In the end he found himself alone without knowing exactly how it had come about. I must be getting drunk! he thought hopefully. But no! the surroundings were still bitten into his consciousness as with acid. The trees of Union Square, misshapen like rickety children, and tragic in the bareness of November; the ugly statue of Lincoln on the corner that he had passed a thousand times without ever seeing it; the green electric cars creeping like worms around the double curve; and that endless, dingy press of people that shuffled back and forth on the south side of Fourteenth street every night in the year. Such dulled and flaccid faces! Why were they deader than the faces on other streets? Why did they crowd together on the one sidewalk, leaving the other empty?
Wilfred went east on Fourteenth street. That stretch of Fourth avenue between Union Square and Cooper Square was devoted after nightfall to the traffic in which he was resolved to share. He turned into Fourth avenue with a wildly beating heart. It was not crowded here; just a few figures furtively veering and hauling on their way. The shop windows were dark, except those of the dazzling saloons on every corner.
Wilfred’s tongue clave to the roof of his mouth. How can I choose when I’m so shaky? he thought. What do you say to them at first, anyway? What a pitiful fool I should appear if I tried to address one with a thick tongue! I’ll never be able to go through with it! . . . You shall go through with it! Wilfred perceived a young woman approaching, with her eyes fixed on him. In blind panic he stopped, and made believe to be attracted by something in a shop window. It was a cobbler’s window, quite dark, with nothing in it but a row of run-over shoes to be mended.
An arm was slipped through Wilfred’s arm, and a voice murmured in his ear: “Hello, sweetheart!” Wilfred turned a pair of terrified eyes. She was not bad-looking; a Greek girl perhaps; dark and opulent. Her face was not painted. Her glance was fairly open—at least she had not the leer that Wilfred so dreaded. He felt himself like putty in her experienced hands, and was relieved. This is not as bad as I expected; he thought. A price was named, and certain conditions laid down. This part seemed very unreal.
The next thing Wilfred knew, he was being shepherded up a steep straight flight of stairs over a saloon. There was a red carpet on the stairs, sooty on the edges, and worn threadbare in the middle. At the top of the steps stood a desk; a dog-eared hotel register lay upon it. A young waiter appeared from somewhere; and collecting a dollar from Wilfred, shoved the register towards him to be signed. Wilfred wondered about the waiter. A fellow his own age. Though his white suit was much soiled, he was not uncomely, with his stiff blond hair sticking up on his crown like a schoolboy’s.
The waiter whisked them into a bedroom close at hand, and shut the door. Wilfred drew a long breath to steady himself. There he was alone in a bedroom with a woman he had never seen until five minutes before, and who was already preparing to reveal herself. How amazing! One swift glance around, and the common room was photographed on his brain forever. The cheap yellow bureau just inside the door, where Wilfred stood frozen, one hand resting upon it. He could see himself from the outside as if the eyes of his soul were suspended under the ceiling. Stretched across under the window, the bed, because there was no other possible place for it; in the corner behind Wilfred, the washstand; two chairs—all of the same ugly yellow wood. The bed was covered with a soiled white spread which still bore a significant impress in the middle. Wilfred wondered if the impress was still warm.
Wishing to do the thing in good style, he had ordered drinks; and they were now brought; cocktails with a red cherry in the bottom of each glass. Wilfred looked at the young waiter again. He put the tray on the bureau, and departed without looking at Wilfred. He had an extraordinarily inscrutable air; he had taught himself to see nothing; to give nothing away. What a queer job for a lad, popping in and out of the bedrooms! Wilfred wondered if he had ever been out in the country. How many rooms were there in the place? All occupied no doubt. He listened.
He indicated one of the drinks to his companion. He would not carry it to her, for fear of betraying the trembling of his hand.
“Much obliged, fella,” she said politely, “but I don’t indulge. Drink ’em both yourself. You kin understand if I drank with every fella, I’d be paralyzed before morning.”
Good God! thought Wilfred. “How many?” he asked involuntarily.