Place in the City

Place in the City

Howard Fast

TO THE MEMORY OF EDWARD FAST

Cover Page

Title Page

Dedication

PART ONE

PART TWO

A Biography of Howard Fast

Copyright Page

PART ONE

A
T ONE END
of the street, at the west end, there is a cul-de-sac. By the east end, the traffic flows, north and south: If it flows for two days, you will see the world go by. That's the way it is in New York. At the east end, Shutzey stands picking his teeth, with one, or two, or three whores behind him. Shutzey is a pimp; all day long he stands in front of Meyer's cigar store, picking his teeth, and if Meyer had not more fear of Shutzey in his soul than fear of God, he might do something about it.

This is a folk-tale of Manhattan. For a folk-tale, you need tradition. That came when the poet died in Apple Place. You'll see how.

T
HE BOY
walked up the brownstone steps, and rang the bell. He held his music in front of him, clenched in both hands, and his mouth was dropped slightly, open slightly. His gray eyes had a look that might mean anything at all.

At four o'clock, in the winter, Apple Place was already dusky. At ten minutes after four, the world was beginning to change. He felt the change the way a sick person feels a longer darkness coming on. Like the poet. Sitting in his window, the poet saw the dry flakes tremble down, almost singly. Whenever one touched his window, it melted away.

The boy turned up the collar of his coat, still only vaguely aware of the snowflakes. He shivered, but more from the coming darkness than from the cold. He rang the bell again.

The man who opened the door was tall and thin, stooped, with a long nose, with small glasses perched on the end of his nose. Letting the boy in, he closed the door quickly behind him. He smacked his hands, rubbed them together, and peered through the darkness at the boy.

“I guess I'm late,” the boy said.

“Only once, loafer? Always!”

“I forgot.”

“Big things you got on your mind! Bumming all the time—so what is music? Go and sit by the piano.”

They went into the parlor, where a small gas-flame burned. There was a green carpet on the floor, green-upholstered furniture. At one side of the room, an upright piano stood. The wallpaper was brown, with twisting yellow stripes. Once he was in the room, the boy found it hard to take his eyes from the wallpaper.

Perhaps a little frightened by the old man; but the wallpaper didn't frighten him; when he looked at it, he thought of music, marching music. But he didn't know why.

“Go to the piano!”

He went to the piano, slowly, turned the seat, sat down and uncovered the keys.

“Loafer!”

“Awright.”

“You'll give me an answer. Play, I say!”

He unrolled his music, tried to straighten it, so that it would stay on the piano. He had a hard time with it, and all the while the tall music master paced behind him. Then the boy's fingers dropped to the keys. He struck two chords—two lonely discordant chords; and when he heard the sound, his face trembled and his lips fell apart. Again and again, he struck the same chords, furiously, and with each sound more of the cold, colorless December night fell in the room. Then the thin man's hand struck his head. The boy cringed.

“Loafer!”

“I din' do nothin'.”

“Is that music?”

“I heard id somewhere.”

“Liar!”

“I ain' lyin'.”

“Like a heathen you play—is that what I teach you?”

“I heard id.”

“Enough! Your exercise.”

The boy began to play, his mouth open, and as fast as the music, the tears ran down his face. He played and sobbed, swayed his body back and forth. The water streaked his small, dirty face.

And behind him, the man strode back and forth, his long head thrust out like a hawk's.

H
E KNEW
that anyone who kept a consistent diary was a little mad. Not entirely, but a little, mad to some degree. Normal people do not write down their thoughts, all their thoughts, intimate, dreadful thoughts that God Himself should not see. But normal people do not write at all. They lack the colossal conceit.

His name was John Edwards. He was twenty-four and old. You see, he was dying.

He sat next to the window, watching the dry snowflakes. Just at ten minutes past four, the boy went up the steps. He looked at his watch. Today, the boy was ten minutes late. Sometimes he was two minutes late, sometimes four—hardly ever ten. Music master Claus Silverman would rage at him. Edwards watched the thin legs of the boy until they were out of sight, and then he waited for the piano. The piano always came hard upon the boy. He scrawled in the diary:

“Why don't I know anything about the boy? That's the way it is in the city—all your life, and in the end you know nothing—of anyone. But the boy comes every day, and after the boy, Anna. Every single day at four o'clock. I should say God bless him …

“I feel weaker today. Does that mean that the end will be soon? Each time I cough, a little blood comes up—and sometimes I think that out of the Village I gained only two things, Anna and death. When I told Anna yesterday that I wasn't afraid to die, she laughed at me. Doesn't she know how far gone I am? Does she pity me?

“I don't write any more. What's the use? Everyone writes nowadays. I'm tired …”

Then he pushed the book away from him, let the pencil drop to the floor. When he turned back to the window, it was quite dark, as if an early part of the night had sought out the little down-town street. The snow, falling like a heavy white curtain, melted and splotched the window. People in the street were only shadows.

The impulse to cry was overwhelming. If only he could unlock something in him, let the tears pour out softly and easily as a brook flows. Or like the snow falling; cry anyway, like a woman cries.

