Joan Silber - Fools - Stories

I was glad to come back to a bottle of wine in my room. Alcohol kept me warm and stopped most of the fear; it brought with it a spreading certainty that fear was beside the point. Not that I was deluded. I still knew what a mess I was in, but I also knew how to slip into this other understanding of the facts. I respected the wine for that.

I could scale back. I was a well-nourished person and it was not going to hurt me to live on less for a while. A fresh baguette was better than cake. Let them eat cake! I could offer Liliane a lovely wedge of crusty bread if she came back.

I didn’t have an airline ticket home anymore, did I? Her friends had probably cheated me on that too. But Liliane must have believed I had only to write home for more. (And what would I say? Dear beloved family, You’ll never guess what — that money I robbed from you has been stolen! Believe it or not.) And I knew if I had the ticket again, I’d turn it in for a refund. I wasn’t going home. That part was over.

I scared the maid when she came in. It was the young maid, a lumpy person with drooping cheeks, and it startled her to see me with a crewneck sweater over my pajamas, lying on the covers with a clarinet next to me. “Hello there,” I said, a little sloppily. She said something I didn’t understand — nothing friendly — and took to her heels. No clean towels for me.

I played “Since I Fell For You” on my clarinet and my tone was not bad. I played it over and over. The hotel manager came to knock on the door. “ Silence, s’il vous plait .” He used both languages. I didn’t answer him, but I tried just fingering the notes and not blowing through the mouthpiece. Later in the day I tried stuffing a handkerchief in the bell of the clarinet to muffle it. Didn’t work.

In the long evening hours, how hard it was to lie there and not play. At twilight I went out and took my clarinet in its case. A few blocks from the hotel there was a small triangular plaza with a few bare trees, and I sat on a bench and played “The Pajama Game.” My fingers got stiff right away and the cold was bad for the instrument, but I could play any way I wanted. Soft, loud, it was my own business. A woman smiled as she went by. A man about my age stopped in his tracks to listen. He stood with his hands in his pockets, nodding. Then he put fifty centimes in my clarinet case! This struck me so funny I choked on the chorus.

I bought a package of nuts with the money and I went back to my room, tickled at the story of this. In my head I was telling it to someone, but who? Maybe when I was feeling more alert I’d write to Melanie. Hey, Mel, you wouldn’t believe what’s been happening . Not that she’d be looking for anything in the envelope but a check.

They wouldn’t let me stay at the hotel any longer. I wasn’t even sure my full month was up, but the manager said, “Tomorrow we say goodbye, you give the key, happy journey.” Bon voyage to him too. How slimy he was. Was it possible for me to extend my stay, perhaps in a different room? The manager really did not think so. Non, non . The hotel was very full, many guests. Busy season. A line I had used myself.

They didn’t want my money, and I didn’t even have any money. I got a minor chuckle out of this. When daylight began to fade, I went out with my clarinet to the windy street and then down into the glorious warmth of the Métro station. People were packed in at that hour, no room to sit, so I leaned against the wall, tired as I was, and began “Baby, Won’t You Please Come Home.” The clarinet resonated beautifully in that underground chamber — it startled even me — I held the long notes. I have tried in vain/Nevermore to call your name . What a great song. It took a while before one high school kid parted with a coin, and then I became a trend, the guy you had to appreciate. I took one break to buy a pack of peanuts from a vending machine, which perked me up nicely, though the salt wasn’t great for playing. I stayed in that station for a couple of hours, filling it with music.

On the way home I smelled the buttery enticement of somebody cooking crepes on the street, and I bought a plain one. It was the best thing I’d ever eaten in my life, steaming and softly chewy and perfect. I’d had a good night, hadn’t I?

So I was in an upbeat frame of mind when I got up the next morning. I asked the snotty desk clerk to please watch my luggage until I came back for it, and I hit the street, wearing my layers of clothing and toting underwear and socks mashed into the clarinet case and a small bottle of brandy in my pocket. I knew that I cut a ridiculous figure but I felt secretly competent at this job I had invented for myself. I played the clarinet very well for someone who played in the subway. More than adequately.

Before I was halfway down the stairs to the station, I could hear an accordion player below, blasting his chords into everyone’s eardrums. I decided it was my day to work the trains, and I hopped on the first one that rolled in. Riders were not pleased when they saw me take out my clarinet, but I played a few bars of “Have Yourself a Merry Little Christmas” as if I were alone in a room, my eyes straight ahead. When I was done, I walked up and down in a matter-of-fact and professional way, with the case held out for cash, no smiles or imploring.

Then I got off at who-knew-what stop and started again on another line. In the afternoon I started to play “Eine kleine Nachtmusik.” Poor Mozart. What would Mr. Jefferson, my old clarinet teacher, think if he could see me here? But it was a crowd pleaser (French people clapped!) and I used it again all day.

In the Métro stations, I could stay warm, use the underground pissoir, have my slugs of brandy in private, and get packaged candy from the vending machines. I could even smoke and very few people minded. There was a lot to be said for the Métro.

But the trains didn’t run all night. There was the flaw. I pretended I didn’t know they were shutting down and I curled up to sleep on a bench. It was not really that uncomfortable, and I felt slightly superior to all the people who were so sure they needed things. I knew better and I was stronger. People really had no idea.

I was asleep when a voice started shouting at me. I jerked awake, but I had already made the shouter impatient and he hauled me up and slammed my spine on the bench. The pain shocked me, it buzzed into me with an electric cruelty. By then I saw he was a cop, in his navy uniform with the pants tucked into those heavy boots, and my body went sick with fear. He was snakelike and thin-necked, with a sharp, expressionless face. He was pushing me to go somewhere and he kicked at my ankles, but not as hard as he might have. I grabbed my clarinet case and started to run toward the stairs, and that seemed to be what he wanted.

I was terrified enough to keep running in the street, banged up as I was and limping like an idiot. I wasn’t made for this, I was the wrong person for it. In the wintry air I was wildly thankful that I had at least remembered to grab the clarinet. I was out in the cold now.

On the street, the stores were gated with metal bars, the upper stories dark. In the distance I saw the shapes of two young men walking, with their hands in their pockets, turning to each other and talking loudly, laughing at something. How had I stopped being one of those men?

I was trapped inside a mistake. When was it going to end? Liliane, Liliane, Liliane. I was shouting in my head, not out loud, but I gazed up at the glass windows of buildings: she might be here as well as anywhere. Where was she? Or Melanie could come get me. Maybe I could get in touch with Melanie.

But I had money on me, actual francs — how had I forgotten this? If I could find a café open at this hour, I could drink and be all right. I had only to walk and I would find one. This did not turn out to be true, but moving around was warmer than staying still. I stopped at a massive stone church, a hulk of spires and leaded windows, but the door was locked fast. No room at the inn. I was outraged, not that we’d been much of a churchgoing family. My mother dragged us every so often to an Episcopal congregation but we never paid much attention. I sat down on the steps and leaned against the building. The stone smelled musty in an interesting way in the cold.