And there she had put her finger on it. The only thing that had truly stuck in Sherman's mind about Christopher Marlowe, after nine years at Buckley, four years at St. Paul's, and four years at Yale, was that you were, in fact, supposed to know who Christopher Marlowe was. But he wasn't about to say that.

Instead, he asked: "Who's supposed to?"

"Anybody," Maria mumbled. "Me."

It was getting darker. The Mercedes's spiffy dials and gauges were now lit up like a fighter plane's. They were nearing the Atlantic Avenue overpa.s.s. There was another abandoned car by the side of the road. The wheels were gone, the hood was up, and two figures, one holding a flashlight, were jackknifed over the engine well.

Maria continued to look straight ahead as they merged with the traffic on Grand Central Parkway. A galaxy of streaming headlights and taillights filled their field of vision, as if the energy of the city were now transformed into millions of globes of light orbiting in the darkness. Here, inside the Mercedes, with the windows rolled up, the entire stupendous show came gliding by without a sound.

"You know something, Sherman?" You know somethun, Shuhmun? "I hate the Brits. I hate hate 'um." 'um."

"You hate Christopher Marlowe?"

"Thank you, smartie," said Maria. "You sound just like the sonofab.i.t.c.h I sat next to."

Now she was looking at Sherman and smiling. It was the kind of smile you bring up bravely through great pain. Her eyes looked as if they might be about to spring tears.

"Which sonofab.i.t.c.h?" he said.

"On the plane. This Brit." Synonymous with worm. "He started talking to me. I was looking at the catalogue from the Reiner Fetting show I saw in Milano"-it annoyed Sherman that she used the Italian, Milano, instead of the English, Milan, especially since he had never heard of Reiner Fetting-"and he starts talking about Reiner Fetting. He had one a those gold Rolexes, those huge things? It's a wonder you can lift your arm?" She had the Southern Girl habit of turning declarative sentences into questions.

"You think he was making a play?"

Maria smiled, this time with pleasure. "Of course he was!"

The smile brought Sherman great relief. The spell was broken. Just why, he didn't know. He didn't realize that there were women who thought about s.e.xual attractiveness the way he thought about the bond market. He only knew that the spell had been broken and that the weight had been lifted. It didn't really matter what she chattered on about now. And she did chatter on. She headed deep into the indignity she had suffered.

"He couldn't wait to tell me he was a movie producer. He was making a movie based on this play, Doctor Faustus Doctor Faustus, by Christopher Marlowe, or just Marlowe, I think that was all he said, just Marlowe, and I don't even know why I said anything, but I thought somebody named Marlowe wrote for the movies. Actually, what I think I was thinking about was, there was this movie with a character character named Marlowe. Robert Mitchum was in it." named Marlowe. Robert Mitchum was in it."

"That's right. It was a Raymond Chandler story."

Maria looked at him with utter blankness. He dropped Raymond Chandler. "So what did you say to him?"

"I said, 'Oh, Christopher Marlowe. Didn't he write a movie?' And you know what this...b.a.s.t.a.r.d...says to me? He says, 'I shouldn't think so. He died in 1593.' I shouldn't think so I shouldn't think so."

Her eyes were blazing with the recollection. Sherman waited a moment. "That's it?"

"That's it it? I wanted to strangle him. It was...humiliating. I shouldn't think so I shouldn't think so. I couldn't believe believe the...snottiness." the...snottiness."

"What did you say to him?"

"Nothing. I turned red. I couldn't say a word."

"And that's what accounts for this mood of yours?"

"Sherman, tell me the honest truth. If you don't know who Christopher Marlowe is, does that make you stupid?"

"Oh, for G.o.d's sake, Maria. I can't believe that's what put you in such a mood."

"What mood?"

"This black cloud you landed in."

"You didn't answer me, Sherman. Does that make you stupid?"

"Don't be ridiculous. I could barely think of who he was, and I probably had him in a course or something."

"Well, that's just the point. At least you had him in a course. I didn't have him in any course. That's what makes me feel so-you don't even understand what I'm talking about, do you?"

