The Long-Winded Lady Page 11

  NOVEMBER 4, 1961

  I Look Down from the Windows of This Old Broadway Hotel

  FROM the windows I have on the eleventh floor of this old Broadway hotel, I look down on West Forty-eighth Street, where the roofs of a few little houses that survive down there make a deep well inside the tall city that has grown up around them. Broadway is on my right — Broadway and all the big lights. A trombonist from the Latin Quarter appears on its roof every evening and gives a concert all by himself and to nobody. At that point the roof is only a story and a half high, and the crowd hurrying along just below him must be deafened by the Broadway din, because no one ever seems to stop to look up at him. Up here where I am, I can hear him very clearly. He comes up during intermission time, I suppose, and he saunters about for a minute, getting exercise, and then he walks to the edge of the roof and begins to play. He plays to the stars and he plays to the street and he plays for himself, with a large flourish to the right, a large flourish to the left. He is a heavyset man in a white shirt and black trousers, and his stage is a blackened roof that slants down to where he stands, with his toes almost touching the dazzling river of white and yellow neon light that rushes around the walls of the club. He stands in the middle of a vast explosion of restless light — every sign on Broadway going full blast — but he would be invisible if it were not for the whiteness of his shirt and the shine of his trombone. Those Broadway lights are selfish. They illuminate only themselves. The trombonist doesn’t care. On his shelf of darkness, in the middle of all the splendor, he performs as devotedly as though he had the world at his feet.

  One evening he turned up on the roof at seven, clearly visible in the azure autumn air. He took his stand at the roof’s edge and began to play, and at that moment an extremely tall young man stood up between the two blue-painted water towers of the Flanders Hotel (twelve stories high, to my left) and began playing the clarinet. They both seemed to be playing “A Gypsy Told Me.” The trombonist, a few stories above the crowded street, faced east, and the clarinetist, half a block away from him and twelve stories up in the air, also faced east, and all around them, above and below, on both sides, and in all directions, far and near and high and low, they were surrounded by walls of windows — hundreds and hundreds and hundreds of windows — and all the windows were blind, because there was not a face to be seen at any of them.

  This is just about the center of the theatrical and entertainment section of New York City, but what joviality and good fellowship exist here are thin; the atmosphere is of shabby transience, and its heart is inimical. It is a rundown neighborhood of cheap hotels and rooming houses and offices and agencies and studios and restaurants and bars, and of shops that pack up and disappear overnight. If you walk along the street, you will find it busy, crowded, colorful, untidy, and with a fly-by-night air that makes it rakish, but in the first, unrested light of morning, which comes up very suddenly here, the irregular roof lines have a stoical despondency, and the blank windows reflect an extremity of loneliness — that mechanical city loneliness which strays always at the edge of chaos, far from solitude. The small houses down there mark the remains of a street where ordinary life used to be lived — ordinary social life, domestic life, real life, with children and parents and grandparents and uncles and family friends, with Christmas trees and schoolbooks and wedding dresses and birthdays — but it has come to be hardly more than a camping ground for strollers and travelers and tourists and transients of every kind. They all move on. A few people stay around here because they have no choice, and some stay because they are attached to the neighborhood for old times’ sake and cannot bear to leave, although they can barely afford to stay. Each person is sealed off from the next person, sealed off even from the people he exchanges good mornings with, as though by fear of betrayal. An old woman living by herself in a single hotel bedroom goes frantic with apprehension and picks up the telephone, but there is no one for her to call. She tries to tell the room clerk of what is threatening her, and he listens, but he has the switchboard to attend to, and he has to watchdog the street entrance and the elevators, and he has other duties, and, in any case, he has heard her story many times before, from other people, in other years and in other defeated places like this one. The old woman puts the phone back and realizes immediately that she has made a bad mistake. It is a mistake she has guarded against until now. She knows perfectly well that she must not call attention to herself. This is her last stand in the land of the living, and she is here only on sufferance. The hotel won’t miss her if she goes, and it can rent her room in a minute. She must not complain and she must watch her step. She must be more than polite; she must be obsequious. If you are old and poor and you get the hotel maid against you, you are out of luck.

