Pete Hamill - Tabloid City

She stops at the last door, within a small dark alcove. Here it is. Eight-oh-two. There is no bell. She knocks. The old knock, from the house in Cuernavaca. En clave. Bop-bop. Bop-bop-bop. Nothing. She knocks again. She hears the low ruff of a dog, the sound of a dog’s nails on wood. Then a shuffling sound. Slippers, perhaps. Or callused feet.

Then from beyond the door:

— Yes? Who is it?

— It’s me, Señor Lewis.

— Who?

— Yo.

She hears a chain falling against wood. Then a heavy lock turning.

The door opens. He’s standing there, as old as the earth. She realizes that his eyes see nothing. Un ciego. Hijole.

— Consuelo? he whispers, disbelief in his low, trembling voice.

— Sí, señor.

He looks frozen.

— No. Is it you?

He reaches with both hands to her face. She takes his hands and places them on her cheekbones.

— It’s you, he whispers. Tú, Consuelo. Mi corazón.

Tears begin leaking from his blind eyes.

He walks her into the apartment, holding her hand tightly, the dog clearly knowing that she is friend, not foe. He helps her off with her coat, and she stuffs her hat in one of the sleeves. The odor of the place seeps into her: dried sweat, socks, stale air, the large black dog. They pass the huge easel, with its wild angry painting on the crossbar, move around chairs, ease past a stained couch. Then Lew Forrest pauses. He points with his right hand, his painting hand, up to the wall, to the portrait of Consuelo as a girl. Beside it is a portrait of his wife. La Señora Gabriela. La Francesa. Both of them are young. Consuelo feels a pang of old hurt. He squeezes her warm bare hand. His hand is cold.

— Eres tú, no? he says. The one on the left. It’s you, Consuelo.

She can see her own smooth younger flesh, her thinner neck, her more delicate shoulders, the green and orange shawl from Huajuapan draped over one shoulder and one breast, sees the hard dark nipple of the other, and remembers sitting for hours on the edge of the bed in the studio in Cuernavaca, while music played, and Señor Lewis stared hard at her, all of her, and made a feathery caressing sound with his brush on the canvas.

— Sí, Señor Lewis, she says. It’s me.

— After my wife died, I could put you both together. First in the lobby. Then here. On that wall. For an audience of one. Me.

It is her turn to squeeze Forrest’s hand. And then they are talking in a mixture of Spanish and English, as they did long ago. The hurt eases. She hopes her English is now better than his Spanish. She can see his lips making words that he does not say. Uncertain. Unable to remember. Then he clears his throat.

— How old were you then, Consuelo?

— Seventeen.

— Diez y siete, he whispers. Seventeen. Hijole!

— Y tú? she says.

— Old, he says, and laughs. Un gringo viejo. Even then.

She laughs too.

— I was madly in love with you, Consuelo. Muy, muy loco.

There’s a beat of grave silence.

— Yo también, she says, her voice lower. Me too.

He must have heard the note of sadness in her voice.

— I… I don’t know why I…

— Ni modo, Señor Lewis. Como se dice, it was a long time ago.

Forrest stands there for a long moment, as if seeing nothing at all. Not the old paintings. Not her. Not anything in the world.

Then he takes her elbow.

— Come, he says. Sit beside me on the couch. I’ll call down for coffee.

— You have a coffeepot and all that? I can make it.

— No, no. I gave the damned thing away. You know, I can’t see much, mi vida, and I keep making a mess. Pouring coffee on the floor instead of in the cup.

He chuckles and then goes on.

— Anyway, I gave the pot away, and kept the cups. I’ll call Jerry, down at the desk. What do you want, querida?

They talk it over. Just black coffee? Sí. A bagel? Sí. Con mantequilla? Sí. How about a cheese Danish too? No, no, Señor Lewis.

He picks up the old black telephone from a table and talks to Jerry downstairs, while Consuelo gazes around the long narrow apartment, at the shelves full of art books and volumes of poetry, at the paintings leaning against each other beside the walls, the long flat metal cabinet that she knows from Cuernavaca must be full of drawings and prints and watercolors. He hangs up the phone and walks her to the tan dirt-streaked couch, which is three cushions wide. The cushion on the far right is stacked with more drawings. Forrest grips the left arm of the couch, turns around to sit with a sigh, and points Consuelo to the center cushion. She sits straight up on the edge, hands clasped on her lap. The dog moves around to the side, and stretches his legs on the floor. There is a silent awkward moment.

— Well, Lew Forrest says, what brings you here, Consuelo?

She waits for a long beat, gathering words, and strength, and will. Telling herself: Just say it. Say it straight out.

— You said, that time, the last time, when you went to New York, you said to me, Consuelo, if you need help, call me. You wrote the name of this place for me. On a small piece of paper. I was so hurt I just went away. I kept the paper.

She shows him the folded sheet from a composition book, but then holds it, for he cannot see.

— I thought I was coming back, he whispers. Alone.

She lets those words grow cold in the stale air.

— Pues. Here I am, señor. I came back to see you again.

— You did. Why?

— I need help.

— What kind of help, Consuelo?

She starts to speak but the doorbell rings. Forrest grips her hand.

— Could you…?

— Sí, Señor Lewis.

— Here, he says, taking bills separately from each pocket.

He hands her four bills.

— That’s a ten-dollar bill, and three singles, verdad?

— Sí, señor.

— Okay, that includes the tip.

She walks to the door, the dog first stretching, then padding after her. She opens the door. The delivery boy is Mexican, wearing a Mets cap. Well, maybe he’s un guatemalteco. He squints at the dog, but seems relaxed. He is holding a gray corrugated cardboard tray with slots for the two coffee containers and the wrapped bagels. He seems surprised to see Consuelo’s face in this doorway that he has come to in the past.

She takes the tray and hands him the bills.

— Gracias, joven, she says.

— Por nada, señora, he says. Then smiles and adds: Y que viva México!

She bows, holding the tray with both hands, and smiles, closing the door with her foot. She moves across the studio to the small kitchen.

— Hay tazas, señor? Cups?

— Sí, sí, Consuelita. On the shelves.

The sink is filthy. She takes two unmatched cups from the shelf, rinses them in the sink, dries them with paper towels from a roll lying on its side. She can hear Lew Forrest singing in a dry choked voice. A scrap from the past.

A dónde estás,

A dónde estás…

She is washing a grimy plate, blue designs on white, her eyes suddenly wet. A song from those days. Cuco Sánchez again. A dónde estás . Where are you? She dries the plate with a fresh paper towel and uses its dry edge to tamp the corners of her eyes. She unwraps the bagels and puts them on the plate. She moves to the couch, pulls over a chair, and lays the plate on the seat of the chair. She goes back quickly for the cups. Forrest stops singing. The aroma of coffee is winning against the sour odor of the room.