Passenger(11)

“You’re an odd duck.”

“Well,” I say, “go ahead. Ask it. We’ll see what happens.”

She says, “How would you feel if I told you I’m married?”

While the question stuns me, I also feel a sense of relief. My mouth is dry; beads of sweat roll down my ribs.

“I don’t mind,” I say. “Why would I mind?”

She drops the pen in my lap and watches as I rewrite the address on my left palm. I mutter, more to myself than her, “I’m right handed.”

“I see that. What are you writing?”

“My address.”

“Shouldn’t you be writing that on my hand?”

“It’s a long story. And I’m afraid I don’t know any of it yet.”

“You are a mystery man.” Again she touches the top of my head. This time more sensual, slower. “You wanna get out of here, hon?”





FIVE





Time, like my memory, is lost.

We arrive at the St. Paul Street apartment in the early hours of morning before the sun has time to rise. An eerie radiance burns up along the horizon from the east and, in the foreground, the formidable brownstones and tenements rise like the smokestacks of sunken battleships. As we walk, Patrice runs her fingers along the fencing that serves as a barrier to the construction site along the street, and briefly, pauses over a grate in the sidewalk. Shoes hollow and scuffing on the pavement. She leans against the placard that reads hanely construction. Cars slide soundlessly through the intersection. The green bulbs in the traffic lights appear blue. It is the time of morning when you think all time has paused and everything is standing still. Mounting the steps to the apartment building, Patrice nearly stumbles and requires assistance—an arm at the small of her back—to climb to the top.

“You live here?” she says. “These are nice apartments. What do you do?”

“I don’t know,” I tell her, and she laughs.

The stairs moan as we campaign to the third floor. Immediately, I spot a newspaper outside one of my neighbor’s doors. I gather it up and fold it under one arm while producing the key to my own door.

“You’re a thief,” Patrice whispers, very close to my face. I can still smell the perfume and the cigarette smoke on her, but those smells are overshadowed by the stronger scent of alcohol.

In the apartment, Patrice walks in slow revolutions about the main room, in awe over the lack of things to be in awe about.

She says, “You have nothing, Mozart. No pictures on the walls, no furniture, no little yapping dog at the door. Did you just move in?”

“Yes.”

“Recently?”

“Today, in fact,” I say. And for all I know, this is the complete truth.

“No books, no stereo, no clocks tick-tick-ticking on the walls.” She sounds almost sad in her recital. “Where is all your stuff?”

Because I am tired of saying I do not know, I lie and tell her all my belongings are still in storage.

“So you’re new to Baltimore?”

“Sure.”

“I knew it! Because I knew you didn’t look familiar.” Something about this makes her laugh. She seems glad. “I knew you were a stranger.”

“Tell me about it.”

“Do you have anything to drink?”

“Sorry. No.”

“Not even a bottle of wine?”

“No.”

“Not scotch? Not whiskey?”

“I’m sorry.”

“So sad.” She staggers through the room and leans against the wall of the hallway. An exhaustive release of heavy breath rushes up her throat. Suddenly, in the half-light, she looks ancient. A strong gust of wind would reduce her to rubble. “This whole city burns. It’s lava, molten lava. Did you know?” She’s drunk and doesn’t know what she’s saying. “Towering inferno. Be kind, be kind.”

I set my key down on the table beside the front door. I set the newspaper down, too, and flatten out the front page, smoothing it with my hands. December 2. There will be a local section, a metro section. Faintly, I wonder if I will come across my face in any articles—local man mugged and left for dead in the street. But, no—that would have involved the police. And the police wouldn’t have shoved me onto a bus with no memory of who I am or what had happened to me. Unless, of course, I still had my memory at the time…

The police. It is like an audible bolt sliding into a lock in my brain. The police can take my fingerprints. They will know my identification.

If, of course, I have been fingerprinted in the past.

The police.

I nearly laugh, I am suddenly so relieved. You can’t stay lost forever, I realize. No one can be a stranger for very long.

“Come here,” Patrice growls, still propped against the wall. She looks sloppy and dark. What the hell is she even doing here? I feel myself waiting to shout at her, scream at the top of my lungs for her to get the hell out. But I don’t. I am thinking about the police, fingerprinting and the police, and something is swimming around in the back of my skull. Headfish.

We are both too drunk to make sense of anything. I go to her and she is quick to pull my face to hers. We kiss, and it is a messy affair. Her mouth tastes like an ashtray and her tongue is overly forceful in accessing my mouth. I feel warm breath from her nose on my upper lip.