"I sure don't." He smiled at her, and she smiled back.

By now they were pa.s.sing La Guardia Airport, which was lit up by hundreds of sodium vapor lights. It didn't look like a great gateway to the sky. It looked like a factory. Sherman swung to the outside and hit the accelerator and sent the Mercedes barreling under the Thirty-first Street overpa.s.s and up the ramp onto the Triborough Bridge. The cloud had pa.s.sed. He was feeling pleased with himself once again. He had jollied her out of it.

Now he had to slow down. All four lanes were heavy with traffic. As the Mercedes ascended the bridge's great arc, he could see the island of Manhattan off to the left. The towers were jammed together so tightly, he could feel the ma.s.s and stupendous weight. Just think of the millions, from all over the globe, who yearned to be on that island, in those towers, in those narrow streets! There it was, the Rome, the Paris, the London of the twentieth century, the city of ambition, the dense magnetic rock, the irresistible destination of all those who insist on being where things are happening- where things are happening-and he was among the victors! He lived on Park Avenue, the street of dreams! He worked on Wall Street, fifty floors up, for the legendary Pierce & Pierce, overlooking the world! He was at the wheel of a $48,000 roadster with one of the most beautiful women in New York-no Comp. Lit. scholar, perhaps, but gorgeous-beside him! A frisky young animal! He was of that breed whose natural destiny it was...to have what they wanted!

He took one hand off the wheel and made a grand gesture toward the mighty island.

"There it is, babe!"

"We're back to babe again?"

"I just feel like calling you babe, babe. New York City. There it is."

"Do you really think I'm the babe type?"

"You're as babe as they come, Maria. Where do you want to have dinner? It's all yours. New York City."

"Sherman! Aren't you supposed to turn there?"

He looked to the right. It was true. He was two lanes to the left of the lanes that led to the off-ramp to Manhattan, and there was no way he could cut across. By now this lane-the next lane-the next lane-every lane-was a train of cars and trucks, b.u.mper to b.u.mper, inching toward a toll plaza a hundred yards ahead. Above the plaza was a huge green sign, lit up by yellow lamps, saying BRONX UPSTATE N.Y. NEW ENGLAND BRONX UPSTATE N.Y. NEW ENGLAND.

"Sherman, I'm sure that's the turnoff to Manhattan."

"You're right, sweetheart, but there's no way I can get over there now."

"Where does this go?"

"The Bronx."

The trains of vehicles inched forward in a cloud of carbon and sulphur particles toward the toll gates.

The Mercedes was so low-slung, Sherman had to reach way up to surrender two dollar bills at the booth. A tired-looking black man stared down at him from the window of a very high perch. Something had made a long gash in the side of the booth. The gully was corroding.

A vague smoky abysmal uneasiness was seeping into Sherman's skull. The Bronx...He had been born and raised in New York and took a manly pride in knowing the city. I know the city I know the city. But in fact his familiarity with the Bronx, over the course of his thirty-eight years, was derived from five or six trips to the Bronx Zoo, two to the Botanical Gardens, and perhaps a dozen trips to Yankee Stadium, the last one in 1977 for a World Series game. He did know that the Bronx had numbered streets, which were a continuation of Manhattan's. What he would do would be-well, he would get on a cross street and take that west until he reached one of the avenues that take you back down into Manhattan. How bad could it be?

