Call Me Brooklyn Read online

  One afternoon, a little after I had moved in, I emptied the tomb, not daring to peruse the manuscripts. I asked Frank to help me. Together, we took several boxes down and one by one burned the manuscripts in the chimney of the Oakland. Watching them catch fire, I couldn’t stop thinking about what you liked to say about manuscripts that are born condemned to oblivion. We’re like the priest and the barber in Don Quixote, Frank said, except that we won’t grant clemency to a single title. It made me laugh.

  That was only the beginning. Honoring your wishes, I began to fill in the gaps you had left. I went over everything meticulously, the letters, the reams of papers, the notebooks, the files, your diary, and Nadia’s. At the end of every day, I went to the bar to burn the material that was no longer needed. You have made me into an extension of your shadow. That’s right. Two years of obedience to a voice that never went quiet, a voice that had been preparing me to do what I was doing from just about the first time we met, although I didn’t realize that until after you were gone. But it’s finished, we’re done, Gal, you and I. Here’s your damn novel: Brooklyn. Nadia was right: the book already existed. You were its maker as well as its only obstacle. We had to get you out of the way. To save it, it just needed someone capable of really listening to your voice, and that couldn’t be you because your own voice consumed you. It wasn’t easy. Hundreds and hundreds of hours of silence and solitude, lost: hours in which I put my writing at the service of yours. When I finally finished, I realized that if anyone still had doubts, it was me. Many times, on rereading what we’d done, it’s difficult to distinguish your voice from mine. Although, in truth, there’s only one voice in control, yours: each time that I had to intervene, I did it imagining how you would have done it. It has been a long apprenticeship, but I am grateful. Thanks to you I can say that I am a writer. Before this I always felt as if I couldn’t live up to that word.

  I have nothing else to add. Everything is in the book. But one last thing, we have to celebrate. I bought a small bottle of vodka like the one you brought back that day, a pint, identical to the ones you liked to put in the altars of the Navy Yard. I’ll leave it here with the book to keep you company. But first, I have to account for the drink you didn’t let me have the day we sealed the pact. You didn’t think I would forget that, did you?

  Two

  DEAUVILLE

  “It is not down in any map;

  true places never are.”

  HERMAN MELVILLE

  Deauville, October 13, 1973

  I awoke before dawn, anxious. I couldn’t remember the dream at all, but I knew it had something to do with Sam Evans. I got up, went to the kitchen, lit a cigarette, and, while I brewed coffee, read Louise’s postcard again. It was dated Friday and was about nothing particularly substantial, but when I finished reading it, I had the strange feeling that somehow it was connected to the nightmare I’d just had. I felt the urge to go to Deauville. It was so sudden, I didn’t even have the patience to have a second cup of coffee. I threw a few things in a duffel bag and raced to Port Authority. The terminal was half-deserted when I got there. I bought a roundtrip ticket and went down to the 40th Street stop. A bus had just arrived and the passengers were getting off. After the last one exited and the doors shut, the driver remained at the steering wheel jotting something down for a few minutes, and then he too left. Alone at the stop, I glanced at my watch and realized the next departure was not for almost half an hour. I leaned back against the brick wall and, catching sight of my reflection, I watched how the light changed as it hit the surface of the glass door. It was a gray day, but past my figure I was able to discern the shadows of several buildings and a large swath of sky. The wind dragged groups of black clouds toward the Hudson.

  I lit a cigarette and opened my journal. There were only a few blank pages left; I would have to buy a new one before returning to New York. I leafed through it and stumbling upon an entry that bore today’s date, I realized I was returning to Deauville exactly one year after my last visit. I wasn’t sure why, but I associated the coincidence with the unease I had felt about Louise’s postcard and the nightmare that had awakened me. I tried to recall the dream, but the images had grown even more fragmented and elusive than before; the only thing I could remember were snippets of my last conversation with Sam Evans. As if the key to the dream were to be found there, I reread what I had written about him a year before.

