Rafael Yglesias - Hide Fox, and All After

There are two enchanting hours in New York City — from five to seven in the morning. On the most polluted days the dawn’s pink can still be seen, and the air is passably fresh. The junkies are gone, the mass of people still asleep. The wind that is there, and gone by noon, is desolate: as shocking and as haunted as the sight of Broadway empty.

Raul left his apartment to walk the three blocks to the 86th Street Station. For two and a half years he had unconsciously made this journey to the Cabot School, but now the gray avenue in midwinter seemed as austere as Raul’s determination. They would know about his cutting today; but they would face the black prince, not a child.

In the subway station he sat on a bench, daring them to laugh at his awkward legs. He met each stare severely, noting their features. The workingmen and — women: billowing dresses over pointless breasts; barbed wire stockings; pitifully thin, drooping socks — New York Poor and New York Labor. And the students — image of himself that he would not allow.

The prince, his black cape twirling with grandeur, walked toward the uptown train, everyone making room for him at the sound of his sharp steps. He walked through the train to the last car, though all year he had carefully chosen the first. They all looked up when he passed, but nothing broke his beauty and his greatness.

Reaching the last car, he sat down. Today they would know, for they had called yesterday asking if he were ill. Today he dare not cut — but he was going to cut! The prince smiles, saying to them, I’ve only cut nine days. We need a round number, don’t we? They are shocked at his true power.

One of the boys entered Raul’s car and, passing by him, flipped his hand up. “What d’ya say, man?”

“Vengeance.”

The boy gave him a look and went on. That’s what I want, the prince said, laughing.

He hadn’t slept all night, and exhaustion now overcame him. Only when rage seized him did he feel supernaturally alive; but the effort was draining and left him in gloom. Try and stay calm, he told himself, but he felt a fixed, mad stare on his face. Someone beside him said, “You’re a friend of Tom’s, aren’t you?”

Raul looked up. Standard mincing girl in front of him. “Excuse me?”

“Are you a friend of Tom’s?”

A rush and the prince was saying, “Tom Able? I’d rather be associated with a snail. Ah, but undoubtedly you’ve seen me with him. Well, you see, I, too, was once a snail.” He grinned absurdly.

“Oh, you’re funny, aren’t you?”

The prince screamed with laughter. The girl went away tossing her head to regain her dignity. He was tearing from laughter, and it relieved him. He left with the wave of people getting off at the end of the line.

The end of the IRT line is 242nd Street at Van Cortlandt Park. At that point the ground is higher than most of New York. On the hill there are trees that suggest fertility. Compared to the sea of concrete thirty minutes away, it is an incredible degree of nature. Strung along the hill are four or five private schools. Consequently, by eight o’clock the swarms of people coming down the steps of the station are dominated by adolescents, most of whom empty into a luncheonette called Mike & Gino’s.

At seven o’clock a few bleary-eyed workers get their breakfasts there. By seven-thirty they are gone and the first students are coming in — the most studious who have stayed up all night cramming. By eight, the place is filled. By nine, it’s empty.

Raul used to get to Mike & Gino’s by eight, using the time to his best advantage. One could know who was going to be elected class president by merely listening; here, one curried favor with older, more important students. Today, however, the prince would smash these inanities, and he had, therefore, arrived earlier.

At seven-thirty the last few transit workers were finishing their breakfasts, knocking Mike or Gino on the shoulder as a good-by. Raul bought a pack of Camels and sat down in the first booth facing the door, restlessly checking the time every few minutes, resigning himself finally to a cup of coffee, waiting for the day to begin.

At a quarter to eight a group of students came in whom Raul did not know, and he became more and more anxious. He lit a cigarette, his mind’s eye following him everywhere: the smooth calm of his puffing; his black, gaunt figure. Without noticing, he had dressed in black today. He felt a tremendous power, fearing only that things might not be organized correctly, that his bravado would dissipate into the commonplace of life.

They were coming now. The place hummed with their entrance. In a moment the jukebox would begin. Raul slumped back into his booth, putting his feet up.

“Hey, Raul.”

“How are ya, man?”

“Well enough. Bill, Jeff, sit down here.”

Tom Able came over, sheepishly saying hello to Raul. Tom was something like a clean-cut Uriah Heep. The prince watched his own head turn, the rock beat on the jukebox making his stare more fierce. Tom shifted his feet. Bill laughed softly, Jeff with screeches. The prince turned his head back with the same determination, saying to Bill and Jeff, “You’re both well, I hope?” Tom left.

Raul looked at the group of boys fixing their books, chatting.…The prince stared at the table as his growl began. “Now all of you — quiet! I have specific demands that must be met.” Suddenly he laughed genially. These poor children cannot be spoken to like so. But more — this is a Paris café. “Picasso.” He poked Jeff. “Yes, Picasso, that’s very good. Of course, Picasso,” Raul said quietly to himself.

He looked up and saw the fat boy and extended an arm to mark his entrance. “And here’s that fat little bolshevik, that sweating mass of innocence. Oh, my God, poor baby, you will be bald by seventeen, and a history teacher at Cabot. You will have given up all hope. The very breath of revolution will die in you.”

A voice to the left of Raul said, “That doesn’t sound like you, Raul.”

The prince turned, enraged at this intruder. He rose quickly, without objective thought, his right eye wincing from the stream of cigarette smoke, saying rapidly to the others, “Excuse me, gentlemen, I shall, I will return. Let no one, I repeat, no one, into this booth.” He grabbed the elbow of the boy who had just come up, leading him along Mike & Gino’s counter out into the street where he turned him against the side of the building, cornering him there: “You see this place, eh? What is it? The world, fool. And within this unfortunate place, two foolish adolescents exist — on an island, within a continent. I say, again, unfortunately we are forced to remain within breath of each other because of our school. Therefore, I must see you.” The boy tried alternately to speak and to move. “Quiet. Stay where you are. There will be time and space enough for you to crawl in. These are realities, which are now changed. I want to hear nothing from you, see nothing of you. Sit near me and I will scream. You understand? Good.” The prince began to move, his face flushed clean from his revenge on these mirrors.

The boy touched him. Raul looked up from under his shoulder, weasel-like. “I don’t understand,” the boy said. “Are you angry about what happened at my house? I explained…I mean, I told you what…”

“Perhaps, eh? Perhaps.” He laughed hoarsely, giving the boy one significant, mad stare, and re-entered Mike & Gino’s.