CHAPTER FOUR

 

            AND so, moving about in the dark or standing for hours like a hat rack in a corner of the room, I fell deeper and deeper into the pit.  Hysteria became the norm.  The snow never melted.

       While hatching the most diabolical schemes to drive Stasia really mad, and thus do away with her for good, I also dreamed up the most asinine plan of campaign for a second courtship.  In every shop window I passed I saw gifts which I wanted to buy her.  Women adore gifts, especially costly ones.  They also love little nothings, dependent on their moods.  Between a pair of antique earrings, very expensive, and a large black candle, I could spend the whole livelong day debating which to get her.  Never would I admit to myself that the expensive object was out of reach.  No, were I able to convince myself that the earrings would please her more, I could also convince myself that I could find the way to purchase them.  I could convince myself of this, I say, because in the bottom of my heart I knew I would never decide on either.  It was a pastime.  True, I might better have passed the time debating higher issues, whether, for example, the soul was corruptible or incorruptible, but to the mind machine one problem is as good as another.  In this same spirit I could work up the urge to walk five or ten miles in order to borrow a dollar, and feel just as triumphant if I succeeded in scrounging a dime or even a nickel.  What I might have hoped to do with a dollar was unimportant; it was the effort I was still capable of making which counted.  It meant, in my deteriorated view of things, that I still had one foot in the world.

       Yes, it was truly important to remind myself of such things occasionally and not carry on like the Akond of Swot.  It was also good to give them a jolt once in a while, to say when they came hope at three a.m. empty-handed: “Don’t let it bother you, I’ll go buy myself a sandwich.”  Sometimes, to be sure, I ate only an imaginary sandwich.  But it did me good to let them think that I was not altogether without resources.  Once or twice I actually convinced them that I had eaten a steak.  I did it to rile them, of course. (What business had I to eat a steak when they had passed hours away sitting in a cafeteria waiting for someone to offer them a bite?)

       Occasionally I would greet them thus: “So you did manage to get something to eat?”

       The question always seemed to disconcert them.

       “I thought you were starving,” I would say.

       Whereupon they would inform me that they were not interested in starving.  There was no reason for me to starve either, they were sure to add.  I did it only to torment them.

       If they were in a jovial mood they would enlarge on the subject.  What new devilry was I planning?  Had I seen Kronski lately?  And then the smokescreen talk would begin – about their new-found friends, the dives they had discovered, the side trips to Harlem, the studio Stasia was going to rent, and so on and so forth.  Oh yes, and they had forgotten to tell me about Barley, Stasia’s poet friend, whom they had run across the other night.  He was going to drop in some afternoon.  Wanted to meet me.

       One evening Stasia took to reminiscing.  Truthful reminiscences, as far as I could gather.  About the trees she used to rub herself against in the moonlight, about the perverted millionaire who fell in love with her because of her hairy legs, about the Russian girl who tried to make love to her but whom she repulsed because she was too crude.  Besides, she was then having an affair with a married woman and, to throw dust in the husband’s eyes, she used to let him fuck her … not that she enjoyed it but because the wife, whom she loved, thought it was the thing to do.

       “I don’t know why I’m telling you all these things,” she said.  “Unless….”

       Suddenly she remembered why.  It was because of Barley.  Barley was an odd sort.  What the attraction was between them she couldn’t understand.  He was always pretending he wanted to lay her, but nothing ever happened.  Anyhow, he was a very good poet, that she was sure of.  Now and then, she said, she would compose a poem in his presence.  Then she supplied a curious commentary: “I could go on writing while he masturbated me.”

       Titters.

       “What do you think of that?”

       “Sounds like a page out of Krafft-Ebing,” I volunteered.

       A long discussion now ensued regarding the relative merits of Krafft-Ebing, Freud, Forel, Stekel, Weininger et alia, ending with Stasia’s remark that they were all old hat.

       “You know what I’m going to do for you?” she exclaimed.  “I’m going to let your friend Kronski examine me.”

       “How do you mean – examine you?”

       “Explore my anatomy.”

       “I thought you meant your head.”

       “He can do that too,” she said, cool as a cucumber.

       “And if he finds anything wrong with you, you’re just polymorph perverse, is that it?”

       The expression, borrowed from Freud, tickled them no end.  Stasia liked it so much, indeed, that she swore she would write a poem by that title.

       True to her word, Kronski was summoned to come and make due examination.  He arrived in good humour, rubbing his hands and cracking his knuckles.