  This hotel was very grand when it was built, in 1902, but it has slid downhill. The lobby has been cut down to a fraction of what it was, and the ornate old ceiling, towering up there, makes a sad cavern of the small, mean space where the desk and the elevators are. The lobby used to be immense, with an orchestra playing and (I am told) a fountain, and along the back wall there was a row of noble windows that overlooked the gardens of the little Forty-eighth Street houses — the ones I can see from my windows. Three of the gardens are still there, but they are more or less rubbish now, and three others, together with their houses, have been erased to make a parking lot. The parking lot is busy all day and half the night, but at dawn it is deserted except by the pigeons, who fly down from the eaves and roofs and collect in a flock there to peck about peacefully, like barnyard fowl, while a thin mother cat, a stray, leads her family of kittens, who do not know yet that they are strays, in and out among the garbage cans that line the foot of this hotel and of the restaurants next door. But the morning wears on and the city begins to hustle. By half past eleven this morning, the pigeons and the cats had gone from the parking lot, and cars had parked there, and the restaurants up and down the street were busy getting ready for the lunchtime rush.

  I have two very big rooms up here on the eleventh floor — two big, shapely, spacious rooms, with folding doors between them. The ceilings are high, and the walls are so thick that I never hear a sound from inside the building. From outside I hear many sounds. I hear the cats and the pigeons and the cars, and I hear church bells, fire engines, garbage machines and the unearthly clatter of garbage cans, horses’ hooves, radio music, singing, voices shouting, calling, laughing, denouncing, and screaming, glass breaking, airplanes, hammering, rain, the trombone-playing, and the roar of Broadway. Then today, at eleven-thirty, I heard some other music — the music of a very small band — and the tune being played was small and sweet and noticeably free: elfin music. The music came from Broadway, and I felt sorry for myself, because I thought that there must be a parade going on and that I would have only a glimpse of it as it passed the corner of Forty-eighth Street. But the music came closer, and then, at the western side of the parking lot, a man came slowly into view. He wore a dark blue suit and a military cap of the same blue. He was the band. The drum was strapped in front of him, and balanced on it was a plate for people to throw money into. The cymbal was fastened to his left side, and he clashed it with something fastened to the inside of his left arm. The trumpet, the drumstick, and all the small pieces of his equipment were attached to him by strings, and the reason he moved so slowly was that he had almost no legs. His legs had been cut off far above the knee, but he had enough power left in them to work his way along in what was not a walk but an adamant advance, and, all the time, he played. He looked very small. He banged the drum and blew the trumpet and clashed the cymbals and piped on a little pipe, but although the street was fairly busy, nobody gave him any attention that I could see, and nobody gave him any money. He appeared as indifferent to those around him as they were to him and his music, but as he moved along he kept turning his head to look into the parking lot. He was very much interested in the parking lot. He examined it. He looked it over. He seemed to be considering it. Maybe he wa
s only doing what we often do when we are alone in public: hide our faces by pretending an interest in whatever presents itself — anything, as long as it cannot stare back. I do not know. Suddenly a car drove into the parking lot at such high speed that when it stopped, the brakes screamed horribly, but before it stopped, as it hurtled across the sidewalk, it came so close to the musician’s back that I was sure it had brushed him. I got a fright, but the musician showed no sign of fright, or anxiety, or anger — not a sign of interest. He continued banging the drum, clashing the cymbal, blowing the trumpet; his music never faltered. Imperturbable, he advanced along his way and passed out of my sight behind the little houses just below me. His blithe, innocent music grew fainter and then faded, and I couldn’t hear him anymore. I thought he might turn around and come back to Broadway this way, but he did not come back — at least, not while I waited.

