The Last Illusion

“I didn’t say,” I said, “But it’s Kathleen. Kathleen McCarthy. He probably won’t remember me.”


Then off I went toward Delancey Street. I hadn’t had the nerve to ask him the number and Delancey is a long street, so I had to stop and grab a bite to eat and drink at a Jewish delicatessen to fortify myself before I finally met people who had heard of Ma Becker’s and I trudged up the steps to her front door. Machinery was clattering away loudly from a workshop in the basement and I wondered how theatrical folk could stand such a noise, seeing that they liked to sleep late in the morning. But perhaps beggars couldn’t be choosers.

Ma Becker was the archetypal landlady—hatchet-faced and clearly allowing no hanky-panky within her walls. Keen on money too, as I saw her eyes light up when I asked about vacant rooms.

“Your friend, what does she do in the business?” she asked.

“She’s a dancer.”

“Chorus girl?”

“Acrobatic dancer,” I said, feeling stupid that I was allowing this farce to continue.

“Solo act then.” She was positively beaming at me now. “I’ll take you up and show you the room. When will she be in town?”

“In a couple of weeks, I hope,” I said.

Along the dreary, dark-brown hall and up the dark-brown worn linoleum of the stairs we went. The room was truly dreadful—dark, looking onto the tenement behind, and smelling of bad drains. “It will do just fine,” I lied. “I’ll write and tell her.”

As we came down the stairs I turned and said breezily, “So which room did Mr. Scarpelli have here? He always spoke so fondly of you.”

“Did he now? Well, I’m not about to speak fondly of him. Up and leaving me without paying the rent.”

“So he never came back here after the tragedy?”

“I ain’t seen hide nor hair of him since,” she said. “I kept expecting him to get in touch because he’s left all his stuff, but I haven’t heard from him. Typical of these men. Never think of anybody except themselves. So now I don’t even know if I am supposed to re-let the room or if he wants it kept on.”

“Could I see it?” I asked. “Just in case he doesn’t want to keep it. I may be needing a room myself as well.”

“I don’t think I should be showing Alfred’s room,” she said. “It’s not right, is it?”

“But if he owes you money then you’ve no obligation to keep it for him, have you? Why, he might be away for months. He might never come back. And I can pay.”

I saw the struggle between money and a loyalty to Scarpelli going on in her head until she finally said, “Well, I suppose there’s no harm in showing it to you, just in case he won’t be needing it again. It’s this one here.” She opened a door on the first floor. This room was much nicer altogether—it had a big bay window that overlooked the street, a gaily patterned carpet, and an impressive wardrobe.

“This is lovely,” I said.

“Well, Scarpelli, he’s one of my best returning customers,” she said. “Or at least, he was. Who knows now?”

“Nobody seems to know where he is even,” I said.

“That’s right. Disappeared into the blue, hasn’t he?” she said. I thought I detected a twitch of smile as she said this and it occurred to me that perhaps she did know. In which case had she written to him, asking for the money she owed him? And why was she smiling?

I was looking around the room as she talked. She went across to the window and opened it, letting in the fresh air. “Stuffy in here,” she said.

The clatter of machinery rose up from the basement, a deep, rhythmic thump. I was dying to open that wardrobe and the drawers in the dresser, but I couldn’t think of a reason to do so. Besides, at least now I knew he lived in Boston and I could pass that information along to the police, if they didn’t already have it. If they still wanted it.

“His agent thinks he might have gone home to Boston,” I said.

“Boston? Fancy that. The scoundrel,” she said, and again it came out a little as if she were delivering lines onstage.

“So why don’t you pack up his stuff and then you could re-let the room until he comes back? I’m sure my friend would rather have this room than the one upstairs.”

“The police were round here several times and they told me not to touch anything,” she said. “But if he’s gone to Boston—well, that’s a different matter, isn’t it?” Again I could see the struggle between doing what the police had told her and recouping her losses. “They can’t expect me to keep this room untouched forever, can they?” She said, as if thinking out loud, “I mean, what if he never comes back. I expect—” She broke off as she heard her name being called.

“Ma—where are you? There’s a man at the front door for you!” a male voice was shouting.