sharp and blue through the slats, as though I’m up in the higher atmosphere not down on the dusty plain. Thirty years ago I drove all night to get here, the van ran dry within sight of the hotel and we jumped out to push it over the tram tracks. I recall a haughty doorman, but I don’t know if that’s real or an embellishment. The room memory is true though, to the inner thread that gets to decide on these things, the blinds and the bright blue light, the white buildings with the stonework flourishings. It’s the same view from the apartment, a flash of gold gilt, Harry’s ants rushing by in their smart trousers and long coats, pinched faces. I gulp doppelmalz and read a thriller, conscious that this is my allotted time, the digits flicking by on the tram validator are gone for good. But wandered, not squandered. If I return in another 30 years I will be the age my father is today. Always tramping on with the arrow, always stomping in Jack’s reality boots.
