The Man Who Was Left Behind (2 page)

“I’ll come with you, honey.”

“No, no, you all stay there. I’ll be fine. See you later.”

He went back to the hotel, undressed, and stayed in bed all afternoon. The cramps became worse, stopped, and began again. He tried to read a detective story and then tried to sleep. When his wife came in she said, “How are you feeling?”

“A little better. I’ve been trying to read. Where did you go?”

She told him what they had done during the day.

“I think I’d like to get up in a little while.”

“Certainly not, don’t you dare. You stay right here. I’ll stay in tonight and read up on that place we’re going to on Thursday. Darn, there goes another nail, I think it must be the climate.”

“No,” he said, “you go on out with the others, enjoy yourself. I tell you what, when you’re all ready to set out, we’ll all just go sit in the square for a few minutes and I’ll have a cup of coffee or something with you.”

“I told you it comes and goes.”

“I’d just like to get out for a little while. Then you go on with the others. No sense in staying here. Did I stay in when you were sick? Where’ve you all decided to go tonight?”

“We thought we’d go back to that nightclub where we saw the bullfighters at the next table. You know, the one with the good band.”

“That one. I remember.”

“I’ll go down and see if that man’s there behind the desk and get them to send you up some soup and crackers later on.”

“Last thing in the world I want.”

“I know, but you must. Otherwise it takes an extra day before you feel like getting on your feet again.”

“I couldn’t look it in the face. Honestly.”

“Just something light. Now don’t make a fuss,” she said, and went out.

Later, in the evening, but still light enough to see, they sat together in the square. The women were wearing silk cocktail dresses. His wife had brought a fur wrap and his daughter kept a light wool coat over her shoulders, for the nights were cooler than one would have expected. He did not talk much although the others kept up an animated conversation. They let him sit there with them without fuss, without pestering him about his health. And then they parted, he to go back to the hotel, they to continue on to the nightclub. As he walked back, he took another look into the trees. The trees in the square were like the trees and bushes in the park: if you left them they went back to jungle.

Usually the remembrance of Mexico came to an end at this point and he would leave the park or join in talk with the three tramps. His recollection seldom pushed him past that evening, and on the few times when he had gone beyond it, the pursuit of thought had not been carried out willingly; he had found himself trapped in it, immobilized. Mexico ended when he walked back to the hotel that last night.

Only sometimes, hideously quickly, he saw the rest rush past him—waking up in the morning to find that they had still not returned to the hotel. Being sick but going down to talk with the man at the desk who didn’t understand. And a friend being brought in, he gesticulating and holding his stomach, saying he was not well and he imagined at first that they were just having a late night, although now it looked as though they couldn’t have come back at all. Where had they gone? Some sort of nightclub that had a restaurant. The name, began with a
T
he thought, though maybe not, maybe that was another one, maybe it began with an
S.
If he heard the name again he’d know it. The friend of the
man at the desk said something, was that the name? Yes, that was the one. Oh señor, you will sit down please, you are not well. And he made a telephone call, and talked into the receiver for a long time. What was it, what is it, is something wrong? Please señor, one moment please, I am trying to find out. And hung up and made another call. Señor Mackenzie, I must tell you, it is on the radio this morning …

And you read about that kind of thing all the time, about earthquakes, floods, fires. This one must have started in much the same way as the great Coconut Grove fire, with the curtains catching and a panic and people trampled in the push. But this one seemed to have been more complete, since hardly anyone present in the club had suffocated in the smoke. Those who got away were bruised, in some cases had bones broken; those who did not get out, burned. The catastrophe was later to cause a tremendous furore in the press, as the survivors alleged that after the initial storming of the exits, the management issued orders that the doors should be locked so that no one could get out before paying. In a matter of weeks the case was brought to court and the staff, owners, and management acquitted. A hundred and thirty-four people died.

The hospitals (the first telephone call) had no patients of the name Mackenzie on their lists.

