Mao II - Don Delillo [9]
Outside, a woman in a padded jacket followed him down the street. He had the impression she was small, with close-cropped hair, carrying some kind of animal in her coat. He picked up the pace but she kept on him, saying, “You’re from out of town so I can talk to you.”
He almost turned and looked at her but then thought no.
Saying, “Don’t be ascared of me, mister, I only want to talk.”
He walked faster, looking straight ahead, and she was still there, at his shoulder, saying, “I picked your face out of the air as this is someone I can trust.”
He pointed to a blinking traffic-sign, hoping she’d understand he was pressed for time and this was goodbye and no hard feelings please, but she hurried across the street right behind him and moved alongside as they reached the curbstone. That’s when she tried to give him the animal. He didn’t turn to see what it was. Something dark and sick was his impression. He was almost running now but she kept up, saying, “Take it, mister, take it.” He would listen to her but would not reply and would not let her touch him or give him anything she had touched. He thought of the wrecked man in the bookstore who recoiled when the guard reached for him. Neither side wanted to be touched.
Saying, “Take it outside the city, where it’s got a chance to live. ”
When there is enough out-of-placeness in the world, nothing is out of place. He rode to the eighth-floor lobby of a midtown hotel, an atrium palace in the Broadway ruck, with English ivy hanging off the tiered walkways, with trelliswork and groves of trees, elevators falling softly through the bared interior, a dream that once belonged to freeway cities. He saw her at a table near the bar, an overnight bag and a carrying case on the floor by her chair. She was in her late forties, he figured, with whitish blond hair, thick and rigid, shooting out of a sea-bleached face. Her eyes were light blue, so clear and nearly startling he knew it would take an effort not to stare.
“You have to be Brita Nilsson.”
“Why?”
“It’s the look. I don’t know, professional, accomplished, world traveler, slightly apart. Not to mention the camera case. I’m Scott Martineau.”
“My guide to the frontier.”
“In fact I got lost several times on my approach to the city and then got rattled by traffic even though it’s only weekend traffic and I finally got straightened out and even found a place to park but there were unsettling moments yet to come, psychic intruders, sort of living shadows, and they speak. I haven’t been to New York in years and wouldn’t mind sitting and chatting a while before we hit the streets. Are you staying here?”
“Don’t be crazy. I have a place way downtown but I thought it would be simpler to meet somewhere central. It’s very nice to have this opportunity. But you talked about conditions without really specifying. I mean how much time do I get to spend with him? And how long can I expect to be gone because I have a schedule that’s really quite firm and I haven’t, you know, brought days and days of underwear.”
“Wait. Are we moving?”
“It’s a revolving bar,” she said.
“Jesus. Where am I?”
“Isn’t it strange? New York