was broken.
'Since you have paper and pen,' he said, 'you might take notes ...'
He inspected the neighboring houses, which were in the same state of abandonment, and as we went along he dictated information for me to take down, after looking in a little notebook he'd taken from his black briefcase.
The next day I continued my novel on the other side of the sheet where I'd written those notes, and I have kept them to this day. Why did he dictate them to me? Maybe he wanted there to be a copy of them somewhere.
The first place we had stopped, in the Notting Hill neighborhood, was called Powis Square, and it led to Powis Terrace and Powis Gardens. Under Rachman's dictation, I took an inventory of numbers 5, 9, 10, 11 , and 12 on Powis Terrace, numbers 3, 4, 6 , and 7 on Powis Gardens, and numbers 13, 45, 46 , and 47 on Powis Square. Rows of houses with porticoes from the 'Edwardian' era, Rachman told me. They'd been occupied by Jamaicans since the end of the war, but he, Rachman, had bought the lot of them just as they were about to be torn down. And now that no one was living in them anymore, he had come up with the idea of restoring them.
He had found the names of the former occupants, the ones before the Jamaicans. So at number 5 on Powis Gardens, I wrote down one Lewis Jones, and at number 6 , a Miss Dudgeon; at number 13 on Powis Square, a Charles Edward Boden, at 46 , an Arthur Philip Cohen, at number 47, a Miss Marie Motto … Rachman needed them now, twenty years later, to sign a paper of some kind, but he really didn't think so. In response to a question I had asked about all these people, he had said that most of them had probably disappeared in the Blitz.
We crossed the Bayswater neighborhood, heading toward Paddington Station. This time we ended up at Orsett Terrace, where the porticoed houses, taller than the last ones, adjoined a railroad track. The locks were still fixed to the front doors, and Rachman had to use his ring of keys. No debris, no mildewed wallpaper, no broken staircases inside, but the rooms showed no trace of human presence, as if these houses were a film set they had forgotten to take down.
'These used to be hotels for travelers,' Rachman told me.
What travelers? I imagined shadows at night, emerging from Paddington Station just as the sirens began to blow.
At the end of Orsett Terrace, I was surprised to see a ruined church that was being demolished. Its nave was already open to the sky.
'I should have bought that as well,' said Rachman.
We passed by Holland Park and arrived at Hammersmith. I had never been this far. Rachman stopped on Talgarth Road in front of a row of abandoned houses that looked like cottages or little villas by the seaside. We went into one and climbed to the second floor. The glass in the bow window was broken. You could hear the roar of traffic. In one corner of the room I saw a folding cot, and on it a suit wrapped in cellophane as if it had just come from the cleaners, as well as a pajama top. Rachman noticed that I was looking at it:
'Sometimes I come here for a nap,' he told me.
'Doesn't the sound of the traffic bother you?'
He shrugged. Then he picked up the cellophane-wrapped suit and we went downstairs. He walked ahead of me, the suit folded over his right arm, his black briefcase in his left hand, looking like a traveling salesman leaving the house to set out on a tour of the provinces.
He gently draped the suit over the rear seat of the car and sat down behind the wheel again. He turned the car around, toward Kensington Gardens.
'I've slept in much less comfortable places ...'
He looked me over with his cold eyes.
'I was about your age ...'
We were following Holland Park Avenue and would soon pass by the caféteria where I was usually sitting and working on my novel at this time of day...
'At the end of the war, I'd escaped from a camp ... I slept in the basement of an apartment building … There were rats everywhere .... I thought they'd eat me
'Since you have paper and pen,' he said, 'you might take notes ...'
He inspected the neighboring houses, which were in the same state of abandonment, and as we went along he dictated information for me to take down, after looking in a little notebook he'd taken from his black briefcase.
The next day I continued my novel on the other side of the sheet where I'd written those notes, and I have kept them to this day. Why did he dictate them to me? Maybe he wanted there to be a copy of them somewhere.
The first place we had stopped, in the Notting Hill neighborhood, was called Powis Square, and it led to Powis Terrace and Powis Gardens. Under Rachman's dictation, I took an inventory of numbers 5, 9, 10, 11 , and 12 on Powis Terrace, numbers 3, 4, 6 , and 7 on Powis Gardens, and numbers 13, 45, 46 , and 47 on Powis Square. Rows of houses with porticoes from the 'Edwardian' era, Rachman told me. They'd been occupied by Jamaicans since the end of the war, but he, Rachman, had bought the lot of them just as they were about to be torn down. And now that no one was living in them anymore, he had come up with the idea of restoring them.
He had found the names of the former occupants, the ones before the Jamaicans. So at number 5 on Powis Gardens, I wrote down one Lewis Jones, and at number 6 , a Miss Dudgeon; at number 13 on Powis Square, a Charles Edward Boden, at 46 , an Arthur Philip Cohen, at number 47, a Miss Marie Motto … Rachman needed them now, twenty years later, to sign a paper of some kind, but he really didn't think so. In response to a question I had asked about all these people, he had said that most of them had probably disappeared in the Blitz.
We crossed the Bayswater neighborhood, heading toward Paddington Station. This time we ended up at Orsett Terrace, where the porticoed houses, taller than the last ones, adjoined a railroad track. The locks were still fixed to the front doors, and Rachman had to use his ring of keys. No debris, no mildewed wallpaper, no broken staircases inside, but the rooms showed no trace of human presence, as if these houses were a film set they had forgotten to take down.
'These used to be hotels for travelers,' Rachman told me.
What travelers? I imagined shadows at night, emerging from Paddington Station just as the sirens began to blow.
At the end of Orsett Terrace, I was surprised to see a ruined church that was being demolished. Its nave was already open to the sky.
'I should have bought that as well,' said Rachman.
We passed by Holland Park and arrived at Hammersmith. I had never been this far. Rachman stopped on Talgarth Road in front of a row of abandoned houses that looked like cottages or little villas by the seaside. We went into one and climbed to the second floor. The glass in the bow window was broken. You could hear the roar of traffic. In one corner of the room I saw a folding cot, and on it a suit wrapped in cellophane as if it had just come from the cleaners, as well as a pajama top. Rachman noticed that I was looking at it:
'Sometimes I come here for a nap,' he told me.
'Doesn't the sound of the traffic bother you?'
He shrugged. Then he picked up the cellophane-wrapped suit and we went downstairs. He walked ahead of me, the suit folded over his right arm, his black briefcase in his left hand, looking like a traveling salesman leaving the house to set out on a tour of the provinces.
He gently draped the suit over the rear seat of the car and sat down behind the wheel again. He turned the car around, toward Kensington Gardens.
'I've slept in much less comfortable places ...'
He looked me over with his cold eyes.
'I was about your age ...'
We were following Holland Park Avenue and would soon pass by the caféteria where I was usually sitting and working on my novel at this time of day...
'At the end of the war, I'd escaped from a camp ... I slept in the basement of an apartment building … There were rats everywhere .... I thought they'd eat me
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