trailed off. “Ever since what?” he asked.
“Ever since World War Two. It upset their plans.”
She spoke in riddles, and he didn’t want to pry. “Marrakech isn’t near Samarra, is it?”
“Oh no. Marrakech is in Morocco.”
“Geography isn’t my strong point. I get lost every time I go south of 23rd Street.”
He thought she might laugh, but she didn’t.
“Tomorrow night,” he said desperately, “tomorrow night the Mortons are having a cocktail party. We’re invited. I’d like to take you to dinner before the party. It starts about ten.”
“Yes,” she said immediately. “Be here at eight. We’ll have a drink, then go to dinner. Then we’ll go to the Mortons’ party.”
He started to say “Thank you” or “Fine” or “I’m looking forward to it” or “See you then,” but she had already hung up. He stared at the dead receiver in his hand.
The next day, Friday, he left work early to go home to prepare for the evening. He debated with himself whether or not to send flowers. He decided against it. He had a feeling she loved flowers but never wore them. His best course, he felt, was to circle about her softly, slowly, until he could determine her tastes and prejudices.
He groomed himself carefully, shaving although he had shaved that morning. He used a women’s cologne, Je Reviens , a scent that stirred him. He wore French underwear—white nylon bikini briefs—and a silk shirt in a geometric pattern of white and blue squares. His wide necktie was a subtly patterned maroon. The suit was navy knit, single breasted. In addition to wrist watch, cufflinks, and a heavy gold ring on his right forefinger, he wore a gold-link identification bracelet loose about his right wrist. And the “Via Veneto” wig.
He left early to walk over to her apartment. It wasn’t far, and it was a pleasant evening.
His loose topcoat was a black lightweight British gabardine, styled with raglan sleeves, a fly front, and slash pockets. The pockets, in the British fashion, had an additional opening through the coat fabric so that the wearer did not have to unbutton his coat to reach his trouser or jacket pockets but could shove his hand inside the concealed coat openings for tickets, wallet, keys, change, or whatever.
Now, strolling toward Celia Montfort’s apartment through the sulfur-laden night, Daniel Blank reached inside his coat pocket to feel himself. To the passer-by, he was an elegant gentleman, hand thrust casually into coat pocket. But beneath the coat…
Once, shortly after he was separated from Gilda, he had worn the same coat and walked through Times Square on a’ Saturday night. He had slipped his hand into the pocket opening, unzipped his fly, and held himself exposed beneath the loose coat as he moved through the throng, looking into the faces of passersby.
Celia Montfort lived in a five-story greystone townhouse. The door bell was of a type he had read about but never encountered before. It was a bell-pull, a brass knob that is drawn out, then released. The bell is sounded as the knob is pulled and as it is released to return to its socket. Daniel Blank admired its polish and the teak door it ornamented…
…A teak door that was opened by a surprisingly tall man, pale, thin, wearing striped trousers and a shiny black alpaca jacket. A pink sweetheart rose was in his lapel. Daniel was conscious of a scent: not his own, but something heavier and fruitier.
“My name is Daniel Blank,” he said. “I believe Miss Montfort is expecting me.”
“Yeth, thir,” the man said, holding wide the door. “I am Valenter. Do come in.”
It was an impressive entrance: marble-floored with a handsome staircase curving away. On a slender pedestal was a crystal vase of cherry-colored mums. He had been right: she did like long-stemmed flowers.
“Pleath wait in the thudy. Mith Montfort will be down thoon.”
His coat and hat were taken and put away somewhere. The tall, skinny man came back to usher
“Ever since World War Two. It upset their plans.”
She spoke in riddles, and he didn’t want to pry. “Marrakech isn’t near Samarra, is it?”
“Oh no. Marrakech is in Morocco.”
“Geography isn’t my strong point. I get lost every time I go south of 23rd Street.”
He thought she might laugh, but she didn’t.
“Tomorrow night,” he said desperately, “tomorrow night the Mortons are having a cocktail party. We’re invited. I’d like to take you to dinner before the party. It starts about ten.”
“Yes,” she said immediately. “Be here at eight. We’ll have a drink, then go to dinner. Then we’ll go to the Mortons’ party.”
He started to say “Thank you” or “Fine” or “I’m looking forward to it” or “See you then,” but she had already hung up. He stared at the dead receiver in his hand.
The next day, Friday, he left work early to go home to prepare for the evening. He debated with himself whether or not to send flowers. He decided against it. He had a feeling she loved flowers but never wore them. His best course, he felt, was to circle about her softly, slowly, until he could determine her tastes and prejudices.
He groomed himself carefully, shaving although he had shaved that morning. He used a women’s cologne, Je Reviens , a scent that stirred him. He wore French underwear—white nylon bikini briefs—and a silk shirt in a geometric pattern of white and blue squares. His wide necktie was a subtly patterned maroon. The suit was navy knit, single breasted. In addition to wrist watch, cufflinks, and a heavy gold ring on his right forefinger, he wore a gold-link identification bracelet loose about his right wrist. And the “Via Veneto” wig.
He left early to walk over to her apartment. It wasn’t far, and it was a pleasant evening.
His loose topcoat was a black lightweight British gabardine, styled with raglan sleeves, a fly front, and slash pockets. The pockets, in the British fashion, had an additional opening through the coat fabric so that the wearer did not have to unbutton his coat to reach his trouser or jacket pockets but could shove his hand inside the concealed coat openings for tickets, wallet, keys, change, or whatever.
Now, strolling toward Celia Montfort’s apartment through the sulfur-laden night, Daniel Blank reached inside his coat pocket to feel himself. To the passer-by, he was an elegant gentleman, hand thrust casually into coat pocket. But beneath the coat…
Once, shortly after he was separated from Gilda, he had worn the same coat and walked through Times Square on a’ Saturday night. He had slipped his hand into the pocket opening, unzipped his fly, and held himself exposed beneath the loose coat as he moved through the throng, looking into the faces of passersby.
Celia Montfort lived in a five-story greystone townhouse. The door bell was of a type he had read about but never encountered before. It was a bell-pull, a brass knob that is drawn out, then released. The bell is sounded as the knob is pulled and as it is released to return to its socket. Daniel Blank admired its polish and the teak door it ornamented…
…A teak door that was opened by a surprisingly tall man, pale, thin, wearing striped trousers and a shiny black alpaca jacket. A pink sweetheart rose was in his lapel. Daniel was conscious of a scent: not his own, but something heavier and fruitier.
“My name is Daniel Blank,” he said. “I believe Miss Montfort is expecting me.”
“Yeth, thir,” the man said, holding wide the door. “I am Valenter. Do come in.”
It was an impressive entrance: marble-floored with a handsome staircase curving away. On a slender pedestal was a crystal vase of cherry-colored mums. He had been right: she did like long-stemmed flowers.
“Pleath wait in the thudy. Mith Montfort will be down thoon.”
His coat and hat were taken and put away somewhere. The tall, skinny man came back to usher
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