The Lonely Hearts Hotel(73)

The piano player was as good as Mimi had said. She realized that most of the audience members were there to listen to him and not to see the film.

It seemed that the strange black-and-white people on the screen were really dancing to his playing. And that if he played a different tune, they would act in an entirely different manner. If he didn’t play fast enough, they wouldn’t be able to escape their captors. His hands would fly up at the end, and she could see them up above the heads in the front row. She hadn’t heard anybody play the piano in a way that pleased her in a very long time.

Toward the end of the film, the pianist began to play a slow, lighthearted tune when the heroine and the sailor finally fall in love. Rose knew that tune. She recognized it. How could she not? She wanted to get up and dance.

It was the tune Pierrot used to play when they went to the rich people’s houses. All the old people used to dance to that song. Their breasts would jiggle, their jewelry would make clinking noises and they would put the palms of their hands together and make silent claps—like two pieces of bread put together.

Could she actually be in the same building as Pierrot? Were they occupying the same time and place once again? She stood up. She ran down the aisle of the theater. She hurried through the lobby and pushed her way out through the big glass doors framed with gold. She felt the rush of cold air outside. She could escape. What could there be other than disappointment? She had snubbed him years ago. He had made it clear he didn’t want anything to do with her. He had never written to her. But here he was, playing the piano in a small theater on Saint Catherine Street. Shouldn’t she at least find out if he still had a bit of affection for her? Rose was terrified. She had spent so much time looking for him. What if he didn’t care at all about her? Of course, he wouldn’t have thought about her through the years, the way she had thought of him.

? ? ?

WHEN PIERROT WALKED OUT of the cinema, there was a woman standing under the marquee, dressed in a simple black coat. She was the most beautiful woman he had ever seen and he recognized her immediately. He wanted to run up and throw his arms around her. He tried to light a cigarette, but his hands were trembling. He finally succeeded. He inhaled. He was freezing all of a sudden. Trembling violently. What if he blew this again? She might spurn him. Of course she would. Why had he been looking for her? She was too good for him. He closed his eyes and began to pray. He was afraid to approach. Pierrot waited for her to notice him.

Rose looked at her reflection in the glass of the theater front, wondering how she would appear to him. She was thinking she would go and come back another night when she was more prepared. When she knew what to say. But she couldn’t move.

Pierrot thought, She’s waiting for a lover, anyone can see that. She’s worried he won’t find her lovely. What type of fool wouldn’t find her lovely? She didn’t see him staring. Even if her lover came out of the blue and killed him, he wouldn’t care. He wanted to say hello to her again.

“Rose!”

And she turned.

“Pierrot! How did you know it was me?”

“No one in the world is so beautiful. I would know you anywhere.”

She smiled. She put her face in her hands. She had not expected a statement like that so quickly. He had always professed his love so easily.

“Thank you,” she said.

“What are you doing here?”

“Waiting for you.”

“Waiting for me!”

“I came into the movie. I recognized that tune.”

“It’s your tune. I’ve changed it so much over the years.”

“Have you? It sounded exactly the same.”

“I . . . I’ve been wanting to see you lately.”

“Really? I’ve been thinking about you too.”

“You have?”

They stood there with the snow coming down, making their shoes wet. Neither of them felt the cold. Neither of them wanted to move, in case the other disappeared. They hadn’t seen each other in six years.

“I’m sorry. Can I just hug you?”

They threw their arms around each other and stood like that, terrified of letting go, weeping into each other’s shoulders. For so many years neither of them had had a shoulder to cry on. They just wept now. They stopped for a moment and pulled away to marvel at each other’s face again. Then they hugged again and wept some more. They finally let go just to laugh. Although they didn’t know why they were laughing. Nothing was funny; it was all just so pleasurable.

? ? ?

THEY WENT TO the Little Burgundy neighborhood to go to the city’s most popular jazz club. It was run by a black man who had been a railway porter and a bootlegger. Pierrot loved the place and decided to bring Rose to it.

He hadn’t gone in a while because the music put him in such a state—it was so close to being high—that it would push him over the edge, causing him to use drugs. There was a trombone player who made him feel the rush that comes right after shooting. Once there was a touring singer who, with her eyes closed, sang about being left by her lover, and it made Pierrot feel so melancholic, he couldn’t bear it, he had to get high. Beautiful things made him sad. But now that Rose was back, wonderful things would make him happy—there could be no such thing as sadness. Sadness was nothing more than a variation on happiness.

They sat at a table in the corner and ordered a pitcher of beer. They sloshed it all over themselves as they poured it happily. The two of them were piss drunk by the time they pulled each other over to the dance floor.