The tide of red taillights flowed on ahead of them, and now they bothered him. In the darkness, amid this red swarm, he couldn't get his bearings. His sense of direction was slipping away. He must be heading north still. The down side of the bridge hadn't curved a great deal. But now there were only signs to go by. His entire stock of landmarks was gone, left behind. At the end of the bridge the expressway split into a Y. MAJOR DEEGAN GEO. WASHINGTON BRIDGE...BRUCKNER...NEW ENGLAND MAJOR DEEGAN GEO. WASHINGTON BRIDGE...BRUCKNER...NEW ENGLAND...Major Deegan went upstate...No!...Veer right...Suddenly another Y...EAST BRONX NEW ENGLAND...EAST 138 BRUCKNER BOULEVARD...Choose one, you ninny!...Acey-deucey...one finger, two fingers...He veered right again...EAST 138th...a ramp...All at once there was no more ramp, no more clean cordoned expressway. He was at ground level. It was as if he had fallen into a junkyard. He seemed to be underneath the expressway. In the blackness he could make out a cyclone fence over on the left...something caught in it...A woman's head!...No, it was a chair with three legs and a burnt seat with the charred stuffing hanging out in great wads, rammed halfway through a cyclone fence...Who on earth would jam a chair into the mesh of a cyclone fence? And why?

"Where are we, Sherman?"

He could tell by the tone of her voice that there weren't going to be any more discussions of Christopher Marlowe or where to have dinner.

"We're in the Bronx."

"You know how to get outta here?"

"Sure. If I can just find a cross street...Let's see, let's see, let's see...138th Street..."

They were traveling north underneath the expressway. But what expressway? Two lanes, both heading north...To the left a retaining wall and cyclone fencing and concrete columns supporting the expressway...Should head west to find a street back to Manhattan...turn left...but he can't turn left because of the wall...Let's see, let's see...138th Street...Where is it?...There! The sign-138th Street...He keeps to the left, to make the turn...A big opening in the wall...138th Street...But he can't turn left! To his left are four or five lanes of traffic, down here underneath the expressway, two going north, two going south, and another one beyond them, cars and trucks barreling in both directions-there's no way he can cut across that traffic...So he keeps going...into the Bronx...Another opening in the wall coming up...He hugs the left lane...Same situation!...No way to turn left!...He begins to feel trapped here in the gloom beneath the expressway...But how bad could it be?...Plenty of traffic...

"What are we doing, Sherman?"

"I'm trying to turn left, but there's no way you can turn left off of this G.o.dd.a.m.ned road. I'm going to have to turn right somewhere up here and make a U-turn or something and come back across."

Maria had no comment. Sherman glanced at her. She was looking straight ahead, grimly. Off to the right, above some low decrepit buildings, he could see a billboard that said Tops In The Bronx Meat Warehouse Meat warehouse...deep in the Bronx...Another opening in the wall up ahead...He starts bearing to the right this time-a tremendous horn!-a truck pa.s.sing him on the right...He swerves left- "Sherman!"

"Sorry, babe."

-too late to make the right turn...He keeps going, hugs the right side of the right lane, ready for the turn...Another opening...turns right...a wide street...What a lot of people all of a sudden...Half of them seem to be out in the street...dark, but they look Latin...Puerto Ricans?...Over there a long low building with scalloped dormer windows...like something from a storybook Swiss chalet...but terribly blackened...Over here a bar-he stares-half covered in metal shutters...So many people in the street...He slows down...Low apartment buildings with windows missing...entire sashes gone...A red light. He stops. He can see Maria's head panning this way and that..."Ooooooaaaggggh!" A tremendous scream off to the left...A young man with a wispy mustache and a sport shirt is sauntering across the street. A girl runs after him screaming. "Ooooooaggggh!"...Dark face, frizzy blond hair...She throws her arm around his neck, but in slow motion, as if she's drunk. "Ooooooaaggggh!" Trying to strangle him! He doesn't even look at her. He just rams his elbow back into her stomach. She slides off his body. She's down on the street on all fours. He keeps walking. Never looks back. She gets up. She lunges toward him again. "Ooooaagggh!" Now they're right in front of the car. Sherman and Maria are sitting in their tan leather bucket seats staring right at them. The girl-she has her man by the neck again. He gives her another whack in the midsection with his elbow. The light changes, but Sherman can't budge. People have come out into the street from both sides to watch the imbroglio. They're laughing. They're cheering. She's pulling his hair. He's grimacing and whacking her backward with both elbows. People all over the place. Sherman looks at Maria. Neither has to say a word. Two white people, one of them a young woman decked out in a royal-blue Avenue Foch jacket with shoulders out to here...enough matched luggage in the back seat for a trip to China...a $48,000 Mercedes roadster...in the middle of the South Bronx...Miraculous! No one pays any attention to them. Just another car at the light. The two combatants gradually edge off to the other side of the street. Now they're grappling like Sumo wrestlers, face to face. They're staggering, weaving. They're worn out. They're gasping for breath. They've had it. They might as well be dancing. The crowd's losing interest, drifting away.

