Manhattan 62 by Reggie Nadelson Page A

It is quite an honor.”
    â€œDo they force you?”
    â€œNo, Pat, it is something to be desired. Why do some people fear it so much in the United States? They hate us. They say bitter things about Fidel Castro too, and that the Cubans are victims, that all socialists are spies and murderers. I hear them say, better dead than Red. Do they truly believe such a thing?”
    â€œSome. Sure.”
    â€œDo you believe this, that it is better to be dead than Red? You know in Russian, red is a beautiful word. It means beautiful.”
    â€œI don’t want to be dead under any circumstances. No.”
    â€œI’m glad.”
    Better dead than Red. Strange, how it would turn out JFK himself said he’d rather his kids were Red than dead. It didn’t come out for fifty years until one of his girlfriends published her trashy little book about him, our handsome young Irishman, our best President; and he would be dead a year and a half after I had that conversation with Max on MacDougal Street.
    â€œIn Greenwich Village, many of us feel socialism can be good,” says a familiar voice, and Nancy hops up onto a barstool. “Hello, I’m Nancy Rudnick,” she says, putting her hand out; she’s so beautiful in the soft bar light, it’s hard for me to look at her. She’s had her dark hair cut very short, thick bangs over her forehead; it shows off her long neck and the round very blue eyes. She focuses on Max as if he’s the only person in the bar.
    Sliding off his stool and blushing, Max takes her hand, and gives a little bow. “Ostalsky, Maxim. Max.”
    â€œI know who you are. Welcome. It’s lovely to have you in New York. I hope we are treating you well.” She smiles. She’s playful. She raises one long slim arm—she has these very long arms, and sometimes I think: the better to make you mine—raises it to adjust a gold hoop earring, and this shows off her figure because in the heat she’s wearing only a sheer white Mexican blouse, and a full blue skirt, and red cotton shoes she got in France with ribbons wound around her ankles. She kisses me on the cheek. “Hello, Pat, darling, it’s been a while.”
    I haven’t seen Nancy since she let me drive her to Jones Beach in June. Been trying to forget her. “Where have you been?”
    â€œThe usual, here and there, but I’ve missed you, Pat, sweetie,” she adds, always in that husky voice that drove me nuts even the first time I see her, hanging on a strap on the A-train, a spring night in ’.
    I’m riding the A-train home from 125th Street, been to see James Brown at the Apollo, the first time I’ve seen him in the flesh. Whatever records of his I can get hold of, I play over and over. Never before tonight have I seen anything like this, it’s different from a record or the radio. Clayton Briscoe, a cop works Harlem and who was at the Academy same time as me, one of the few Negro detectives in the city, gets me into the show gratis. I owe Clay. This night changes my life. In return I plan on inviting him down to the Village when Sonny Rollins is on at the Vanguard. He’s crazy for Rollins.
    So I’m high on it, smoking and whistling tunelessly what sounds to me like a fine rendition of “Night Train”, remembering Brown’s moves, how he works the stage, like a man with wheels implanted in his feet.
    The A-train makes its fantastic run all the way from 125th to 59th, no stops, and I’m hanging on a strap, singing, staring at the Miss Subways poster, and suddenly I’m aware of a girl next to me. “What are you singing?”
    â€œYou call it singing? Thanks.”
    â€œIf it makes you feel good,” she says and laughs, a low husky laugh.
    â€œJust something I heard.”
    â€œI saw you when I got on,” she says.
    â€œYou’re following me?”
    â€œMaybe, but I’m harmless.” She laughs again, and I