Circles of Confusion (11 page)

In Portland each building was clearly separated from the next, but here the buildings presented a seamless facade. She finally found the address she was looking for in tinv gold leaf numbers on a pair of dirty glass doors. One of the doors was held together with silver duct tape. Inside, three threadbare and dirty carpeted stairs led up to the lobby. Taking advantage of the shelter, an old woman stood at the bottom of the stairs, blowing on her clenched fists. At her feet were a cluster of tattered shopping bags. Being careful not to make eye contact, Claire edged past her and into the lobby, which was decorated in seventies harvest gold and burnt orange. Between her and the front desk were three more transients, young men in stained clothing. A young Chinese man was trying to shoo them outside.

Claire desperately wanted to go someplace else, but where could she go? If the Farthingale was sold out, other hotels probably were, too. And if she went back outside she would be all alone on the street with the three transients, who were finally leaving the hotel. If it was just for one night, Claire decided, she could probably survive here. Behind the bulletproof glass that surrounded the front counter, a bored Chinese woman watched her, smoking a cigarette. For the seventy-dollar charge, Claire signed a hundred-dollar traveler's check and pushed it through the cupped slot.

"ID." The woman looked at her, unsmiling. It was hard for Claire to understand her through the circular silver grate.

"What?"

"Two pieces ID."

Claire had never used a traveler's check before, but this certainly seemed a far cry from the simple matching of signatures the American Express paperwork had promised. She slipped the woman her driver's license and a credit card, and with a sullen expression the woman copied every piece of information from the two cards onto the check. She finally slid hack Claire's ID. along with sixteen crumpled ones, two quarters and two dimes.

"I thought it was seventy dollars." Claire protested.

"Tax. Tax nineteen percent." The woman exhaled a cloud of white smoke that completely filled the space between her and the glass.

Claire was filled with a humming nervous exhaustion, too tired to argue, too tired to care if she was being duped. Flushed from his success with the transients, the young man bounded over to take the key the young woman slid to him and then the bag from Claire's slack hand,

"Show to your room," he said.

The elevator smelled of urine, a thought Claire carefully denied when it entered her mind. It had been inexpertly re-carpeted with what looked like a garish polyester blanket—a huge red and black plaid pattern, the material already matted and pilled. The carpet been cut slightly larger than the floor, so that the edges curled up against the scarred wooden walls.

They exited into a dimly lit hallway carpeted with the same material as the elevator. Claire picked her way around the bubbles of air that had been trapped underneath. Finally, the bellboy turned the key in the lock of a room at the end of the hall. He opened the door and motioned her ahead of him.

The room was tiny, but he gamely went through the motions, waving one arm around the darkened room as if he were showing her a grand suite, even opening the doors to the tiny bathroom and minuscule closet. None of the lights seemed to be working, but his smile only grew wider each time he flicked a switch and was met with no response. Finally one worked, and he grinned at her, white teeth under flat eyes. "Mood lighting!" he announced cheerfully. He turned on the TV and began to flip through the snowy channels until he found an ice skating competition. Satisfied, he stepped back to regard the oddly fluorescent colors. Behind his head a huge insect that Claire guessed must be a cockroach was crawling up the wall. She was relieved when he left her alone.

It was only after he was gone that she noticed the old newspapers lying in a corner, the toilet that never stopped running, and the sink that gushed forth brown water, even after five minutes. She decided against brushing her teeth and took out Aunt Cady's diary instead. But she read only a page or two before falling asleep.

***

June 22, 1945

Al and Rudy have become friends, which has surprised me a little. Maybe I didn't really know who Al was in high school, or maybe it's more that I still don't know Rudy, not really. Al, like Rudy, is a fixer who knows how much everything is worth on the open market, not the black market exactly, but certainly a gray one. Al's taught himself all the useful words in German, like "chocolate" and "girl" and "liquor" and "gold" and "gun." He's told me that all the Nazi paraphernalia, banned now, will be worth money someday, so he's busy collecting it up. The Germans, who of course were only members of the Party because they were forced to be, have been happy to trade SS rings and flags bearing the broken cross for something really useful, like bread.

I remember Al from my social studies class, where he didn't seem that bright. He just sat in the back passing notes to his friends. Whereas I was good in school and have never . fit in in the real world. I know boundaries of countries that don't exist any more. My A's in social studies and typing didn't prepare me for much except to work for Harold.

Al has managed to get Rudy assigned to the same post, and today I got to see the place they spend their time guarding, the storeroom where the Army keeps everything we've seized. It's considered a plum assignment, since Al and Rudy don't do much behind the closed door except play with an ivory and ebony chess set that was confiscated f rom one of the Nazi party leaders. If the brass stops by, of course they jump to attention.

While I knew theoretically about what was in the storehouse—I've been typing up the records for weeks—it was still simply amazing to see it all. Pictures leaning in stacks against the walls, sacks full of coins and jewelry, complete sets of silver and china lined up on tops of furniture or stacked on the floor, vases, linens, ornaments, clocks and watches, crystal goblets, silk sheets. There was everything from children's toys to books to statues.

Harold wanted to pick out a few pictures for his office, and I went with him. Al nodded at me, but Rudy and I were careful not to even make eye contact. While the only ban is on officers dating enlisted women, Rudy likes his secrets.

Harold selected two landscapes. He asked me my opinion. I thought they were both boring and told him they were exquisite, especially the one with the cow. Rudy and Al saluted while Harold walked out with them. When I was looking at the list today, I noticed that neither of the pictures seems to be on there, so I wonder if they will ever be returned.

Harold has acquired a "source," which sounds better than a "spy," his red-headed Elvira, who has two fat little cheeks above her fur collar. Clearly she had more than acorn soup to eat during the last months of the war. Her official purpose is to report on the populace's mood, if any coups are afoot, that sort of thing. Which explains why her stipend is triple what I make. I know because I type up the invoices.

