The Madness of July Read Online Free Page B

warriors on the other side would doff their fur hats to him as he disappeared, as he might do for them; that was how it went. There was little he could reveal of such thoughts to anyone except the few who passed through the third-floor doors with him each morning, and from time to time to Hannah, who had been introduced to some, but only some, of the intimacies of his trade. Yet against the grain of his time Grauber seemed to his friends an optimistic man, with a priestly air of calm. He knew that it was misleading, because his hopes were laced with melancholy more often than he would have wished.
    And as he stepped along East 20 th Street his upbeat morning mood was tested. Not particularly by the shadow of a National Day celebration in the East 80s in the evening at which he was to be the senior American alongside his ambassador, although that would be a trial, but by the planned meeting with an old comrade-in-arms for lunch in one of the faded city watering holes that he treasured: the Oyster Bar in the depths of Grand Central Station. In the night he had spent two silent hours at his study desk worrying over the encounter while Hannah slept upstairs, the dog bundled at his feet and a friendly glass of whisky in hand, from a bottle he seldom opened, playing war games with the conversation they might have. The drink was almost untouched when he slipped into bed.
    Now as he crossed Irving Place, the memory of the previous night’s ball game took hold. The Yankees had been obliterated in a double-header at Cleveland. He knew what awaited him, and he loved the tangy flavour of old New York that it represented, always taking trouble to let the city play to its strengths. There were surprises and turnabouts enough at work; he wanted this place to stay as he loved it, although he would remain an interloper. He got to Lehman’s corner, and the guy who always sat at the top of the subway steps caught his eye. ‘Go Mets!’ Grauber acknowledged the taunt with a grin.
    Entering Lehman’s shop, bakery on one side and the small deli on the other, connected by a swinging glass door that allowed husband and wife to rule their own domains, Lehman was more sympathetic because he shared Grauber’s commitment. ‘Mr Grauber,’ he said, the formality an endearment, ‘that pitcher!’
    An unknown voice came through the half-open door to the deli. ‘He pitched like my granddad… dead five years.’ A rumpled grey head followed the voice. ‘World Series, my ass! For-ged-about-it. Excuse me, Mrs Lehman.’
    No one disagreed and Grauber took the chance to ask for his bread. A round rye as usual, and a long sourdough, which would see them through the next day or two. Then through the door to the deli, where the pickles glistened in their jars and the air was sharp with sauerkraut. Husband and wife swapped places each day, Monday to Saturday, bakery one day and deli the next, which gave their lives a nice symmetry, and pleased their customers who liked the atmosphere of a shop where something was always happening. He asked Mrs Lehman for a particular salami, tied up in its red string bag, which they’d work through in the course of a week.
    ‘Things good?’ said Mr Lehman as he passed back through the bakery.
    Grauber raised a friendly fist. ‘Can’t complain. Better times coming. Seattle here Friday. Whole new ball game.’ The baker inclined his head, and smiled after him when Grauber stepped into the street.
    He was back on 20 th in a few moments, thinking of the box of work he’d locked in his office safe the night before. Nothing too troublesome, although there was a rumour which might be productive about a Czech, new-blown into town, and the mission was alarmed about a secretariat appointment in the wind: the Australian was a disaster, too prone to vodka parties with the wrong gang, and had to be stopped. It was in hand, and a French friend might help. But that could wait, and in the office it would be an easy, catch-up day.