actually got a little better. I rarely heard those voices whispering in the utility closet
(except late at night), although I was more and more apt to take my research chores
out of the house. By the middle of November, I was spending most of my days in the
New York Public Library. I’m sure the lions got used to seeing me there with my
PowerBook.
Then, just before Thanksgiving, I happened to be going out of my building one day
and met Paula Robeson, the maiden fair whom I’d rescued by pushing the reset button
on her air conditioner, coming in.
With absolutely no forethought whatsoever—if I’d had time to think about it, I’m
convinced I never would have said a word—I asked her if I could buy her lunch and
talk to her about something.
“The fact is,” I said, “I have a problem. Maybe you could push my reset button.”
We were in the lobby. Pedro the doorman was sitting in the corner, reading the Post
(and listening to every word, I have no doubt—to Pedro, his tenants were the world’s
most interesting daytime drama). She gave me a smile both pleasant and nervous. “I
guess I owe you one,” she said, “but…you know I’m married, don’t you?”
“Yes,” I said, not adding that she’d shaken with me wrong-handed so I could hardly
fail to notice the ring.
She nodded. “Sure, you must’ve seen us together at least a couple of times, but he was
in Europe when I had all that trouble with the air conditioner, and he’s in Europe now.
Edward, that’s his name. Over the last two years he’s been in Europe more than he’s
here, and although I don’t like it, I’m very married in spite of it.” Then, as a kind of
afterthought, she added: “Edward is in import-export.”
I used to be in insurance, but then one day the company exploded, I thought of saying.
In the end, I managed something a little more sane.
“I don’t want a date, Ms. Robeson,” no more than I wanted to be on a first-name basis
with her, and was that a wink of disappointment I saw in her eyes? By God, I thought
it was. But at least it convinced her. I was still safe.
She put her hands on her hips and looked at me with mock exasperation. Or maybe
not so mock. “Then what do you want?”
“Just someone to talk to. I tried several shrinks, but they’re…busy.”
“All of them?”
“It would appear so.”
“If you’re having problems with your sex life or feeling the urge to race around town
killing men in turbans, I don’t want to know about it.”
“It’s nothing like that. I’m not going to make you blush, I promise.” Which wasn’t
quite the same as saying I promise not to shock you or You won’t think I’m crazy.
“Just lunch and a little advice, that’s all I’m asking. What do you say?”
I was surprised—almost flabbergasted—by my own persuasiveness. If I’d planned the
conversation in advance, I almost certainly would have blown the whole deal. I
suppose she was curious, and I’m sure she heard a degree of sincerity in my voice.
She may also have surmised that if I was the sort of man who liked to try his hand
picking up women, I would have had a go on that day in August when I’d actually
been alone with her in her apartment, the elusive Edward in France or Germany. And
I have to wonder how much actual desperation she saw in my face.
In any case, she agreed to have lunch with me on Friday at Donald’s Grill down the
street. Donald’s may be the least romantic restaurant in all of Manhattan—good food,
fluorescent lights, waiters who make it clear they’d like you to hurry. She did so with the air of a woman paying an overdue debt about which she’s nearly forgotten. This
was not exactly flattering, but it was good enough for me. Noon would be fine for her,
she said. If I’d meet her in the lobby, we could walk down there together. I told her
that would be fine for me, too.