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Authors: Charlotte Lamb
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and a little olive oil.
Staring out of the cab window, Steve came back to the present with a start, realizing they had arrived in the overcrowded multi-ethnic neighbourhood of the Lower East Side, where wave after wave of new immigrants had come to rest over the years: Jews and Italians, Chinese and Poles, all washing together in a colourful mix which filled these grey streets with terrific restaurants, shops which gave off a powerful foreign smell, local markets selling everything from French cheeses to Russian icons, Polish handmade leather shoes to Chinese herbal medicines.
The cab pulled up outside a high apartment building among a row of others. After paying off the driver, Steve stood on the sidewalk, looking around in fast-falling twilight, catching sight of the East River, a bluish slate smudge between the close-set buildings opposite. You were never far from water on Manhattan: on the West Side of the city ran the Hudson, leading out eventually to the Atlantic, while the East River linked up the Atlantic with Long Island Sound.
Traffic churned past. Many shops were still open, he saw a handful of people waiting to be served at a stall selling green bananas, tied bundles of lemon grass, round bronze onions and aubergines, the colours of the vegetables still sharp in the fading light. Steve suddenly felt hungry, realising he hadn’t eaten a proper meal for a day or so. He had had coffee and orange juice for breakfast, a sandwich at lunchtime, nothing in between. He threw a glance up at the freshly painted terracotta façade of the building behind him. Iron fire-escapes gave the row of buildings a skeletal structure. Now at twilight they cast elaborate shadows on the painted walls behind them. Which floor did she live on? With his luck it would probably turn out to be the top, and there would be no lift.
Well, there were plenty of good restaurants within walking distance, he thought, if he could talk her into having dinner with him! She had told him she was living on a shoestring, so the idea of a free meal would probably be too tempting for her to resist. He hoped.
The apartment-house lobby was dank and gloomy, as they often were in this neighbourhood. He checked out the mailboxes first and was relieved to find a first-floor flat had the name Narodni neatly printed in capital letters beside the name Janacek.
He had to ring the doorbell several times before anyone opened up, and even then the chain was left on while a face peered out through the narrow crack. It wasn’t Sophie Narodni. This woman was much older; a very thin, febrile face, without make-up, faintly Oriental-looking, black eyes, slanting a little, a wide mouth and high cheekbones.
‘Yeah?’ Her voice was entirely American, not to say New York. Bronx-born, he decided as she added, ‘Wha’d’yer want?’
‘I’m looking for Sophie Narodni.’
‘She’s not back yet.’
‘Are you Lilli Janacek?’
She gave him a suspicious look. ‘What if I am? I don’t know you. I’m cooking, I can’t stand here talking.’ The door began to close. Steve put his foot into it. The black eyes looked down at his highly polished shoe. ‘I only have to press this panic button, mister, and the apartment security alarm will go off. Get your foot out of my door.’
Steve pulled out his press card, held it up. ‘I’m Steve Colbourne, I work for NWTV, maybe you’ve seen my show? If you’re interested in politics you will have. I just saw Sophie at the Gowrie press conference and wanted to talk to her about something important.’
She looked at the photo on his press card, then, closer, at him, her black, thin brows making a perfect semicircle in surprise. ‘Sure. Sure, I’ve seen you on TV, I remember your face now.’
‘Could I wait for Sophie inside, please? It’s chilly enough to freeze the blood out here, and the lobby smells like a urinal.’
She hesitated, then unhooked the chain. ‘I guess so, come in.’
As soon as he had walked past her
Staring out of the cab window, Steve came back to the present with a start, realizing they had arrived in the overcrowded multi-ethnic neighbourhood of the Lower East Side, where wave after wave of new immigrants had come to rest over the years: Jews and Italians, Chinese and Poles, all washing together in a colourful mix which filled these grey streets with terrific restaurants, shops which gave off a powerful foreign smell, local markets selling everything from French cheeses to Russian icons, Polish handmade leather shoes to Chinese herbal medicines.
The cab pulled up outside a high apartment building among a row of others. After paying off the driver, Steve stood on the sidewalk, looking around in fast-falling twilight, catching sight of the East River, a bluish slate smudge between the close-set buildings opposite. You were never far from water on Manhattan: on the West Side of the city ran the Hudson, leading out eventually to the Atlantic, while the East River linked up the Atlantic with Long Island Sound.
Traffic churned past. Many shops were still open, he saw a handful of people waiting to be served at a stall selling green bananas, tied bundles of lemon grass, round bronze onions and aubergines, the colours of the vegetables still sharp in the fading light. Steve suddenly felt hungry, realising he hadn’t eaten a proper meal for a day or so. He had had coffee and orange juice for breakfast, a sandwich at lunchtime, nothing in between. He threw a glance up at the freshly painted terracotta façade of the building behind him. Iron fire-escapes gave the row of buildings a skeletal structure. Now at twilight they cast elaborate shadows on the painted walls behind them. Which floor did she live on? With his luck it would probably turn out to be the top, and there would be no lift.
Well, there were plenty of good restaurants within walking distance, he thought, if he could talk her into having dinner with him! She had told him she was living on a shoestring, so the idea of a free meal would probably be too tempting for her to resist. He hoped.
The apartment-house lobby was dank and gloomy, as they often were in this neighbourhood. He checked out the mailboxes first and was relieved to find a first-floor flat had the name Narodni neatly printed in capital letters beside the name Janacek.
He had to ring the doorbell several times before anyone opened up, and even then the chain was left on while a face peered out through the narrow crack. It wasn’t Sophie Narodni. This woman was much older; a very thin, febrile face, without make-up, faintly Oriental-looking, black eyes, slanting a little, a wide mouth and high cheekbones.
‘Yeah?’ Her voice was entirely American, not to say New York. Bronx-born, he decided as she added, ‘Wha’d’yer want?’
‘I’m looking for Sophie Narodni.’
‘She’s not back yet.’
‘Are you Lilli Janacek?’
She gave him a suspicious look. ‘What if I am? I don’t know you. I’m cooking, I can’t stand here talking.’ The door began to close. Steve put his foot into it. The black eyes looked down at his highly polished shoe. ‘I only have to press this panic button, mister, and the apartment security alarm will go off. Get your foot out of my door.’
Steve pulled out his press card, held it up. ‘I’m Steve Colbourne, I work for NWTV, maybe you’ve seen my show? If you’re interested in politics you will have. I just saw Sophie at the Gowrie press conference and wanted to talk to her about something important.’
She looked at the photo on his press card, then, closer, at him, her black, thin brows making a perfect semicircle in surprise. ‘Sure. Sure, I’ve seen you on TV, I remember your face now.’
‘Could I wait for Sophie inside, please? It’s chilly enough to freeze the blood out here, and the lobby smells like a urinal.’
She hesitated, then unhooked the chain. ‘I guess so, come in.’
As soon as he had walked past her
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