At ten fifteen, Miss Lombard entered the five-story furnished apartment building. She’d arrived in a taxi and was carrying two suitcases. The superintendent rang the housekeeper to see whether the sheets had been changed in room 53. He asked Miss Lombard to wait on the sofa, which was covered with a torn blanket full of stains.
It was a hot summer night. The calendar under the clock showed August 7. There was a poodle sitting on a chair, sticking its tongue out, its eyes half-covered with tufts of hair. It panted, yawned. Miss Lombard noticed it was female. Well, at least she’s not suffering from the disappointments of love, she thought. I’ll follow her example: live day by day, wipe out my memories . . .
The superintendent—a small man, not young, with a pointed face, a high wrinkled forehead, and a pair of weary eyes—sat in a booth that looked like a cage, leafing through a large book.
What’s he looking for? Miss Lombard asked herself. An address? A telephone number? And why does he have such big bags under his eyes? Does he drink? Who knows. Maybe he’s using opium, or morphine. Anything’s possible. Is he Jewish? Italian? Does he have a family? Is he an old ladies’ man? He’s not happy—that much is clear.
The man raised his eyes from his book.
“Where’s the housekeeper? She’ll be here soon. We had a lot of people check in today,” he said, “she’s got a lot of work.”
“I can wait.”
A Black man appeared with an old broom. He exchanged a few words with the superintendent and then left. He glanced at Miss Lombard with the tired indifference of someone disillusioned with humanity. The back of his pink shirt was completely drenched with sweat. Thick beads of perspiration appeared between the hair on his head, and, as he passed, Miss Lombard caught a whiff of his sweet-salty body odor. He went downstairs to the basement, with its boiler, gauges, and piles of coal.
Miss Lombard pulled the smaller suitcase closer to herself, so she wouldn’t block the way. The floor wasn’t altogether clean. Most of the tiles were cracked. The walls were painted blue and the plaster was uneven. It looked like the walls were sweating. The ceiling was metallic. God in heaven, it’s all so hideous! Couldn’t they, for the same amount of money, have made it all a little nicer? But then what difference does it make?
The building was old, but the elevator was new, and it constantly went up and down. The people who lived in the building, it seemed, were mostly transient. An old man walked into the lobby wearing a straw hat on his white-haired head, his belly sticking out and pieces of loose flesh hanging from his red face. He carried a freshly printed newspaper with tomorrow’s date already showing. On the front page was a headline about a murder. Just behind him appeared a small woman with a wrinkled face and freshly dyed orange hair. She pulled a little dog behind her and on her wrist hung three bracelets. She dragged her massive body along. Her bare legs were thick and bulky with red flesh. A mammoth backside pushed its way out from under her dress and its strange flower pattern. The woman’s chest stuck straight out like a wooden plank and under her arm she carried the same newspaper as the old man. They walked into the elevator—and it was already full. The little dog made a lot of noise walking on the tiles. It seemed curious about the poodle on the stool, but its owner pulled the leash. Even a dog’s love is more than they can stand, thought Miss Lombard. They have to rein it in by force.
The housekeeper, a short, elderly woman, finally appeared. As soon as she muttered a word or two, it was clear that she was Irish, and that she drank. She spoke with a politeness not found in America, apologizing, “By God, what a day! Eight people checking in. It’s usually very quiet, but today was a complete madhouse!” Then she added, “Your room’s ready, Miss. I just have to bring in the wastebasket.”
“Thank you so much.”
“It’s my job. You get tired. Especially in this heat. But what can you do when you’re all alone in the world?”
“You’re from Ireland, aren’t you?”
“Yes, from Ireland. I spent a few years in England too. At least here everyone’s equal. The ladies there are too proud. And they let you feel it at every turn. Do you have the key?”
“Yes.”
“Well, you can go up. Let’s hope it’s not too hot to sleep,” she said, winking.
It seemed to Miss Lombard that the woman bore some resemblance to the superintendent—not physical, but in spirit, something that perhaps comes from working together in the same place, or sharing the same concerns, or the same drink. The woman did actually go over to the booth where the super sat and bent down, murmuring something. She even gave a short laugh. He opened a drawer and handed her a hammer. Maybe they were planning a murder?