Mary puts our cups in the sink and then opens a low cupboard. Instead of pots and pans it has stacks of records in it. She pulls out West Side Story and then I see there’s a record player on a side table. What d’you know? A record player in the kitchen! This Left Bank style of living has its advantages.
“I sit down here and eat and play records while I do my homework,” says Mary, which sounds pretty nice.
I ask her if she has any Belafonte, and she says, “Yes, a couple,” but she puts on something else. It’s slow, but sort of powerful, and it makes you feel kind of powerful yourself, as if you could do anything.
“What’s that?” I ask.
“It’s called ‘The Moldau’—that’s a river in Europe. It’s by a Czech named Smetana.”
I wander around the kitchen and look out the window. The wind’s still howling, but not so hard. I remember the ocean, all gray and powerful, spotted with whitecaps. I’d like to be out on it.
“You know what’d be fun?” I say out loud. “To be out in a boat on the harbor today. If you didn’t sink.”
“We could take the Staten Island ferry,” Mary says.
“Huh?” I hadn’t even thought there was really any boat we could get on. “Really? Where do you get it?”
“Down at Sixty-ninth Street and Fourth Avenue. It’s quite a ways. I’ve always gone there in a car. But maybe we could do it on bikes, if we don’t freeze.”