  Deauville, October 13, 1972

  As always, I asked the driver to drop me off in front of Stewart Foster’s ranch, half a mile before the Deauville town limits. I have always found the sight of thoroughbreds on the loose fascinating, even awe-inspiring. Their odd mixture of vulnerability and power, the almost-human helplessness in their eyes, the grace and elegance of their movements. Stewart is seventy-six and has spent his whole life breeding horses. When the bus stops at the edge of his property, the old man comes out to the porch to see who’s getting off. He enjoys when people admire his animals. He recognized me right away, waved, then went back into the house. A mare that had recently given birth was grazing next to her foal. As I approached, she raised her muzzle from the grass to look at me without changing the position of her body, then trotted away followed by her colt. I can spend hours watching the horses, but this morning there was a storm brewing, so I went back to the road and headed toward the gas station. I wanted to say hello to Sam before it started pouring. I love chatting with Sam; my visits to Deauville will be very different when he’s gone. There’s very little known about his past. He’s a very old, blind, black man. He came here almost fifty years ago from Bogalusa, a town in Louisiana, to work as a migrant during harvest time, but he felt so at home that when the season ended he decided to stay. He immediately became known for his honesty and responsibility, and the townspeople began to hire him to do all sorts of jobs. He was never out of work; then, one day, some fifteen years ago, he lost his sight in an accident. I don’t know what happened. He’s never told me the details. But, ever since, he spends his days in a rocking chair at the station with Lux, his Belgian Shepherd, lying at his feet. I still haven’t figured out how he does it, but as soon as I set foot on the gravel path leading to the gas station Sam knows it’s me. Could it be he knows my tread by heart? Sam practically doesn’t move from the entrance of the general store the whole day. That’s his work station; and for him it’s sacred. He’s not one to beg, so after the accident left him incapacitated, he had to come up with a decent way to make a living. In the end, he devised a rather original business for himself, and like he says, to do it right you gotta have the soul of an artist. The way he sees it, the fact that he was born sixty miles away from such a cradle of creativity as New Orleans just made things easier. And he’s right; a wandering artist at heart, the idea for his trade was inspired by the street musicians and tap dancers he saw perform so many times in the French Quarter. People appreciate his talent; and he makes a living from what they give him.

  Unless the weather is bad, he sits at his work station by the door of the general store: a small, three-legged table covered with a flower-print cloth. On top of the table, he sets a beat-up, black leather Bible and a small basket. In the center of the table, on a piece of white cardboard, carefully scripted in thick black letters, reads:

  SAM EVANS

  MEMORIZER OF THE WORD

  OF GOD

  He leads a very simple life. He sleeps in a shed next to the back of the garage, for which Rick, the superintendent of the gas station, charges him a negligible rent. Kim, a black woman from Atlanta who works as a cook in a nearby diner, prepares his meals and does his laundry, for very little money. He washes in the bathroom of the gas station. His hours vary with the seasons, following a simple pattern he has adhered to his entire life: working from sunrise to sunset. His method is both simple and infallible. Rick has advanced arthritis, so he can’t pump the gas himself. When customers arrive to refill, the first thing they see is a sign that says that gas has to be paid for in advance. The moment they�
��re about to cross the threshold, Sam stands up, sticks out his arm, and puts the Bible right under their noses. No one has time to react. By the time they realize what’s going on, they have the book in their hands, with Sam urging them to open it at any page. The situation is so unlikely and absurd, no one is capable of ignoring the old man’s instructions. Don’t mess with fate, he says when he hears the ruffle of the pages. It’s best not to think about it and let the book decide on its own.

  He always knows the exact moment when the search has come to an end, and without letting his unwitting clients catch their breath, he orders them to recite the book, chapter, and verse their eyes have fallen upon. I don’t remember having opened a Bible in all the days of my life till the day I arrived in Deauville and Sam put me through his freakish test. When I thought about it later, it seemed like an absurd proposition, but the truth is that once you fall into his trap, you have no choice but to do as he says. The funny thing is that nobody protests or offers the least resistance. Although I’ve tried many times to figure it out, I still don’t know why I followed his instructions. The fact is that when he asked me what passage I had stumbled upon, I responded Ezekiel 34. He didn’t allow me to say anything more, but recited in a grave and pompous voice:

  And the word of the LORD came unto me, saying, Son of man, prophesy against the shepherds of Israel, prophesy, and say unto them, Thus saith the Lord GOD unto the shepherds; Woe be to the shepherds of Israel that do feed themselves! should not the shepherds feed the flocks? Ye eat the fat, and ye clothe you with the wool, ye kill them that are fed: but ye feed not the flock.

