Three Bedrooms in Manhattan Read Free Page A

lot about the two of them, but only in pieces he couldn’t quite fit together. That J.K.C. was a painter. That Winnie lived in Boston.
    What did she do? Why did she always come to New York on Friday nights, and only on Friday nights? Why didn’t she ever stay the whole weekend? Well, of course there were jobs where people had different days off. She came by taxi, probably from the train station, just before eight. Always the same time, give or take a few minutes—that’s what made him think she’d arrived by train.
    At first her voice would be shrill and piercing. She had two voices. He could hear her, bustling about, speaking with the animation of someone who was just stopping by.
    They ate dinner in the studio. Like clockwork the meal was delivered from an Italian restaurant in the neighborhood fifteen minutes before she arrived.
    J.K.C. spoke little, his voice muffled. Despite the thinness of the walls, it was impossible to make out what he was saying, apart from a word or two on those nights when he called Boston.
    And why did he never call before midnight, and often not until long after one?
    â€œHello … long distance?”
    Then Combe knew that it would go on for hours. “Boston” he could recognize but not the name of the exchange. Then the name “Winnie” and a surname starting with a p , an o , an l . He never caught the last few letters.
    Then the endless hushed whispering.
    It drove Combe out of his mind, but less so than these Fridays. What did they drink with their dinner? Something strong—at least for Winnie, since her voice quickly turned throaty and deep.
    How could she let herself lose control the way she did? He had never imagined passion of such violence, such unrestrained animality.
    And J.K.C., faceless, remained calm, self-possessed, speaking in a level, almost patronizing voice.
    After each new outburst she drank again; she shouted for something to drink. He pictured the studio in shambles, glasses shattered on the black floor.
    This time he’d gone out without waiting for what always came next, the frantic comings and goings from the bathroom, the hiccupping, the vomiting, the tears. And, finally, that unending wail of a sick animal or a hysterical woman.
    Why did he keep thinking about her? Why had he gone out? He had promised himself that one morning he’d be there in the hallway or on the stairs when she left. But every time, she managed to get up at seven sharp. She didn’t need an alarm clock. She didn’t bother to wake her friend. Combe never heard them talking in the morning.
    Stray sounds from the bathroom, perhaps a kiss on the forehead for the man lying asleep, then she opened the door and slipped out. He imagined her searching briskly for a taxi to take her back to the station.
    What did she look like in the morning? Could you make out the night’s traces on her face, in her sagging shoulders, her hoarse voice?
    That was the woman he wanted to see—not the one who got off the train, brimming with self-confidence, who then showed up at the studio as if she was just dropping in on some friends.
    He wanted to see the woman at daybreak, when she went off alone, leaving the man asleep, selfish, stupefied, his damp forehead grazed by her lips.
    He came to a corner that seemed vaguely familiar. A club was closing. The last customers were out on the sidewalk, waiting in vain for a taxi. On the corner two men who’d been drinking were finding it hard to say good-bye. They shook hands, pulled apart, then immediately turned back for a final confidence or renewed protestations of friendship.
    Combe, too, looked like he’d been in a bar, not like someone who’d just gotten up.
    But he hadn’t been drinking. He was sober. He hadn’t been out listening to jazz. He’d spent the night in the desert of his bed.
    A subway station, black and metallic, stood in the middle of the intersection. At last a yellow cab