THE DOWAGER AT 55
(1171 East 91st street)
I was told you lived here, and it has proven correct:
here you are, after all, amidst flowers and huge,
potted plants. The doorman, whom I've just met,
says his name is 'Henri' - pronounced somehow
with a sneer and no 'H', and slightly clenched
teeth, all while mysteriously moving the fingers
of one hand. Whatever that means, I think I
got the message.
-
You are on the fourth floor of a very nice building.
'Elsa Beth Dolmier' is the name on your letterbox,
as well as the name on the bottom of your letters - which
is as I know you. It is a strange yet very precise name, as I
see it, and reeking of money. I'm sure Henri would agree,
no, Ms Dolmier?
-
All I have of you is a few notes sent, and a voice on
the phone from the one time you called me - unsolicited -
to talk, find out more about me, hear my voice, learn who I
was - or, as you put it - who I could be. After that time,
I knew there'd be trouble. You asked why I never travel,
saying you spend much time overseas. Europe is your
preference : the streets of Paris, the back alleys of
Prague, the smaller prefects of rural France.
-
Nothing I can do about that, I'd thought.
Listening to you, I felt as if I was being interviewed
by a banker - huge clump of cash in one hand, a big
'No' in the other. I sat down to nothing, and left with
much less. You offered me tea in a porcelain cage.
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