Rafael Yglesias - Hide Fox, and All After

“Sure, if you do.”

“No, I mean, I won’t go if you don’t want to.”

Raul smiled, pleased. “I don’t know. When would we go?”

“Soon.”

“If it’s early enough. We’ll see, all right?”

“What were you talking about?” Richard asked, coming up to them.

“About going downtown or not,” Raul said.

“I hope you come.”

“We probably will.”

“Good.” Richard scowled, annoyed at Raul taking charge.

The lobby was a sheet of glass facing the street. Inside there were a doorman, four elevators, couches, chairs, and large, circular metal containers, filled with sand, that functioned as ashtrays.

Raul, with an uncomfortable butt, went over to one of them, and watched whatever grace of image he had left disappear as he stooped to put it out.

A small staircase led to a platform where the elevators were; going off to the right, there was a cove for mailboxes. Alec had gone up to the platform, Richard to the mailboxes. Raul and Richard approached the platform at the same time, Richard swaggering, jiggling his keys, Raul deviously hunched, leaping the four long, low steps in a stride.

Alec said to him, “You have silly legs. Richard, what did you get in the mail?”

“Nothing. Mother probably picked it up already.”

Raul, holding the elevator door while a middle-aged woman with a Saks Fifth Avenue shopping bag rushed in, asked, “Were you expecting anything?”

“Some catalogues.”

“From college?”

Richard nodded. There was a bad crush in the elevator from the three boys, a short, fat military student, an old Jewish woman, and the woman with the Saks Fifth Avenue bag. She left on the fourth floor, the military boy on the sixth. Raul, relieved, stretched his legs.

The old Jewish woman, as if coming out of a reverie, said to Richard, “Richard darling, how are you?” She stroked his hair.

Richard, blushing, mumbled, “Okay.”

She smiled and leaned back to take in the three of them. “Why are you boys not in school?”

Richard guiltily explained that seniors didn’t have many classes.

She nodded wisely. Raul and Alec smiled at her, Richard blushing more and more. All of them got off at the fourteenth floor; she moved to go off to the left, the others to the right. Before turning, she said to Richard in a sweet, sorrowful voice, “You shouldn’t smoke. It’s not good for you.”

The hallway was carpeted, the walls covered by wallpaper — an extravagance justified only by the need to hide the prefabricated look those building complexes have. On both sides of the hallway were heavy black doors that led into the apartments, and at one point there was a door with a plate of meshed glass that led to a fire stairway. Richard’s apartment was the last one on the left. His door opened with difficulty because of the thickness of the rug inside. It opened into a foyer that, without division, led into a living room that, also without division, led into a dining room. All along the dining room and a section of the living room was a wall of windows. The light coming in was so gray and lifeless that the chairs and tables were transfixed like mute humans.

Off the foyer was a hallway leading to the bedrooms. Immediately to the right of the hallway was the kitchen. One could walk through it to the dining area; it divided the living and dining rooms from the rest of the apartment. Since it was painted white, it was oddly abstracted from them.

Richard’s mother called, “Richard? Is that you?” when they came in. They found her in the kitchen cooking in a bathrobe. Recognizing Alec, she said hello to him pleasantly. But at once she turned naggingly to her son. “Richard, Stephie called. She has a dentist’s appointment. She wants you to drive her downtown.”

Richard halted abruptly.

Alec became jaunty. He walked like a coquette to Richard’s mother. Kissing her, he said, mocking, “How are you, Mother Bloom? You are cooking, I see.” He smiled.

Mother Bloom, with an indulgent smile, gave Alec a little shove. “Come on, Alec. Who is this?” she said, pointing to Raul.

Richard said, “A friend of Alec’s. You saw him in Aria da Capo.”

“Oh yes. You were made up differently. You looked like a girl.

Raul did a double-take. A thin smile passed over his face. “Well, that floors me.” Richard and Alec laughed.

Mother Bloom, oblivious, said to Richard, “So will you do that.” There was no semblance of a question. She blinked her frighteningly clear blue eyes and jerked her head, making the bangs of her short haircut quiver. “Your sister is driving me mad.”

“Oh, Mother Bloom!” Alec said, kicking his boots together with disinterest.

Richard, anguished, said to Raul and Alec, “Go in my room.”

Alec scraped and bowed. “Yessir, massa, yessir!” He clucked his tongue, beckoning to Raul. Raul’s eyes were glassy from no emotion. He spun about, falling to his knees and madly scrambling down the hallway. Alec ran yelling behind him, gurgling in his throat to imitate a whip.

Raul, crucified on the carpet, became annoyed at the scratching of his face. He dropped abruptly out of character, raising himself to his knees. Alec, spinning around the corner, screamed gleefully at the sight of the oncoming disaster. He smacked into Raul at his waist, jackknifing over him. Raul and he toppled, flying and crashing. A beautifully chaotic tackle.

Raul got up, shaking himself. Alec lay sprawled, groaning, his arms outstretched, crossing the doorsill of Richard’s room. Raul went over to him; he stooped, studying Alec’s arms. Alec groaned, “O my poor, sweet body. ‘My reputation, Iago, my reputation.’ ”

Raul looked at him, considering. He touched one of Alec’s arms. “Touchdown.”

Alec shot up. Mother Bloom’s and Richard’s voices swelled. They cocked their ears. “Come,” Alec said abruptly, “I’ll show you Richard’s room.”

“I could not be more charmed. The noise here is deafening.”

Richard’s room, small and exact, had one bed, one desk, one stereo hi/fi, one FM/AM radio, one closet, two chairs, two windows, one bulletin board, and a poster of Karl Marx.

“Oh,” Alec said. “I wonder where he got his earphones.”

“Ah, Marx. Interesting he should be here, in Riverdale.”

“You should be pleased.”

“At the poster, not its location.” Alec looked pained. “I don’t mean to be hitting Richard so much,” Raul said. “I’m sorry.”

Alec nodded and turned the radio on, fiddling with the dial.

Raul sat down in a swivel chair underneath a lamp. The lamp had a long post, painted black, that, at the top, divided into three small lamps. Raul turned the chair toward the wall and studied Marx’s austere face: the narrow, penetrating eyes; the long, gray-black beard. The dirty black jacket could be seen; the unsatisfied, abstract mind. Or, Raul thought, he could have been called an old fogey — one of Yeats’s scholars.

“My hatred,” Raul said over the sound of WNEW, “for Lenin’s prostitution of Marx even extends to his poster. Have you ever seen one? He’s clean. His forehead — everything — clean. He doesn’t have the furrows, the lines, in Marx’s forehead. There’s a picture of Lenin and Stalin, just before his death. He looked relaxed, at ease. He looked as if he were convalescing, but he seemed content. Beside the unfortunate fact that he died too young, and he should have been worrying about who would take over, his job simply wasn’t done. Russia had regressed. It hadn’t gone forward. He looked at ease, and there were years of work ahead.”

“Are you a Trotskyite?” Alec asked.

“Good God, no. God knows what I am.” He paused. “There’s a picture of Trotsky with his wife in Mexico, and he looks relaxed and at ease. They’re all like Chekov characters. It’s sickening. How could they possibly be able to smile? All right, so you could say they’re doing it just for the picture. Nonsense! That even makes it Machiavellian. Or shows that their concern was not too great to overcome for a picture. I must admit, however, what I’m saying isn’t a sound political argument.” Raul laughed. “I can see my S.D.S. brother’s indulgent smile.”