Long After Midnight (19 page)

 
          
He
didn't know where he was going until he found himself in the men's room
frantically digging in the wastebasket.

 
          
He
found what he knew he would find, a small bottle with the label:

 
          
DRINK ENTIRE: AGAINST THE MADNESS OF
CROWDS.

 
          
Trembling,
he uncorked it. There was the merest cold blue drop left inside. Swaying by the
shut hot window, he tapped it to his tongue.

 
          
In
the instant, his body felt as if he had leaped into a tidal wave of coolness.
His breath gusted out in a fount of crushed and savored clover.

 
          
He
gripped the bottle so hard it broke. He gasped, watching the blood.

 
          
The
door opened. Ned
Amminger
stood there, looking in. He
stayed only a moment, then turned and went out. The door shut.

 
          
A
few moments later, Morgan, with the junk from his desk rattling in his
briefcase, went down in the elevator.

 
          
Stepping
out, he turned to thank the operator.

 
          
His
breath must have touched the operator's face.

 
          
The
operator smiled.

 
          
A
wild, an incomprehensible, a loving, a
beautiful
smile!

 
          
The
lights were out at midnight in the little alley, in the little shop. There was
no sign in the window which said
melissa
toad, witch.
There were no bottles.

 
          
He
beat on the door for a full five minutes, to no answer. He kicked the door for
another two minutes.

 
          
And
at last, with a sigh, not wanting to, the door opened.

 
          
A
very tired voice said: "Come in."

 
          
Inside
he found the air only slightly cool. The huge ice slab, in which he had seen
the phantom shape of a lovely woman, had dwindled, had lost a good half of its
weight, and now was dripping steadily to ruin.

 
          
Somewhere
in the darkness, the woman waited for him. But he sensed that she was clothed
now, dressed and packed, ready to leave. He opened his mouth to cry out, to
reach, but her voice stopped him:

 
          
"I
warned you. You're too late."

 
          
"It's
never too late!" he said.

 
          
"Last
night it wouldn't have been. But in the last twenty hours, the last little
thread snapped in you. I feel. I know. I tell. It's gone, gone, gone."

 
          
"What's
gone, God damn it?"

 
          
"Why,
your soul, of course. Gone. Eaten up. Digested. Vanished. You're empty. Nothing
there."

 
          
He
saw her hand reach out of darkness. It touched at his chest. Perhaps he
imagined that her fingers passed through his ribs to probe about his lights,
his lungs, his beating and pitiful heart.

 
          
"Oh,
yes, gone," she mourned. "How sad. The city unwrapped you like a
candy bar and ate you all up. You're nothing but a dusty milk bottle left on a
tenement porch, a spider building a nest across the top. Traffic din pounded
your marrow to dust. Subway sucked your breath like a cat sucks the soul of a
babe. Vacuum cleaners got your brain. Alcohol dissolved the rest. Typewriters
and computers took your final dregs in and out their
tripes
,
printed you on paper, punched you in
confettis
, threw
you down a sewer vent. TV scribbled you in nervous tics on old ghost screens.
Your final bones will be carried off by a big angry bulldog
crosstown
bus holding you munched in its big rubber-lipped mouth door."

 
          
"No!"
he cried. "I've changed my mind! Marry me! Marry-"

 
          
His
voice cracked the ice tomb. It shattered on the floor behind him. The shape of
the beautiful woman melted into the floor. Spinning about, he plunged into
darkness.

 
          
He
fell against the wall just as a panel slammed shut and locked.

 
          
It
was no use screaming. He was alone.

 
          
At
dusk in July, a year later, in the subway, he saw Ned
Amminger
for the first time in 365 days.

 
          
In
all the grind and ricochet and pour of fiery lava as trains banged through,
taking a billion souls to hell,
Amminger
stood as
cool as mint leaves in green rain. Around him wax people melted. He waded in
his own private trout stream.

 
          
"Ned!"
cried Will Morgan, running up to seize his hand and pump it. "Ned, Ned!
The best friend I ever had!"

 
          
"Yes,
thaf
s true, isn't it?" said young Ned, smiling.

 
          
And
oh God, how true it was! Dear Ned, fine Ned, friend of a lifetime! Breathe upon
me, Ned! Give me your life's breath!

 
          
"You're
president of the company, Ned! I heard!"

 
          
"Yes.
Come along home for a drink?"

 
          
In
the raging heat, a vapor of iced lemonade rose from his creamy fresh suit as
they looked for a cab. In all the curses, yells, horns, Ned raised his hand.

 
          
A
cab pulled up. They drove in serenity.

 
          
At
the apartment house, in the dusk, a man with a gun stepped from the shadows.

 
          
"Give
me everything," he said.

 
          
"Later,"
said Ned, smiling, breathing a scent of fresh summer apples upon the man.

 
          
"Later."
The man stepped back to let them pass. "Later."

 
          
On
the way up in the elevator, Ned said, "Did you know I'm married? Almost a
year. Fine wife."