Sherman says to Maria, "True love, babe." Wants to make her think he's not worried.

Now there's no one in front of the car, but the light has turned red again. He waits it out, then heads down the street. Not so many people now...a wide street. He makes a U-turn, heads back the way they came...

"What are you gonna do now, Sherman?"

"I think we're okay. This is a main cross street. We're heading in the right direction. We're heading west."

But when they crossed the big thoroughfare under the expressway, they found themselves in a chaotic intersection. Streets converged from odd angles...People were crossing the street in every direction...Dark faces...Over this way a subway entrance...Over there low buildings, shops...Great Taste Chinese Takeout...He couldn't tell which street went due west...That one-the likeliest-he turned that way...a wide street...cars parked on both sides...up ahead, double-parked...triple-parked...a crowd...Could he even get through?...So he turned one-the likeliest-he turned that way...a wide street...cars parked on both sides...up ahead, double-parked...triple-parked...a crowd...Could he even get through?...So he turned...that way...There was a street sign, but the names of the streets were no longer parallel to the streets themselves. East Something seemed to be...in that direction...So he took that street, but it quickly merged with a narrow side street and ran between some low buildings. The buildings appeared to be abandoned. At the next corner he turned-west, he figured-and followed that street a few blocks. There were more low buildings. They might have been garages and they might have been sheds. There were fences with spirals of razor wire on top. The streets were deserted, which was okay, he told himself, and yet he could feel his heart beating with a nervous tw.a.n.g. Then he turned again. A narrow street lined with seven- or eight-story apartment buildings; no sign of people; not a light in a window. The next block, the same. He turned again, and as he rounded the corner- -astonishing. Utterly empty, a vast open terrain. Block after block-how many?-six? eight? a dozen?-entire blocks of the city without a building left standing. There were streets and curbing and sidewalks and light poles and nothing else. The eerie grid of a city was spread out before him, lit by the chemical yellow of the street lamps. Here and there were traces of rubble and slag. The earth looked like concrete, except that it rolled down this way...and up that way...the hills and dales of the Bronx...reduced to asphalt, concrete, and cinders...in a ghastly yellow gloaming.

He had to look twice to make sure he was in fact still driving on a New York street. The street led up a long slope...Two blocks away...three blocks away...it was hard to tell on this enormous vacant lot...There was a lone building, the last one...It was on the corner...three or four stories high...It looked as if it were ready to keel over at any moment...It was lit up at the ground level, as if there was a store or a bar...Three or four people were out on the sidewalk. Sherman could see them under the streetlight on the corner.

"What is this, Sherman?" Maria was staring right at him.

"The southeast Bronx, I guess."

"You mean you don't know where we are?"

"I know about about where we are. As long as we keep heading west we'll be all right." where we are. As long as we keep heading west we'll be all right."

"What makes you think we're heading west?"

"Oh, don't worry, we're heading west. It's just, uh..."

"It's just what?"

"If you see a street sign...I'm looking for a numbered street."

The truth was, Sherman could no longer tell which way he was heading. As they drew near the building, he could hear thung thung thung thung thung thung thung thung thung thung thung thung. He could hear it even though the windows of the car were up...A ba.s.s violin...An electrical cord looped down from the light pole on the corner through the open door. Out on the sidewalk was a woman wearing what looked like a basketball jersey and shorts, and two men in short-sleeved sport shirts. The woman was leaning over with her hands on her knees, laughing and swinging her head around in a big circle. The two men were laughing at her. Were they Puerto Rican? There was no telling. Inside the doorway, the doorway where the electrical cord went, Sherman could see a low light and silhouettes. Thung thung thung thung thung... Thung thung thung thung thung...the ba.s.s...then the tops of some trumpet notes...Latin music?...The woman's head went around and around.

