Free Three Bedrooms in Manhattan by Georges Simenon

street. Have you ever noticed him?”
    He vaguely remembered seeing an old man sitting cross-legged on a table, who spent the whole day sewing. He had a long, dirty beard. His fingers were dirty from handling fabric.
    â€œWhen I was living in Vienna with my mother … I told you she was a famous concert pianist? Yes … But before that, things were hard. When I was little, we were poor. We lived in a single room … Oh, not as nice as this, since there was no kitchen, no refrigerator, no bathroom. There wasn’t even running water, and we had to wash in a sink at the end of the hallway—I can’t tell you how cold it was in winter.
    â€œWhat was I saying? Oh, yes … When I was sick and had to stay home from school, I used to look out the window all day, and right across the street was an old Jewish tailor who looked so much like that one that for a moment I thought he was the same man.”
    Combe said lightly, “Maybe he is.”
    â€œIdiot! He’d be a hundred at least. But don’t you think it’s a funny coincidence? I’m going to be in a good mood all day.”
    â€œYou needed something to put you in a good mood?”
    â€œNo … But I feel like a little girl again. I even feel like making fun of you. I made fun of everyone, you know, when I was young.”
    â€œWhat have I done for you to make fun of me?”
    â€œCan I ask you something?”
    â€œGo ahead.”
    â€œWhy are there at least eight dressing gowns in your closet? I know I probably shouldn’t ask. But it’s pretty unusual for a man—”
    â€œFor a man who has so many dressing gowns to live in a place like this, that’s what you mean? There’s a simple answer really. I’m an actor.”
    Why was he embarrassed he’d said it, and why had he avoided her eyes? All day the two of them were circumspect. They sat at the table with the breakfast leftovers on it. The limit of their vision was the window across the street where the tailor with his rabbinical beard sat sewing.
    It was the first time they weren’t surrounded by a crowd, the first time, in a way, that they were really face-to-face, just the two of them, without a jukebox or whiskey to fuel their intimacy.
    Kay wasn’t wearing lipstick. Her face looked softer, and there was a touch of shyness or fear in it. The change was so striking that her eternal cigarette didn’t quite fit.
    â€œAre you disappointed?”
    â€œThat you’re an actor? Why should I be disappointed?”
    But she seemed sad. And he knew why without having to talk. They both knew.
    If an actor his age was living in Greenwich Village like this …
    â€œIt’s a lot more complicated than you think,” he sighed.
    â€œI wasn’t thinking anything, darling.”
    â€œI was well-known in Paris. You could say I was famous.”
    â€œI have to admit, I don’t remember your last name. You told me once, that first night, remember? I was embarrassed and I didn’t want to ask again.”
    â€œFrançois Combe. I used to play at the Théâtre de la Madeleine, at the Michodière, at the Gymnase. I’ve toured all over Europe and in South America. I’ve also starred in a number of movies. Only eight months ago, I was offered a contract—”
    She forced herself not to show pity, not to wound him.
    â€œIt’s not what you think,” he went on hastily. “I could go back anytime I want.”
    She poured him a fresh cup of coffee. Her gesture was so natural he was surprised. The unexpected intimacy seemed miraculous.
    â€œIt’s very simple and very silly. I might as well tell you. Everyone in Paris knows about it, and it was all over the papers. My wife was an actress, too, a famous actress. Marie Clairois.”
    â€œI know that name.”
    She was sorry she’d said it, but it was too late. She recognized his wife’s name but not