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They came to the end of the hall and to a door on which was painted in cursive gilt letters:
W.C.
Livingston pushed open the door and gestured for Harry to go first, and Harry did, entering a spacious lavatory of marble and granite, porcelain and dark wood, and at the head of a row of sinks to the left a tiny old Negro man in a white jacket sat on a stool reading a paperback book.
"Ah, Mr. Lovechild," said the little man, putting a bookmark into the book and rising.
"How's it hanging, Pompey?"
"By a thread, sir, but who am I to complain, at my advanced age. It is a privilege of sorts still to be alive."
"It is indeed, Pompey. By the way, this is my friend, Mr. Harry Beachcroft, the renowned author."
"Extraordinary," said the little man. "As I just happened to be reading one of the gentleman's novels."
He held up the book, which was Harry's Dames Spell Trouble, a novel he only vaguely recalled writing about five years previously.
"How is it?" said Livingston. "I can't say I've read that one."
"Pretty good," said the man.
"May I borrow it when you're finished?"
"Sure, Mr. Lovechild."
"Anyway, we're just gonna take a quick leak."
"Leak away, sir."
"This way, Harry," said Livingston, and he led him over to a row of urinals, cracked and yellowed with age.
"Livingston," said Harry. "This is awkward for me to say, but would you mind if we do not use adjoining urinals?"
"I assure you I don't have cooties, old man."
"It's not that," said Harry. "It's just that I feel uncomfortable urinating next to another man."
"Oh, so it's nothing personal," said Livingston.
"No, not at all."
"It's actually a very common condition," interposed the tiny old man.
"Really?" said Livingston.
"Yes, sir. Some gentleman turn around and leave if even one other gentleman is standing at the urinals."
"Oh, okay," said Livingston. "So I shouldn't be offended."
"Not at all, sir," said the old man. "You know what they say?"
"No."
"It takes all kinds, Mr. Lovechild. And some gentlemen just can't bear to make water in the presence of another gentleman. It's nothing to be ashamed of."
"No, I suppose not."
"Whereas other gentlemen take seemingly great relish in relieving themselves in the close company of other gentlemen."
"Yes, I've noticed that," said Livingston. "I must say it's a matter of indifference to me. As long as chaps don't try to grab my johnson in mid-pee."
"Ha ha, you are a jester, sir."
"I feel we must jest, Pompey, if we are to make this life at all bearable."
"A little jesting never hurt nobody, sir."
"Livingston," said Harry.
"Yes, Harry."
"I really have to go, so if you don't mind –"
"Sure, go right ahead, chum," said Livingston. "You take whichever end you prefer, and I'll take the other one."
Harry quickly went over to the urinal on the far right. Why hadn't he asked to use the bathroom before leaving Livingston's house? He knew why. It was because he had been too foolishly shy to ask where the bathroom was. He was a fool, he always had been a fool, he would doubtless remain a fool, and he would die a fool.
He unbuttoned his fly and tried to put the fact that there were two other men in this restroom out of his mind. But the problem with this was that the one way to insure that something stayed in the forefront of his mind was to try to put it out of his mind.
He sensed that Livingston had taken a stand down at the other end of the line of five or six urinals, and then he heard Livingston's voice, singing, to a nameless tune:
Oh, I am a bold young mountebank,
some call me Fred, some call me Frank,
and I wander around from town to town
and ne'er will you see me wear a frown.
I knew a young lass from Boston, Mass.,
she was full of fun and also sass;
she would brook no nonsense nor no crap,
and she gave me a dose of crabs and clap.
So sing ye high and sing ye low
as down, down, and down we go,
sing a happy song and a roundelay,
sing a song and then go away…
As Livingston sang, at last Harry felt his bladder let loose and a great stream of urine came out of him and splashed against the stained porcelain.
Three minutes later he was finished, and Livingston seemingly was also, as he stopped his song in the middle of a line and flushed.
Harry re-buttoned and joined Livingston at the sinks.
"Hope you didn't mind my singing," said Livingston, turning a tap handle. "But I love to sing while peeing. I don't know why. But do I know why I do anything? Not really."
"I didn't mind," said Harry, punching some liquid soap from a bulbous dispenser on the wall in front of him.
He looked at his face in the mirror as he washed his hands. Yes, he was no longer young, and to be quite honest he looked at the very least five years older than he was. In another ten years he would look twenty years older than he was. But would he even live another ten years? People dropped like flies these days, possibly due to excessive consumption of alcoholic beverages and tobacco, not to mention lack of physical exercise and poor diet. Perhaps he should stop drinking and smoking, and begin each day with a brisk and bracing mile's walk? The odd push-up wouldn't hurt either. But what would he do with himself if he couldn't enjoy two packs of cigarettes a day, and spend at least three hours every night drinking bock? Was such a straitened and abstinent life even worth living?
"To dry your hands, sir."
This was the little man, standing next to him and offering a white towel.
"Oh, thank you," said Harry, and he took the towel.
"You're quite welcome, sir."
Livingston was already drying his hand with a towel.
"Say, Pompey, maybe you can help us out. We want to sneak out quietly without running into some of the old boys out there."
"An Irish goodbye, sir."
"Yes, exactly. Do you think it would be okay if we sneaked out the servants' entrance into the back alley?"
"Normally I would say yes, but, alas, the back entrance and the alleyway are completely choked with snow. Even I had to come in for my shift today through the front door. However, there is another way."
"There is?"
"Yes. In the basement there is a secret door leading to a tunnel, its provenance unknown."
"And where does this tunnel lead to?"
"It runs westward all the way under MacDougal Street to another secret door, opening into yet another basement, and from there you can simply go up the stairs and you will be free to go where you will."
"Splendid," said Livingston. "And can you tell us how to get to this secret door in the basement?"
"Of course, sir. I would take you there myself, but, alas –"
"You can't leave your post."
"Exactly, sir."
"I quite understand."
"So, how do we find this secret door?"
The little man rattled off detailed directions, and when he had finished he said, "The door should be unlocked. If it sticks, just give it a good pull, but close it behind you, as no one is supposed to know about it. The tunnel will be dark, so be prepared to illuminate your way with cigarette lighters or matches, or both. It should take you only a matter of minutes to reach the end of the tunnel and the other secret door at its end."
"Sounds good," said Livingston, "and, Pompey, thank you for everything."
Livingston had his wallet out, and he removed a five-dollar bill and offered it to the little man.
"This is entirely too much," said the man.
"Not at all," said Livingston. "You're a lifesaver, Pompey. Otherwise we would have had to go back out there and get trapped by those old bore-asses for another hour or two. Now please, take it."
"Very well, sir. And thank you."
The little man took the five and stuck it in his jacket pocket.
"I wish you godspeed, gentlemen," he said, "and only the best of luck."
"Thanks, Pompey." Livingston turned to Harry. "You ready, buddy?"
"Yes," said Harry. He held up the towel. "What should I do with this?"
"Just leave it on the side of the sink, sir," said the little man. "I'll take care of it."
"Thank you," said Harry.
"All right, Harry," said Livingston. "Let's go find this secret door, shall we?"
"Okay," said Harry.
They said goodnight to the little man, who said goodnight back to them, and they left the W.C. and went out again into the dim hallway hung with faded portraits.
"He said to bear to the left, didn't he?" said Livingston.
"I'm not quite sure," said Harry, who had not been paying close attention, and who had never in his life been able to follow directions anyway.
"I think he said left," said Livingston. "So let's go."
They came to the end of the hallway, and Livingston turned right, and Harry almost said something, but didn't, and went along with him, down another dim corridor, which seemed to end in darkness.
...
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