In the middle of the night the heat went out. Claire woke to the sounds of the city, of traffic and sirens and people shouting on the street below. It was then that she realized that the air conditioner did not fit within the window, leaving a two-inch gap through which all the forty-degree air in New York City was attempting to enter her room.

1DRKNYT

In the morning, Claire persuaded a clerk at the Farthingale to hold her bags until she could check in. She had already burned her bridges by checking out of the Ford, which had looked even more frightening in daylight.

For breakfast, she walked to a diner on the corner, carrying her backpack with the painting inside. The sight of the tall buildings that lined the street, faced in glass and steel and stone, squeezed her heart. Far above her, the sky was a bright, cloudless blue, but the sun had not yet penetrated the concrete canyons. Claire zipped up the collar on her Polartec jacket. Streams of cars and bright yellow taxis filled the street, none of them, as far as she could tell, using turn signals or obeying stoplights. Even when the Walk signal came on, she was forced to half run across the street. Outside the diner, a skinny black homeless man was opening the door for patrons. Claire squeezed by him nervously, seeing too late the Styrofoam cup he held ready to catch whatever was given for this service.

She sat at the long red ribbon of counter that rippled in and out to form several promontories. The two men across from her were speaking in German. They were smoking cigarettes, a fact that would normally have annoyed Claire, but here seemed simply part of the ambiance of the city, One of the men ordered a latte. It looked good so she followed suit, even though it bore no resemblance to the lattes served in Portland. It was served in an oversized coffee cup and lacked a heap of foam on the top. Even so, it tasted heavenly.

She left a tip for the waitress, using Charlie's suggested method of an amount double the sales tax. On the way out the door, Claire was careful to make her good luck offering, dropping four quarters into the white cup with teeth marks around the rim.

Avery's was on the corner of 61st Street and Park Avenue, or, Claire had calculated over breakfast, just twenty blocks away. Charlie had told her that even though it was 150 years old, Avery's was considered a relative upstart when compared to Sotheby's and Christie's. Claire hoped they wouldn't be as snooty as she could easily imagine the other two being.

Walking there seemed like the easiest choice. Charlie's tiny map, cut from page 56 of Fodor's Guide to Manhattan on $75 a Day, showed the city laid out in an uncomplicated grid. Claire need only walk in a straight line, make a few ninety-degree turns, and she would easily reach her destination. It would be a good way to get her exercise, and was certainly preferable to alternative means of transportation. Taxis would be too expensive. Buses would probably follow some arcane route. The subway system was too intimidating. Claire was afraid of climbing down underneath the city. She'd seen too many movies where people were assaulted on an empty subway car rattling through the darkness, or were pushed onto the third rail.by a recently released mental patient. And there was another, more likely possibility—what if she boarded the wrong train and ended up in the Bronx? Walking was the best choice.

It soon became clear that what passed for blocks in New York stretched for what seemed a quarter-mile. The blocks that ran east to west were twice as long as the blocks that ran north to south, making them seem even longer by comparison. The other women she saw, clearly natives used to the hikes needed to get from one place to the next, were dressed all in black except for white athletic shoes and socks. Claire's outfit of cream sweater, tan pants and a Polartec jacket patterned with moss green leaves was more exotic than she had intended. On her feet were beige Aerosole flats, which she was beginning to wish were her Nikes.

At least the city offered plenty of distractions. Yellow taxis tore through the street. White steam wafted mysteriously from manholes. A rat looked at her from its perch on a garbage bin. A woman sold jewelry from a tiny table and a man offered books spread out on a blanket. At every corner, Claire was stranded curbside as she waited obediently for Don't Walk signs to change while packs of fast-moving natives surged past her.

Claire felt intensely alive, aware of every sensation in a way she never was in Portland. The wind pressed gently against her back, scudding bits of paper in little wind devils that mirrored her thoughts. What would happen at Avery's? Maybe Evan was right and they would laugh at her, tell her it was a paint-by-numbers job. To take her mind off her nervousness, she used her old running trick and picked a person to mimic. First it was a young woman in a short black dress, black tights and lime green Doc Martens with white top- stitching. She walked fast, keeping her hips in a straight line, elbows pistoning. By the time she entered an office building two blocks later, Claire had her slightly pigeon-toed stride down flat. In succession, she learned the smooth shuffle of a man wearing a black hat and ear- locks, the hitching stride of an older woman, the gentle sway of an Indian mother in a bright orange sari. Her game occupied her mind so well that Claire was a little surprised when she arrived at Avery's.

From the outside, the auction house was luxuriously understated, a pale gray-colored stucco building with an arched doorway set in gleaming bronze that was echoed by smaller arched windows. An American flag flew over the front display window, which was divided into nine squares like a shadow box, each showing a catalog for an upcoming auction.

Inside, a uniformed security guard was talking to a woman who leaned from the half-door of a coat check filled with the gloss and shine of leather and fur. To the right was a set of granite stairs, to the left an elevator.

Claire tried to look confident as she approached the guard. "Where do I go if I have something I want to have appraised?"

"And you have an appointment with ... ?"

Claire flushed. She should have realized that despite what the antique dealer had said, she just couldn't waltz in off the street and expect to be seen. This was the kind of place that sultans and queens and people with old family money went to. Not someone who had a painting that had spent the last fifty years under the bed in a trailer park in White City, Oregon.

"I—I don't have one," she said, already turning to go.

The guard held up a restraining hand, a smile transforming him from a faceless man in a uniform to a good-looking young man in his twenties. "That's okay. You don't have to have one. You might have to wait a few minutes, that's all. Just go on up the stairs and tell someone at the front counter what you have. They'll get someone out to take a look at it for you."