Third Eye

Countless times in my life on this apartment-starved island, I have observed the Tuesday night queue as it forms in front of the Astor Place newsstand. Young people for the most part, nervously shifting their weight from side to side while they wait for the chance to scour the Village Voice newspaper classifieds. Intermittent tremors from passing subway trains tickle the bottoms of their tired feet. Curious pedestrians and taxi drivers slow down to see what they might be missing. Those on line are a desperate lot, too poor or full of pride to pay a Realtor to do the work for them, and astute enough to have figured out which kiosk first receives the weekly rental listings. I think it's safe to say that Manhattan is the single toughest place to find affordable housing in the world, with Tokyo, or perhaps Paris, as a close second. In those crucial minutes when delivery trucks fan out across the city, these go-getters are already at work with their red pens, crossing out and circling prospective apartments. Not willing to waste the time it takes to walk home, they head straight for the nearest pay phone and encamp themselves. No precaution is too great in their search. Like so many others on the rainy night of June 23, 1993, Maya Vanasi answered my own ad in the Voice the very same evening it ran. To most readers, the words must have seemed like an apparition. It was easily the best deal of the section. Prime location, SoHo Sublet. July 1 to Sept. 1. Pristine 1 BR Hrdwd flrs. Air-con, $400/mo. Call Jefferson @ (212) 496-3715 The phone rang continuously, from six o'clock until half past one in the morning. I sat at the kitchen table with my notepad, an assortment of just-delivered sushi, and a bottle of Riesling, listening to Chopin's waltzes at a volume loud enough for many of the callers to ask if someone was in fact playing the piano. Upon identifying the voice on the other end of the line as female, I gave out the address and a time for an interview. To the men I replied, "Regrettably, the apartment has been rented." As I pen these words, I am trying to recall if there was anything in Maya's voice that told me she would be the lucky winner, but to say so would be a lie. I do remember having to ask her to repeat the spelling of both her first and last names, and, too, that she spoke with the slightest lilt of an Indian/British accent. No, by the time I spoke to Maya I had already placed my bet on another woman, who sounded as if I'd granted her an unimaginable kindness in even scheduling an interview. Wednesday morning I didn't bother with the phone, for the casual apartment hunter is not worth my time, but left the message machine on just in case. By ten-thirty the tape was filled with callers who must have known that they were far too late. I had two hours before the day's appointments would start arriving, so I went out and took breakfast at a nearby cafe. Continental fare: croissants, a cappuccino, two glasses of freshly squeezed orange juice, and a large bottle of Evian. Fluids are essential on days that I interview, as I have to talk so much. Back at the apartment I set out all the items I needed on the kitchen table. Yellow legal notepad with the list of names and times of each appointee, a stack of twenty-five blank applications, Polaroid camera, three new packages of film, and a bowl filled high with foil-wrapped chocolates. 12:15. I gave a last look around and was once again pleased to see what a fine job the cleaning service had done. Most applicants arrive early, so I wasn't surprised to hear the bell ring fifteen minutes in advance of the first appointment. I checked the list. "You must be Eva," I said into the intercom. "I hope I'm not too early," she replied. "Actually, could you give me just five minutes. I'm still tidying up." "Sure . . . Five minutes?" "Have aKnowles, David is the author of 'Third Eye' with ISBN 9780385497060 and ISBN 0385497067.