Strange Are the Ways of Love

13

It was terrible, she decided. She had something to say, something which was fairly important no matter how many times it may have been said in the past. But she didn’t know how to get it across. By the time the message was on paper it had turned into a pretty bad poem.

But there was a poem in it. There was a poem and a painting and a symphony, but she couldn’t turn the idea into words or music or anything. She could think and feel but something was continually lost in translation. She couldn’t communicate the thought or the feeling, and without communication there was no point in writing or painting or composing, no point in anything more involved than the thinking and feeling itself.

Alone in her own apartment with her poem, she couldn’t even translate it herself.

To hell with it. She folded the slip of paper and placed it between the pages of a book, banishing the poem from her mind. It could wait. Later she could return to it and either straighten it out or tear it up. But there were other things to think of now.

Like Laura, for instance.

It was Thursday night and she hadn’t seen Laura for hours, not since early in the morning. She had slipped out of bed while Laura was still asleep, planting a kiss on her shoulder and leaving a note saying that she would be back by nine in the evening.

Now it was a quarter to nine. In a few minutes she would walk to Laura’s apartment and there would be so many things for them to talk about, so many things to tell Laura.

After breakfast she had walked all over the city, through Little Italy and Chinatown and across to the Lower East Side. She had wandered aimlessly without looking for anything in particular, not going anywhere special, her eyes taking in everything she saw. She walked and bought things and stared at store windows and glanced down dark alleyways and talked occasionally to people that she met. She ate a bite here and a bite there, trying to taste everything, trying to gulp down New York and get it digested and absorbed into her bloodstream in as little time as possible.

And then back to her apartment to put herself into a poem. It was her poem, and she wondered how Laura would react to it.

Should she get going? No, she decided, not yet. A few more minutes, a few minutes by herself before it was time to go. It wouldn’t even hurt to be a minute late, and it was pleasant to sit by the window and look at Barrow Street.

When she saw Mike approaching the door she wasn’t overly surprised. By this time Laura had convinced her that he would come again and that he would continue to come to her until she managed to kill whatever hope remained in him. So she was not surprised, and she was ready at the answering buzzer before her buzzer sounded and at the door before he knocked, not dreading this visit as she had dreaded the others in the past.

She opened the door, noticing as she did that he looked much different than he had the last time she saw him. His clothes were still the same and the guitar was slung over his shoulder as usual, but there was a look in his eyes that was strange.

Before she could say hello he said, “Know what tonight is?”

“Thursday,” she said, puzzled. He hadn’t shaved, and the stubble of beard on his face made him look older and thinner than he was.

“Yeah. I have an audition tonight.”

“What time?”

He reached out for her wrist and studied her watch. He seemed to be in a daze, as if he was ready to pass out any minute.

“It’s in fifteen minutes,” he announced. “At nine-fifteen they’ll be expecting me.”

She felt lost. “Aren’t you going?”

“No.”

“Why not?”

He shrugged. “Why bother?”

“I don’t understand,” she said, searching his face. “You were so excited about it.”

“I was excited about lots of things.”

“Mike—”

He straightened up. “Look,” he said, “I’m not going because I simply don’t give a damn about it, as a matter of fact. The reason I came here is I’m a son-of-a-bitch. I wanted to crawl in looking like a wreck to tell you I was missing the audition on account of you. I guess I wanted to even things up or something. Doesn’t make much sense. I’ll go now.”

As he turned she said, “Mike? Are you going to the audition?”

“No.”

“But you have to! What’s the matter?”

“Hell, I couldn’t get there in time now if I wanted to.”

“Where is it?”

“Sixth Avenue in the Forties.”

“If you took a cab—”

“Forget it,” he said. “I don’t feel like singing anyway. My voice is in lousy shape.”

She glanced quickly at her watch. It was past nine already; Laura would be waiting for her and she had to hurry.

But—

“Mike?”

“Yeah?”

