Story beginning

A short story

I remember the day I first noticed him . . . let’s call him Bruno, for that is how I named him that day, thinking only that he was the sort of Italian who finds art in life. Something about the cut of his clothes, the way his hair was just the right amount too long.

I was sitting at a table outside a cafe on first avenue downtown. I was the only one out there. That’s important, because it confirmed for me what Bruno was up to. There were a few other tables, all empty, except for where the cafe owner had left his empty espresso cup. I had a Campari and soda, which I don’t care for that much, but I was feeling sort of French that day. It was early spring and the street trees were just barely bright green at the tips, the air was too fresh for sitting outside. But the Campari glittered scarlet in the sun. I was writing a postcard to myself, something I do when I want to sit in a cafe alone.

“I love you, darling. Never forget that. It’s a beautiful day here. Three o’clock, and everyone passing by has sunglasses on. There’s a man on the phone, but he’s watching me. –Novella.”

I remember writing that to myself. That’s my first recorded sighting of Bruno. But even then, I had a vague feeling of recognition. Of course, by the time I received my postcard, I had seen him again.

I know. The postcard thing is a little unusual. But there’s a reason why it’s fun. It lets me live a good moment twice. I save them in an orange plastic envelope, each one a verbal snapshot, a message from real life. I favor the corny landmark cards. My card that day was of the arch at Washington Square, naked and white, like a big sugar cube.

Novella, you little dickens, may we expect another installment? I'm snagged.

second part: My Life with Bruno (first part at thread beginning)

That afternoon Brendan the doorman was, as usual, standing under the awning waiting for something to happen. I asked him if there was anything new. It’s a small joke between us, because our lives are like that. But then, as I was listening to him talk about the moving van that blocked the road that day, I saw him again. Bruno, that is. He was going into the building across the street. I saw that pale green sportscoat, the color of pistachio gelato. It’s an Italian color. He did not turn around. I sensed that he knew he shouldn’t, that he knew I had seen him.

“Hey, Brendan, do you know that man? Have you seen him before?”

“Who’s that, Miss Novella?”

“That man who just went into Number 27.”

“I’m sorry, I didn’t see him.”

I was certain it was Bruno.

My life does not have room for coincidence. I knew that he was there for a reason. That evening I sat on the terrace looking at the building across the street for a sign. It was quiet. Some buildings of upper Manhattan can look very quiet and empty, though you know that inside they must be full of people in chairs and beds, of cooks making dinners and children in bathtubs. Nothing happened. All of the windows were blank. Finally, I went inside and closed the blinds.

A few days later, my father sent a car. Brendan buzzed up to tell me.

I had been watching and waiting, sure that something more would develop. There were no outward signs yet.

I took my time. When I came down, the driver was reading the Post, deep in the sports pages. He didn’t care how long I took. His job was all about waiting. I told him he’d better go because I did not have time to see my father that day. He picked up his phone, following some procedure.

I looked over at Number 27. Nothing. I walked toward Madison, noticing the distinct glitter that certain sidewalks have, the blue dullness of others. The sun was strong. I passed a man walking about twelve dogs toward the park. His face was tight and angry. He did not seem to appreciate those dogs, each one bouncing and swimming toward the dog run, ready to chase and play and smell everything there was. I thought perhaps the man must have been fond of dogs until he started walking strangers’ dogs for money.

I had a job once, working for one of the big magazine companies. A lot of the girls there had been to Brantley with me, so it felt sort of like school again. A feeling of waiting for life to start. It’s important to choose which moments you want to own, to own as many as possible. I thought about that when I saw the dogs straining ahead of the unhappy man.

At the corner, I went into the bad coffee shop. In the mirror behind the counter, I saw Bruno out on the sidewalk. He was wearing a fine linen shirt and leaning on a parked car, smoking. He was the sort who could look busy doing that. He was examining the sole of his shoe. My chest flooded with excitement.

third installment, a mini bit

Sayid, the counterman, was already pulling my coffee. He knows what I get, small regular, no sugar. But when I saw Bruno, I suddenly wanted something different. Sayid put the cup on the counter, fitted the lid on, and looked at me expectantly.

