The Tenants Read Online Free PDF Page A

L. C. Smith, vintage of pre-World War I, resembling a miniature fortress.
    The man, head bowed in concentration, oblivious of Lesser, typed energetically with two thick fingers. Harry, though impatient to be at his work, waited, experiencing at least two emotions: embarrassment for intruding; anger at the black intruder. What does he think he’s doing in this house? Why has he come?—where from?—and how will I get rid of him? Who’s got the time? He thought of phoning Levenspiel, but maybe he had booked the act. Having waited this long for acknowledgment of his presence—it was not in him to interrupt a man writing—also for a few basic facts of information, he waited longer. The black must have known someone was standing there because the open door created a draft and once Lesser sneezed; but he did not turn to look at him or whoever. He typed in serious concentration, each word slowly thought out, then hacked onto paper with piston-like jabs of his stubby, big-knuckled fingers. The room shook with his noise.
This endured for five full minutes as Lesser fumed. When the typist turned his head, a goateed man, darkly black-skinned, there seemed in his large liquid eyes poised in suspension as he stared at the writer a detachment so pure it menaced; at the same time a suggestion of fright Lesser felt reflected Lesser’s. His head was large, lips moderately thick, sensuous, nose wings extended. His eyes, in concentration, swelled; but he was youthful and not bad-looking, as though he considered himself not a bad-looking man and that helped. Despite the chill he seemed to be sweating.
    “Man,” he complained, “can’t you see me writing on my book?”
    Harry apologetically admitted he had. “I’m a writer myself.”
    That brought forth neither lightning nor thunder, nor small degree of admiration. The black stared at Lesser as though he hadn’t heard, and the writer thought he might even be a little deaf until the man reacted: breathed in relief—knew now he wasn’t dealing with the landlord? Had been bluffing? A smile seemed possible but did not come to pass.
    On the table at the black writer’s left lay a pile of well-worn, somewhat soiled, manuscript from which it seemed to Harry an unpleasant odor rose. He noticed then the man had his orange work shoes off and was sitting there writing in white wool tennis socks. Even now he wiggled his toes. Hard to say whether the sulphurous
smell came from the manuscript or the feet on the floor. Maybe it’s me, Lesser thought, smell of fear? Anyway, something malodorous.
    Then to make his point, the point of it all—the reason he had waited to speak to the black and give notice —Lesser said, “I live here alone in this building, alone on the floor. I’m trying to finish a book.”
    The stranger responded to the news, rolling his eyes in thought.
    “Baby, it’s a hard and lonely life.” His voice was low, resonant, raspy. As though relating a decision decisively arrived at, he then remarked, “I’ll be working around here daily as of now on and according to the way circumstances go.”
    “You mean Levenspiel’s letting you?” Lesser felt on the verge of frantic. He saw in the man’s presence on the floor a serious threat, perhaps latest variation of the landlord’s tactics of harassment.
    “Which cat is that?”
    “The owner of these premises, hard-luck guy. Haven’t you met him—I mean wasn’t it his suggestion that you work here?”
    The black casually denied it. “I got no interest in any Jew landlord. Just come on this place while hunting around and entered quickly. I found this table in the cellar and the chair in a room down under here, but the light is better up high so I moved them up. I been looking for a private place to do my writing.”

    “What sort of writing if you don’t mind me asking?”
    “Now that’s a personal question and what I am writing is my own business.”
    “Of course. All I meant, out of curiosity, was are you writing