THE LAST MOHICAN
I"
in his possession but it had come to nothing. Always Fidelman needed
something solid behind him before he could advance, some worth–
while accomplishment upon which to build another. He worked late,
but his mood, or inspiration, or whatever it was, had deserted
him,
leaving him with growing anxiety, almost disorientation; of not know–
ing-it seemed to him for the first time in months--what he must
do next, a feeling that was torture. Therefore he again took up
his
search for the refugee. He thought now that once he had settled it,
knew that the man had or hadn't stolen his chapter-whether he
recovered it or not seemed at the moment immaterial-just the
knowing of it would ease his mind and again he would
feel
like
working, the crucial element.
Daily he combed the crowded streets, searching for Susskind
wherever people peddled. On successive Sunday mornings he took
the long ride to the Porta Portese market and hunted for hours among
the piles of second-hand goods and junk lining the back streets, hop–
ing his brief case would magically appear, though it never did. He
visited the open market at Piazza Fontanella Borghese, and observed
the ambulant vendors at Piazza Dante. He looked among fruit and
vegetable stalls set up in the streets, whenever he chanced upon them,
and dawdled on busy street corners after dark, among beggars and
fly-by-night peddlers. After the first cold snap at the end of October,
when the chestnut sellers appeared throughout the city, huddled over
pails of glowing coals, he sought in their faces the missing Susskind.
Where in all of modern and ancient Rome was he? The man lived
in the open air-he had to appear somewhere. Sometimes when rid–
ing in a bus or tram, Fidelman thought he had glimpsed somebody
in a crowd, dressed in the refugee's clothes, and he invariably got
off to run after whoever it was-once a man standing in front of
the Banco di Santo Spirito, gone when Fidelman breathlessly arrived;
and another time he overtook a person in knickers, but this one wore
a monocle. Sir Ian Susskind?
In November it rained. Fidelman wore a blue beret with
his
trench coat and a pair of black Italian shoes, smaller, despite their
pointed toes, than his burly oxbloods which overheated his feet and
whose color he detested. But instead of visiting museums he fre–
quented movie houses, sitting in the cheapest seats and regretting the
cost. He was, at odd hours in certain streets, several times accosted