“I’m going to sit today, Sid,” I said. “And can I have some grapefruit, please?” I took one of the tiny tables along the back wall, where I could still see Bruno. I didn’t want to be right in the window where he would know I was watching. As I ate the grapefruit sections, I noticed how he was so good at letting time pass. He was talking with a delivery man. They were laughing, as though it was just a wonderful life, standing there in the midst of rushing people and streaming cabs. I could not hear their voices, but I was sure they were full and sure.


I took my time finishing the grapefruit. After that I had planned to go down to the Gotham Book Mart to look for a collection of Simenon’s Maigret stories.

I like it Novella. I've been reading each installment as you post them and I am definitely impatient to know who Bruno is - whether he is someone suspicious, flirtatious, interesting etc. I was slightly confused in the first part but that's no bad thing in itself.

Is Sid the same person as Sayid?

I look forward to reading more.

Fourth installment (My Life with Bruno)

(Thank you, Clara. Yes, Sid and Sayid are the same. This is a first draft, so anything you don't understand or don't like, just pipe up.)

Now I wasn’t sure I wanted to go anywhere. What would Bruno do? I couldn’t be absolutely sure that he would come with me to midtown. If he thought I knew, he might stop entirely. I did not want to make him walk the twenty blocks. He would curse me the entire way. If I took a cab, he might lose me. The Fifth Avenue bus seemed the best for both of us. And if he decided not to come, well, there was nothing I could do.

You see, by then I was sure that he was with me, either through my father or because of my father. I didn’t care either way what side he was on. I sort of hoped he wasn’t my father’s, but from someone else. Maybe even the government. But his clothes were too expensive, too stylish. Even a government guy who’s trying hard gets it wrong—turns up with a buttoned collar, Wall Street shoes. Bruno was different. He was part of the scenery.

Before I tell you more about this, I should say first that I hate my father. Not in a regular father-hating way. I hate my father the way the desert hates the sun.

novella said:

Not in a regular father-hating way.

Click to expand...

ROTFL.
BTW I enjoy a TINY bit of confusion. It adds piquance. It let's me feel more invlolved with the story, and that it may all be cleared up later.

So far so good! I'm looking forward to the next installment. Like Clara, I am anxious to find out who Bruno is and why he is following Novella. Keep it up Novella

Number five, a little more about Father

My father’s a greedy sonofabitch. I don’t mind saying that because it’s all over him, the most obvious thing in the world. He would say it himself and laugh because he’s on the good end of the joke. Everything he touches becomes his. And he touches everything. He surrounds himself with cowering flunkies. Or maybe anyone who’s near him becomes a cowering flunkie automatically. That’s quite possible. They like to think they’re business people, but they’re all henchpeople waiting for instructions, building swimming pools and media rooms with bad money.

Anyway, because of this way he has of owning things, my father thinks he owns me too, but something else is going on. It’s a velvet struggle. Over my lifetime we’ve developed the relationship of cat and cat owner. I’m the cat, of course. Everyone knows you can never really own a cat, not at the soul level. You can feed it and keep it in the house, but it will look at you like a you’re a stranger. It will stand at the window, wanting the world—the bird’s soft neck, the salt of blood, the sun on grass. I am that cat.

Number six, the story moves forward

(For those reading along, please read Number five below, posted earlier this morning. )


Never mind that though. What I have to tell you is not about my father. It’s about Bruno and how he changed my life.

I left the coffee shop. Bruno was still watching the deliveryman, smoking another cig. I smoke occasionally, but I think that on a certain kind of American it seems almost like affectation these days, not that natural extension of the body it once was. For Bruno, smoking was like breathing. I could tell. I turned west toward Fifth, walking slowly, considering how the day would go. Already I had done two things differently, changed my routine. The grapefruit and the bus. Usually I walk everywhere. Why not? Walking is very freeing. I think sometimes that I will cover the globe, one step at a time.

Standing on the bus stop and then sitting on the crowded bus, I did not see him. Perhaps it would be like waiting for fireflies, I thought. Sitting in the dark, looking hard at the dark, and then the yellow light, a soft, slow burn, just there in front of you. And then another one, answering the first.

Number seven (the third bit today!)

