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It was raining in Harlem I was standing on the corner of Amsterdam Avenue and 162nd Street, my coat wet, my old umbrella only just holding out against sudden blasts of wind It was not quite four in the afternoon and already it was getting dark I didn’t know Harlem I didn’t know which way to walk I didn’t know which way to go for Edgecombe Avenue, in Washington Heights I stood peering into the road ahead, as if to make something out through the rain and the wind and the swift December dusk  I huddled under the umbrella and managed with difficulty to light a sodden, rain-specked cigarette Marjorie’s, I’m guessing   She startled me there, all stoic She seemed not to mind the rain Or she seemed not to notice it was raining   Headed for Marjorie’s, I suppose, as she took a pair of fine black woollen gloves out of her bag But you’re not sure of the way, as she took a long black woollen scarf out of her bag I could tell a mile off   Her English was lightly accented Maybe Caribbean Maybe African The skin on her face was deep black and flawless and probably still silky to the touch The whites of her eyes gleamed in the half-light Only a smattering of grey in her hair – an afro, shaved short – gave her age away   That obvious? I asked, and she buttoned up her black raincoat and crossed her arms and said that because of the day of the week, because of the time of day, because of the station on Amsterdam with 162nd, because of the expression on my face, because she was always coming across someone there, on that corner From her bag she took out a black felt cloche hat, bell-shaped, 1920s style Do you come across someone lost in the depths of Harlem?, I asked Or do you come across someone specifically and desperately trying to find his way to Marjorie’s? And I smiled with a mixture of embarrassment and relief Something like that, she