 
          
"Is
she," said Will Morgan, and stopped, ". . . beautiful?"

 
          
"Oh,
yes. You'll love her. You'll love the apartment."

 
          
Yes,
thought Morgan; a green glade, crystal chimes, cool grass for a carpet. I know,
I know.

 
          
They
stepped out into an apartment that was indeed a tropic isle. Young Ned poured
huge goblets of iced champagne.

 
          
"What
shall we drink to?"

 
          
"To
you, Ned. To your wife. To me. To
midnight
, tonight."

 
          
"Why
midnight
?"

 
          
"When
I go back down to that man who is waiting downstairs with his gun. That man you
said '
iater
' to. And he agreed 'later/ I'll be there
alone with him. Funny, ridiculous, funny. And
my
breath just ordinary breath, not smelling of melons or pears.
And him waiting all those long hours with his sweaty gun, irritable with heat.
What a grand joke. Well ... a toast?"

 
          
"A
toast!"

 
          
They
drank.

 
          
At
which moment, the wife entered. She heard each of them laughing in a different
way, and joined in their laughter.

 
          
But
her eyes, when she looked at Will Morgan, suddenly filled with tears.

 
          
And
he knew whom she was weeping for.

 
          
They
moved into the Hotel de Las
Flores
on a
hot green afternoon in late October. The inner patio was blazing with red and
yellow and white flowers, like flames, which lit their small room. The husband
was tall and black-haired and pale and looked as if he had driven ten thousand
miles in his sleep; he walked through the tile patio, carrying a few blankets,
he threw himself on the small bed of the small room with an exhausted sigh and
lay there. While he closed his eyes, his wife, about twenty-four, with yellow
hair and
hom
-rim glasses, smiling at the manager, Mr.
Gonzales, hurried in and out from the room to the car. First she carried two
suitcases, then a typewriter, thanking Mr. Gonzales, but steadily refusing his
help. And then she carried in a huge packet of Mexican masks they had picked up
in the lake town of
Patzcuaro
, and then out to the
car again and again for more small cases and packages, and even an extra tire
which they were afraid some native might roll off down the cobbled street
during the night. Her face pink from the exertion, she hummed as she locked the
car, checked the windows, and ran back to the room where her husband lay, eyes
closed, on one of the twin beds.

 
          
"Good
God," he said, without opening his eyes, "this is one hell of a bed.
Feel it. I told you to pick one with a Simmons mattress." He gave the bed
a weary slap. "It's as hard as a rock."

 
          
"I
don't speak Spanish," said the wife, standing there, beginning to look
bewildered. "You should have come in and talked to the landlord
yourself."

 
          
"Look,"
he said, opening his gray eyes just a little and turning his head, "I've
done all the driving on this trip. You just sit there and look at the scenery.
You're supposed to handle the money, the lodgings, the gas and oil, and all
that. This is the second place we've hit where you got hard beds."

 
          
"I'm
sorry," she said, still standing, beginning to fidget.

 
          
"I
like to at least sleep nights, that's all I ask."

 
          
"I
said I was sorry."

 
          
"Didn't
you even
feel
the beds?"

 
          
"They
looked all right."

 
          
"You've
got to feel them." He slapped the bed and punched it at his side.

 
          
The
woman turned to her own bed and sat on it, experimentally. "It feels all
right to me."

 
          
"Well,
it isn't."

 
          
"Maybe
my bed is softer."

 
          
He
rolled over tiredly and reached out to punch the other bed. "You can have
this one if you want," she said, trying to smile.

 
          
"That's
hard, too," he said, sighing, and fell back and closed his eyes again.

 
          
No
one spoke, but the room was turning cold, while outside the flowers blazed in
the green shrubs and the sky was immensely blue. Finally, she rose and grabbed
the typewriter and suitcase and turned toward the door.

 
          
"Where're
you going?" he said.

 
          
"Back
out to the car," she said. "We're going to find another place."

 
          
"Put
it down," said the man. "I'm tired."

 
          
"We'll
find another place."

 
          
"Sit
down, we'll stay here tonight, my God, and move tomorrow."

 
          
She
looked at all the boxes and crates and luggage, the clothes, and the tire, her
eyes' flickering. She put the typewriter down.

 
          
"Damn
it!" she cried, suddenly. "You can have the mattress off my bed. I'll
sleep on the springs."

 
          
He
said nothing.

 
          
"You
can have the mattress off my bed," she said. "Only don't talk about
it. Here!" She pulled the blanket off and yanked at the mattress.

 
          
"That
might be better," he said, opening his eyes, seriously.

 
          
"You
can have both mattresses, my God, I can sleep on a bed of nails!" she
cried. "Only stop yapping."

 
          
"I'll
manage." He turned his head away. "It wouldn't be fair to you."

 
          
"It'd
be plenty fair just for you to keep quiet about the bed; it's not that hard,
good God, you'll sleep if you're tired. Jesus God, Joseph!"

