Late Stories. Stephen DixonЧитать онлайн книгу.
say to him that I didn’t like the room. It wasn’t that. It’s a good place to write. Few distractions and very quiet, which is perfect for a writer. Maybe he’ll discharge himself from the nursing home he’s in and return to his room upstairs to write.”
“I don’t think he’ll be coming back to us. I also don’t think I’ll have the opportunity to tell him anything you’ve said.”
“He’s that sick?”
“That’s what I’ve heard. What should I do with the room now? You own it. I’ve seen the legal papers. You could sell it, if you wish, and make yourself a great deal of money. This is quickly becoming a very desirable neighborhood. The price for an apartment—just a single studio room, like yours—rises every day. And he has such an enormous reputation.”
“I really don’t think it’s mine to sell,” I said. “He gave it to me to write in, not to make money from it. So do what you want with it. Give it to another writer. Or hold it for Mr. Cochran in case his health improves and he does return, which is what I hope for.”
“I don’t know any other writers,” the concierge said.
“This city is filled with them, from many countries. Or the lawyer who handled the legal papers—he’ll know what to do. Mr. Cochran’s niece. She should probably get it. But I want nothing to do with it. I think that’s the honorable positon for me to take.”
I left the building, called my friend to see if he was interested in the studio, but his roommate said he suddenly had to fly home to Cape Town for a month. So maybe I should sell it, I thought. But it would be wrong and I didn’t want to be bothered, and I was satisfied with what I had now. The lawyer and concierge and Cochran’s niece will figure something out as to what to do with the studio. It wasn’t my concern, and maybe it was all a mistake. Cochran only met me for half an hour. It made no sense. Who knows? I thought. He could have been drunk when he signed the place over to me, or took me for someone else.
I was going to stop someplace for coffee. But I got an idea for a short story and went back to my apartment to write it. The story had nothing to do with the studio and wasn’t about my half-hour meeting with Cochran. It was mainly about how I met my wife more than ten years ago. It was in the lobby of an art movie house in New York. New Year’s Day, early afternoon. Probably means she’s single, I had thought, and unattached. We were waiting in line to get inside. She was in front of me, reading a book in French. She had a nice face and she looked intelligent and I liked that she was reading a thick book in French while waiting to see what’s supposed to be a fairly artful complex movie. I thought of what to say and then said “Excusez-moi, mademoiselle—okay, I’ll stop the pretending. My French is abominable. So excuse me again, I don’t mean to disturb you from your reading, but what’s the title of that book in English? It looks familiar.” She gave me the title in English. “Sure, now I know it,” I said, “and you’re American. An interesting writer. He’s from Scotland but has lived in France since the end of the Second World War, and is almost as well known for his short stories as he is his novels. And for many years now he only writes in French and translates all his works into English. Big in Europe but not so much in America or even Scotland.” “That’s right,” she said. “You may go to the head of the class now.” “I’m sorry. I guess I did sound a little pedantic, especially for someone who hasn’t read more than five pages of one of his books.” “No, no,” she said. “You know a lot more about him than most people do, which is a shame. He deserves a much wider audience here.” “May I ask if you’re reading it for scholarly reasons or for pleasure, or maybe both.” “Both,” she said. “So you’re going for a doctorate in French literature and Maitland Cochran’s one of the writers, or maybe the main one, you’re reading for your dissertation?” and she said “No, just for a course. Although for my dissertation I may end up writing about some aspect of his work. His poetry, even. More room there. And it’s every bit as good as his fiction, and none of it’s been published here or anyplace but France. I’ve time to decide yet.” “From everything I’ve heard from people who have read his fiction, and also from those couple of peeks of mine into a book or two of his myself—in English of course. I’d never think of reading him in French, though I do have some reading understanding of the language—I felt he can be a very difficult writer and a little too cerebral for me. Intentionally difficult, I’m saying, and too abstruse. Anything to that?” “To some people, perhaps,” she said, “but not to me. I find him very funny, in both languages, a great stylist, and once you get a few pages in to any of his books, easy to read and like nobody else and definitely worthwhile.” “Well,” I said, “the one you’re reading was once recommended to me in English long ago. Do you think it’s a good one to start off with?” “Oui,” she said, and laughed.
I have a dream. In it I’m pushing my wife in a wheelchair on a narrow street in New York. Chinatown, during the lunch hour. Four- to five-story buildings, lots of small restaurants, sidewalks very crowded and people walking fast. “Excuse me, excuse me,” I say to people in front of us. “Better watch out. I don’t want to run in to you.” I’ve no idea where I’m going. I’m just pushing. My wife sits silently, looking straight ahead.
Then the scene changes to a street on the East Side of New York. In the forties; near the East River. Not a street but an avenue: First or Second or Third. The sidewalks are wide and again very crowded. Lunch hour. People walking very fast. Despite the tall office buildings on both sides of the avenue, plenty of sun. “We’re in the Gravlax District,” I say to my wife. “Can you hear me above all this noise? The Gravlax District. I only used to come here to go to a steakhouse or an art movie theater.” I stop pushing and look around. “So many people,” I say, with my back to her. “We never get crowded streets like this where we live. Nor the car traffic. It’s exciting, don’t you think?” When I turn back to her, she and the chair are gone. I took my hands off the chair’s handles, something I almost never do when I’m outside with her and we’re moving, or even when we’ve stopped but people are moving around us. Where could she have gone to? She wouldn’t have just left without saying something to me. She must have been in a hurry, probably to pee. And stood up, told me where she was going and what for—most likely to a restaurant to use its restroom—but I didn’t hear her because of the street noise, and then pushed the wheelchair there, or else wheeled the chair there while she sat in it.
I’m on a corner and see a restaurant a few doors down the sidestreet. I run to it and say to a man behind the lunch counter “Did a woman in a wheelchair come in here in the last minute or so?”
“In a wheelchair?” he says. “Couldn’t have. We’ve three steps leading up to our door.”
I run farther down the street to a park at the end of it. Jacob Riis Park? Does it come this far downtown? Anyway, a park that borders the river. Maybe she thought there’d be a public restroom here, and I look around. No Abby. She’d be easy to see, too, because she’d be in the wheelchair or pushing it. She can’t walk on her own. No public building anywhere around, either. Just a playground, surrounded by grass and trees.
I run up the same sidestreet on the other side of the block. I look through the vestibule doors of all the brownstones on that side of the street, just as I did on the other side of the street when I ran down it to the park. In one dingy hallway I see at the end of it what looks like a wheelchair turned over. Oh my God; is it on top of her? I ring all the tenants’ bells, am buzzed in. I run down the long hallway. It’s a baby carriage turned over, nobody under it.
I run to the avenue where I last saw her, cup my hands around my mouth and shout “Abby, it’s Phil; come back to the spot, Abby, it’s Phil; come back to the spot.” People stare at me as if I’m crazy. “I’m looking for my wife,” I say. “She was here, in a wheelchair; now she’s not.” I shout again “Abby, it’s Phil; come back to the spot.” I keep shouting that while also looking in every direction for her. It’s better to wait for her here than run around looking for her. If she comes to this spot and I’m not here, she might