His room was dark now, and in that darkness, his thoughts seemed to lose themselves. If he thought, he thought this: “I am twenty-four; I pity myself.”

The door opened and closed.

“Anna?”

“Who else?”

She turned on the light, and then she stood there, looking at him, and shaking her head slowly. In her hand, she had a bowl, a plate covering it. There were some crackers in the plate.

She was the wife of the music master. Whenever Edwards saw her, he thought of the music master, with his long bird's head. Anna had pale yellow hair. She was not tall, but the way she walked made her seem so.

“I brought soup. You haven't eaten all day?”

“I'm not hungry,” Edwards said.

“You're like a little boy. You have to eat. You know that.” She came over and kissed him. “Are you tired?”

“Yes.”

“Eat it while it's warm.”

While he ate the soup, she sat next to him, stroking his hair. And when he finished, she put the bowl away; and then she sat looking at him, with her hands clasped in her lap. Above them, they could hear the boy playing.

Edwards said: “Does he know you're down here?”

“No.”

“You're afraid to tell him.”

“A little. I would tell him that I'm sorry for you—because you're sick. He knows you're sick.”

“I don't want that.”

“I love you—you know.”

T
HE BOY'S
head sank lower; then he stopped playing. Very slowly, he turned to look at his teacher.

“What now?”

The dark room, the yellow-striped paper, the teacher and the green carpet; snow outside in the night, falling all over Greenwich Village and powdering into the cul-de-sac: and over all the two chords of music, counterpoint like a city crying.

“Well—well—well, play!”

Without a word, the boy ran to the door, without his coat; then he was stumbling down the steps. He slipped, sprawled on his hands and knees, and then again was running through the snow. And the way he ran, in that way, all of life quickened; in that way, he saw life, through himself: when he fell, all the street appeared to topple over on him. Dodging cars, he crossed the avenue at the end of the street. He ran on. When he came home, finally, he was soaked, wet and cold.

She was waiting for him. Sasha was twelve, just a little older than he. The way was this. Once, how long ago he didn't know—but it must have been very long ago—his mother had had a friend, a Jewish girl without a husband. That's where Sasha came from. The Jewish girl died, or something had happened to her. He didn't know, but she was gone, and only Sasha remained. When his father was alive, Sasha was the little bastard; his father hated Sasha. Now his father had been dead for seven months, drunk, and dropped like a sack of stones from a pier-head.

“Sasha—”

He stood in the doorway, wet and forlorn, making altogether a very small and wretched figure.

“What's-amadder?” Sasha came to him, shaking her head, and as she looked at him, her eyes filled with tears. Sasha cried easily. When Sasha looked at him, her eyes were full of infinite tenderness. She had brown eyes, set very wide apart, and a face that reminded one of a deer's, still a lovely face. She took a towel, dried his face, and then took him over to the stove to warm. She was familiar with his passions; indeed, she was familiar with every side of him.

“I hade 'im,” he said.

“I know.”

“He stands behind me jus' like he wants tu kill me. Yu odda see du way he stands behind me.”

“I made pea soup,” she said soothingly.

“Ahdon' care.”

“Peter, Peter, Peter—”

“Whad?”

She rocked him back and forth, like a baby, and together they began to smile. They grinned at each other until their eyes were lost in crinkled folds of flesh. Then she kissed him.

“Lemme taste id?” he demanded. Then they both went to the steaming pot.

T
HE SOUP
warmed Edwards. Whenever Anna was near him, his mood changed. The end was not so near then. If there was an end. When he finished the soup, he stopped coughing. Anna gave him a cigarette, striking the match herself. Then, holding her hand, he leaned back in his chair. Upstairs, the great clock struck a half hour after four.

“You don't love him,” he said. “You do love me, Anna.”

“I'm afraid of him.”

“I know. Look—you have some faith in me. You think I'm great, don't you? Otherwise you wouldn't love me.”

“I think you're wise,” she said, smiling at him. “I think you're very wise.”

“Yes. But not too wise—with a small gift, Anna. If I write a great book, Anna, about simple things. I would if I had the strength. Like this street. It's all the world. Do you understand me?”

“I think so.”

“—Artists, singers, workers, whores. Seventeen whores on this little street. Why? I came here, and the street killed me. Not yet—but it will. But if I could write about it all, and understand—then I think I could live. Maybe if we could go away for a little while—Are you brave enough for that?”

“He'd kill me.”

“No, he wouldn't. You'd be away. You'd never have to see him again. He bought you, didn't he? But that doesn't make him yours. Go away with me—and never come back. And I'll live for you. I'll love you.”

“If I only could—”

“You can. I tell you that you can!”

“Can I? The way you talk. I can't even talk like you. You know so much. I know nothing.”

“We'd need money. I only have about twenty dollars left.”

She said to him: “I have two hundred—he doesn't know.”

“Then you'll come?”

“Maybe—maybe, only I'm so afraid. Only give me a chance to think.” She looked at her watch. “Time now—let me go.”