Chapter 25 furnished room for rent

In the area of ​​red brick houses in the south of New York's West Side, most of the residents are as unstable as time, moving and coming and going.Just because they are homeless, they can also say that they have hundreds of homes.They moved from one room to the next, ever-changing--domestically, emotionally and intellectually.They sang the pop song "Home, Sweet Home" to a jazzy tune; they carried everything away in a cardboard box; There are hundreds of such residents in this area, and there are naturally hundreds of stories that the houses in this area can tell.Most of them, of course, were dry and dull; but it would be strange not to find a ghost or two in the aftermath of so many wanderers.

One evening after it was dark, a young man wandered among these crumbling red brick houses, ringing bells from door to door.In front of the twelfth house, he put his empty hand luggage on the steps and wiped the dust off his hat brim and forehead.The doorbell sounded weakly, and seemed to reach the depths of a distant, empty house. This was the twelfth doorbell he rang.The bell rang, and the landlady answered and opened the door.Her appearance reminded him of a nasty, overfed maggot.It has eaten the nuts to nothing but shells, and is now looking for hungry tenants to fill the space. The young man asked if there were any rooms to rent.

"Come in," said the landlord.Her voice came out of her throat, rattling, as if a layer of fur had been stretched over her throat. "There is also a back room on the third floor, which has been vacant for a week. Want to see it?" The young man followed her upstairs.A gleam of light from nowhere softened the shadows in the passage.They walked in silence, and the carpet under their feet was so tattered that the loom that made it might have cursed that it was not their own work.It seemed to have become vegetative, had degenerated in the foul-smelling, dark air into lush lichens or mosses that spread all over the ground, growing here and there all the way to the stairs, sticky underfoot like organic matter.There are empty niches in the walls at the corners of the stairs.There may have been flowers and plants in them.If so, those flowers and plants have died in the foul and dirty air.There may have been icons in the alcoves, but it is not difficult to imagine that demons, great and small, in the darkness had dragged the saint out long ago, down to the evil abyss of some guest room below.

"This is the one," said the landlady, with the same furry voice. "Nice room, rarely available. Had some very nice people here this summer--never bothered, paid rent on time and in advance. Running water at the end of the hall. Sprowles and Mooney lived for three months. They did light comedy. Miss Bretta Sprouls - maybe you've heard of her - oh, that's just a stage name - right over that dresser, where she still hangs Marriage certificate, framed. Here's the gas switch, and see how roomy the closet is. Everybody loves the room, and it's never been empty for long."

"You lived here a lot of actors?" asked the young man. "They come here and go there. Many of my tenants work in the show business. By the way, sir, there is a concentration of theaters in this area, and the actors never stay in one place for a long time. There are quite a few who have been here. They come this way and go that way." He rented the room, paying a week's rent in advance.He said he was tired and wanted to stay right away.He counted the rent.She said that the room has been prepared for a long time, and even towels and water are ready-made.As the landlady walked away—he again—for the thousandth time—asked the tongue-in-cheek question.

"There was a girl--Miss Wasina--Miss Eloise Wasina--do you remember this being among the lodgers? She sang on stage, probably. She was fair-skinned, of medium height, and well-built. Slender, reddish-blond hair, with a mole on the left eyebrow." "No, I can't remember the name. The show guys change names as quickly as they change rooms, come and go, no one can tell. No, I can't remember the name." No.always no.After five months of uninterrupted inquiries, the answer was always negative.I have spent a lot of time, in the daytime, looking for theater managers, agents, theater schools and choirs; , and even afraid of finding the person he most wanted to find in that kind of place.He has only true feelings for her and is determined to find her.He was sure that the great city surrounded by water must have kept her somewhere since she had disappeared from home.But the city is like a mass of quicksand, with its shifting grains and no foundation, and the fine grains that float on top today are covered by silt and clay tomorrow.

