if l fell asleep ....'
He laughed thinly.
'I felt like a rat myself… Besides, for the past four years they'd been trying to convince me that I was a rat ….'
We had left the caféteria behind us. Yes, I could put Rachman into my novel. My two heroes would run into Rachman near the Gare du Nord.
'Were you born in England?' I asked him.
'No. In Lvov, in Poland.'
He had answered curtly, and I knew I would get nothing more out of him.
Now we were driving along Hyde Park, heading toward Marble Arch.
'I'm trying to write a book,' I told him timidly, to get the conversation going again.
'A book?'
Since he was born in Lvov, Poland, before the war, and had survived it, there was no reason why he couldn't be in the Gare du Nord neighborhood now. It was only a matter of chance.
He slowed down by Marylebone Station, and I thought we were going to visit another set of run-down houses by the railroad tracks. But we turned down a narrow street and followed it to Regent's Park.
'A rich neighborhood at last."
He let out a laugh like a whinny.
He had me write down the addresses: 125, 127 , and 129 Park Road, at the corner of Lorne Close, three pale green houses with bow windows, the last one half ruined.
After checking the tags attached to the keys on the ring, he opened the door of the middle house. We found ourselves on the second floor, in a room more spacious than the one on Talgarth Road. The glass in the window was intact.
At the end of the room, a folding cot like the one on Talgarth Road. He sat down on it with his black briefcase next to him. Then he mopped his forehead with his white handkerchief.
The wallpaper was coming away in spots and there were floorboards missing.
'You should have a look out the window,' he told me. 'It's worth it.'
It was true. I could see the lawns of Regent's Park and the monumental façades all around. Their white stucco and the green of the lawns gave me a feeling of peace and security.
'Now I'm going to show you something else ...'
He stood up. We walked down a hallway with old wires hanging from the ceiling and emerged into a small room at the back of the house. Its window overlooked the railroad tracks leading from Marylebone Station.
'Both sides have their charm,' Rachman said. 'Wouldn't you say, old man?'
Then we went back to the bedroom, on the Regent's Park side.
He sat down on the cot again and opened his black briefcase. He took out two sandwiches wrapped in foil. He offered me one. I sat down on the floor, facing him.
'I think I might leave this house as it is and move in here permanently ...'
He bit into his sandwich. I thought of the cellophanewrapped suit. The one he was wearing now was badly rumpled. There was a button missing from the coat as well, and his shoes were spattered with mud. Despite his maniacal attention to cleanliness and his tireless battle against germs, some days he gave the impression that he was giving up the fight, and that little by little he was going to become a derelict.
He finished gulping down his sandwich. He stretched out on the cot. He reached over and rummaged in his black briefcase, which he'd set on the floor next to the bed. He pulled out a key ring and removed one of the keys.
'Here ... Take it .... And wake me in an hour. You can go for a walk in Regent's Park.'
He rolled onto his side, facing the wall and let out a long sigh.
'I recommend a visit to the zoo. It's quite close.'
I stood motionless at the window for a moment, in a patch of sunlight, before I noticed that he'd fallen asleep.
ONE NIGHT as Jacqueline and I were coming back to Chepstows Villas, there was a ray of light shining from under Linda's door. The Jamaican music played once again until very late, and the odor of marijuana invaded the apartment, as it had in our first days here.
Peter Rachman used to throw parties in his bachelor apartment on Dolphin Square, a block of buildings by the Thames, and Linda brought us along. There we saw Michael Savoundra,
He laughed thinly.
'I felt like a rat myself… Besides, for the past four years they'd been trying to convince me that I was a rat ….'
We had left the caféteria behind us. Yes, I could put Rachman into my novel. My two heroes would run into Rachman near the Gare du Nord.
'Were you born in England?' I asked him.
'No. In Lvov, in Poland.'
He had answered curtly, and I knew I would get nothing more out of him.
Now we were driving along Hyde Park, heading toward Marble Arch.
'I'm trying to write a book,' I told him timidly, to get the conversation going again.
'A book?'
Since he was born in Lvov, Poland, before the war, and had survived it, there was no reason why he couldn't be in the Gare du Nord neighborhood now. It was only a matter of chance.
He slowed down by Marylebone Station, and I thought we were going to visit another set of run-down houses by the railroad tracks. But we turned down a narrow street and followed it to Regent's Park.
'A rich neighborhood at last."
He let out a laugh like a whinny.
He had me write down the addresses: 125, 127 , and 129 Park Road, at the corner of Lorne Close, three pale green houses with bow windows, the last one half ruined.
After checking the tags attached to the keys on the ring, he opened the door of the middle house. We found ourselves on the second floor, in a room more spacious than the one on Talgarth Road. The glass in the window was intact.
At the end of the room, a folding cot like the one on Talgarth Road. He sat down on it with his black briefcase next to him. Then he mopped his forehead with his white handkerchief.
The wallpaper was coming away in spots and there were floorboards missing.
'You should have a look out the window,' he told me. 'It's worth it.'
It was true. I could see the lawns of Regent's Park and the monumental façades all around. Their white stucco and the green of the lawns gave me a feeling of peace and security.
'Now I'm going to show you something else ...'
He stood up. We walked down a hallway with old wires hanging from the ceiling and emerged into a small room at the back of the house. Its window overlooked the railroad tracks leading from Marylebone Station.
'Both sides have their charm,' Rachman said. 'Wouldn't you say, old man?'
Then we went back to the bedroom, on the Regent's Park side.
He sat down on the cot again and opened his black briefcase. He took out two sandwiches wrapped in foil. He offered me one. I sat down on the floor, facing him.
'I think I might leave this house as it is and move in here permanently ...'
He bit into his sandwich. I thought of the cellophanewrapped suit. The one he was wearing now was badly rumpled. There was a button missing from the coat as well, and his shoes were spattered with mud. Despite his maniacal attention to cleanliness and his tireless battle against germs, some days he gave the impression that he was giving up the fight, and that little by little he was going to become a derelict.
He finished gulping down his sandwich. He stretched out on the cot. He reached over and rummaged in his black briefcase, which he'd set on the floor next to the bed. He pulled out a key ring and removed one of the keys.
'Here ... Take it .... And wake me in an hour. You can go for a walk in Regent's Park.'
He rolled onto his side, facing the wall and let out a long sigh.
'I recommend a visit to the zoo. It's quite close.'
I stood motionless at the window for a moment, in a patch of sunlight, before I noticed that he'd fallen asleep.
ONE NIGHT as Jacqueline and I were coming back to Chepstows Villas, there was a ray of light shining from under Linda's door. The Jamaican music played once again until very late, and the odor of marijuana invaded the apartment, as it had in our first days here.
Peter Rachman used to throw parties in his bachelor apartment on Dolphin Square, a block of buildings by the Thames, and Linda brought us along. There we saw Michael Savoundra,
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