Rules of Civility - Amor Towles [129]
He always looked his best, I thought to myself, when circumstances called for him to be a boy and a man at the same time.
That night, Tinker borrowed a blanket from a neighbor and laid out two beds on the floor a few feet apart—maintaining the same respectful distance that he had established on the roof when I’d first arrived. I rose early enough so I could get home and shower before work. When I got back in the evening, he leapt up from the HALLELUJAH ONIONS as if he’d been waiting there all day. Then we went across Tenth Avenue to the little diner on the piers with the blue neon sign that read OPEN ALL NIGHT.
It’s a funny thing about that meal. All these years later, I remember the oysters I ate at the 21 Club. I remember the black bean soup with sherry at the Beresford when Eve and Tinker had returned from Palm Beach. I remember the salad I had with Wallace at the Park with blue cheese and bacon. And, all too well, I remember the truffle-stuffed chicken at La Belle Époque. But I don’t remember what we ate that night at Hank’s diner.
What I remember is that we had a lot of laughs.
Then at some point, for some stupid reason, I asked him what he was going to do. And he grew serious.
—Mostly, he said, I’ve been thinking about what I’m not going to do. When I think of the last few years, I’ve been hounded by regrets for what’s already happened and fears for what might. By nostalgia for what I’ve lost and desire for what I don’t have. All this wanting and not wanting. It’s worn me out. For once, I’m going to try the present on for size.
—You’re going to let your affairs be as two or three, and not a hundred or a thousand?
—That’s it, he said. Any interest?
—What’ll it cost me?
—According to Thoreau, nearly everything.
—It’d be nice to have everything at least once before giving it up.
He smiled.
—I’ll give you a call when you’ve got it.
When we got back to Hank’s apartment, Tinker lit a fire and we swapped stories into the night—the details of one circumstance triggering the memory of another and then another in effortless succession. Like two teenagers who’ve struck up a friendship on a cross-Atlantic steamer, we raced to trade reminiscences and insights and dreams before reaching port.
And when he laid out our bedrolls at the same respectful distance, this time I pushed mine over until there wasn’t a breath of space between us.
The next evening, when I returned to Gansevoort Street, he was already gone.
He hadn’t taken the fine leather case. It was sitting there empty beside the stack of books, its lid leaning against the wall. In the end, he had stuffed his clothes into his brother’s gunnysack. I was surprised at first that he’d left the books behind; but on closer inspection, I saw that he’d taken the little, worn edition of Walden.
The stove was cold. On top of it there was a note in Tinker’s hand, written on a torn endpaper.
Dearest Kate,
You have no idea what it has meant to me to see you these last two nights.
To have left without speaking, without telling you the truth, would have been the only regret I carried away.
I’m so glad that your life is going well. Having made a hash of mine, I know what a fine thing it is to have found your spot.
It was a rotten year of my own making. But even at its worst, you always gave me a glimpse of what might otherwise be.
I’m not sure where I’m going, he concluded. But wherever I end up, I’ll start every day by saying your name. As if by doing so, he might remain more true to himself.
Then he signed it: Tinker Grey 1910 – ?
I didn’t linger. I went down the stairs and into the street. I got as far as Eighth Avenue before turning back. I trudged all the way across Gansevoort, back over the cobblestones, up the narrow stair. And when I got into the room, I grabbed the painting of the dockworkers along with the volume of Washingtonia. One day he would regret having left them behind. I looked forward to being in a position to return them.
Some of you will think this a romantic thing to have done. But