Devotion by Howard Norman Page A

the wide doorway. Five members
of the ensemble were just off the elevator, all casually dressed, holding instrument cases and talking in the hallway. “The cars must have arrived,” she said. “I really have to get to rehearsal now.”
    She joined the musicians in the lobby. In a few moments David meandered into the lobby as well. Looking through the door onto George Street, he saw Maggie get into a black town car. Some of the musicians piled in after her. A cello case was on the front passenger side. The car pulled away from the curb.
    David sat in the red leather chair. He noticed that directly opposite, sitting in a kind of velvet love seat, was an elderly, unshaven gentleman. He had on a rumpled gray pinstripe suit, white shirt soiled at the collar, wide gray tie, was sockless with black shoes. He had wispy white hair, age spots on pate and hands, a boutonniere in his lapel and, oddly, a child’s zebra-stripe bandage on his left ankle. John Franco stepped in from the street, glanced at the elderly man, exchanged a few sentences in Italian with the concierge, then stood near David’s chair. John Franco was a little shorter than David, with thick black hair, sharp features. “That man there cannot meet his expenses,” he said.
    â€œWhat will happen?” David asked.
    â€œI don’t know. But first thing, the concierge, Mr. Jimmy Modiano, will somehow find him a pair of socks—maybe maid service found one. Mr. Jimmy always sees the human
being. The heart beating. He won’t allow a patron of our hotel to go into the manager’s office without socks.”
    â€œFor the dignity of all concerned,” David said.
    Though it had been John Franco who’d been indiscreet to begin with, now he apparently took offense. It was as if David had presumed to share his approval of a time-honored code of ethics held exclusively between doormen and their concierges. John Franco sneered with his upper lip, all cordiality gone up in smoke. “If that is how you choose to think of it,” he said. He walked over and stood next to the concierge. He rigorously cleaned his eyeglasses with a handkerchief, which he tucked back into his uniform’s breast pocket in three quick movements, flattening it with a sweep of his thumb. David, as if puppeteered by discomfort, shrugged his shoulders in an exaggerated manner, stretched, faked a yawn. John Franco, with annoyed perplexity, stared at him.
    David had simply wished to sit a while longer. To let the life of the lobby quietly go about its business, to be both part of it and an observer of it. Maintaining perhaps the artistic distance of a photographer.
    â€œCan I get you a taxi, sir?” the concierge asked. With this, David relinquished his chair. He walked to his apartment building. His was a nicely appointed flat, with plants along the inside windowsills, lots of books, an antique quilt on the bed, old-style steam radiators, their white paint flaking. David sat on the bed.
Wash your face,
he thought, giving himself instructions on how to kill time.
Maybe go back to the hotel bar—have a cup of coffee—it’s okay, stomach feels a lot better, doesn’t it?—look directly at that doorman John Franco when you walk past—wait it out—it’s just a matter of waiting—it’s just a wait of a day and part of a night—it’s just a wait until 11:30.
    Â 
    In class that evening David lectured on a photograph by Sudek,
Bread and Egg.
The photograph depicts a grainy egg set against a piece of bread, which itself is set in relief, offering its sliced side. As the class studied the slide of
Bread and Egg
on the pull-down screen and took notes, David continued to speak, consciously avoiding the term “basic necessities of life,” even though bread was involved. He spoke about the photograph within the trajectory of Sudek’s thematic obsessions. He also pointed out the sculptural qualities