banged against the bottoms, and the tops of cardboard boxes flapped beside the stoops.
Gus felt lonely. This neighborhood wasnât at all like hers, only a few blocks farther north. The buildings here were secretive, blank-faced, closed in. There were no Puerto Ricans hanging around on the stoops to wave to you when you walked to the bus stop. There were two dwarves, in the apartment across the hall, but they kept to themselves.
In their own apartment, Gus and Norman had a double bed with a dark red and blue comforter, the infinite desk, a chest of drawers, bookshelves, a portable television on a stand, two phonographs (his and hers), Tweetieâs cage, the favorite lamp, a windowseat under the center window in the tall set of three at the roomâs street end, a Persian rug Normanâs mother had given him years ago when he first moved out of the house in Brooklyn, and a parquet floor. There was a bathroom the size of a closet, and a kitchen smaller than that; both apparently had once been closets. The tiles had peeled from the bathroom walls and schist crumbled into the tub and sink. The kitchen was swarming with cockroaches. Gus could keep them out of the stoveâgood thing, too, unless you liked fried cockroachâbut they crawled over the boxes in the cabinet on the wall above the stove. After a while, she gave up learning to cook and the newlyweds lived off nonalcoholic eggnog, creamed herring, and hotdogs. So far as Gus could tell, Norman didnât seem to notice. Possibly it was what he was used to. Could he be used to fried cockroach as well?
During the day, when most of the tenants were at work, the landlord turned the heat off. Gus told Norman that she could barely manage to practice, her fingers were frozen. Norman told the landlord and the heat began to come up, a small blast at wide intervals. She played the flute in the big, attractive room, with the cockroaches in the kitchen at her back and her fingers tingling with the cold, and when she was through practicing there was nothing to do but wait for Norman to come home from Columbia. Some days she went to Juilliard and used a practice room there, but she couldnât live in a practice roomâshe had to let other students use it some of the timeâand Eighty-eighth Street was too far to make the trip more than once in a day. Besides, she wasnât taking regular classes, and couldnât offer that as an excuse for being at the school all the time; and now that she was married, it seemed to her that the other students had no reason at all to be interested in her anymore. She very much liked to laugh and flirt, but now there was no one around to laugh or flirt with. She would put her flute away when she was through, switch on the television or play a record, and sit in the cold room looking at the cold sky or the cold white walls. The walls were not cheerful like the ones in her old apartment; they were starker, serious walls supporting a high ceiling, meaning business. Gus did not hang her leaves on them. The green seemed frivolous, carefree, out of place in this dark red and blue dissertation-writerâs room. But Tweetie-Pie preened, swung, sang, and splashed as unstoppably here as in Gusâs old place; and Gus herself, with her happy hair and willful lip, glowed like a candle in the jewel-toned room. Except when she was actively miserable, she smiled, whether she was aware of it or not; smiling was a long-time habit with her, and it persisted even in the change of circumstance.
But she was bored. Even playing the flute did not entirely take the edge off thatâit was not as if she could look forward to playing it for real. Waiting for Norman to come home, she began to see how extensible time could be. Each day it stretched a little farther. The afternoons became longer and longer. Time was like a waistband that had lost its elasticity, and it sagged. If Norman came home at lunch, that made it worse: he sometimes came home
Gus felt lonely. This neighborhood wasnât at all like hers, only a few blocks farther north. The buildings here were secretive, blank-faced, closed in. There were no Puerto Ricans hanging around on the stoops to wave to you when you walked to the bus stop. There were two dwarves, in the apartment across the hall, but they kept to themselves.
In their own apartment, Gus and Norman had a double bed with a dark red and blue comforter, the infinite desk, a chest of drawers, bookshelves, a portable television on a stand, two phonographs (his and hers), Tweetieâs cage, the favorite lamp, a windowseat under the center window in the tall set of three at the roomâs street end, a Persian rug Normanâs mother had given him years ago when he first moved out of the house in Brooklyn, and a parquet floor. There was a bathroom the size of a closet, and a kitchen smaller than that; both apparently had once been closets. The tiles had peeled from the bathroom walls and schist crumbled into the tub and sink. The kitchen was swarming with cockroaches. Gus could keep them out of the stoveâgood thing, too, unless you liked fried cockroachâbut they crawled over the boxes in the cabinet on the wall above the stove. After a while, she gave up learning to cook and the newlyweds lived off nonalcoholic eggnog, creamed herring, and hotdogs. So far as Gus could tell, Norman didnât seem to notice. Possibly it was what he was used to. Could he be used to fried cockroach as well?
During the day, when most of the tenants were at work, the landlord turned the heat off. Gus told Norman that she could barely manage to practice, her fingers were frozen. Norman told the landlord and the heat began to come up, a small blast at wide intervals. She played the flute in the big, attractive room, with the cockroaches in the kitchen at her back and her fingers tingling with the cold, and when she was through practicing there was nothing to do but wait for Norman to come home from Columbia. Some days she went to Juilliard and used a practice room there, but she couldnât live in a practice roomâshe had to let other students use it some of the timeâand Eighty-eighth Street was too far to make the trip more than once in a day. Besides, she wasnât taking regular classes, and couldnât offer that as an excuse for being at the school all the time; and now that she was married, it seemed to her that the other students had no reason at all to be interested in her anymore. She very much liked to laugh and flirt, but now there was no one around to laugh or flirt with. She would put her flute away when she was through, switch on the television or play a record, and sit in the cold room looking at the cold sky or the cold white walls. The walls were not cheerful like the ones in her old apartment; they were starker, serious walls supporting a high ceiling, meaning business. Gus did not hang her leaves on them. The green seemed frivolous, carefree, out of place in this dark red and blue dissertation-writerâs room. But Tweetie-Pie preened, swung, sang, and splashed as unstoppably here as in Gusâs old place; and Gus herself, with her happy hair and willful lip, glowed like a candle in the jewel-toned room. Except when she was actively miserable, she smiled, whether she was aware of it or not; smiling was a long-time habit with her, and it persisted even in the change of circumstance.
But she was bored. Even playing the flute did not entirely take the edge off thatâit was not as if she could look forward to playing it for real. Waiting for Norman to come home, she began to see how extensible time could be. Each day it stretched a little farther. The afternoons became longer and longer. Time was like a waistband that had lost its elasticity, and it sagged. If Norman came home at lunch, that made it worse: he sometimes came home
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