JOHNSHEA
211
He sighed and switched his books to the other hand. Someone was
walking the other way across the street, too far from the streetlight to
be seen clearly. He passed a storefront on the corner of his block and
paused to look within . The stacks of groceries were dark, the aisles
empty and still, the blustery claims on each box now silent: a shop
long after hours was always macabre . His vision withdrew and he
found himself considering his reflection in the glass, the form barely
visible, the face dusky. Was he presentable , he wondered. But it
could have been anyone.
When he got off the elevator he looked down the hall but, as he
expected, there was nothing to see. It took several seconds to unlock
the door, so unsteady was his hand. There was a note on the floor. It
had to be from her, he thought, but then remembered that the active
tenants' association was constantly demanding meetings and contri–
butions. When he picked it up, however, he saw her handwriting:
graceful, legible, conspicuously American , not at all like Fabrizio's.
There was so much that could have been written, from the most curt
dismissal to the warmest invitation; but there was only a brief, neu–
tral message: "Stopped by this evening. Marie ." His disappointment
was only momentary . That could not be it; there had to be an under–
lying meaning, something to call into play his ingenuity and his
imagination. The words were only superficial, the barest shorthand
suggestion of the reality, like remarks banal in themselves without
the proper context. "Stopped by. " The plainest English.
As he sat in the kitchen, sipping juice, he wondered what to do.
It was nearly eleven thirty. But was the note a call to action, a pro–
posal to redefine roles?
It
was important to interpret correctly, but
no impulse came to him with the unmistakable blaze of a mandate
and he sat for ten minutes, indecisive. He watched the second hand
on the clock race in its endless circuit past the numerals until he
could no longer tolerate it. His face felt hot. In the bathroom he
watched his hands cup the water, something they had done so often
without notice. He splashed his face and felt somewhat better. The
mirror's presence was intimidating. Finally he looked directly into it:
the eyes were red, the face tense.
Sono io .
It
is
1.
You look like one of
the undead . Cheer up, son. When he smiled the sight was not
reassuring .
Sono io.
He dried his face and hands and switched the
light off. For a moment he stood still and gazed into the dark mirror,
seeing little except the sharp-edged doorway behind him. He felt his
pulse keenly. Slowly he unbuttoned the top two buttons of his shirt,
then turned and made his way back to the front door. He began to
walk down the hall.