       “What’s it this time, Mister Miller?  And vasaline handy?  A tight job, if I know my business.  Not a bad idea, though.  At least we’ll know if she’s a hermaphrodite or not.  Maybe we’ll discover a rudimentary tail….”

       Stasia had already removed her blouse and was displaying her lovely coral-tipped breasts.

       “Nothing wrong with them,” said Kronski, cupping them.  “Now off with your pants!”

       At this she balked.  “Not here!” she cried.

       “Wherever you like,” said Kronski.  “How about the toilet?”

       “Why don’t you conduct your examination in her room?” said Mona.  “This isn’t an exhibition performance.”

       “Oh no?” said Kronski, giving them a dirty leer.  “I thought that was the idea.”

       He went to the next room to fetch his black bag.

       “To make it more official I brought my instruments along.”

       “You’re not going to hurt her?” cried Mona.

       “Not unless she resists,” he replied.  “Did you find the Vaseline?  If you haven’t any, olive oil will do … or butter.”

       Stasia made a wry face. “Is all that necessary?” she demanded.

       “It’s up to you,” said Kronski.  “Depends on how touchy you are.  If you lie still and behave yourself there’ll be no difficulty.  If it feels good I may stick something else in.”

       “Oh no you don’t!” cried Mona.

       “What’s the matter, are you jealous?”

       “We invited you here as a doctor.  This isn’t a bordel.”

       “You’d be better off it were a fancy house,” said Kronski sneeringly.  “She would, at least … Come on, let’s get it over with!”

       With this he took Stasia by the hand and led her into the little room next to the toilet.  Mona wanted to go along, to be certain that no harm came to Stasia.  But Kronski wouldn’t hear of it.

       “This is a professional visit,” he said.  He rubbed his hands gleefully.  “As for you, Mister Miller,” and he gave me a knowing look, “if I were you I’d take a little walk.”

       “No, stay!” begged Mona.  “I don’t trust him.”

       So we remained, Mona and I, pacing up and down the long room with never a word exchanged.

       Five minutes passed, then ten.  Suddenly from the adjoining room there came a piercing scream.  “Help!  Help!  He’s raping me!”

       We burst into the room.  Sure enough, there was Kronski with his pants down, his face red as a beet.  Trying to mount her.  Like a tigress, Mona pounced on him and pulled him off the bed.  Then Stasia bounded out of bed and threw herself on him, straddling him.  With all her might she clawed and pummelled him.  The poor devil was so bewildered by the onslaught that he was scarcely able to defend himself.  If I hadn’t intervened they would have scratched his eyes out.

       “You bastard!” screamed Stasia.

       “Sadist!” screamed Mona.

       They made such a din I thought the landlady would be down with a cleaver.

       Staggering to his feet, his pants still down around his ankles, Kronski finally managed to splutter: “What’s all the fuss about?  She’s normal, just as I thought.  In fact, she’s too normal.  That’s what got me excited.  What’s wrong with that?”

       “Yeah, what’s wrong with that?” I chimed in, looking from one to the other.

       “Shoo him out of here!” they yelled.

       “Easy now!  Take it easy!” said Kronski, putting a little soothing syrup into his voice.  “You asked me to examine her, and you knew as well as I that there’s nothing wrong with her physically.  It’s her belfry that needs looking into, not her private parts.  I can do that too, but it takes time.  And what would you have me prove?  Answer that, if you can!  Do you want to know something?  I could have the three of you locked up.”  He snapped his fingers in our faces.  “Like that!” he said, snapping his fingers again.  “For what?” Moral turpitude, that’s what.  You wouldn’t have a leg to stand on, none of you.”

       He paused a full moment, to let this sink in.

       “I’m not mean enough, however, to do a thing like that.  I’m too good a friend, aren’t I, Mister Miller?  But don’t try to throw me out for doing you a good turn.”

       Stasia was standing there stark naked, her pants slung over her arm.  Finally she became self-conscious and started slipping into her trousers.  In doing so she slipped and fell.  Mona immediately rushed to her aid, only to be vigorously pushed aside.

       “Leave me alone!” cried Stasia.  “I can help myself.  I’m not a child.”  So saying, she picked herself up.  She stood upright a moment, then bending her head forward, she looked at herself, at the very centre of her anatomy.  With that she burst into a laugh, a demented sort of laugh.

       “So I’m normal,” she said, laughing still harder.  “What a joke!  Normal, because there’s a hole big enough to stick something into.  Here, given me a candle!  I’ll show you how normal I am!”

       “Please, Stasia, stop it, I beg you!” cried Mona.