They took him to the nightclub. It was a hot day and people walking on the street again looked as though they were moving behind water or perhaps the waves of fire. His head felt cold and he was sweating. He staggered when he got out of the car. And inside they asked him questions. Do you recognize this woman, señor? Could this be your wife? Could this be your son? Does this look like your daughter, señor? The police were there in uniform and other people like himself, and newspapermen and a crew of men in their shirt-sleeves, removing bits of débris and
taking the bodies away in large wicker laundry baskets. There was the smell of fire. Everywhere. He kept saying, “I don’t know,” and “I can’t be sure.” And the police asked: What jewellery did your wife wear? What make of watch did your son have on? Can you describe your daughter’s engagement ring? And the young man, do you remember his watch? Yes, he had an old-fashioned pocket watch, it was his grandfather’s, he told me. “It is difficult, you understand,” said one of the policemen. “Some of the rings, they have melted.”

But they were found at last, all four; two at first, and the other two had to be identified by sending back home for dentists’ X-rays.

“Coming out, Lucky?” one of the hobos called over to him.

“Not just yet. I’ll set a spell.”

He watched the three of them go. From the houses behind the wall a smell of grease and vegetables came to him, now perceived and now not as the wind changed. The branches of the tree flapped, making a noise against the wall, and he stood up.

He thought he would have a drink.

Before he found the park and met the hobos he used to spend his days in the bars, going from one to another in that long street which was like a street that might reach all the way around the world, every bar the same and the neon lights going even in daylight. That was before he learned what made him feel at ease. He had tried to talk to people then and once picked up a woman. But when they got to the room, the walls jerked in front of him like the walls in the nightclub and he thought how stupid it was not to realize what it would be like: the sprung, creaky bed, sheets that hadn’t been changed from the time before, and the woman herself as she undressed and the clothes came away like the store wrapping on an uncooked chicken, a
large piece of meat sitting down on the bed and nothing to do with him. He got as far as removing his shirt, and he kissed her, but he did not like touching her and knew it wouldn’t work, it was a mistake to have thought it would. He finally said, “I’m sorry, I thought it would be all right. I’m too old for this kind of thing any more.” And she said, “Relax, sugar. Like they say, you’re as old as you feel. Come on, I’ll help you along.” She put her arms around his neck; he remembered a story about a girl who danced with a mechanical robot which went berserk and smashed her against the wall—this woman, made of mechanized flesh. He said no, truly, he hadn’t been feeling very well lately. “Suit yourself,” she said, lighting up a cigarette and looking mean, as if about to tell him, You’re not getting out of this room without paying me for my wasted time, mister. He put on his shirt again, gave her something for her trouble, and said he’d buy her a meal. But that had been a mistake, too. She had wanted to talk.

Now he knew, and now he could always go to the park. Before that he had gone to places and done things without knowing why—sitting in the waiting-room at the railroad station, or driving out to the airport to sit there. He knew now that he had done those things because he wanted to be where there were other people, but not to talk to any of them or to be alone with them. He liked to sit there and not have them bother him, have them go about their own business.

Dr. Hildron had seen him on the street one day, a month after the house had been sold.

“Charlie,” he said, and looked concerned.

“Doctor.”

“We don’t see much of you nowadays, Charlie. How about coming down to the club, having a round?”

“Thanks,” he said. “Everything’s packed up in storage—golf clubs, books, clothes, the furniture. I didn’t know
what to do with it all. Thought I’d just keep it there till I decide.”

“Where you living now?” the doctor asked.

“Oh, some cheap hotel. Over there.” He threw out his arm in the general direction of the hotel and began to cough. The doctor’s eyes became sharp, clearer than they had been. What does a hawk’s eye look like when it sees a sparrow down on the ground? The look that goes with professional interest is a special look, full, absorbed, riveted, almost like the look of love at first sight.

“Don’t like the sound of that cough. Why don’t you just drop in and see me about it? Wednesday? Thursday?”

“I feel fine.”