  OCTOBER 21, 1967

  Mr. Sam Bidner and His Saxophone

  NOT one man of the amiable company having dinner together at the Adano Restaurant on New Year’s Eve held a lower rank than captain. There were Captain James Ancona, Captain Mickey Fields, Captain Joe Linder, Captain Bob Freed, and Captain Tom Shaw. Then there were Assistant Maître d’ Eddie Femine, Maître d’ Gigi, Night Manager Harry Spector, Banquet Manager Sonny Dall, Stage Manager Ernie D’Amato, Musical Director Sammy Fields (show music), Musical Director Sammy Bidner (dance music), Manager Henry Tobias, and Page Jack Hunter, who wore his page uniform, all buttons. These men constituted all the big brass of the Latin Quarter, and they were strengthening themselves at the Adano before going back to their own glittering palace to face the fiercest night of the year in the biggest night club in New York City. It was a snowy evening, not very cold — one of those nights when the Empire State Building smokes with light. And it was very early, not yet six o’clock. At that hour, the groups of people patrolling Broadway and the Broadway area nearly all included little children, who were being treated to their last glimpse of Christmas lights and Christmas trees before having their last dinner of the Old Year and going home to sleep the New Year in. At the Adano, the men from the Latin Quarter were eating their heads off. They started out with fish salad and went on to antipasto — stuffed mushrooms, roasted peppers, artichoke hearts in olive oil, pickled mushrooms, and more. Then they had green salad, linguine with lobster sauce, yards of Italian bread (both brown and white), cheesecake, and coffee. There were also two orders of linguine with white clam sauce, one order of spaghetti with meatballs, one order of veal scallopini with lemon sauce, a great many orders of lobster Fra Diavolo, and two orders of steak. The men all drank Italian wine. They were a handsome crowd, too alert-looking to be called worldly and too worldly-looking not to be called worldly. They sat together at a long table that had been arranged down the center of the room for them, and they all wore dark clothes — business suits or tuxedos — except Mr. Eddie Femine and Mr. Sammy Bidner. Mr. Femine, who is tall and debonair, wore a beige turtleneck, and Mr. Bidner wore a sporty-looking houndstooth-checked jacket with vents at the sides. Mr. Bidner had brought a small saxophone with him, and he played it every time he stood up from his place, halfway down the long table. He stood up very often. Some of his colleagues were late, and every time a new arrival walked in from the street, Mr. Bidner went forward to serenade him. Mr. Bidner walks very lightly and quickly, and he appears to move without making a sound, as though he remained always an inch or so above the ground and could make a complete turn, or two or three complete turns, without changing his posture or his expression and without losing a note of his music. I think he could move quickly backward for a long time without ever needing to look over his shoulder. He has beetling black eyebrows, and the expression of his eyes preserves the same high intensity whether he is looking at a stranger or talking with a friend or making a minute examination of some mysterious point in the near distance. He seems to look through what is present in the room but not beyond it. When he is not playing his saxophone, his expression is self-contained and at the same time conspiratorial. He appears to live at a high rate of speed, perhaps because he moves so softly. When he plays he crouches slightly, and when he is not playing he stands back ready to begin playing again. He is either playing or not playing, and his restless, attentive eyes give no sign of what he sees or of what he notices, and no sign of what he is thinking. His hairdo is Dickensian. Above his huge black eyebrows his bald pate shines round and unashamed, but he has a thick fringe of black hair around the sides and back of his head. Along the edges of the room, by the walls, ordinary Adano customers were sitting here and there having dinner, and Mr. Bidner went to each table and played a request tune. Anything he was asked for he played with all his might. There was a balloon master present. Mr. Ernie D’Amato can blow balloons into any shape he pleases: dogs, cats, giraffes — even automobiles, I suppose. Some of us at the Adano would have liked to see a balloon animal being made, but we had not brought any balloons with us, and Mr. D’Amato’s tuxedo had just come back from the cleaners; his pockets were empty — no balloons. He could only smile regretfully, a toymaker on holiday. That was a busy table. The