       “Yes, cut it!” said Kronski sternly.  “You don’t need to give us an exhibition.”

       The word exhibition seemed only to incense her more.

       “This is my exhibition,” she screamed.  “And it’s gratis this time.  Usually I get paid for making an ass of myself, don’t I?”  She turned on Mona.  “Don’t I?” she hissed.  “Or haven’t you told them how we raise the rent money?”

       “Please, Stasia, please!” begged Mona.  She had tears in her eyes.

       But nothing could halt Stasia now.  Grabbing a candle from the bureau top, she stuck it up her crotch, and as she did so she rolled her pelvis frantically.

       “Isn’t that worth fifty dollars?” she cried.  “What’s-his-name would pay even more, but then I would have to let him suck me off, and I don’t like being sucked off.  Not by a pervert, anyway.”

       “Stop it!  Stop it, or I’ll run away!”  From Mona.

       She quieted down.  The candle fell to the floor.  A new expression now came over her countenance.  As she slipped into her blouse she said very quietly, addressing her words to me:

       “You see, Val, if anyone must be injured or humiliated, it’s me, not your dear wife.  I have no moral sense.  I have only love.  If money is needed, I’m always ready to put on an act.  Since I’m crazy, it doesn’t matter.”  She paused, then turned to the dresser in the corner of the room.  Opening a drawer, she pulled out an envelope.  “See this?” she said, waving the envelope in the air.  “There’s a cheque in this sent by my guardians.  Enough to pay next month’s rent.  But” – and she calmly proceeded to tear the envelope to bits – “we don’t want that kind of money, do we?  We know how to make our own way … giving exhibitions … pretending that we’re Lesbians … pretending that we’re make-believe Lesbians.  Pretending, pretending … I’m sick of it.  Why don’t we pretend that we’re just human beings?”

       It was Kronski who now spoke up.

       “Of course you’re a human being, and the most unusual one.  Somewhere along the line you got hitched up – how, I don’t know.  What’s more, I don’t want to know.  If I thought you would listen to me I’d urge you to get out of here, leave these two.”  He threw a contemptuous look at Mona and myself.  “Yes, leave them to solve their own problems.  They don’t need you, and you certainly don’t need them.  You don’t belong in a place like New York.  Frankly, you don’t fit anywhere…. But what I want to say is this … I came here as a friend.  You need a friend.  As for these two, they don’t know the meaning of the word.  Of the three you’re probably the healthiest.  And you have genius as well….”

       I thought he would continue indefinitely.  Suddenly, however, he recalled aloud that he had an urgent visit to make and made an abrupt departure.

       Later that evening – they had decided not to go out – a curious thing happened.  It was just after dinner, in the midst of a pleasant conversation.  The cigarettes had given out, and Mona had asked me to look in her bag.  Usually there was a stray one to be found in the bottom of the bag.  I rose, went to the dresser where the bag lay and, as I opened the bag, I noticed an envelope addressed to Mona in Stasia’s hand.  In a second Mona was at my side.  If she hadn’t shown such panic I might have ignored the presence of the envelope.  Unable to restrain herself, she made a grab for the envelope.  I snatched it out of her hand.  She made another grab for it and a tussle ensued in which the envelope, now torn, fell to the floor.  Stasia fastened on to it, then handed it back to Mona.

       “Why all the fuss?” I said, unconsciously repeating Kronski’s words.

       The two of them replied at once: “It’s none of your business.”

       I said nothing more.  But my curiosity was thoroughly aroused.  I had a hunch the letter would turn up again.  Better to pretend complete lack of interest.

       Later that same evening, on going to the toilet, I discovered bits of the envelope floating in the bowl.  I chuckled.  What a flimsy way of telling me that the letter had been destroyed!  I wasn’t being taken in that easily.  Fishing the pieces of envelope out of the bowl I examined them carefully.  No part of the letter adhered to any of the pieces.  I was certain now that the letter itself had been preserved, that it had been stashed away somewhere, some place I would never think to look.

       A few days later I picked up a curious piece of information.  It fell out during the course of a heated argument between the two of them.  They were in Stasia’s little room, where they usually repaired to discuss secret affairs.  Unaware of my presence in the house, or perhaps too excited to keep their voices down, words were bandied about that should never have reached my ears.

       Mona was raising hell with Stasia, I gathered, because the latter had been throwing her money around like a fool.  What money? I wondered.  Had she come into a fortune?  What made Mona furious, apparently, was that Stasia had given some worthless idiot – I couldn’t catch the name – a thousand dollars.  She was urging her to make some effort to recover part of the money at least.  And Stasia kept repeating that she wouldn’t think of it, that she didn’t care what the fool did with her money.

