and then the further sound of a key being turned in a lock. André grinned widely, not only anticipating Kek’s surprise and delight, but also the consternation of the elevator operator at the reunion. He waited a moment and then swung around.
His wide grin maintained for a moment, frozen, and then turned into a painful grimace. He was facing a very pretty girl in a very pretty dress, and he automatically knew that she was neither the cook nor the daily cleaning woman. He swallowed, his face reddening.
“I’m sorry,” he stammered and swore to himself on his father’s honor that as soon as he escaped he would go downstairs, tear the concierge into pieces fit for bouillabaisse, and distribute them along the various mail slots back of his own desk. For luck! It not only would teach the little nain not to play games with visitors, but it would undoubtedly also prove a boon to the tenants of the building. He pictured himself receiving laurels from the tenants; it saved him from facing the girl, who was frowning at him in speculation. He reached up and took off the cheap cap, wishing he could have afforded a haircut.
“I’m sorry,” he said, suddenly aware of his age and his hands and his feet and his size and their size, and that his nose had been broken and his face scarred, and that his white hair was standing out in uncontrolled spikes. “I was looking for a friend of mine... a Kek Huuygens... And the concierge...”
The girl’s face cleared. She grinned at him, a friendly grin. “You’re André.”
“...the little son of a — I mean, the little — well, he told me downstairs that this was the apartment. Six-fourteen—” It occurred to him the mistake might have been his; he stepped back to look the top of the door in the eye. No, the number was right. “I’m sorry, mademoiselle— It wasn’t my fault—”
“André Martins.” The girl bobbed her head vigorously, convinced she was right. Her shoulder-length blond hair swirled at the motion and then settled back, swaying protectively about her neck; her eyebrows cocked at him, daring him to deny it.
“—but when I get downstairs—” André paused to stare in astonishment. “I beg your pardon?”
“You’re André Martins. Right?”
“You know me? How?” He looked behind him, as if the answer might be in someone feeding the girl cue cards, as he had seen on television, and then turned back. It occurred to him that possibly he owed the tiny concierge an apology, but the thought didn’t bother him greatly. Another thought followed too quickly, explaining the mystery. “I didn’t know Kek had married.”
“He hasn’t,” the girl said. “Yet.” She grinned at him, a pixie grin showing small but perfect teeth. Her skin, he noticed, was blemish-free, tanned, undoubtedly by the tennis court rather than cosmetics. “He’s a stubborn man, but I expect you know that. Unfortunately for him, I am too. You’ll cut the cake yet.” She stood aside, smiling at him. “Come in. My name is Anita.” She shook hands, giving him a strength of grip that surprised him, stood back as he entered, and closed the door behind him. The elevator operator sighed and reluctantly took the cab downward. “Kek’s in the living room.”
She led the way down a corridor, her soft skirts swaying about her in the narrow hallway. Soft lighting illuminated paintings on both walls; the large man sank self-consciously in the heavy pile of the rug. It came to him that possibly it had been a mistake to drop in on Kek unannounced like this. And unkempt. He didn’t fit into this milieu. He belonged in another scene; the docks were his area. Maybe it was a mistake to try to renew ties fashioned so many years before; maybe he should have called Kek on the phone and met him someplace else — at a bar someplace, maybe. Or maybe it would have been better not even to have come. It was a long time, and people went their ways, and they changed. They forgot; usually it was a lot easier to forget. He smiled to himself wryly. Only he hadn’t changed; he was as ragged and broke and as much a failure as he had always been.
The girl stood aside once again, allowing — almost forcing — André to enter the living room first. Kek Huuygens was standing behind a bar in one corner of the large, sunny room, carefully pouring drinks, his attitude that of a person who properly respected liquor. Three glasses stood before him. André looked about the luxuriously appointed room and then back at Kek. Huuygens was a man in his early forties, a bit above medium height, athletically built, his thick, curly hair beginning to be touched with gray. His slate-gray eyes were calmly judging quantities as he poured; his strong, handsome features were as André remembered.
“Hello, André.” His wide-spaced eyes studied the other man with apparent impersonality, but there was a hidden twinkle in them, and his mercurial eyebrows were slanted sharply, a characteristic André remembered. It indicated curiosity. André froze, his hand on his cap still. Kek probably wondered why he was here; or rather, Kek probably thought he was here to borrow money! He would have turned and left, but the girl blocked the doorway.
“Hello, Kek. Look, I was just—”
“You’re late,” Huuygens said calmly and continued pouring.
André shook his head as if to clear it of cobwebs. Late? It began to appear to him that his surprise — to mix a metaphor — was on the other foot.
“Late?” He knew he sounded stupid, but that was because he was stupid, he told himself, and crossed the room to the bar, dragging a stool back and half-sitting on it, staring at Huuygens. Huuygens nodded to him politely and slid a glass across to him. Anita took her glass and retired to a sofa at the far side of the room, watching the two men.
“Argentinian,” Huuygens said, indicating the amber liquid in the glasses. “It’s called Reserva San Juan. A nice combination of the best elements of the brandies of France and Spain. Or France and Portugal, if you prefer.”
André stared at him a moment and then upended his glass. He set it down without commenting on the quality of the cognac he had just drunk; in point of fact he had not even tasted it.
“What’s this ‘late’ business?” he asked suspiciously and reached for the bottle, refilling his glass with half an eye, his main attention fixed on Kek. “How could you even know I was coming?”