Simon assumed he’d learned this lesson, but like everything these days, he has to learn it again: that his memories and instincts andthoughts aren’t always reliable, that even his senses aren’t always reliable. Thatheisn’t reliable.
He crawls back into bed, sets his alarm, and in this state of mental agitation, falls asleep and dreams again.
The details might shift, but the dream never changes: A girl with white hair ... A suffocating whirlpool that sweeps him away ... His limbs won’t move, his whole body heavy ... He’s drowning, a crown of white daisies on his head, water flooding his nose and mouth, blocking his ears, turning his eyes into pearls—
Simon jerks awake.
It’s one thirty. He’s overslept. He must’ve slapped off his alarm; he doesn’t remember. His head is rattling, but at least he’s not in pain. He finds clothes to dress and goes to the kitchen, scratching at his hair. Drinks coffee by the window, peering between the curtains to observe people on the street.
It would be great, Simon reflects, if he could rewind Tuesday night like a video movie and scrub out the part with Ameche on the stairs. The damage to his relationship with Nomi has been repaired, but it’s still left both of them exposed, maybe left other tenants in this building exposed as well, including Sofia Rosa. Brittany Jackson is already in danger, but she may also suffer blowback.
Listing all the potential disastrous consequences proves fairly depressing; instead, Simon tries to consider solutions. But unless he includes things like homicide, or fleeing New York City, his options appear to be limited.
If this were Guatemala, things would be more straightforward. The year before he left, a man in a neighboring village had stolen a pig and a dozen chickens from the local market, assaulting the woman who owned the chicken stall. The woman’s relatives, as well as their friends and other stallholders, had gathered together, found the man, beaten him half to death, and set his house on fire. That is how you handle matters in Guatemala, but Simon suspects that natural justice may not cut it here in America.
At about two o’clock, he gives up on ruminating and goes downstairs to see his landlady and give her a pound of ground beef.
“Ah, this is good.” Sofia Rosa has a cigarette in the side of her mouth as she slaps the paper-wrapped package, testing for firmness. “You are doing good things, Simón—you give me mincemeat, you help No-mee. Many good things.”
“I don’t know, Auntie.” He leans against the doorjamb. “I think I did a very stupid thing on Tuesday night. The man who attacked Nomi here, outside her apartment ... I saw him at the nightclub.”
“You had a fight?” Sofia Rosa’s eyes are round; she looks thrilled.
“Yes, I’m afraid so.”
His landlady shrugs, walks over to put the package in her refrigerator. “Well, I am glad you fought him. Any man would have this reaction, to defend his people.”
“Yes, but this man I fought, he is part of the mafia,” Simon admits.
“Ohhh.” Sofia Rosa stubs out her cigarette in a tin ashtray on the side table, smooths back her hair. “Yes, this is a problem. Now you are not the hero, yes? You are the young man tener mecha corta, who is quick to anger.”
“Yes, this is it. And he knows my name.”
“Hm, yes, this requires some discussion.” Sofia Rosa frowns and nods, removing her apron and hanging it on a hook, straightening her blouse. She collects her purse and a newspaper folded to the entertainment section. “We will talk about it as we walk.”
Simon is confused. “We are walking somewhere, Auntie?”
“Of course! Because I will discuss this problem with you, and you will take me here, to the cinema in this advertisement.” She shows him the advertisement in the newspaper, gathers her coat.
Which is how Simon finds himself escorting Sofia Rosa to the Bleecker Street Cinema, to see a 4:00 p.m. showing of a film calledSingin’ in the Rain. The film is a musical, and Simon quite enjoys it. His landlady moves at a steady shuffle, and she also wants to stop at a small delicatessen on the way, so it takes them a while to go and comeback. But while he and Sofia Rosa spend time in discussion, much of that time involves covering old ground: His landlady has long-standing concerns about certain tenants in their building and disputes with other residents on Gansevoort Street. Simon’s not feeling hugely enlightened about the problem with Claude Ameche when they finally make it back to the tenement.
Nelson is playing pop music again on the second floor, but aside from that, there’s still no disturbance in or around the building. Once he’s inside his apartment, Simon switches on some lights, puts on the Sibelius cassette, makes himself dinner—steak, coleslaw, a glass of the merlot. After he’s eaten, he opens one of his windows to let in some air as he sits by the sill, smoking and finishing his wine.
The sun has set; night has descended. Out the window, light from the streetlamps reflects off a sign and the roofs of parked cars. Across Gansevoort, a pale pink curtain blows from a fire escape on the third floor; hookers call to each other on the street, raucous and risqué.
This weekend will mark the two-month anniversary of Simon’s arrival in this country. He should feel comforted by that. He’s here, he has a job, he’s fitting in. He hasn’t been picked up by the immigration police. But he also hasn’t found a useful occupation apart from work. His search for himself provided some structure, but now Nomi has taken over that search.
Being at loose ends isn’t healthy. It gives him too much time to retreat into his head.
Maybe your soul will remember.Despite Flores’s fantasy, Simon tried hard not to have any expectations about America. But part of him still clung to the idea that he’d arrive here and the cogs in his head would align, and everything would return. That he’d find his real home, and slot back into his old life like he was a missing piece of clockwork.
Of course, it was never going to be that simple.
Sick of listening to his own internal monologue and plagued by a fidgety unease, Simon pulls on his boots and grabs his coat to go for awalk. But when he yanks open his apartment door, Nomi is standing on the other side—black jeans, black jacket, black beanie, fist raised.
“Hi.” She seems taken aback, as if he interrupted her as she was composing herself. “I was, uh, just about to knock.”
“So I see. Hi.”
