It had been there as long as I could remember. Its four-story façade stood in the diluted sunlight like an old woman with a powder-caked face surprised by morning. I found the manager’s apartment, Number 1 on the ground floor, and rang the bell. A middle-aged man in his shirt sleeves came to the door chewing. The look in his eyes suggested that what he was chewing was bitter. “We have no vacancies,” he said around his cud. “Thanks, but I’m looking for Mrs. Mungan.” He ruminated and swallowed. “She left here a long time ago.” “Do you have a forwarding address?” “We might have.” He turned and shouted into his apartment, “Do we have an address for Martha Mungan?” A woman’s voice answered, “I’ll see.” The man leaned on the doorframe. “You wouldn’t be a bill collector, would you?” “No. I simply want to talk to her.” He looked at me as if he didn’t believe me, hadn’t believed anyone for a number of years. He shouted back into his apartment again: “What’s the holdup, anyway?”