Adano waiters, who usually move about at an ordinary pace, flew up and down the room so fast that they were like shadows of themselves, and the dinner seemed to be still going on when suddenly it was all over and the party began to break up as the men started back to take up their posts at the Latin Quarter. They went out in twos and threes, all smiling and cheerful, no complaints. Everybody had had a very good dinner. It was still snowing out, but from the Adano to the Latin Quarter is a short distance — along Forty-eighth Street and across Seventh Avenue to where the big night club stands on its own small private island between Seventh and Broadway. Assistant Maître d’ Eddie Femine stayed behind to check the bill. He stood at the bar, reading carefully, while Joe Pariante, night manager of the Adano, watched him. Mr. Femine was very quiet until he came to one item, which caused him to raise his head and look disagreeably at Joe Pariante. “Two dollars a portion! Who do you think you are?” he yelled, and then, laughing like a television maniac, he went back to his careful checking. It was Mr. Femine’s little joke. He was pretending to be an ordinary customer. Behind the bar, Bob, who looks imperturbable whether he is smiling or serious, smiled. When the bill was paid, Eddie Femine congratulated Joe Pariante on the food, the wine, the service, and the atmosphere, and wished him a Happy New Year, and left. He was the last of the Latin Quarter crowd to go, and when Josephine, the hat-check lady, had seen him out she sat down in the end booth and beamed. “Weren’t they nice?” she said. “Weren’t they nice?” Every Adano customer gets two warm welcomes from Josephine — one welcome on arrival, one on departure. For New Year’s Eve she wore a black-and-silver tunic dress and her hair was newly rinsed with Miss Clairol’s Moongold. With all the Latin Quarter crowd gone, the Adano seemed very quiet. Joe Pariante leaned against the bar and allowed himself to look wild-eyed for a minute, but the telephone rang and he had to answer it. He came back to say, “A party from Radio City Music Hall wants a table for ten at nine-thirty. That was Freddie Pasqualone calling.” His was the last reservation accepted. The Adano was booked up until midnight. It was going to be a big evening, but not yet. The clock said a quarter to seven. There was plenty of time. The waiters began walking around at their ordinary speed, and soon the tables that had been put together for the big party were separated and dressed up with fresh linen and glasses and silver. The Adano stopped looking as though New Year’s Eve were over and began looking like itself again. Joe Pariante remembered that some of the fish salad was left, and that he wanted to show it around. Fish salad is not on the menu at the Adano. It was specially ordered by the Latin Quarter ahead of time. Shrimp, scungilli, calamari, and octopus, cut up into small pieces, with lemon, oil, garlic, and red-seeded hot pepper — that is fish salad, and it looks delicious. When it had been admired and exclaimed over, Joe took the dish to the window refrigerator, where people going by on the street can see bottles of wine, a basket
of pears and apples and grapes, and antipasto, red and green.

  It was still snowing out. Forty-eighth Street in that block is a musicians’ street, with a great many shops selling musical instruments and sheet music, and then there are practice studios and teachers’ studios. Diagonally across from the Adano, the second-floor window of Frank Wolf Drummers’ Supplies was dimly lighted to show glittering tinsel scattered across a row of drums of different colors and sizes — there were a royal blue drum, a pale blue drum, a turquoise drum, and a pink drum, and two gold drums, one bright and shining and one in dull gold. Through the snow and the darkness, the little window of drums and tinsel looked like a still life of New Year’s Eve. It would be nice to think that all those men from the Latin Quarter would come back to the Adano next New Year’s Eve and have exactly the same dinner and make the same jokes, and that Mr. Sammy Bidner would play his saxophone around the room again. But next New Year’s Eve there won’t be a Forty-eighth Street. A number of houses are already down, and on weekdays the street is filled with that choking white wreckers’ dust. Forty-eighth Street is going, going. Office Space must be served, but somebody should write a Lament for Forty-eighth Street — a cheerful lament, because Forty-eighth has always been a cheerful street. And who, by the way, is Freddie Pasqualone? Freddie Pasqualone is a member of the Radio City Music Hall Symphony Orchestra. He plays the trumpet.