The guest room welcomes the new guests with fake enthusiasm, like a fake smile on the face of a prostitute, red and sick, haggard, and so-so.The shabby furniture, the sofa with its tattered silk cover, the two chairs, the cheap full-length mirror a yard wide between the windows, a gilt picture frame or two, the brass bedstead in the corner—all this reflected a sense of specious comfort. The tenant was lazily half-lying on a chair, and the guest room was like a suite in the Babel Tower of Babylon. Although he was confused, he still tried his best to classify the tenants who had stayed here and told him in detail.

A variegated carpet was spread on the floor, like a rectangular tropical island in full bloom, surrounded by a churning sea of ​​dirty mats.On the gray-and-white framed walls were pasted pictures that followed the homeless as they drifted about—"Huguenot Lovers," "The First Quarrel," "Breakfast at the Wedding," "Beauty at the Spring."The hearth of the fireplace is elegant and dignified, but a fancy drapery is stretched crookedly on the outside, like a belt worn by an Amazon woman in a ballet.On the hearth there remained a few odds and ends discarded by the besieged guest house when lucky sails carried them to the new pier—a cheap vase or two, pictures of actresses, medicine bottles, mutilated Incomplete poker cards.

Gradually, the strokes of the password became clearly identifiable, and the meaning of the tiny traces left by the people who lived in this room before and after became complete and tangible. The carpet in front of the dressing table was worn down to sackcloth, which meant that groups of beautiful women had walked on it.Small fingerprints on the walls show where the little prisoner struggled to find his way to light and air.A spattered smear, shaped like the shadow of a bomb that exploded, bears witness to the glass or bottle being smashed against the wall along with its contents.The name "Mary" was crookedly carved with a glass drill on the mirror.It appears that the occupants of the guest house—perhaps driven by the tawdry indifference of the guest house—had successively tossed and turned in rage and poured out their rage upon the room.The furniture was gouged and scuffed; the couch, deformed by raised springs, looked like a ghastly monster butchered in writhing convulsions of pain.Another, more powerful upheaval had chopped off a large chunk of the marble mantelpiece.Each plank of the floor forms a separate slope and seems to scream with a separate and unique whining.It is unbelievable that the very people who had inflicted all this malice and harm on this room were the very same people who once called it their home; Home-loving nature and resentment against false house-gods ignite a rage in their breasts.A thatched cottage - as long as it's ours - we clean, decorate and cherish.

The young man on the chair let these thoughts linger in his heart, and at the same time, flesh and blood, vivid sounds and smells wafted from the building.From one room he heard sniggering and lustful laughter; from another room solitary cursing, dice rattles, lullabies and whimpers; upstairs someone was playing the banjo with gusto. .Doors slammed shut somewhere; trolleys rumbled by now and then; a cat whined on the fence behind.He breathed the breath of the house.It wasn't a smell, but a damp smell, like the musty smell that evaporates from the oilcloth mixed with rotten wood in the cellar.

