Here I sit all brokenhearted

Paid a nickel to shit and only farted

He washed his hangover face at the washbasin, shaved the blue stubble from his jaws, shampooed and combed his hair and put on once again his best and cleanest shirt. Feeling slightly better, roughly human, he found the bus station coffee shop and treated himself to a mug of steaming, translucent-black coffee and one stale but greasy doughnut.

Where are we? he asked the waitress.

God only knows, she said. More coffee?

Thanks.

You look awful, she added. She was a bigboned middleaged squareshouldered woman with plucked eyebrows and purple lips. A chin mole with bristles added the only decorative touch to her square and honest face. What’s wrong with you?

I’m in love, Henry explained. That explains it; you look like I do. I’m in love with you. You are sick. What’s your name? Read my tag; see?—June. What’s yours? Henry. Well Henry, if I was you I’d go find a nice park bench and get some sleep. Looks that bad, huh? You’ll get over it.

He left her a dollar tip and wandered outside into the gray and concrete boulevards of Denver. The brown air reeked with exhaust gases. Didn’t really know where he was. Went back into the bus depot, found a phonebook and looked for a map of the city.

The clock on the wall said nine-thirty. He checked his satchel in a locker and headed north past the U.S. mint and the state capitol, then east along Colfax Avenue toward the city park, the museums, the opera house, the prep schools, the elm-shaded streets of her neighborhood.

What exactly would he do when he arrived? How would she receive this unexpected pleasure? And suppose—suppose she were not even at home?

He stepped up the pace.

Mountain clouds hung above the Mile-Hi City, casting transient shadows across the glassy façades of The Bank of Denver, The Federal Savings & Trust, The All-America Building, The Brown Palace, The Hilton Tower. A light rain began to fall but that was all right with Henry, it added drama to his pain and cooled the air.

He stopped for a few minutes in the park to recomb his wet hair—he wore no hat today—and to rebrush his teeth at a drinking fountain. He was feeling better. The brisk walk had restored his confidence. He glanced at his visage in the window of a parked automobile and it seemed presentable. Well, passable. The rain stopped. He marched north again, the last mile beyond the music hall, and came to the wall on the corner, the gate, the handsome square and bourgeois house. Lilacs and hollyhocks in bloom.

Now what, Lightcap?

He tried the gate. It was unlocked. He opened it and followed the curving flagstone walk to the portico, climbed two broad stone steps and found himself standing before the door. He hesitated. He listened. He heard music within, the duet of piano and violin, a phrase broken off and repeated and broken again, followed by sweet laughter, the tenor tones of a man’s voice and more laughter. Unwelcome sounds to Henry’s ear. One hand on the bronze knocker, he still hesitated. He heard the music resume, violin and piano in sibilant concord and he recognized the piece: filthy Mozart, the Sonata in F Major, Köchel 376. Parlor music.