64. Union Square, part 2.

At that exact moment, Sid was also sitting on a bench in Union Square in New York, where it was just after one o'clock at night. He was watching the homeless man, who stirred restlessly in his customary spot.

One of the two young men who had come to see him before approached nervously. "Hi."

Sid looked up. "Hello."

The young man sat down carefully, reverently, across from Sid, not even glancing at the homeless man. "I haven't seen you here for a few days," he said finally.

Sid answered, "I've been traveling."

The young man nodded. "You're usually here with that girl, the pretty one. She always has coffee. Or at least, I've seen you with her a few times."

"She's in India."

The young man was surprised. "Wow. Did she...I mean, was she planning that trip?"

"No."

"Oh. So you're here on your own."

"I'm here with you," Sid said, with a smile. "And I'm here with him." The homeless man shifted again, as though trying to get comfortable. The young man glanced at him now, a little nervous. He could smell him from across the path, an acrid stench, like old sneakers, dirty hair; a locker room. "This man is suffering," Sid said simply.

"What's wrong with him?" the young man asked.

"He's dying," Sid said.

"Should we call someone? Like, an ambulance, or the police? Maybe they can get him to a shelter."

Sid thought for a moment. "He doesn't want shelter. His life is basic. He sleeps during the day, usually here, and at night, after using various means to get hold of some money and scavenge a bit of food, he finds a place that will sell him a little bottle of very strong, very cheap rum. He drinks this slowly, at first, lets his body get used to the sting of it. Then it's not so bad. He drinks it in bigger gulps. Then he walks the streets of this city while they're nearly empty. No one bothers him."

"Why does he do that?"

"He's retracing his memories," Sid explained. "There are things he wants to recall, and other things that are so painful that he needs to go there night after night, thinking about only a little bit of it at a time." Sid glanced north. "Every night, he starts on 96th Street."

The young man glanced again at the lump curled up on the bench near Sid. How could he bear to sit so near that smell?

Sid went on. "Yes, look at him. You would never know that this was once a very rich man. His family owns dozens of businesses throughout this city. Their fortunes have diminished, but they are still wealthy. And they are still looking for him. They have no idea what he's become, no idea he's so close. If they passed him on the street, they wouldn't see him or recognize his face." Sid paused, as though remembering. "He grew up there, uptown, on 96th Street. That's where he lived as a young man." Sid looked over at the sleeping form. "Near here, a little to the east, is where a woman once lived. She died some years ago. That's where his wanderings end, when he's just on the brink of lying down and slipping into sleep. That's where his greatest pain is."

"How do you know all this?" the young man asked, a little awed. "Have you spoken to him?"

"No," Sid said. "He doesn't speak to anyone, unless it's absolutely necessary. Even then, there is an economy to his words, as though he's saving them."

"Have you followed him?"

Sid smiled again. "Yes. I have." The young man frowned, and began to speak. Sid cut him off. "Even if we call someone who drags him off to a shelter, he'll get away from them. There are hundreds of places he can sleep, and get his rum, and jump turnstiles to get to 96th Street. This is what he needs to do."

"But he's dying," the young man said.

"Yes. He is."

There was a long pause. Something within the young man sparked. "He's free."

"In a manner of speaking. It might be more correct to say that he's reduced his burdens to a select few, ones that he's deliberately chosen, and is slowly ridding himself of them. He's like an artist," Sid said. "He looks at the same composition each night, night after night, from different angles, studying it, often erasing the whole canvas and starting again, to get to the image he needs. He is trying to uncover the truth of his life. He is accountable to no one. There's a nobility in begging, in being rid of the terrible costs of worrying about survival. He's indifferent to death."

"You said he goes wandering at night. But he's still here..."

Sid nodded. "His body is wearing out. Tonight, he won't go walking. He's going to rest. I'm watching over him."

The young man nodded, then his mind returned to an earlier question. "The girl you were with. When's she getting back?"

"She's not sure," Sid said. "At the moment, she's very much enjoying some hot, sweet Indian tea and a plate full of pineapple slices."