He just rested there, and suddenly, the room was filled with the strong fragrance of mignonette.It arrives on the wind, unmistakable, fragrant and lifelike, almost like a visiting guest.The young man couldn't help shouting: "What? My dear?" as if someone was calling him.He then jumped up and looked around.A strong fragrance filled his nostrils, enveloping him in it.He stretched out his arms to embrace the fragrance.In an instant, all his feelings were mixed together.How can a person be categorically aroused by a scent?It must have been the voice that aroused him.Could this be the voice that had touched and comforted him? "She lived in this room," he said aloud, turning to search for signs, for he was sure he could recognize any tiny thing that belonged to her or that she had touched.Where did this refreshing sweet-scented osmanthus fragrance, her favorite and unique fragrance, come from? The room was only so-so.On the thin dresser-cloth were a half-dozen barrettes here and there--the sort of lady-friend stuff, quiet and feminine, but not marking any mood or time.He didn't think about it, because the things obviously lacked personality.He searched the dresser drawer and found a small discarded worn handkerchief.He put it on his face, and the strange smell of heliotrope blossoms came to his nose.He flung the handkerchief on the ground.In another drawer he found a few scattered buttons, a playlist, a pawnbroker's business card, two leftover marshmallows, a dream interpretation book.In the last drawer was a woman's hair bow in black satin.He froze for a moment, suspended between ice and fire, between excitement and disappointment.But the black satin hair bow is also just a common decoration of women's dignified but impersonal characteristics, which can not provide any clues. Then he searched about the room, sniffing here and there like a hound, scanning the walls, sprawling on the floor, examining the corners of the vaulted carpet, the mantelpiece and the table, the curtains and door curtains, the rickety wine cabinet in the corner. , trying to find a visible but undiscovered sign that she was in the room, right next to him, around, across from, in, and above him, holding him tight, pursuing him, and through subtle and extraordinary His senses called to him so mournfully that even his dull senses recognized the sound of it.He answered again loudly, "Here I am, dear!" and turned away, dumbfounded and indifferent, for he could not yet perceive form, color, love, and open arms in the sweet-scented osmanthus.Well, my God, where did that fragrance come from?Since when has fragrance been able to conjure?And so he kept groping around. He dug through the cracks and corners of the wall and found some corks and cigarette butts.He dismisses such things.But once he found a half-smoked cigar in a fold of the carpet, and with a livid face he cursed hard and crushed it with his heel.He sifted the room from one end to the other, and found the dull, scandalous records of numerous wanderers.But he found no trace of her who might have lived here, whose ghost still seemed to linger here, whom he was seeking. Then he remembered the landlady. He ran downstairs from the haunted room to the door with a crack of light. She opened the door and came out.He tried his best to restrain his excitement. "Please tell me, ma'am," he begged, "who lived in that room before I came?" "Yes, sir. I can say it again. It used to be the Sprowles and the Mooneys, as I said. Miss Bretta Sprowles, the actress, who became Mrs. Mooney. My The house has always had a good reputation. Their marriage certificates are hung and framed and hung on nails—” "What kind of woman is Miss Sprouls—I mean, what does she look like?" "Oh, sir, black-haired, short, fat, with a smiling face. They moved out a week ago, last Tuesday." "Who lived before them?" "Well, there's a single man, a transporter. He owed me a week's rent and left without paying. Before him there was Mrs. Crowder and her two children for four months; Old Mr. Earl, his son paid the rent. He lived there six months. It was a year ago, and I can't remember any more than that." He thanked her and crawled slowly back to the room.The room was dead.The scent that once injected life into it has disappeared, the scent of sweet-scented osmanthus flowers has gone, replaced by the old, stale, stagnant stench of moldy furniture. His hopes were shattered, and he suddenly felt that his confidence was exhausted.He sat there, staring blankly at the yellow light of the hissing gas lamp.After a while, he went to the bed, tore the sheet into long strips, and stuffed the cloth strips into every gap around the doors and windows with the blade of a knife.When everything was neatly packed, he turned off the gas lamp, turned it on again, and finally lay down on the bed gratefully. As usual, it was Mrs McCool's turn this evening to fetch the can for beer.She returned with drinks and sat down with Mrs. Purdy in an underground tryst.This is where landlords hang out and maggots run rampant. "I'm renting out the back room on the third floor tonight," said Mrs. Purdy, her glass full of wine. "The lodger is a young man. He went to bed two hours ago." "Oh, you're welcome, Mrs. Purdy," said Mrs. McCool, admiringly. "It's a miracle that you can rent out that kind of house. Then did you tell him about that?" When she said this, she whispered, her voice was hoarse, full of mystery. "The room was furnished by Ryan," said Mrs. Purdy in her creepiest voice, "just to let it out. I didn't tell him about that, Mrs. McCool." "Well, we live by renting out the house. You have the right business, ma'am. If you know that someone in this room has committed suicide and died on the bed, who will rent this room." "Of course we've got to live," said Mrs. Purdy. "Yes, ma'am, that's true. I just cleaned up the third floor back room for you a week ago. The girl gassed herself to death—what a sweet little face she had, Mrs. Purdy." .” "Well, they say she's pretty," said Mrs. Purdy, agreeing and critical. "Only the mole around her left eyebrow is ugly. Have another drink, Mrs. McCool."