Horns again. A cop waving him on. God, he was tired. His eyes. Edith wanted him to get glasses.
"... clearing, with some cloudiness. Wind from the north ..." Van Richie singing.
Why are they always digging up Ninth Avenue? Maybe Eleventh would be better. Crazy taxis. Look at that nut, cutting in and out.
Van Richie?
He twisted the dial. "Wheat was off but cotton was higher...." "Our love came much too soo-oo-oon!" "Next news at 10:30...." "Real, unfiltered tobacco flavor...."
He had heard him, though. He was sure of it. He told Edith about it when he got home. She said he was crazy. Van Richie had retired long ago.
The book had pictures of things he knew, with the English names beneath them. Each word was spelled the way it was pronounced. With the rug wrapped around him and the book spread on top of the radiator, Gabriel Sangre said the word aloud, slowly, trying to remember what Miss Alvirez had said: where the mark was, was louder.
He was hungry. But he did not eat. What was left in the window-sill box had to last until Friday.
"Chay-r." "Tay-bel." "Kow-ch." He shivered, forcing his knees between the uprights of the radiator. In bed, he knew, he would be warmer. But also he would fall asleep. He wanted to finish the lesson. He did not want to disappoint Miss Alvirez.