In the back living room, the other mute guests nodded hellos and circled hors d’oeuvres, on a table enlivened with purple lupines. I had never heard of a podcast, but it sounded like the future. He whispered: “The guest of honor’s doing a podcast in the front room.” I tiptoed up the stairs and down a long, mirrored hallway. He had rolled up his white sleeves to unveil the cobweb tattoos spun around each elbow, but otherwise he was dressed for an auspicious event, in matching brown waistcoat, slacks, and loafers. When I finally arrived at the designated brownstone, a man shushed me from the stoop. I was still young and eager enough to go out of my way to ogle Manhattan before attending to business. It was rush hour, but also my destination was just two blocks removed from the Promenade, the finest view of the city. I was headed to a party, a celebration in his honor, and I was running late. EARLY ONE EVENING, 15 years ago this spring, I took the R Train from Union Square to Brooklyn Heights to appease a venerable man.
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