Page 70 of A Winter in New York

There’s a spring in his step as I follow him into the building. I think he might be rather enjoying himself. For my part, I’m intrigued, and glad of the mental respite from thinking about Adam. We’re in one of those places that has sprung up everywhere, warehouses converted into small rental units for people to store their clutter and crap, an elevator ride up to a maze of identical white roller-shuttered doors.

Felipe pauses and looks around us to get his bearings, then heads off down one of the hallways. He has a small key on a plastic tag in his hand, and when he eventually stops he holds it out to me to look at.

“Three-five-nine, right?”

I nod. “My mother resisted reading glasses too,” I say lightly, and he huffs as he works the key into the padlock on the unit.

He rolls the door up with a showman’s flourish.

“I was here yesterday, thought I’d take a look for that damn recipe,” he says. “No such luck.”

I’m surprised by the interior of the unit. I was expecting disorganized boxes piled high, but it’s relatively tidy and there’s a leather chesterfield sofa set against one wall.

“This is kind of cozy,” I say, watching him fiddle with the switches on a blow heater.

He flicks on a lamp and grins. “Stick with me, kid.”

“Don’t they worry people will live in these places?”

He ushers me inside and pulls the shutter down. “They charge daily for an electricity upgrade to stop people from running refrigerators full of beer. Party poopers.”

“And their TVs,” I say pointedly, eyeing the portable TV on a stand.

“That too,” he says. “Have a seat.”

I unwind my scarf and unzip my coat as I perch on the sofa, feeling slightly bizarre. No one knows I’m here, yet I don’t feel any sense of danger. For one, Felipe is a Belotti, and secondly, he’s Gio’s father. Most importantly, though, I know he’s trying to do something decent for me out of respect for my mother—I suspect he’s made quite an effort to spruce this place up for today.

“You don’t look so good,” he says, pouring me coffee into a plastic cup.

I obviously need to up my makeup game—I thought I’d made a good job of hiding the dark circles under my eyes.

“I’m not sleeping very well.” I shrug. “It’ll pass, it always does.”

He sighs heavily as he sits down and reaches a large brown envelope up from the side of the sofa.

“I found these in a box,” he says. “I figured they might mean more to you than me at this stage of life.”

I put my coffee on the floor and rest the envelope on my knees.

“Just so you know, I’ll probably cry, but don’t feel bad about it because it seems I cry at least three times a day, at the moment anyway. I think I might actually have a fault with my eye ducts or something.”

He rubs his chin, watching me. “Your mother used to say odd things too.”

I consider being offended, but then decide to focus on whatever’s inside the envelope instead. It’s quite bulky. I pull out a bundle of newspapers and photographs and lay them on my lap.

“I don’t remember keeping them, truth told,” he says. “They must have been left behind by Louis.” He can obviously read from my expression that I don’t have a clue who Louis is. “Our manager at the time. He dropped us when things got sticky, bigger fish to fry.”

All of this is news to me. I wish I had a pen to write it all down so I never forget. I content myself with looking at the photograph on top of the pile instead.

“There’s one very similar to this in my mother’s scrapbook,” I say, looking at the staged shot of the band grouped around Charlie Raven’s drum kit. He’s perched on the stool with his drumsticks in his hands, nervous energy radiating from his tall, rangy pose.

“My father,” I say, touching the photo lightly.

“I was sorry to hear how he died,” Felipe says.

“We weren’t in touch,” I say.

Felipe makes a gruff sound low in his throat. “He made the same choice I did. Be a father or hit the road.”

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