The pleasure it gave him when the invitation came, when the visa was stamped into his passport, when he boarded the plane in Frankfurt and reached JFK with his luggage in the warmth of the evening and took a taxi into the city. He had even enjoyed the flight, although the rows were tight together and the seats were narrow; as they crossed the Atlantic he saw another plane in the distance, and he felt as if he were sitting on the deck of a ship that encounters another ship in mid-ocean. He had been in New York before as a tourist or visiting friends or as a guest at conferences. Now he lived according to the rhythms of the city. He belonged. He had his own apartment, like everyone; it was quite central, not far from the park and the river. Like everyone, he took the subway in the mornings, slid the card through the slot, went through the turnstile and down the steps to the platform, pushed his way into a car, couldn’t move or turn the pages of his newspaper, and pushed his way out again twenty minutes later.
