“Exactly,” Sarah said, not missing the point either. “And look what happened. It triggered a relapse that you took months to get over.”
Corrigan turned toward Zehl for support, but this time Zehl was on Sarah’s side. “Sorry, Joe, I have to veto it,” he said. He brought a hand up to touch his temple with a finger in a flicking motion, vaguely suggestive of a salute—it was a peculiarity of his that Corrigan had noticed before. “It’s a nice thought, but you’re not ready. Staying within a familiar environment is an important part of your cure. Sure, take a break if you need to, but keep it in the city, eh?” Zehl shrugged and made a palm-up gesture. “Maybe a few walks by the river. Go see a game, the zoo, maybe try a concert. How many of the museums have you visited? Get the idea? Easy, relaxing, familiar. You’d be surprised at the supportive effects of being in places you know.”
“I know Ireland pretty well, too,” Corrigan pointed out, although by now it was mainly through obstinacy. He had not been officially discharged from medical care, and Zehl had the authority certainly to overrule any long-distance travel plans, and probably to have Corrigan put back under institutional care if he judged it to be in the patient’s welfare to do so—Corrigan didn’t want to put that to the test.
Zehl raised a hand firmly. “No, and that’s final. Next year, maybe, but not now. I’ll pull rank if I have to.”
Corrigan stretched out an arm and tapped idly at the keyboard beside him while he considered how to respond. “So, do you know what you want, Joe?” Sarah asked him again.
Corrigan scratched the side of his nose. “Not a lot,” he replied finally. “The first thing is to do a lot of thinking. And I can do that anywhere. So for the time being it will be a case of simply carrying on as usual. If that changes, I’ll let you know.”
Chapter Four
Pittsburgh had seen a surprising amount of demolition and rebuilding in recent years.
The Camelot Hotel was located downtown on Fourth Avenue—a redevelopment of a site where an office building had stood previously. It was an experimental throwback from the glass-and-concrete architectural catastrophes that had been provoking mirth and outrage among everyone but the experts for decades. Standing out amid the gray slab canyons and arrays of faceless mirror rectangles, the Camelot presented a warm, defiant countenance of red bricks, arched windows, and a pseudo-Tudor foyer with wood-beamed ceilings—imitation wood, it was true, but visually pleasing nonetheless. A crenellated terrace reduced the severity of the vertical line, and, in keeping with the name, twin chateau-style turrets rounded off the design. Visitors and locals liked it, and a residential developer was putting up English Victorian-style row houses along several streets on the North Side. And Corrigan liked working there because it offered a respite from the various dementias of the age that he was supposed to want to normalize himself by imitating.
Plenty of people were out, healthily expressing themselves, when he arrived from the subway stop on Stanwix Street. Half a block before the hotel entrance, a couple were having a domestic tiff, screaming insults at each other in front of onlookers who yelled taunts or encouragement, depending on whose side they took. A street band was playing for nickels in front of a battery of equipment that must have cost several thousand dollars; a group of men wearing togas and holding staffs were sitting cross-legged on the sidewalk for reasons that were not obvious; some women were parading dogs glamorized with coiffures of various cuts and colors to reflect their mistresses’ personas; and there were more pirates about.
Movement and bearing were important parts of the language by which people told the world who they were and what they owned. So business suits and hats strutted, blazers and sport coats strode, macho gear swaggered, uniforms of any kind marched, shapely skirts wiggled, and demure dresses minced. The modern world in miniature, the street was a stage of acted-out messages: the measured tread of confidence; paradings of success; hunched, defeated shoulders; a hanging head of shame. Nobody took any notice of Corrigan as he made his way uncommunicatively along the sidewalk to the Camelot’s main doors. He was far from convinced that they took very much notice of each other.