I got off at Rockefeller Center. It was about eleven, not yet crowded with lunch people, just the early clumps of tourists out with their bright white t-shirts. I walked over to the Gotham. It used to be on the diamond block, jammed in between the jewelry stores, subterranean, with an air of ancient and cryptic literary mystery. But the store had to move and in doing so had lost a little of it’s magic, but gained in tidiness. They had a Simenon collection, five stories in an older edition. I bought it. I had lately been absorbed in Inspector Maigret’s sideways methods of investigation, his keen observation of human nature. And his cafe lunches and morning brandies. We would get along, the inspector and I.

At the register I chose a postcard of the Gotham’s old sign, We Are Fishers of Men. The sign used to hang on a wrought-iron bracket on 47th Street, strangely dire and religious.

The suspense is building like thunderclouds on a hot August afternoon. If I could ever learn to write anything anywhere near as good as this, novella, I would be a very happy StillI.

Yup, mee three.

(Thanks, guys. Such sweetness makes me happy.)


I left the Gotham without a plan. I guess I wanted to be found just then, though not consciously. For one thing, I wasn’t lost. But I had the sense that something was missing. I was waiting to feel the warmth of Bruno’s eyes on my back, up and down my walk, the knowledge that if I stopped, he would hesitate and wonder why, that if I turned, he might avert his eyes. I felt only the absence of all this. The street was busy with delivery trucks, workers, shadows, and gusts. It wasn’t a place to hang around. I decided on east and headed there, paging through my mental directory of places with small tables, sunny corners, waiters with a European disregard for time. By the time I reached Third Avenue, I’d decided to turn back uptown, not my usual choice. But I felt that Bruno, if he were indeed with me, would be more comfortable there.

It’s important to realize at this point that I never really was alone anyway. I knew that for a fact. My wanderings were monitored, my whereabouts known, if only by my credit card traces, the glances away at the usual places, the specific wear on my shoes. It’s hard to explain after a lifetime, but there are a thousand ways to trace the lines of a person’s life.

I entered what I think of as my comfort zone around 63rd Street and Lexington Avenue, heading northwest, crossing the line that separates the larger city from the familiar hard prettiness of 10020.

Novella Just discovered your wonderful story! Can't wait for more.

I'm suspicious of this Miss N. (Paranoid schizophrenia is my initial diagnosis, but it's early days yet.)

today's first addition

I took one of the outdoor tables at La Goulue. It was filling up with lunch people, but the waiters there know me and I make sure I tip them well enough to justify the table. The one they call Eddy, though his real name is Etienne, cleared away the place setting and brought me a dry fino sherry and some olives. He did not ask if I was expecting anyone, as I was so often there alone. I let me eyes wander slowly up and down both sides of the avenue, casually searching for my companion. Surely I’m just not seeing him, I thought.

Time passed, as it does. Another sherry, the strong sun on my ankles. Two women sat at the next table and set about the business of lobster salad. Chanel tinted the air, then blended with the sooty scent of exhaust.

Time passed, as it does. Another sherry, the strong sun on my ankles. Two women sat at the next table and set about the business of lobster salad. Chanel tinted the air, then blended with the sooty scent of exhaust.

Click to expand...

If you're not already in print, I surely don't know why.

StillILearn said:

If you're not already in print, I surely don't know why.

Click to expand...

I totally agree. No smilies, no kidding. For true.

I fished into my bag for the postcard.

“Darling, something has changed. A day of perfect spring, and I am restless. La Goulue: Etienne cupping a smoke behind the bar. Two small women in hats go arm in arm. No sign of B. –Novella”

I put a stamp on it, paid the bill, and went to find a mailbox. I could carry the card with me, take it home, and file it, but that would negate the purpose—the surprise of rediscovery when I receive my mail every day and see where I have been and what I have thought. It is surprising to me how remote one day can seem from the next, how a space of three or four days can see a complete change in perspective and stir the unreliable memory into true recognition.

There was a mailbox on Park and 72nd. From there I turned homeward, thinking I would lie in the cool dark of my living room and relive the measured ramblings of Inspector Maigret.

I turned the corner onto my block, and my heart stopped. Bruno was talking with my father’s driver. They were standing under the awning. The driver was gesticulating, an involved story. Bruno smiled and nodded. Suddenly I felt too self conscious to approach my own front door.