 
          
"Keep
your voice down," said Joseph. "Why don't you go find out about
Paricutin
volcano?"

 
          
"I'll
go in a minute." She stood there, her face red.

 
          
"Find
out what the rates are for a taxi out there and a horse up the mountain to see
it, and look at the sky; if the sky's blue that means the volcano isn't
erupting today, and don't let them gyp you."

 
          
"I
guess I can do that."

 
          
She
opened the door and stepped out and shut the door and
Senor
Gonzales was there. Was everything all right? he wished to
know.

 
          
She
walked past the town windows, and smelled the soft charcoal air. Beyond the
town all of the sky was blue except north  (or east or west, she couldn't
be certain) where the huge broiling black cloud rose up from the terrible
volcano. She looked at it with a small
tremoring
inside. Then she sought out a large fat taxi driver and the arguments began.
The price started at sixty pesos and dwindled rapidly, with expressions of
mournful defeat upon the buck-toothed fat man's face, to thirty-seven pesos.
So! He was to come at three tomorrow afternoon, did he understand? That would
give them time to drive out through the gray snows of land where the flaking
lava ash had fallen to make a great dusty winter for mile after mile, and
arrive at the volcano as the sun was setting. Was this very clear?

 
          
", senora,
esta
es
muy
claw,
sil
"

 
          
"
Bueno
."
She gave him their hotel room number and bade him good-bye.

 
          
She
idled into little lacquer shops, alone; she opened the little lacquer boxes and
sniffed the sharp scent of camphor wood and cedar and cinnamon. She watched the
craftsmen, enchanted, razor blades flashing in the sun, cutting the flowery
scrolls and filling these patterns with red and blue color. The town flowed
about her like a silent slow river and she immersed herself in it, smiling all
of the time, and not even knowing she smiled.

 
          
Suddenly
she looked at her watch. She'd been gone half an hour. A look of panic crossed
her face. She ran a few steps and then slowed to a walk again, shrugging.

 
          
As
she walked in through the tiled cool corridors, under the silvery tin
candelabra on the adobe walls, a caged bird fluted high and sweet, and a girl
with long soft dark hair sat at a piano painted sky blue and played a Chopin
nocturne.

 
          
She
looked at the windows of their room, the shades pulled down. Three o'clock of a
fresh afternoon. She saw a soft-drinks box at the end of the patio and bought
four bottles of Coke. Smiling, she opened the door to their room.

 
          
"It
certainly took you long enough," he said, turned on his side toward the
wall.

 
          
"We
leave tomorrow afternoon at three," she said.

 
          
"How
much?"

 
          
She
smiled at his back, the bottles cold in her arms. "Only thirty-seven
pesos."

 
          
"Twenty
pesos would have done it. You can't let these Mexicans take advantage of
you."

 
          
"I'm
richer than they are; if
anyones
deserves
being taken advantage of, it's us."

 
          
"That's
not the idea. They
like
to
bargain."

 
          
"I
feel like a bitch, doing it."

 
          
"The
guide book says they double their price and expect you to halve it."

 
          
"Let's
not quibble over a dollar."

 
          
"A
dollar is a dollar."

 
          
"I'll
pay the dollar from my own money," she said. "I brought some cold
drinks—do you want one?"

 
          
"What've
you got?" He sat up in bed.

 
          
"Cokes."

 
          
"Well,
you know I don't like Cokes much; take two of those back, will you, and get
some Orange Crush?"

 
          
"Please?"
she said, standing there.

 
          
"Please,"
he said, looking at her. "Is the volcano active?"

 
          
"Yes."

 
          
"Did
you ask?"

 
          
"No,
I looked at the sky. Plenty of smoke."

 
          
"You
should have asked."

 
          
"The
damn sky is just exploding with it."

 
          
"But
how do we know it's good tomorrow?"

 
          
"We
don't know. If it's not, we put it off."

 
          
"I
guess that's right." He lay down again.

 
          
She
brought back two bottles of Orange Crush.

 
          
"If
s not very cold," he said, drinking it.

 
          
They
had supper in the patio: sizzling steak, green peas, a plate of Spanish rice, a
little wine, and spiced peaches for dessert.

 
          
As
he
napkined
his mouth, he said, casually, "Oh, I
meant to tell you. I've checked your figures on what I owe you for the last six
days, from Mexico City to here. You say I owe you one hundred twenty-five
pesos, or about twenty-five American dollars, right?"

 
          
"Yes."

 
          
"I
make it I owe you only twenty-two."

 
          
"I
don't think that's possible," she said, still working on her spiced
peaches with a spoon.

 
          
"I
added the figures twice."

 
          
"So
did I."

 
          
"I
think you added them wrong."

 
          
"Perhaps
I did." She jarred the chair back suddenly. "Let's go check."

 
          
In
the room, the notebook lay open under the lighted lamp. They checked the
figures together. "You see," said he, quietly. "You're three
dollars off. How did that happen?"

 
          
"It
just happened. I'm sorry."