looked like it could be anywhere. Another look was needed.
I flagged down a proper four-door cab just unloading a fare and directed him to the part of town where I might expect to meet my clerical friend. I found the address in my Memory Book. Settling into the back seat, I felt the lift I get when I’ve managed things satisfactorily. My recent need to write things down instead of depending upon my memory had begun to convert me into a more efficient person. While all reading was difficult, my own writing was still decipherable. As long as nobody rushed me. I leaned back into the seat and watched the sights as we climbed the hill away from the water.
FIVE
THE TAXI DRIVER dropped me in a teeming traffic circle in the middle of the Old Town. He’d followed Ex-Charpentier Avenue to where a plateau of flat ground calmed traffic and formed an oasis from the steady run up from the harbor. After taking my money from me with a bow, the driver waved his arm to introduce me to Ex-Berlioz Square, as though he were making me a present of it.
There were café tables here and there under awnings and shade trees. I saw more Western men and women here than anywhere since the airport. Here the traffic was thick with bicycles and various two- and three-wheeled scooters. I saw a sidewalk café with people sitting at tables dangerously close to the edge of the road. Illegally parked cars were the buffer. Were the customers trying to imitate pictures of Paris in the 1920s? They bent heads together over the small round tables and were dressed in current fashions. Most of the men had briefcases either beside them or on the tables. Nearby, a large cinema was featuring a movie that had been playing in Grantham when I left town. The front of the theater had been made to look like a cave, with stalactites and stalagmites. They supported a triangular sculpture built of smaller triangles. What this had to do with caves, I never found out. A small store near a corner had a display of out-of-town newspapers outside its window, hanging in a frame. I recognized three banks as well as an enormous church with cupolas at the top, catching the light like silver foil. This was obviously the place to be in Takot, the business and social hub of the city. My mouth began watering for a chopped-egg sandwich.
“Mr Cooperman!” I heard the cry from across the street, where I hadn’t noticed another café. This one, like the other cafés with terraces, had the same imported look. My priestly friend was sitting with a stranger under an awning at a tiny table. I waved and began crossing the street. Father O’Mahannay was wearing a dark cassock with a broadbrimmed hat. He looked spread out, as if occupying two or three chairs at once. His companion, a sallow little man with thick glasses and prominent magnified eyes, was clutching his briefcase to his body as though to protect his vitals from an expected fusillade.
“Hello!” I shouted as I waved, overjoyed at seeing a familiar face.
“Ah, Mr Cooperman!” he said with enthusiasm as I came up to the table. The sallow man moved to expose another chair. “You found us after all. My note forgot to mention that I can usually be found here when I’m not wanted back at the fadders’ fort.”
“The what ?”
“When I was growing up, the young boys used to call it the ‘fathers’ fort,’ or, more accurately, the ‘fadders’ fort.’ I wonder whether it really was all that frightening.”
“I should write that down; I write down everything else.”
My new friend watched me play with my notebook. “Remarkable,” he said, shaking his head. “Remarkable.”
“Good afternoon, Father. I’m glad to see you again.” His reply was drowned out by a passing scooter. As I settled into the cane chair, he introduced his companion. “Mr Cooperman, this is my old friend, Billy Savitt. Billy’s visiting Takot like you, but he knows the city well from earlier visits.” Savitt gave me a smile and his card, the
I flagged down a proper four-door cab just unloading a fare and directed him to the part of town where I might expect to meet my clerical friend. I found the address in my Memory Book. Settling into the back seat, I felt the lift I get when I’ve managed things satisfactorily. My recent need to write things down instead of depending upon my memory had begun to convert me into a more efficient person. While all reading was difficult, my own writing was still decipherable. As long as nobody rushed me. I leaned back into the seat and watched the sights as we climbed the hill away from the water.
FIVE
THE TAXI DRIVER dropped me in a teeming traffic circle in the middle of the Old Town. He’d followed Ex-Charpentier Avenue to where a plateau of flat ground calmed traffic and formed an oasis from the steady run up from the harbor. After taking my money from me with a bow, the driver waved his arm to introduce me to Ex-Berlioz Square, as though he were making me a present of it.
There were café tables here and there under awnings and shade trees. I saw more Western men and women here than anywhere since the airport. Here the traffic was thick with bicycles and various two- and three-wheeled scooters. I saw a sidewalk café with people sitting at tables dangerously close to the edge of the road. Illegally parked cars were the buffer. Were the customers trying to imitate pictures of Paris in the 1920s? They bent heads together over the small round tables and were dressed in current fashions. Most of the men had briefcases either beside them or on the tables. Nearby, a large cinema was featuring a movie that had been playing in Grantham when I left town. The front of the theater had been made to look like a cave, with stalactites and stalagmites. They supported a triangular sculpture built of smaller triangles. What this had to do with caves, I never found out. A small store near a corner had a display of out-of-town newspapers outside its window, hanging in a frame. I recognized three banks as well as an enormous church with cupolas at the top, catching the light like silver foil. This was obviously the place to be in Takot, the business and social hub of the city. My mouth began watering for a chopped-egg sandwich.
“Mr Cooperman!” I heard the cry from across the street, where I hadn’t noticed another café. This one, like the other cafés with terraces, had the same imported look. My priestly friend was sitting with a stranger under an awning at a tiny table. I waved and began crossing the street. Father O’Mahannay was wearing a dark cassock with a broadbrimmed hat. He looked spread out, as if occupying two or three chairs at once. His companion, a sallow little man with thick glasses and prominent magnified eyes, was clutching his briefcase to his body as though to protect his vitals from an expected fusillade.
“Hello!” I shouted as I waved, overjoyed at seeing a familiar face.
“Ah, Mr Cooperman!” he said with enthusiasm as I came up to the table. The sallow man moved to expose another chair. “You found us after all. My note forgot to mention that I can usually be found here when I’m not wanted back at the fadders’ fort.”
“The what ?”
“When I was growing up, the young boys used to call it the ‘fathers’ fort,’ or, more accurately, the ‘fadders’ fort.’ I wonder whether it really was all that frightening.”
“I should write that down; I write down everything else.”
My new friend watched me play with my notebook. “Remarkable,” he said, shaking his head. “Remarkable.”
“Good afternoon, Father. I’m glad to see you again.” His reply was drowned out by a passing scooter. As I settled into the cane chair, he introduced his companion. “Mr Cooperman, this is my old friend, Billy Savitt. Billy’s visiting Takot like you, but he knows the city well from earlier visits.” Savitt gave me a smile and his card, the
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