“Don’t leave a thing like that.” He wanted to know how Mr. Mackenzie was living and what he was eating and if he was still off the cigarettes. He thought he should get himself a decent place to stay, just until he made up his mind about things, and someone to look after him—a housekeeper or a cook.

“Bessie’s not earning much. She might be glad to take on the job.”

“Bessie?”

“You know,
Mrs.
Rider,” he said, and laughed.

“Oh, sure. I remember.”

Bessie worked behind the bar at the clubhouse. She was there one day when Mackenzie came in from golf with three of his friends, and he went up to her to order drinks while the others sat at a table and went over the day’s scores. “Three beers and a Coca-Cola, please—” he started, and then he forgot her name. It vanished away from him, leaving only a dark hole where it had been. All he could remember was that she was married to Spelly Rider, so he said, “Three beers and a Coca-Cola, please, Mrs. Rider.” And she seemed to get taller and glow, brighter and crisper than her white apron. “Yes
sir,
Mr. Mackenzie,” she said.
It wasn’t true that you couldn’t see coloured people blush. After that she always liked him, maybe she always had. She was a nice woman. And she had troubles, he had heard that.

“All right,” he said. “I suppose I should see about a place. Seems such a chore. Unnecessary.”

Dr. Hildron patted him on the shoulder, the hand knocking against the coat, but no warmth coming out on his body around the touched place as there used to be when someone touched him, even lightly. The doctor said he could take care of it, he’d put out a word here and a word there, and have a talk with Bessie. He looked into Mr. Mackenzie’s face, saying, “You know we haven’t forgotten you, Charlie. You shouldn’t go on like this. And I want you to make an appointment now about that——”

“Later, later. I told you, I feel all right,” he said. And he apologized for the way he was, explaining that for a little while longer he felt the need to be alone, and added that he was much obliged to the doctor for taking the trouble to see about getting the room. That was back in the days when he still said such things.

Now was different. Now was better. He learned by himself during the first four days of sitting in the park. And after that the hobos had taught him the rest.

They let him sit there for four days before they made a move. Then, while he was still in the middle of Mexico, the youngest one shambled up to him and, looking at his chest, muttered, “Cigarette, boss?” Mr. Mackenzie hadn’t heard. He was still staring at the wall. Then the man brushed him hesitantly on the sleeve. He turned his head and found the face looking at his face, doing exactly what he did: looking through.

“Got a smoke?”

“Don’t smoke,” Mackenzie said. The man turned away and went back to his bench.

That afternoon he had an appointment to see Bender
about making a will. It came about because of the telephone and the messages Bessie left for him on the table. He told her to say he was out, always. After Bender had left eight messages, he telephoned back and told Bessie next time to say he’d gone to Chicago or California or some other place and she didn’t know when he’d be back.

When he walked into the building the receptionist threw a look to the man standing by the elevators, and he walked up, his arm out to bar the way, saying gruffly, “Can I help you?” No mention of “sir”.

“Have an appointment with young Bender,” he said.

“Name?” No “please”.

“Mackenzie.”

“Just a minute.” They didn’t ask him to sit down, either. The receptionist lifted the receiver on her desk and said, “Sally Ann, there’s a man here who says his name is Mackenzie and he’s got an appointment with Mr. Bender. Would you check that, please?” She looked over his head while she waited for the answer. Then the man came back and told him, “It’s the fourth floor, turn left,” which he knew already.

He stepped into the elevator and looked at the elevator boy’s profile. Young, he couldn’t be more than twenty, good-looking, friendly looking, and stood easily. He looked very healthy. Mr. Mackenzie thought he must be new at the job and wondered how friendly, nice-looking, and healthy he would be after five years of going up and down in his little box, never breathing the air or seeing the sun.

There was a sign up in the offices on the fourth floor. It read:
If you must have a drink on your lunch hour, kindly
do not drink vodka. We would rather our clients thought you
drunk than incompetent.
A boy carrying a tray of coffee cups passed, saw him standing by the sign, and said, “That’s Mr. Buxted, he put that up—he’s a real joker.”