After saying good-bye to Theta, Henry hopped the El to Chatham Square and made his way through Chinatown in the brisk chill. He moved in and out of shops, pretending to be interested in ceramic bowls and fabric for a new suit, while surreptitiously looking for the girl he’d only met inside a dream.
A commotion erupted in the street. Police were turning out a restaurant, allowing the health inspector passage. The owner protested the disruption to his business mightily: “This is a clean place! No sickness here.”
“Do you have your papers?” the policeman asked one of the waiters, who didn’t seem to understand. “Your resident permit?”
A translator spoke quickly with the frightened waiter.
“He left it at home,” the translator explained to the police. “He’ll go get it now.”
“Nothing doing, pal. No papers, we take you in.” The policeman whistled for his partner, and they loaded the terrified waiter into the back of the wagon.
“Can’t he go home and get his papers?” Henry asked innocently.
The policeman scrutinized Henry. “We’re just going our job,” he said wearily, and Henry was reminded of a time in New Orleans when he and Louis had hidden under the bar while police raided Celeste’s, rounding up all the boys dancing together. One of the cops, a fella named Beau, had been seen dancing at Celeste’s himself a number of times.
“I’m just doing my job,” he’d said to the owner, as if it would be apology enough.
Henry had been powerless that night, and he felt powerless here. He couldn’t help this man. He couldn’t even find the girl. He was just about to give up and go home when he turned the corner onto Doyers Street and stopped cold. Nestled next to a jeweler’s shop was the Tea House restaurant, just as it had been in his dream.
Maybe he wasn’t so powerless after all.
Henry ducked inside. He hadn’t been hungry before, but it smelled delicious, so he took a seat and ordered a noodle dish, and while he waited, he looked around for any hint of the girl with the green eyes.
“Best chow mein in town,” an older man at the next table said in an Eastern European accent. He nodded to the police out on the streets. “The sleeping sickness.”
“Oh, yes,” Henry said, barely listening. A trio of girls walked past the front windows of the Tea House, but none of them was his mysterious dream walker.
“On my street, Ludlow, there is right now a girl of only twenty, she has been asleep for two days,” the old man continued. “Her mother can’t wake her up. Her father can’t wake her up. Even the rabbi can’t wake her up. How do they take ill? Is it in the food or the water? In the air? No one knows.”
From somewhere in the restaurant, Henry heard a familiar voice. And then he spied her sitting at a table in the back, partially obscured by a screen.
“Do excuse me,” Henry said, walking to the back. He came around the screen and stood beside the girl’s table, his shadow falling across her open book. “So you do exist.”
The girl looked up at him. Her eyes were a hazel-green, greener in the light. Though she was a slight girl, there was something of the boxer’s quality to her, Henry thought; this was someone ready to show knuckles at a moment’s notice. Her mouth opened in an O of surprise, and then, just as quickly, she caught herself.
“I’m afraid you have mistaken me for someone else,” she said with pointed politeness.
“I don’t believe I have. I’ve seen you in my dreams.”
The girl gave him only a disdainful upward glance. “Corny.”
“I did see you in my dreams last night. Didn’t I? I’ve never—”
“Shhh!” she whispered, craning her neck to see if anyone was listening. “Sit down. If anyone asks, I know you from school. Do you understand?”
Henry nodded and lowered his voice. “You’ll have to forgive my astonishment. It’s just that I’ve never met another dream walker before. Have you?”