Bradhurst

Harlem - West 145th Street

Same Day

As Yates walked down the stairs, he passed the same good-for-nothing young men slouching in the corridors. He nodded at them:

—Busy day, gentlemen?

They didn’t reply. Yates laughed. He doubted whether any of them could name a single song that Austin used to sing. “Big Red Voice” had once played to audiences in the millions and now he was forgotten by Negroes and white men alike, forgotten by the rich and poor. He doubted if these men in these hallways even realized who the old man on the top floor was. Certainly no one younger than thirty would have any recollection of his success. Jesse was no longer played on the radio. His records weren’t in stores. His words were no longer printed in newspapers, nor was he interviewed in glossy magazines. So weakened was he that he didn’t even have the strength of heart to stand up for his wife when she was insulted in front of his face. It was one thing to smash a man’s career: that was relatively straightforward. It was quite another thing to break a man’s spirit. Having watched Jesse move, seen how his body stooped, slumped in the doorway, barely able to argue back, Yates was sure he was close to that particular victory.

It puzzled Yates why the Soviets had made so many attempts to contact Austin, imploring him to attend the concert tonight. What did they expect him to do? They would never secure permission to have him enter the United Nations. He was certain Austin was lying when he said he knew nothing and Yates could sene something was wrong – something he’d missed, an agenda he couldn’t see. He’d worked too hard, for too long, to allow Jesse to have any kind of final flourish in the limelight.

Feeling considerably less hung-over, he stepped out of the apartment building, checking his pockets for cigarettes, again forgetting that they were in the car. There was another group of young men to his side, perched on the steps, two sitting down and two standing up. For a group of nobodies they were comically overdressed, with neat shirts tucked in, waistcoats and jackets, and two even had ties, as if they worked in a bank. They were smoking roll-ups. Yates walked up to them:

—Would any of you gentlemen be so kind as to roll one for me?

It wouldn’t have been difficult to fetch his own from the car but this was more fun. The men exchanged glances, silently weighing up his request. They knew he was law. They hated him. And yet they couldn’t say no.

It was a thrill to watch, these tough young men totally powerless, full of swagger and attitude yet obedient and servile, suppliant before him, like the most limp-wristed of men.

The youngest man produced tobacco and rolled a perfect cigarette. He took care over it, making sure Yates had no reason to be annoyed. He was smart: understanding that even the slightest sign of defiance would inflame Yates. When it was finished, he offered it. Yates accepted, but did not take out his matches, even though he had them in his pocket.

—I prefer my tobacco to burn a little before I smoke it.

A different man lit a match, holding the flame steady in front of Yates. Yates dipped the end of the cigarette into the flame, lighting the cigarette and inhaling, smiling his gratitude.

—Been a while since I’ve tasted tobacco this cheap. Reminds me of when I first started to smoke as a kid. You men have a productive day. Enjoy the sun.

The man extinguished the match with an angry flick of his wrist – the closest he dared to a display of his emotions. Yates sucked deeply on the cigarette, savouring this moment – a sublime moment, on a beautiful sunny day.

***

The taxi came to a stop. Elena looked out the window. This must be the place – West 145th Street. The street was busy in a very different way from 44th Street. Some people were busy: many were hanging about. She was worried at how conspicuous she’d appear, a seventeen-year-old Soviet girl dressed unfashionably, with no sense of this city, this neighbourhood or its culture. She didn’t have much time, little more than an hour before she’d be missed at the hotel. The group was due to meet at lunch, before the dress rehearsal, when Raisa returned from her preliminary visit to the UN Headquarters. She checked her watch. The cab ride had taken over thirty minutes, longer than they’d calculated for. The delay meant that she didn’t have long to find and talk to Mr Austin. She’d been told that he’d become a recluse, no longer performing, rarely leaving the apartment, unemployed, his spirit downtrodden by the oppressive measures used against him>

The driver – a white man – turned around, looking at her with concern.

—You sure you want to be here?

Elena’s English was competent. But the phrase confused her. She repeated the address.

—West 145th Street.

The driver nodded:

—This is the place for sure. Not the place for a girl like you.

Elena didn’t understand. She asked:

—How much?

The driver pointed to the meter. She took out the money given to her by Mikael.

—Can you wait?

—How long?

—Twenty minutes.

The driver looked uncertain. Elena paid him five dollars. She noted that the driver seemed pleased with the money. It must be a significant amount.

—There is more if you wait.

He nodded, his entire aspect changed by the money. Elena felt disgust for him, a man in love with money, whose character would change at the sight of a dollar bill.

—I’ll wait. But only twenty minutes, if you’re late, I’m gone.

Elena stepped out the cab, shutting the door.

In front of the taxicab was an old-fashioned wood wagon with a cloth-top screen for shade from the sun. The surface was loaded with heaps of ice, edges rendered smooth by the heat, melting fast. Among the ice, there were clams, some in their pale shells, many scooped out, cooked in spices, spitting in the heat, sold in cones of newspaper. Along the dusty street, instead of a mass of cars, there were children playing ball or jumping games or begging for shards of ice from the clam-selling man who struck out with his fist, shooing them away. At a glance the houses seemed nice to Elena, they weren’t too tall and they weren’t ugly concrete like the slums where she lived. They were handsome brick, framed by metal fire escapes. In one window there was a sign:

Elena didn’t understand all the words. But she understood it was asking people not to sit on the front stairs, a comical request considering almost every set of steps hosted groups of men.

The apartment was a little further on. She walked past the vendor, past the children sucking on uneven chunks of ice, ice they must have stolen when the vendor wasn’t looking. She had never felt so foreign in her entire life. Self-conscious, it took an effort to continue walking and not run back to the cab. She didn’t have far to go. The building was directly ahead.

There was a man on the steps, a tall white man, dressed in a suit, smoking a cigarette. Elena had been warned that Mr Austin was under pressure from the American secret police. She didn’t know if this man was an agent but he didn’t belong hre, that was obvious, almost as obvious as the fact that she didn’t belong here either. Her eyes darted about, searching for somewhere to hide. But it was too late. He’d seen her. She had no choice. She increased her pace, pretending to be in a hurry. At the same time he descended the steps to intercept her. As he drew closer Elena kept her eyes down, towards the ground, holding her breath.

They passed each other on the sidewalk. She continued walking, missing Mr Austin’s address as if there was somewhere else she was heading for. Once she’d turned the corner, she pressed her back against the wall. There was no way into Mr Austin’s apartment. And no way back to the cab.