  Astonished, I waited for him to finish reciting the entire passage. What he did with the Bible made me think of the I Ching, and I thought it might be best for me to keep a record of this message. Before leaving, I copied down the appropriate passage in my journal and left a ten-dollar bill in Sam’s basket. My aim was to memorize it, imitating Sam on a small scale.

  I’ve seen Sam in action many times, and he never fails. Most people react as I did, making sure that what they hear corresponds with the text. So far, no one’s ever caught Sam out. Rarely does anyone suspect Sam of some sort of imposture; but whenever one of his “clients” does ask him how he does it, Sam lets out a guffaw and responds that there is no trick to it, he’s simply memorized the entire Bible. And, as they return the book to him, few are stingy enough not to leave a tip in his basket. When the weather’s bad, Sam sets up shop behind the counter with Rick’s blessing.

  Damn it, Gal, he said when I showed up today. He always greets me the same way. So what’s cooking in Hell’s Kitchen? Did they finally can you or was your brain just getting scorched from that city air? Come here and give me five!

  Perhaps because he’s lived so long, Sam’s existence tends to be a series of repetitions. He has a specific greeting for each of his friends. No matter how long in between visits, this is the one he uses with me, and he always repeats it in the same tone without adding or subtracting a word.

  I looked at his dog, Lux, surprised that it didn’t stir when I came in.

  I’m afraid he doesn’t have a lot of time, Gal, said Sam. (Another one of his abilities is that he always knows which way you’re looking.) Before next summer, I’m going to have to take him to the vet, have her put him to sleep. I’m procrastinating, but I don’t think I can do it too much longer.

  Lux turned his head toward his master.

  I’m sorry, you know I don’t want to, the blind man told the dog, patting him on the head. Lux got up, his tongue hanging out, and came up to sniff me. These things have to be done at precisely the right time, Sam went on. You have to watch out for the signs. When there’s too much suffering, it means that we’ve lived beyond our span. And that’s not right, Gal. Life is never wrong. I don’t know why people can’t accept that.

  I offered him a cigarette and he put it to his lips with a shaky hand. Maybe Sam was right about the dog, but it was he who seemed to have deteriorated most. He had aged remarkably in a matter of months, and the Parkinson’s symptoms had grown alarmingly worse. He took a deep drag, spit to the side, and sat up attentively, craning his neck forward, as if he were trying to make something out. Lux pricked up his ears, attending to that same inaudible thing just as intently as his master. Moments later, a prolonged clap of thunder sounded, and it began to rain violently.

  I closed the journal and looked around. The Deauville bus was docked in a narrow alleyway boxed in between two brick walls off 40th Street. The front faced 9th Avenue. To my left, toward 8th Avenue, a line of about twenty people had formed. A sliver of light flashed on the surface of the glass of the door and I was startled by my reflection once again. Above my head rose the brick wall and the towering silhouettes of the skyscrapers underneath an overcast sky. The same driver I had seen before came back, unlocked the door on his side, and, a few minutes later, the door on the passenger side opened noiselessly, splitting my reflection in two. As I was about to board, a young woman carrying a heavy travel bag appeared above me at the door. The bus had been parked for more than fifteen minutes so it was shocking to discover the presence of a passenger on board so long after the arrival time. The only explanation is that she had fallen asleep and somehow the driver hadn’t noticed. He didn’t seem to be too concerned, anyway.