“Would you go if I went along with you?”

A pause. Then, “Why?”

“I’ve never been to an audition.”

“What’s your angle on this, Jan?”

“What do you mean?”

“I mean the other day you couldn’t wait to get rid of me. I don’t get it.”

“I just want you to go to the audition,” she said honestly. “If you’ll go I’ll go with you. That’s all.”

“You would?”

She walked up to him quickly and took him by the arm. “Come on,” she said. “There’s not much time left.”

They were out of the building and hurrying down Barrow Street before she remembered that she hadn’t locked the door. She had her purse, though, and there wasn’t anything very valuable in the apartment. To hell with it, she thought.

She didn’t say a word until they were sitting together in the back seat of the cab and the cab was moving north on Sixth Avenue.

“We’re in a hurry,” she told the driver.

“Everybody is,” he said. “Everybody’s always in a rush. You think a fare ever tells me to take it nice and slow?”

“I mean it,” she said. “We have an appointment and—”

“Lady,” he said. “Lady, sit back and relax.”

She started to tell him again but decided against it and sat back trying to catch her breath. Why was she doing this? She didn’t really care about Mike and when it was over she would only have to get rid of him all over again. It didn’t make sense.

She pushed the questions out of her mind, forcing herself to think about something else. Turning to Mike she said, “Do you have everything you’ll need?”

“I’ve got the guitar.”

“Is that all? Do you use picks or anything?”

“Just the guitar.”

“Don’t you have to tune it or something? You better check.”

He nodded and began tuning the guitar, plucking each string in turn and twisting the little knobs to tighten or loosen the strings until he was satisfied that the pitch was right.

“It’s okay,” he said.

She studied him carefully. “You’re a mess, you know.”

He grinned. “I’ve been wearing these clothes for awhile now.”

“And you look tired.”

“I am tired.”

“You need a shave, too. Will that make any difference?”

He shook his head. “If they say anything I can always tell them I’m growing a beard, but they won’t care. All they care about is whether I sing well or not.”

“Will you?”

He looked at her a moment before replying. “I suppose so,” he said.

“You said something about your voice—”

“Just an excuse. It’s as good now as it ever was.”

“That’s good,” she said.

The cab seemed to be crawling. The traffic was thick on Sixth Avenue and they stopped for a light every few blocks. She glanced at her watch; it was almost time.

“Jan?”

“What?”

“What’s the bit?”

She hesitated.

“You don’t—”

“Love you? No, I told you I didn’t.”

“Then why are you doing this?”

“I honestly don’t know,” she said levelly. “I’m not entirely sure myself. It’s just important to me that you go to the audition and do whatever you’re supposed to do.”

“Okay,” he said. “We’ll see what happens.”

Her eyes darted again to her watch and she wanted to shout at the driver, wanted to scream at him to hurry. He simply had to get them there on time.

She forced herself to relax. A few minutes didn’t matter that much. They would wait for him. They would do that much.

“Jan?”

“Yes?”

“Take it easy. We’ll get there.”

She nodded.

“Another minute won’t make any difference. We’ll be there soon enough.”

“Good.”

“And Jan?”

“What?”

“You’ll come in and listen, won’t you?”

“If they’ll let me.”

“They will.”

“Okay,” she said. “I’d like to come.”

“I’d like to have you there.”

Finally the cab pulled to a stop in front of the address Mike had given the driver. She took a bill from her purse and handed it to the driver and followed Mike into a dark brick building.

“Relax,” he told her. “We’ve got it made.”

In the audition room, or whatever it was called, short men with dark hair smiled quickly at her and then calmly ignored her. She walked to the back of the room and took a seat in a hard-backed folding chair, watching Mike mount the steps to a raised platform at the front of the room.

He took his guitar from his shoulder and picked the strings, going through the motions of tuning it. Then he smiled once at her and glanced momentarily at the little men who had come to listen to him.

Then he began to sing Danville Girl.