Tomorrow would be hard again. A long day, with the stacks of trays and the heavy dishes and the miles of running around the big kitchen, with the old Italian barking at him and the waiters pushing him and cursing him. But he could not go to bed.
He rested his forehead on the book. The heat bathed his face. It felt good. It made him forget the cold wind outside and the grey and gritty buildings. It felt like the sun. The island sun that warmed him as he worked with his father in the fields. Down the long rows side by side, with the sound of the sea far away and the shrill voices of his sisters coming faintly across the valley.
The tears came again. He could not stop them. But this time as they came, he heard music. Singing. A man singing. Faintly, like the sound of his sisters far away. It was in English. It was not a song he had ever heard on the Sebastiano's radio. It was not one from the juke box at El Puerto, uptown. It was a small voice, a gentle voice, and he liked it. Once or twice he caught a word he knew.
He sat there with his head bowed forward, the rug wrapped around him, crying for the sun and listening to the singing in his head.
The secretary was nice to him. He could tell she had heard of him. Not heard him. She was too young. But heard of him. Well, small favors. She called him Mr. Richie, which nobody in Hollywood would have done.
Feldt was nice, too. Up from his chair, hand out. Some of them just sat there and let you come to them. But he had that same quick, searching look as they shook hands.
"Sixty-three," Van Richie said.
Feldt smiled but did not quite blush. "I figured it had to be around that. For what it's worth, you don't look it."
"Thanks." Richie sat down. Feldt returned to his chair behind the desk.