  Please make room, he said, poking his head from behind her, and went back to his seat. Her bag must have been as heavy as it looked, because she had to switch it from one hand to the other to make it down. As she did this, the fold of her skirt slid to the side exposing her bare thighs. With a brusque gesture, she smoothed down the skirt with her free hand, which made her lose her balance. In order not to fall, she tossed the bag away and grabbed the steel handlebar.

  I caught the bag in mid flight and stumbled backward, feeling the bite of a metal buckle on my cheek. When I regained my balance, she was on the sidewalk barely a step away from me. Her face was hidden by her hair, which she shook vigorously, revealing a very white complexion. She couldn’t have been much older than twenty. Her large, green eyes met mine for a moment. Before I could react, she grabbed her bag and rushed away down the sidewalk. I felt the pressure of the other passengers behind me, forcing me to board the bus. I strode along the aisle, found my seat, and fell into it, bewildered.

  I was out of breath, my pulse racing. My right cheek throbbed. I touched it with the tip of a finger and when I withdrew it, I saw it was stained with blood. Loosening the collar of my shirt to get some air, I looked toward the station through the tinted glass and I saw her slim, erect figure going up the escalator, the bag at her side. Upon reaching the main lobby, she bent down to pick it up, and then, before heading for the exit and vanishing, she looked back for just a moment. I felt helpless. The sight of her naked thighs suddenly came back to me. Details that I hadn’t even known I’d perceived appeared before me with stunning clarity: the color and texture of her skin, the shape of her thighs, her pubis, barely glimpsed. When the image dissolved, I felt a sudden stab of desire.

  I jumped up as if obeying an order, and pressing past the bodies moving down the aisle, I headed for the exit. I ran toward the escalator, climbed it three steps at a time, and without stopping raced through the door that led into the terminal. Only then did I pause. The atmosphere in the main lobby was completely different from a half hour before. Rivers of people were flowing in and out incessantly. There were long lines at the ticket windows and groups of passengers gathered under the departure board. I began to wander aimlessly, not knowing where to start looking for her, bumping against others trying to make their way through the crowd. When they announced the departure of the bus to Deauville over the loudspeaker, the whole situation felt unreal, as if the woman from my vision hadn’t really existed.

  I turned around, resigned to returning to the bus, and then I saw her. She had her back to me, buying a pack of cigarettes at a counter. She lit one and began to walk away with an absent air. She moved toward a wooden bench, put down her bag, and sat do
wn. For the first time I had a chance to look at her in detail. She wore black mid-heel pumps, a denim skirt, and a gray T-shirt. She opened a magazine, and began to leaf through it. I had to speak to her at any cost.

  Before I took the first step, a figure emerged from behind a column, heading toward the stranger. She recognized him and stood up with a smile. He was a thin man, a bit taller than her, about the same age, and with long, straight, black hair. She ran to him and they embraced. When they pulled apart, the girl noticed my presence but immediately looked away. Her friend picked up the bag and waited while she retouched her makeup looking into a folding mirror; when she finished, they left the terminal arm-in-arm, laughing. I followed them until I lost them among the crowd. After a moment, I saw the double silhouette of their heads floating against the light. The morning sun struck the large windows of Port Authority with full force; the panels of the revolving doors engulfed her first and then him and they disappeared into the bustle of 42nd Street.

  Everything had happened too quickly. The terminal clock read three minutes to eight. Unconsciously, my eyes wandered to the place that her body had occupied on the wooden bench. The magazine she had been reading was still there. I grabbed it and returned to the bus. When I arrived, the engine was running and the door open, waiting for me. As soon as I sat down, the bus lurched. We moved down a curved ramp and came out into the avenue. The Manhattan streets were bustling with life. When we got to Lincoln Tunnel, I surrendered to the chaos of my sensations. First, I saw Sam Evans’s expression just before the storm erupted; right after that, flashes of memories began to mix in with fragments of dreams. I saw the pasture where Foster’s thoroughbreds grazed, the wooden houses on the shore of the river, and the deserted bus stop where I had been reading my journal. Then, in slow motion, the moment the girl’s skirt split open, until I was blinded by the sunlight as we emerged out of the tunnel.