Disappearing Act, Part XI

Thursday afternoon

I went today to see Jim at his office in Hampstead. He seemed surprised to see me.

- Don’t tell me that you took the train here just to tell me that you’ve accepted the job.

I asked him:

- Jim, have you ever heard me talk about a girl in New York with the name of Jane?

- Jane? No, I don’t believe so.

- Look, Jim, I had to have alluded to her. Come on, remember, the last time that we played poker, with Mike. I talked to you about her then.

- I don’t remember, Bob. What is this concerning?

- It’s impossible for me to find her. Nor the girl that went out with Mike. And Mike denies ever knowing either one.

Faced with his surprise, I again gave him the explanations. Then he exclaimed:

- Well, that’s wonderful! Two married men out skirt-chasing!

- We were friends, nothing more. It was a friend from college that introduced me to them. Don’t get ideas.

- Good, we’ll let it drop. And how can I help you?

- I cannot find them. They aren’t there anymore. I can’t even prove that they ever existed.

He shrugged his shoulders. “So what?” And he asked me if Mary knew about this. I didn’t answer him.

- I never mentioned Jane to you in one of my letters? I continued

- I couldn’t tell you. I never save my letters.

I left him a short while after this. He was becoming too curious. And I saw the process – he would speak to a woman, that woman would speak to Mary – and the fire is put to the powder.

Leaving the station at the end of the afternoon, I had a horrible feeling of being something temporary. If I was sitting somewhere, it was like resting on emptiness.

I suppose that I had nerves on edge. Because I smacked a passerby just to see if he acknowledged my presence and my contact. He yelled and treated me to all sorts of names.

I would have hugged him.