Three Balconies Read Online Free PDF Page B

gate and Kahn had the sensation of being shoved lightly into a cellblock. Suddenly, he was alone in a small space with seventy odd prisoners. He hadn’t expected the Warden to remain outside, but again, it was no doubt in the interest of being fair. If the Warden accompanied him, the prisoners would probably clam up and there would go Kahn’s objective view of life behind bars. Some of the inmates were in their cells – they looked almost like doll houses for children – while others watched a Western on television, in the thin strip of space that made up the day room. Kahn felt a light tremor of panic – he had a history of blacking out in confined places – but he settled
himself down. The prisoners seemed to be waiting for him to say something.
    â€œHi,” he said, “I’m with a newspaper on Long Island.”
    At first, he looked through them, his eyes focused on no one in particular, but then he decided to single out one man – his theatre training – and talk directly to him. He probably picked the wrong fellow, a powerful white man with a lot of cut marks and tattoos and syrupy features that appeared ready to slide down his face. So he quickly shifted over to a younger man with a shy smile and rural features, one he took to be an injured ranch hand. Thus anchored, Kahn was able to sweep his eyes around and talk to everyone. Apart from the fellow with the cut marks, they seemed to be a friendly group. He particularly liked a sleepy Mexican with a fat junkie’s nose who was listening attentively while his hands pretended to carve something invisible in his lap. Kahn had to remind himself that he wasn’t in hard-core Pardee. But maybe Pardee wasn’t so bad either. A prisoner, who really didn’t seem to care, asked Kahn how to get started in writing; he gave him a tip or two and then said: “I’m trying to get started myself.” They laughed at that. The give and take went on, lightly, superficially, Kahn all the while wondering if he could survive in such a place. He decided that if he had to, he could get on nicely, although he was over the norm in the age department. He had been worried about the smell. It smelled just fine. He would avoid the fellow with the cut marks, or perhaps challenge him quickly in the tool-and-die shop and get it over with. He would try to room with the shy ranch hand. If they got the Mexican in with them, they would have an unbeatable trio. Who would dare to fuck with them – three principled but quietly hard men, including Kahn himself, no pushover, especially after he had toughened himself up a bit behind bars. Once he got used to the narrowness of the bars, and all the noise the steel made, he would be fine. The exercise yard was a big plus. He loved volleyball. And oh those vegetables! Imagine getting any five you wanted, every day of the week! How could
anyone tire of those delicious little treats, even after years of confinement?
    â€œMake sure you put me in your movies,” said a chubby, good-natured black fellow who thought Kahn was a director. Kahn realized he had been in the cellblock for twenty minutes, right in the center of check-forgers and possible ax-murderers. When he had first come in, he had been afraid to touch them for fear of being contaminated or taken hostage. Now he was ready to move in with them. He wished them well. They made him promise to drop by again and bring along some “goody-goods” (for this, they made a dope-smoking sign). He could have sworn that even the cut-up fellow’s face softened a bit just before he left. As he walked out of the cellblock he took a quick look at the TV set and was surprised at the clarity of the picture, every bit as good as the one he had in his house on Long Island.
    â€œIt wasn’t too bad in there,” said Kahn, as they circled a pair of handball courts in the prison yard.
    â€œYeah,” said the Warden, allowing himself a