Chapter Thirty-One
The walk home is slow going, and Simon feels a twinge someplace on his body with every single step, but at last they’re on Gansevoort and back at the tenement.
Incredibly, it’s nearly five thirty in the afternoon; the day’s storm has blown itself out, leaving the district’s streets cool and clean smelling, which is certainly a novelty.
Nomi helps him on the stairs, which are a challenge. Then he’s back inside his warm, golden apartment—how he’s missed it!—and she’s steering him to sink into a chair, bringing him a glass of water.
“Here you go.” She sets the glass and the bag of medical supplies on his breakfast table. “And hey, I have to get some groceries before I flake out, so I might as well walk down to Gennaro’s and tell your supervisor guy that you’re out of action for tonight, yeah?”
Simon winces at the thought of screwing up Mike Nell’s roster. “Give him my apologies and tell him I’ll be back on board in a couple days.”
“I’m sure he’ll be fine about it. Get some rest. I’ll knock on your door later and make sure you’re still alive.”
He raises his eyebrows. “Coma watch?”
Nomi grins. “I mean, you’ve probably got a concussion, right? Seems only fair that I get to return the favor and wake you up every four hours. Okay, last chance—do you need anything from Perrotta’s?”
“Thanks, but no. I’m good.”
She turns for the door, hesitates. “One thing before I go . . .”
“What is it?”
“‘It’s a good game’?” She tilts her head, like the inquisitive little mammal she is.
He sighs. He’d been wondering if she would bring this up, and now, when his energy is at its lowest, she’s hitting him with it.
“I didn’t mean it, Nomi. I didn’t want Lamonte and the others examining Brittany too closely, and I had to say something to convince you she was dead, so I picked the worst thing I could think of. ”
“Deceptive and manipulative behavior, huh?” If they were arguing, or if this were more of an interrogation, she’d be crossing her arms.
“I’m sorry,” he says simply.
She relaxes her shoulders, lets it go. “Ah, forget it. But next time we’re being tortured by mobsters, try not to be such a dick about it, yeah?”
“I’ll do my best.”
She nods and turns, mollified. “Okay, I’m outta here. See you in four hours.”
Once Nomi’s gone, Simon looks around. There’s still a little blood spatter on the floor, and the saucepan of ponche remains sitting on the stove.
He drinks the water Nomi left for him and contemplates moving.
His bed seems mighty appealing right now, but there are a number of actions he needs to perform to get there.
He has to take off his coat, his boots, close his curtains.
He also wouldn’t mind a coffee—a proper coffee—and a cigarette.
But before that, even, he needs food: He’s starving. Apparently, being abducted, and concussed, and tortured, and fighting for your life gives you an appetite—who knew?
Simon pushes himself upright by leaning on the breakfast table, hissing sharply when he straightens. But once he’s up, it’s easier. He putters about slowly in the kitchen, puts on coffee, rinses out the dirty saucepan, finds himself a plate, cutlery.
While the coffee is brewing, he goes to the bathroom and checks himself in the mirror.
There he is, all right: a white man in his mid-twenties with a longish face, blue eyes.
A fairly standard configuration for a face.
He rubs two fingers over the ridged white scar where his neck meets his shoulder on the right.
There are parts of him that are fixed, set, branded into him like this scar, like the scar beneath his hair.
Other parts of him are life-changingly altered, or still in flux, and maybe—for the first time in five years—he can feel some peace about that.
Not everything that was lost had value. Not everything that was lost was worth saving.
In the mirror, there’s a raft of new bruises; he looks peaky and pale, and very much like he’s been beaten up. But he looks normal. His features are stable, and he recognizes himself—he knows himself. He’s still him.
Perhaps in this new country and new community, without the pressure of wondering if he’ll be able to make the disparate elements of his identity line up, he can rewrite the story of who he is.
Not Haw, not Simon Gutmunsson: just Simon Noone.
A man of his own invention. A man who is trying—so very hard—to be good.
Simon gets coleslaw and a nice tomato from the refrigerator, cooks himself a steak. The steak is from his coat pocket, and it’s—astonishingly—still fresh, still wrapped in paper from Gennaro’s. It should fry up nicely.
As his meal is cooking, there’s a knock on the door.
Sofia Rosa is puffed from climbing the stairs, and she’s holding a bottle in one hand. “This wine? I do not like it. I have opened it at the top, see, just to try. But I tried, and I do not like it. I know you are drinking wine sometimes, so I bring it to you—maybe you will find some use for it.”
“Thank you, Auntie.” He takes the bottle, examines the label. “Auntie, this is a Sangiovese. Where did you get this? Did you buy it?”
“It was given to me as a gift by Mr. Harvey. I think he is trying to ‘get into my pants,’ as the young people say.”
Simon coughs out a laugh, which hurts quite a bit, so he braces a palm on his stomach and holds further laughs in. “Right. Well, at least Mr. Harvey is buying you nice gifts. This is quite an expensive wine. Are you sure you don’t want to keep it?”
“Eh—expensive or cheap, it makes no difference if I do not like it, no?” Sofia Rosa peers at his face. “What has happened to you? You have bruises. Did you have another fight?”
“Something like that, Auntie, yes.”
“Well, I hope you won this time . . . All right, I am going back downstairs now to prepare my own food. That steak smells very good!”
He smiles as she retreats back toward the stairs. “Enjoy your dinner, Auntie. Thanks for the wine.”
Once he’s closed the door, Simon looks again at the bottle he’s been given: Goddamn, a Brunello di Montalcino .
. . He’d be scrimping for weeks to buy a wine this good.
He sets it on the breakfast table, finds himself a glass in the kitchen, ferries over his plate with the coleslaw and tomato and steak.
Cautiously, he sits down at the table, pours from the bottle, examines the color: gorgeous.
What a gift. The aroma is like black cherries, full bodied and rich.
The word Sangiovese is derived from the Latin, meaning “the blood of Jupiter”—it will pair beautifully with this cut of meat on his plate, which is small and tender, dripping with juices.
Simon takes a long swallow of wine, picks up his knife and fork, and begins to carve.