if he had seen a traffic accident. Cords of loose sinew hung down his neck. He wore a glass bow tie, blue with mirrors and a blue eye where the knot should be. He didn't move, transfixed.
'Hello,' Michel said to him.
The old man's face quavered like a flower in a breeze. Someone else out of balance. 'It's a miracle,' the man insisted, as if someone had contradicted him.
Michael felt careless. 'It is,' he agreed.
'It really is him,' the old man said, in the hushed voice of someone visiting Chartres.
'They're both Romanian,' said Michael. 'Family resemblance.' He realized he knew the old man from somewhere. Some old actor; some old impresario.
Very suddenly the old man wilted. He seemed to sink from the knees, and Michael had to catch him. There were further steps, a spiral staircase up to another floor. The old man shifted awkwardly like a collapsing ironing board. Michael lowered him down to sit on the steps. The old man took out an embroidered handkerchief.
'Do you want some water?' Michael asked.
'Please,' said the old man.
The turbaned bartender already had a glass of water ready. 'Is your friend OK?' he asked, American, concerned.
'I don't know. I think so,' said Michael.
The old man was sweaty, his elegance outraged. He mopped his brow. Elegance was what he had left.
He took the water and sipped it, and sighed. 'You keep thinking, you can just turn a corner, and you'll find us all there, like we were.' His rumpled old eyes suddenly went clear as if made out of glass. 'Beautiful and at the height of our powers. Like all of you now. Tuh. It seems more real to me than this.' He held up his hands. They were blue and crisp in patches and looked like melted candles. Eighty? Michael thought. Ninety?
The old eyes strayed back to Johnny. Johnny was standing tall, and still and distant, forgetful of himself. He was staring at the fig tree behind the glass wall.
'Did you know him?' Michael asked. 'I mean, the real one?'
The old man shook his head, without moving his eyes. 'Oh no. No. But I wanted to. People of my generation, you know we had never seen anything like it. For only a very few years, he was… It. A sensation. People don't remember that now.'
He closed his eyes and shuddered. 'The past is a chasm it's as well not to look down,' he said.
Michael sat next to him on the steps. 'How old were you then?'
The old man's eyes looked as if they ached. 'I was twenty-two when I saw the first of his films. Of course in those days you thought you were the only one in the world, and so you dreamed. You know what I mean, I don't have to spell it out. You lived in dreams, because you knew that you were a good person, or good enough, but you wanted things that everyone else said were evil. It was difficult. You ended up loving dreams.'
He shivered, gathering himself up. 'You've been very kind,' he said, and offered a hand. 'I'm so sorry to have a been a nuisance. I used not to be. But age hits you, you know.'
'Perhaps you'd like to meet him. His name is Johnny.'
A pause for about a beat. 'It won't embarrass him?'
'I think you'll find he is beyond embarrassment.'
Michael helped him stand up. The old man rose with a sudden fluidity that hinted at what he had been when young. 'The terrible thing,' he said, casually, as if making a general observation, 'is that we feel more as we get older. Not less. The heart really ought to diminish along with everything else. Don't you think?'
His eyes were ice-blue and not at all weak. At one time those eyes would have presided, gone flinty with the hard bargaining and constant politicking of putting on a show. He would have been cagey, cunning, enthusiastic, wise and probably indelibly handsome in an etiolated London theatrical way.
Without meaning to, Michael sketched with his own hands and eyes how the old man would have moved. In the joints of his hips, he embodied the way the old man moved now. Michael felt the bargain he had made with ageing, with the death of colleagues,
'Hello,' Michel said to him.
The old man's face quavered like a flower in a breeze. Someone else out of balance. 'It's a miracle,' the man insisted, as if someone had contradicted him.
Michael felt careless. 'It is,' he agreed.
'It really is him,' the old man said, in the hushed voice of someone visiting Chartres.
'They're both Romanian,' said Michael. 'Family resemblance.' He realized he knew the old man from somewhere. Some old actor; some old impresario.
Very suddenly the old man wilted. He seemed to sink from the knees, and Michael had to catch him. There were further steps, a spiral staircase up to another floor. The old man shifted awkwardly like a collapsing ironing board. Michael lowered him down to sit on the steps. The old man took out an embroidered handkerchief.
'Do you want some water?' Michael asked.
'Please,' said the old man.
The turbaned bartender already had a glass of water ready. 'Is your friend OK?' he asked, American, concerned.
'I don't know. I think so,' said Michael.
The old man was sweaty, his elegance outraged. He mopped his brow. Elegance was what he had left.
He took the water and sipped it, and sighed. 'You keep thinking, you can just turn a corner, and you'll find us all there, like we were.' His rumpled old eyes suddenly went clear as if made out of glass. 'Beautiful and at the height of our powers. Like all of you now. Tuh. It seems more real to me than this.' He held up his hands. They were blue and crisp in patches and looked like melted candles. Eighty? Michael thought. Ninety?
The old eyes strayed back to Johnny. Johnny was standing tall, and still and distant, forgetful of himself. He was staring at the fig tree behind the glass wall.
'Did you know him?' Michael asked. 'I mean, the real one?'
The old man shook his head, without moving his eyes. 'Oh no. No. But I wanted to. People of my generation, you know we had never seen anything like it. For only a very few years, he was… It. A sensation. People don't remember that now.'
He closed his eyes and shuddered. 'The past is a chasm it's as well not to look down,' he said.
Michael sat next to him on the steps. 'How old were you then?'
The old man's eyes looked as if they ached. 'I was twenty-two when I saw the first of his films. Of course in those days you thought you were the only one in the world, and so you dreamed. You know what I mean, I don't have to spell it out. You lived in dreams, because you knew that you were a good person, or good enough, but you wanted things that everyone else said were evil. It was difficult. You ended up loving dreams.'
He shivered, gathering himself up. 'You've been very kind,' he said, and offered a hand. 'I'm so sorry to have a been a nuisance. I used not to be. But age hits you, you know.'
'Perhaps you'd like to meet him. His name is Johnny.'
A pause for about a beat. 'It won't embarrass him?'
'I think you'll find he is beyond embarrassment.'
Michael helped him stand up. The old man rose with a sudden fluidity that hinted at what he had been when young. 'The terrible thing,' he said, casually, as if making a general observation, 'is that we feel more as we get older. Not less. The heart really ought to diminish along with everything else. Don't you think?'
His eyes were ice-blue and not at all weak. At one time those eyes would have presided, gone flinty with the hard bargaining and constant politicking of putting on a show. He would have been cagey, cunning, enthusiastic, wise and probably indelibly handsome in an etiolated London theatrical way.
Without meaning to, Michael sketched with his own hands and eyes how the old man would have moved. In the joints of his hips, he embodied the way the old man moved now. Michael felt the bargain he had made with ageing, with the death of colleagues,
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