William Boyd - Stars and bars

He had thought about telephoning the police, asking them for help, but had eventually dismissed the idea. There was a good chance — given his state of dress — that they might not believe him, and he was doubtful if he could cope with the exposure of a precinct police station and all the attendant embarrassments of proving his identity. Better to forge ahead on his own, lonely and free, he calculated, and in any event he was making reasonable progress.

He moved off again, skirting Stuyvesant Square, cutting down Nineteenth Street to Park Avenue South. Gradually, confidently, he became less furtive. He realized now that he was effectively invisible in this city. With its madmen, its joggers and its twenty-four hour existence — finally, at last — he fitted in perfectly: perfectly consonant with its unique logic. Why, he was simply another mad jogger, happily patrolling the streets in the taxi-torn, rain-tormented small hours. There were, he was convinced, far stranger things going on around him. And, if he moved fast, his Maxi-Pad box, now dark brown from the rain, must look like some bizarre new athletic rig-out, setting new trends in absorbent disposable running wear…

He reached Park Avenue, ran to the central island and crouched down, getting his breath back. A patrol car motored past and he drew himself behind a small bush. He let it go. Above him the stacked lights in the tall buildings quickly grew fuzzy before being enveloped by dark clouds. A few cars hissed by on either side of him but the pavements were deserted. He set off up the central reservation. He wondered what anyone — casually watching the rain fall from their apartment window — would think if they saw him, a pale ghostly figure slipping from shrub to shrub, darting across street, incongruous in his heavy black walking shoes…This was surely, he thought as he ran, the apotheosis of his shame and embarrassment. No basically shy person could experience any ordeal so hellishly demanding and harrowing, so testing as this. After his naked run through Manhattan he could hardly complain about other travails: nothing could be as uncompromisingly harsh as what he was currently undergoing.

And yes, he felt surprisingly good. Untroubled, oddly calm. He ran on — not strongly, but steadily — stumbling occasionally, his feet catching in the ivy that grew along the flower beds of the Park Avenue Central reservation, the heavy raindrops striking his face and chest.

He made good progress up Park Avenue until his way was blocked by Grand Central Station and the Pan-Am building. At Forty-second Street he paused by a traffic light, halted by a sudden and typical flow of cars. A wet man stood waiting for the ‘walk’ sign. Henderson jogged on the spot beside him, intoxicated with his new freedom.

The man looked round, swaying slightly.

“Y’all right, man?”

“Me?” Henderson panted. “Couldn’t be better.”

“Keepin’ fit, yeah?”

“That’s it.”

“Some sorta — what — athlete, yeah? Athletics, yeah?”

“Yeah.”

“Mary Mount Maxi-Pads,” he read slowly.

“My sponsors.”

“Hey, congratulations.”

The light changed, Henderson jogged on. He had been accepted, the moment had come and gone, but he had joined America at last. He cut up Vanderbilt Avenue on to Forty-fifth and then up Madison. He ran slowly, easily, not exhausting himself, pausing for breath when he got a stitch, enjoying the unfettered luxury of his temporary status as madman, American and jogger. He cut across at Fifty-ninth and loped casually by the Plaza, Central Park’s dark green mass on his right. Irene was now only a few blocks away. He looked at his watch: half past four.

Outside Irene’s block he paused. He stood in a doorway and checked himself over. The Maxi-Pad box was showing signs of wear and tear; bits were disintegrating from the wet and his flanks showed through gaps where the friction of his running had caused the damp cardboard to wear through. His shoulders were red and a little sore from the rubbing of the plastic braces. Making his fingers stiff claws he tried, incongruously, to put a parting in his hair.

He crept up to the apartment door. The lobby was lit, but no-one sat at the lectern. He pressed the buzzer on the aluminium pole and waited. Nothing happened. He was beginning to feel nervous and ordinary again, now that his heroic epic run was over. It was beginning to disappear, wear off. He was being normal once more, ringing doorbells, visiting, asking favours. He pressed the buzzer.

A door opened in the rear wall of the lobby and a small man came out, shrugging on a jacket. Henderson, suddenly wary — like an Amazonian native suspicious of his first encounter with strangers — shrunk back against the wall out of sight.

“Yeah?” came a metallic voice from the pedestal.

“I want to see Ms Stien,” Henderson whispered loudly in its direction.

“What?”

“Come to the door.”

The man advanced cautiously. With dismay Henderson saw that it was Bra.

“Who is it?” Bra asked, peering into the shadows.

“Bra,” Henderson whispered from his hiding place, “it’s me, Mr Dores.”

“Who are you? Where are you?”

“Here. To the side. Your right.” Henderson waved.

“Come out of there, ya fuckin’ freak!”

Henderson stood up and stepped into view. Bra backed off in patent shock.

“Hello, Bra, It’s me, Mr Dores. I need to see Ms Stien. I’m in terrible trouble.”

“What?…Get outa here! What are you?”

“Look, Bra. It’s…it’s a matter of life and death.”

“Get your ass outa here, ya fuckin’ geek! I warn you, I gotta gun in here!”

“Bra, it’s me . Mr Dores. You know me. I was here the other day.”

“I count to ten. I call the cops.”

He saw Bra lift the phone. With bitter, disgusted tears in his eyes he ran off into the dark. That little bastard knew it was me, he swore. He had done that deliberately. He ran full tilt down the road towards Central Park. A significant portion of his box came away revealing a section of pallid haunch. The rain still fell with healthy force; it showed no sign of relenting. At this rate he’d be naked again in half an hour — swaddled only in a plastic belting. But now he didn’t feel so wonderful — so transformed at the prospect. He had no money, he couldn’t even phone anyone…What he needed were clothes. It had never struck him as the key prerequisite for survival in the West. If you’re half naked you are a non-person, a subversive, a deviant. You can do nothing unless you are properly dressed. Shoes, trousers, a shirt-the sine qua non of social action.

He needed clothes…Perhaps he could mug somebody? Dare he return to his apartment? But what if Freeborn and Sereno were there? What if they had discovered his escape by now? And then, suddenly, he remembered where he kept a second suit of clothes. The Queensboro Gym. His fencing gear. He looked at his watch. Five o’clock. Only a matter of hours until it opened. He looked up at the sky. Keep raining, he implored. He set off. Straight down Fifty-ninth Street, all the way.

♦

Henderson found a place to hide in a basement well opposite the gym. To his alarm it was beginning to get light with inconsiderate speed. Soon the first keen commuters would be arriving. Like witches and hobgoblins people like him should be off the streets by the time the first cock crowed, he thought. He felt, lurking close behind him, rank breath stirring the hairs on his nape, a vast implacable exhaustion waiting to pounce. He confirmed the time: half five. The gym opened at seven. He was suddenly gripped by a fierce hunger and realized he hadn’t eaten for twenty-four hours.

He looked at the grey empty streets, still hosed by curtains of rain. A puddle the size of a football pitch swamped the intersection of York and Fifty-eighth. A car had been abandoned in the middle, the water lapping at the radiator. Around its perimeter stepped a neat, waterproofed, track-suited figure, carrying small dumbbells in each hand. See, Henderson told himself, there are madder people than me out on the streets…