It was my intention to return to yesterday’s entry, with a few words about Reed Browning, a historian whom I’ve just discovered, and whose War of the Austrian Succession is one of the most impressive and at the same time delicious histories that I’ve read in a long time. A glance at the photograph will suggest to regular readers what happened instead.

Less than six months ago, scaffolding went up around our apartment building, and presently the management announced that balcony railings would be replaced. The project was slated to take two years, weather permitting. Tenants would be required to remove all possessions from the balconies. We assumed that we would be given a week’s notice — I don’t know why. I think that we were beguiled by the statement that the work would begin on the front and rear façades. We’re on one side. We figured that we wouldn’t have to do anything until the baloncies on the front and rear had been repaired. But, no. Notice came yesterday in the form of a mild-spoken Latino man who stepped off a gondola onto our very furnished balcony and tapped on the door. I happened to be reading inside. He said something about my having to clear off the balcony. I said something about not being well enough to do it. I also said something (in an even tone) about calling my lawyer. He stepped back into the gondola and, with his coworker, disappeared. I called my lawyer — Kathleen.

Ray Soleil arrived within the hour, and we never got over how quickly we managed the better part of the evacuation. In four hours, we had the balcony looking as it does here. Aside from three chairs (two metal, one wicker), and three small metal-and-glass tables, the furniture not shown in the photograph was discarded — Ray hauled it down to the service elevator, whence emerged eventually a handyman in search of emolument. (I tipped him $50.) Loads of old junk was tossed down the garbage chute. The dining table, never bare for long these days, was soon covered with glass and china from the hutch, and plates stacked on the stove made fixing dinner a one-pot-at-a-time affair. (Good thing Kathleen was in Maryland.) I had hoped to disassemble the bench, but the screws were buried beneath those cunnning little wood-like plugs that I don’t know how to remove.

After lunch, we bought some sturdy book boxes at Big John’s Moving and Storage, over on 83rd and First. I packed four boxes this morning, and the “bricks” (they’re actually plastic, and half as thick as an actual brick — and heaven to walk on, especially as compared to concrete) will fill a few more. Ray will come up in the afternoon and help me take a few boxes to storage. The guy who did a few moving jobs for a us a few years ago has moved on, it seems; his phone number is not in service and he doesn’t answer emails.

***

Last night, after a dish of spaghetti alla carbonara, I watched The City of Your Final Destination, and had a very hard time letting go of what might have been had the leads been properly cast. As made, it’s a good picture — it’s just not what Peter Cameron wrote. The story is more or less the same, but Cameron’s book is about its characters. Catherine Gund is a French adn feeline, alluring and remote at the same time. She is not the somewhat harsh American beauty played by Laura Linney. Arden Langdon, a former child star, is a composed and serene beauty, grateful to be able to bring up her daughter in a safe and quiet place. After a childhood in rural Wisconsin she was shipped off to London, where she might have acquired Charlotte Gainsbourg’s accent (even softer than her mother’s), but not Ms Gainsbourg’s jumpy uncertainty and somewhat mousy self-effacement. Deirdre MacArthur is a braying American, all push and planning. Alexandra Maria Lara, who comes across as Marion Cotillard’s somewhat more reserved younger sister, makes Deirdre a much more appealing figure, but at the expense of the humor of Deirdre’s tone-deaf responses to the sophisticated ladies from whom her boyfriend (by now in a coma) has attempted to wrest authorization for a biography. The movie is, simply, something else.

 

Drop me a line at rjk@dailyblague.com
This entry was posted on Thursday, September 20th, 2012 at 10:45 am.