He glanced at Maria. She sat there in her terrific royal-blue jacket. Her thick dark bobbed hair framed a face that was as frozen as a photograph. Sherman sped up and left the eerie outpost in the wasteland.

He turned toward some buildings...over there...He pa.s.sed houses with no sashes in the windows...

They came upon a little park with an iron railing around it. You had to turn either left or right. The streets went off at odd angles. Sherman had lost track of the grid pattern altogether. It no longer looked like New York. It looked like some small decaying New England city. He turned left.

"Sherman, I'm beginning not to like this."

"Don't worry, kid."

"It's kid now?"

"You didn't like babe." He wanted to sound nonchalant.

Now there were cars parked along the street...Three youths stood beneath a streetlight; three dark faces. They wore quilted jackets. They stared at the Mercedes. Sherman turned again.

Up ahead he could see the fuzzy yellow glow of what seemed to be a wider, more brightly lit street. The closer they came to it, the more people...on the sidewalks, in doorways, out in the street...What a lot of dark faces...Up ahead, something in the street. His headlights were soaked up by the darkness. Then he could make it out. A car parked out in the middle of the street, nowhere near the curb...a group of boys standing around it...More dark faces...Could he even get around them? He pushed the b.u.t.ton that locked the doors. The electronic click startled him, as if it were the beat of a snare drum. He eased by. The boys stooped down and stared in the windows of the Mercedes.

Out of the corner of his eye he could see one of them smiling. But he said nothing. He just stared and grinned. Thank G.o.d, there was enough room. Sherman kept easing on by. Suppose he had a flat tire? Or the engine flooded? That would be a pretty fix. But he didn't feel rattled. He was still on top of it. Just keep rolling. That's the main thing. A $48,000 Mercedes. Come on, you Krauts, you Panzer heads, you steely-brained machinists...Do it right...He made it past the car. Up ahead, a thoroughfare...Traffic was going across the intersection at a good clip in both directions. He let his breath out. He'd take it! To the right! To the left! It didn't matter. He reached the intersection. The light was red. Well, the h.e.l.l with that. He started through.

"Sherman, you're going through a red light!"

"Good. Maybe the cops'll come. That wouldn't upset me too much."

Maria wasn't saying a word. The concerns of her luxurious life were now tightly focused. Human existence had but one purpose: to get out of the Bronx.

Up ahead the vaporous mustard glow of the streetlights was brighter and more spread out...Some sort of major intersection...Wait a second...Up there, a subway entrance...Over here, shops, cheap food joints...Texas Fried Chicken...Great Taste Chinese Takeout...Great Taste Chinese Takeout!

Maria was thinking the same thing. "Jesus Christ, Sherman, we're back where we started! You been around in a circle!"

"I know it. I know it. Just hold on a second. I tell you what. I'm gonna take a right. I'm gonna head back down under the expressway. I'm gonna-"

"Don't get under that thing again, Sherman."

The expressway was right up above. The light was green. Sherman didn't know what to do. Someone was blowing a horn behind him.

"Sherman! Look over there! It says George Washington Bridge!"

Where? The horn kept blowing. Then he saw it. It was on the far side, beneath the expressway, in the decrepit gray gloaming, a sign on a concrete support...95. 895 EAST. GEO. WASH. BRIDGE EAST. GEO. WASH. BRIDGE...Must be a ramp...

"But we don't want to go in that direction! That's north!"

"So what, Sherman? At least you know what it is! At least it's civilization! Let's get outta here!"

The horn blared. Somebody was back there yelling. Sherman gunned it, while he still had the light. He drove across the five lanes toward the little sign. He was back under the expressway.

"It's right over there, Sherman!"

"Okay, okay, I see it."