Man in the Dark by Paul Auster

feels a momentary surge of optimism, sensing that he can finally add the word hope to the lexicon of his miseries. He walks along quickly, sliding past knots of pedestrians, dodging a boy on a pogo stick, slackening his pace briefly at the approach of four soldiers carrying rifles, listening to the ever-present clank of bicycles rolling down the street. A turn, another turn, and then one more, and there he is, standing in front of the Pulaski Diner, the restaurant where Molly works.
    Brick goes in, and once again the place is empty. Now that he understands the circumstances, this hardly comes as a surprise to him, since why would anyone bother to go to a restaurant that has no food? Not a customer to be seen, therefore, but more distressing is the absence of Molly as well. Wondering if she hasn’t gone home early, Brick calls out her name, and when she fails to appear, he calls it out again. After several anxious seconds, he is relieved to see her walk into the room, but once she recognizes him, the boredom in her face instantly turns to worry, perhaps even anger.
    Is everything okay? she asks, her voice sounding tight and defensive.
    Yes and no, Brick says.
    What does that mean? Did they give you any trouble at the hotel?
    No trouble. They were expecting me. I paid for one night in advance and went upstairs.
    What about the room? Any problem with that?
    Let me tell you, Molly, Brick says, unable to suppress the smile that is spreading across his lips, I’ve traveled all over the world, and when it comes to first-class accommodations, I mean top-of-the-line comfort and elegance, nothing comes close to room four-oh-six at the Exeter Hotel in Wellington.
    Molly smiles broadly at his facetious remark, and all at once she looks like a different person. Yeah, I know, she says. It’s a classy place, isn’t it?
    Seeing that smile, Brick suddenly understands the cause of her alarm. Her initial assumption was that he marched back here to complain, to accuse her of having swindled him, but now that she knows otherwise, she has let down her guard, relaxed into a more amiable attitude.
    It has nothing to do with the hotel, he says. It’s about that situation I mentioned to you before. A bunch of people are after me. They want me to do something I don’t want to do, and now they know I’m staying at the Exeter. Which means I can’t stay there anymore. That’s why I came back. To ask for your help.
    Why me?
    Because you’re the only person I know.
    You don’t know me, Molly says, shifting the weight of her body from her right leg to her left. I served you some eggs, I found a room for you, we talked for about five minutes. I hardly call that knowing me.
    You’re right. I don’t know you. But I couldn’t think of anywhere else to go.
    Why should I stick my neck out for you? You’re probably in some kind of trouble. Police trouble or army trouble. Or maybe you escaped from that hospital. The loony bin would be my guess. Give me one good reason why I should help you.
    I can’t. Not a single one, Brick says, dismayed at how badly he misjudged this girl, how foolish he was to think he could count on her. The only thing I can offer you is money, he adds, remembering the envelope of fifties in the backpack. If you know of a place where I could hide out for a while, I’ll be glad to pay you.
    Ah, well, that’s different, isn’t it? says the transparent, notso-cunning Molly. How much money are we talking about?
    I don’t know. You tell me.
    I suppose I could put you up in my apartment for a night or two. The sofa’s long enough to hold that body of yours, I think. But no hanky-panky. My boyfriend lives with me, and he has a bad temper, if you know what I mean, so don’t get any dumb ideas.
    I’m married. I don’t go in for stuff like that.
    That’s a good one. There isn’t a married man in this world who’d pass up some extra nooky if it came his way.
    Maybe I don’t live in this world.
    Yeah, maybe you don’t at that.