The Man Who Cried I Am Read Online Free Page A

jock strap and looked at the plastic five-cc syringe and at the morphine itself. He felt his breast pocket to see if the needle was still there. Not now, later. The pain subsided.
    He returned to the table and without looking at her said, “Margrit, I’m sorry. Easy to say. Said it before, but believe me, I am sorry. Late, I know. Don’t want anything. I can’t want anything, not even you again. I just wanted to see you and say that.”
    â€œWell …” She wanted to say that it was all right, but she knew it wasn’t and he knew it too. Then she wanted to reach across the table and slap him as hard as she could. Sorry! But the black Americans were all the same: they walked away from things mumbling, “Sorry.” Sorry! After a moment, the bitterness ebbed. “But you look tired. Maybe you should get some rest. If you like, we can talk later [more sorry!]. Where are you staying?”
    Come full circle on the Dutch, he was thinking as she spoke. He knew he was giving her answers. (“Yes, a little tired. Don’t know where I’ll be staying. Maybe the American. Do it up right. Last trip, Ducks, ho?”)
    â€œOne more drink,” he said aloud. “Then I’ll get my bag and go to the hotel. If you have dinner with me. In that corner. You know.” He rushed on, not wanting her to decline. “You know where we sat for four hours just watching people pass …”
    Margrit thought, Yes, I know, I remember, I remember, and the waiters trying to rush us, and it seemed as if the sun would never come down.
    â€œâ€¦ and maybe after dinner we can find Roger and some of the other guys. How are they doing? Do you see them often?” He paused. He didn’t give a damn about Roger or the others. It was too late. “Will you, will you have dinner?”
    â€œNo more drinks then,” she said.
    â€œAll right.” He breathed deeply in relief.
    â€œI will get your bag,” she said.
    â€œNo you won’t,” he said. Then with sudden vehemence he said, “Will you stop doing things for me!”
    Unruffled she said, “Mox, you will walk across the street to the hotel and get your room. I will touch up a bit, call a taxi and get your bag. The driver will help me and the hotel boys will help me. Give me the ticket.” She held out her hand for the ticket as his hands went limply into pocket after pocket. Finally he found it. Taking it she said, “You don’t look well. I am worried.”
    â€œHow can you be worried?”
    She hunched her shoulders. “I just am. Please go.”
    â€œAll right, Maggie.” He sucked in his breath quickly. The pain. She was right. Let her get the goddamn bag. Get to the hotel. Fast! Get off your feet. Take a pill.
    â€œWhat is it?” she asked.
    â€œA belch. I had to belch.”
    â€œHappy New Year, then.”
    â€œThanks. Shall we go now?”
    He paid the waiter and they left. “It will not be long,” she said.
    â€œAll right. Maggie?”
    â€œWhat?”
    â€œI am truly sorry.”
    â€œShut up, Mox,” she said, not unpleasantly. “I will not be long.”
    He wondered if her apartment was the same. It overlooked one of the canals, had high ceilings and dark musty hallways. And cats. One was a striped, swollen brown that padded softly about the rooms. The other was a sleek young black with a triangle of white on the face, a female. He had watched them lick each other’s backs and play, but there had been no catting between them, only with the other cats that gathered on the rooftops at night. Max wondered if the walls were still thick with the paintings of friends, or if the bedroom was the same, with the windows to the east so that as soon as the sun took a notion to rise, whop! daylight in the room. And in that room, he thought, discovering without surprise that he had the key to his hotel room in his hand and that he was following the