and so in that part of the city, a peculiar urban quiet descends with the failing light. It isn’t the silence of a meadow at close of day, nor the whispering softness of a twilight field, and certainly it isn’t the ancient silence that fell over the savanna on those evenings when we would gather on Martine’s porch to watch the sun go down. An urban nightfall can have a sinister effect, as I’d noticed all the more vividly upon returning from Lubanda. In Lubanda all nocturnal things had lingered; here they lurked. There the perils of night had been at one with the scheme of things; here they seemed the product of a grim manufacture, a world of risks that were fundamentally man-made.
There were people on Twenty-seventh Street, of course, but by and large they were on their way somewhere else. None would be headed for a low-rent hotel populated by African traders whose customs and dialects might as well have come from Mars.
Both the street and the Darlton Hotel had the look of an afterthought. Much of New York had changed during the last twenty years, but this part of the city had remained remarkably the same. The buildings were shorter than most of Midtown, and the youthful energy of the Village, the vibrant restaurants of the old Hell’s Kitchen, the clubs of the Meatpacking District here gave way to something gray and heavy. Even the buildings seemed to slump.
The Darlton had that same feel: old, tired, less a faded movie star than a faded bit player. It stood erect, but somehow on its last legs, like a man suffering from a long, debilitating illness, still alive but weakening by the hour. I had little doubt that its owners were waiting for one last wave of speculation, the building destined either to be torn down or completely renovated, nannies dragging their properly dressed wards down streets once reserved for people who’d come with nothing, acquired nothing, transients, runaways, men with unclear motives who faced uncertain fates… like Seso Alaya.
How different this later Seso was from the young man I’d known, impeccably dressed in black trousers and a white shirt. Max Regal had found a middle-aged man, destitute by all appearances, living in a derelict hotel, a man who’d come all this way for a reason I was trying to uncover.
On that thought I recalled that Seso had accompanied me to the airport on the day I left Lubanda.
“Maybe I’ll come back someday,” I told him, though with little confidence that I ever would. “Maybe things will be different and I can have a drink with you and Fareem.”
“Fareem will never come back to Lubanda,” Seso said. He shrugged. “He would have nothing to come back to.”
“But where will he go?” I asked.
“To the north,” Seso said. “Back to his tribe.” For the first time since I’d known him, Seso offered a cutting smile. “Isn’t that where you’re going?” he asked. “Back to your tribe?”
I might have made some limp defense for leaving Lubanda, but the airport public-address system scratchily sounded at that moment, announcing the boarding of my plane.
“Goodbye, Seso,” I said, and moved to embrace him, but he stepped away.
“Do not worry for me,” he said. “We must now take up our old lives.” He offered his hand. “You were always kind to me. I thank you for this.” Now his smile became genuinely warm and generous. “It is not your fault that Lubanda is not your home.”
The lobby of the hotel in which this noble man had died was a shadowy affair. The floor was covered with a dull layer of linoleum, and although the walls were wood-paneled, some of the panels had fallen away, leaving strips of bare wall behind them. There was a row of vending machines to the right of the reception desk, and on the other side a few worn chairs. Everything looked drained, a room on life support.
“What can I do for you?” the woman at the desk asked. She was wearing a brightly patterned dashiki and a large African headdress, but her
There were people on Twenty-seventh Street, of course, but by and large they were on their way somewhere else. None would be headed for a low-rent hotel populated by African traders whose customs and dialects might as well have come from Mars.
Both the street and the Darlton Hotel had the look of an afterthought. Much of New York had changed during the last twenty years, but this part of the city had remained remarkably the same. The buildings were shorter than most of Midtown, and the youthful energy of the Village, the vibrant restaurants of the old Hell’s Kitchen, the clubs of the Meatpacking District here gave way to something gray and heavy. Even the buildings seemed to slump.
The Darlton had that same feel: old, tired, less a faded movie star than a faded bit player. It stood erect, but somehow on its last legs, like a man suffering from a long, debilitating illness, still alive but weakening by the hour. I had little doubt that its owners were waiting for one last wave of speculation, the building destined either to be torn down or completely renovated, nannies dragging their properly dressed wards down streets once reserved for people who’d come with nothing, acquired nothing, transients, runaways, men with unclear motives who faced uncertain fates… like Seso Alaya.
How different this later Seso was from the young man I’d known, impeccably dressed in black trousers and a white shirt. Max Regal had found a middle-aged man, destitute by all appearances, living in a derelict hotel, a man who’d come all this way for a reason I was trying to uncover.
On that thought I recalled that Seso had accompanied me to the airport on the day I left Lubanda.
“Maybe I’ll come back someday,” I told him, though with little confidence that I ever would. “Maybe things will be different and I can have a drink with you and Fareem.”
“Fareem will never come back to Lubanda,” Seso said. He shrugged. “He would have nothing to come back to.”
“But where will he go?” I asked.
“To the north,” Seso said. “Back to his tribe.” For the first time since I’d known him, Seso offered a cutting smile. “Isn’t that where you’re going?” he asked. “Back to your tribe?”
I might have made some limp defense for leaving Lubanda, but the airport public-address system scratchily sounded at that moment, announcing the boarding of my plane.
“Goodbye, Seso,” I said, and moved to embrace him, but he stepped away.
“Do not worry for me,” he said. “We must now take up our old lives.” He offered his hand. “You were always kind to me. I thank you for this.” Now his smile became genuinely warm and generous. “It is not your fault that Lubanda is not your home.”
The lobby of the hotel in which this noble man had died was a shadowy affair. The floor was covered with a dull layer of linoleum, and although the walls were wood-paneled, some of the panels had fallen away, leaving strips of bare wall behind them. There was a row of vending machines to the right of the reception desk, and on the other side a few worn chairs. Everything looked drained, a room on life support.
“What can I do for you?” the woman at the desk asked. She was wearing a brightly patterned dashiki and a large African headdress, but her
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