I TOOK THE TRAIN into New York. For whatever reason, the dog came with me, and I was carrying a small bag full of some clothes and a change of shoes. These I left somewhere at a playground near The Cube at Astor Place. Then I walked over to the old building on Grammercy Park and took the elevator to the top floor. I was led into the recording studio by the British girl. She said her name was Florence. She was of diminutive size and had straw-coloured hair, and features that immediately identified her as being of or from the Isles.
Something in the eyes, the lips.
The recording studio consisted of a large bed with a white blanket. It was here that we made love. I was surprised that I even could make love, especially to some random British stranger. But her eyes did light up during the lovemaking process. Behind the bed, there was a window that opened up into another room. It looked like it was someone else’s apartment, but also that it hadn’t been touched for a long time. There was dust on all the furniture. “Aren’t you worried they will walk in on us?” I asked Florence. “Please be quiet, love,” she said. “Just keep going.”
When it was over, she got up and put her clothes on. She packed her bag and got ready to leave. The producer and the sound engineer came in. The sound engineer was a Mexican with long hair tucked beneath a baseball cap, and he appeared to be crying. “Hidalgo,” said the producer, “stop your moping!” The Mexican wiped a tear from his eyes. I said, “You’re in love with her aren’t you?” Hidalgo only nodded. I felt bad, and couldn’t remember how I even knew Florence, or how we had wound up in bed. I thought we were supposed to be making music!
The producer looked like Hugh Grant, but like Hugh Grant looks these days, old and gray. “Excuse our Hidalgo,” the producer said. “He is a Latin man, as you can see. He has emotional tendencies.” The producer was dressed in a gray suit and his salt-and-pepper hair was cut short. “Hidalgo gets too attached.” I didn’t feel particularly attached. As I watched Florence prepare to go out, applying her makeup in the mirror, I felt a kind of sadness if not total disgust. “What? What is it with you?” she said in that rather inflected London accent of hers.
After she left, I took the elevator down. I went back to the playground by The Cube on Astor Place. Could you believe that my dog was still waiting for me? Some characters who looked like the musicians from Parliament Funkadelic were tossing around a frisbee, and the dog would sometimes go and fetch it. They were good guys, and my bag was still sitting there, untouched. New York had become a much safer place. It was safe at least for dogs and bags.
Not so much for hearts.
north! 