and cold. The downtown district was deserted but for the desperate men who haunted the streets wrapped in dirty blankets. The next day came up sunny, and shoppers inundated Union Square. I joined them and let myself be jostled as I mingled among them, finding myself pulled in the currents toward Macy’s or Nieman Marcus, Bullock’s or the Hound, Joseph Magnin or I. Magnin; offered foulard ties and perfumes in purple bottles, chiffon scarves and fine leather briefcases, tennis sweaters and felt hats with narrow brims, each with a small feather in the band; even fine satin lingerie for “my lady.”
I left the stores and sat down upon a bench in the corner of the square. On the bench perpendicular sat a young woman and a lovely doe-eyed boy of about twelve—the girl’s brother, it seemed. He had crow-black hair and smooth, coffee-colored skin—I imagined the family had come from somewhere in Asia, perhaps Indonesia. He was slim and angular, with impossibly long fingers for a boy his age. He fidgeted and glanced about as the girl took out her makeup case and began to apply a deep-purple tint to her lips. She had dyed her hair blond, which altogether ruined her prettiness, I thought, as the shade she had chosen—a brassy yellow—clashed with the warm brown of her skin. Nonetheless, I tipped my hat to her, and she responded with a dazzling smile. The boy ignored me.
When the girl was done with her makeup, they rose and started off across the square. I soon found myself rising as well and ambling off in their direction. I had no intention of doing so—I was completely unaware of my actions for the first ten minutes—but I soon realized I was following the girl and boy in and out of the department stores that surrounded the square.
I tried to stop myself. I had pledged not to do any such thing. But (said the voice I could not still) that pledge had been made in the darkness, and here we were in sparkling daylight, amidst a crowd, so what harm could be done? Besides (the voice continued), I had already followed many shoppers in and out of the stores, and the girl and boy were but two more. And the pair seemed to be retracing the very route I had taken—Macy’s, Bullock’s, Joseph Magnin, I. Magnin—such repetition making the act appear all the more familiar and normal. So it was that I trotted on behind them, as they examined a sequined sweater, a pink silk scarf, a pair of men’s pigskin gloves in a deep cognac (very expensive), a black leather briefcase, a woman’s purse in red suede, and ties of various description. Now and then, the young woman allowed herself to be sprayed with perfume, so that the scent that trailed behind her was like that of an overgrown garden wherein every flower had once bloomed and was now rotted.
It was at the I. Magnin glove counter—the boy was trying on a pair in brown suede—that the woman finally wheeled and turned to me:
What in the world are you doing? she demanded. Are you following us? I will call a guard!
(What could I say? Could I tell her mine was a harmless compulsion? Who would believe me by now?)
Forgive me, I replied. I was simply overcome by your beauty.
Her purple lips firmed with indecision, then relaxed, lay flat, and suddenly swept up into a smile. She touched her brassy curls; blushed; melted.
Why, thank you, she said.
The boy rolled his velvet eyes.
How foolish women are, I thought. This one was like all the rest. Now she would let me follow her anywhere.
23.
Her! Her! Her! My crows mocked me throughout the weekend, even into Monday and Tuesday. Her! Her! they taunted, laughing, and put before me constantly the face of the Indonesian girl; the doe eyes of her brother, which haunted me with their cool, adult disdain. Do not go to the patient, whispered my unshakable companions as Wednesday morning dawned. You are not worthy of her.
Yet, as the hours of the morning progressed, my disquiet rose, to the extent that I preferred the mockery of my Furies to the doom-beat of my own heart. I hurriedly dressed; I raced to the streetcar; the next I knew, I was stepping down at the corner of Market and New Montgomery. My gargoyles came into view, crouched and dirty as they shouldered the roofline; then my cherubim, whose circling eyes I watched in alarm as I