inside, like a frozen cyclone.
There was lots of noise everywhere. Music, people talking, the general white noise from many television sets going full blast. It made me appreciate my own building, where the neighbors were unfriendly but quiet.
On reaching the third floor, we walked down a long hall to the end. Unlike the others, which looked like the police had periodically beaten them in, Frances Hatch’s oak door was immaculately preserved. There was a small brass plaque with her name engraved on it. It had recently been polished. Clayton rang the bell. We waited quite a while.
The door opened and I think both of us took a step back in surprise. A short bald man with a moon-round face and no chin, dressed in a dark suit, black tie, and white shirt stood there. His face said seventy or eighty, but he stood so straight that he could have been younger.
“Yes?”
“I’m Clayton Blanchard. Ms. Hatch is expecting me?”
“Come along.”
The man turned and walked stiffly back into the apartment, as if rehearsing for the march of the tin soldiers. I looked at Clayton. “I thought you said she only spoke to women?”
Before he had a chance to reply, the soldier called out, “Are you coming?” We scurried in.
I didn’t have a chance to look at anything, but my nose noticed how good it smelled in there. “What’s that smell?”
“Apples?”
“In here, please.”
The man’s voice was so commanding that I felt I was back in high school, being summoned to the principal’s office.
I saw the light before entering the living room. It was blinding and came through the door in a white flood. We walked in and I was in love before I knew it. Frances Hatch’s living room was full of Persian rugs, rare Bauhaus furniture, and the largest cat I had ever seen. The rugs were all varying shades of red—russet, cerise, ruby. Which mixed brilliantly with the stark chrome furniture. It softened the starkness but also made individual pieces stand out in their pure simplicity, almost as if they hovered over the varied redness below. High windows went all the way down the room, taking in as much light as the day had. On the walls were a large number of photographs and paintings. I didn’t have a chance to look at them before another imperious voice called out, “Over here, I’m here.”
As if it knew what she had said, the cat stood up, stretched languorously, and walked over to where Frances Hatch was sitting. It stood looking up at her, tail swishing.
“How are you, Clayton? Come over here so I can see you.”
He walked to her chair and took the large bony hand she held out.
“Cold. Your hands are always cold, Clayton.”
“It runs in my family.”
“Well, cold hands, warm heart. Who have you brought with you?
He gestured for me to come over. “Frances, this is my friend Miranda Romanac.”
“Hello Miranda. You’ll have to come close because I can barely see. Are you pretty?”
“Hello. I’m passable.”
“I was always ugly, so there was never any question about that. Ugly people have to work harder to get the world’s attention. You have to prove you’re worth listening to. Did you meet Irvin?”
I looked at the man with the big voice.
“Irvin Edelstein, these are my friends Clayton and Miranda. Sit down. I can see you better now. Yes. You do have red hair! I thought so. Very nice. I love red. Have you noticed my rugs?”
“I did. I love the way you’ve done this room.”
“Thank you. It’s my magic carpet. When I’m in here I feel just a little bit above the earth. So you’re a friend of Clayton. That’s a good sign. What else do you do?”
“I’m a bookseller too.”
“Perfect! Because that’s what I want to talk about today. Irvin is here to advise me on what I should do. I have very valuable things, Miranda. Do you know why I’ve decided to sell them? Because all my life I’ve wanted to be rich. In one month I’ll be a hundred. I think it would be very nice to be rich at a
There was lots of noise everywhere. Music, people talking, the general white noise from many television sets going full blast. It made me appreciate my own building, where the neighbors were unfriendly but quiet.
On reaching the third floor, we walked down a long hall to the end. Unlike the others, which looked like the police had periodically beaten them in, Frances Hatch’s oak door was immaculately preserved. There was a small brass plaque with her name engraved on it. It had recently been polished. Clayton rang the bell. We waited quite a while.
The door opened and I think both of us took a step back in surprise. A short bald man with a moon-round face and no chin, dressed in a dark suit, black tie, and white shirt stood there. His face said seventy or eighty, but he stood so straight that he could have been younger.
“Yes?”
“I’m Clayton Blanchard. Ms. Hatch is expecting me?”
“Come along.”
The man turned and walked stiffly back into the apartment, as if rehearsing for the march of the tin soldiers. I looked at Clayton. “I thought you said she only spoke to women?”
Before he had a chance to reply, the soldier called out, “Are you coming?” We scurried in.
I didn’t have a chance to look at anything, but my nose noticed how good it smelled in there. “What’s that smell?”
“Apples?”
“In here, please.”
The man’s voice was so commanding that I felt I was back in high school, being summoned to the principal’s office.
I saw the light before entering the living room. It was blinding and came through the door in a white flood. We walked in and I was in love before I knew it. Frances Hatch’s living room was full of Persian rugs, rare Bauhaus furniture, and the largest cat I had ever seen. The rugs were all varying shades of red—russet, cerise, ruby. Which mixed brilliantly with the stark chrome furniture. It softened the starkness but also made individual pieces stand out in their pure simplicity, almost as if they hovered over the varied redness below. High windows went all the way down the room, taking in as much light as the day had. On the walls were a large number of photographs and paintings. I didn’t have a chance to look at them before another imperious voice called out, “Over here, I’m here.”
As if it knew what she had said, the cat stood up, stretched languorously, and walked over to where Frances Hatch was sitting. It stood looking up at her, tail swishing.
“How are you, Clayton? Come over here so I can see you.”
He walked to her chair and took the large bony hand she held out.
“Cold. Your hands are always cold, Clayton.”
“It runs in my family.”
“Well, cold hands, warm heart. Who have you brought with you?
He gestured for me to come over. “Frances, this is my friend Miranda Romanac.”
“Hello Miranda. You’ll have to come close because I can barely see. Are you pretty?”
“Hello. I’m passable.”
“I was always ugly, so there was never any question about that. Ugly people have to work harder to get the world’s attention. You have to prove you’re worth listening to. Did you meet Irvin?”
I looked at the man with the big voice.
“Irvin Edelstein, these are my friends Clayton and Miranda. Sit down. I can see you better now. Yes. You do have red hair! I thought so. Very nice. I love red. Have you noticed my rugs?”
“I did. I love the way you’ve done this room.”
“Thank you. It’s my magic carpet. When I’m in here I feel just a little bit above the earth. So you’re a friend of Clayton. That’s a good sign. What else do you do?”
“I’m a bookseller too.”
“Perfect! Because that’s what I want to talk about today. Irvin is here to advise me on what I should do. I have very valuable things, Miranda. Do you know why I’ve decided to sell them? Because all my life I’ve wanted to be rich. In one month I’ll be a hundred. I think it would be very nice to be rich at a
Similar Books