       Then I heard Mona say: “If you don’t watch out you’ll be waylaid some night.”

       And Stasia innocently: “They’ll be out of luck.  I don’t have any more.”

       “You don’t have any more?”

       “Of course not!  Not a red cent.”

       “You’re mad!”

       “I know I am.  But what’s money good for if not to throw away?”

       I had heard enough.  I decided to take a walk.  When I returned Mona was not there.

       “Where did she go?” I asked, not alarmed but curious.

       For reply I received a grunt.

       “Was she angry?”

       Another grunt, followed by – “I suppose so.  Don’t worry, she’ll be back.”

       Her manner indicated that she was secretly pleased.  Ordinarily she would have been upset, or else gone in search of Mona.

       “Can I make you some coffee?” she asked.  It was the first time she had ever made such a suggestion.

       “Why not?” said I, affable as could be.

       I sat down at the table, facing her.  She had decided to drink her coffee standing up.

       “A strange woman, isn’t she?” said Stasia, skipping all preliminaries.  “What do you really know about her?  Have you ever met her brothers or her mother or her sister?  She claims her sister is far more beautiful than she is.  Do you believe that?  But she hates her.  Why?  She tells you so much, then leaves you dangling.  Everything has to be turned into a mystery, have you noticed?”

       She paused a moment to sip her coffee.

       “We have a lot to talk about, if we ever get a chance.  Maybe between us we could piece things together.”

       I was just about to remark that it was useless even to try when she resumed her monologue.

       “You’ve seen her on the stage, I suppose?”

       I nodded.

       “Know why I ask?  Because she doesn’t strike me as an actress.  Nor a writer either  Nothing fits anything.  Everything’s part of a huge fabrication, herself included.  The only thing that’s real about her is her make-believe.  And – her love for you.”

       The last gave me a jolt.  “You really believe that, do you?”

       “Believe it?” she echoed.  “If she didn’t have you there would be no reason for her to exist.  You’re her life….”

       “And you?  Where do you fit in?”

       She gave me a weird smile.  “Me?  I’m just another piece of the unreality she creates around her.  Or a mirror perhaps in which she catches a glimpse of her true self now and then.  Distorted, of course.”

       Then, veering to more familiar ground, she said: “Why don’t you make her stop this gold-digging?  There’s no need for it.  Besides, it’s disgusting, the way she goes at it.  What makes her do it I don’t know.  It’s not money she’s after.  Money is only the pretext for something else.  It’s as though she digs at someone just to awaken interest in herself.  And the moment one shows a sign of real interest she humiliates him.  Even poor Ricardo had to be tortured; she had him squirming like an eel…. We’ve got to do something, you and I.  This has to stop.

       “If you were to take a job,” she continued, “she wouldn’t have to go to that horrible place every night and listen to all those filthy-mouthed creatures who fawn on her.  What’s stopping you?  Are you afraid she would be unhappy leading a humdrum existence?  Or perhaps you think I’m the one who’s leading her astray?  Do you?  Do you think I like this sort of life?  No matter what you think of me you must surely realize that I have nothing to do with all this.”

       She stopped dead.

       “Why don’t you speak?  Say something!”

       Just I was about to open my trap in walks Mona – with a bunch of violets.  A peace offering.

       Soon the atmosphere became so peaceful, so harmonious, that they were almost beside themselves.  Mona got out her mending and Stasia her paint box.  I took it all in as if it were happening on the stage.

       In less than no time Stasia had made a recognizable portrait of me – on the wall which I was facing.  It was in the image of a Chinese mandarin, garbed in a Chinese blue jacket, which emphasized the austere, sage-like expression I had evidently assumed.

       Mona thought it ravishing.  She also commended me in a motherly way for sitting so still and for being so sweet to Stasia.  She had always known we would one day get to know one another, become firm friends.  And so on.

       She was so happy that in her excitement she inadvertently spilled the contents of her purse on the table – looking for a cigarette – and out fell the letter.  To her astonishment I picked it up and handed it to her, without the slightest attempt to scan a line or two.

       “Why don’t you let him read it?” said Stasia.

       “I will,” she said, “but not now.  I don’t want to spoil this moment.”

       Said Stasia: “There’s nothing in it to be ashamed of.”

       “I know that,” said Mona.

       “Forget about it,” said I.  “I’m no longer curious.”

       “You’re wonderful, the two of you!  How could anyone help loving you?  I love you both, dearly.”

       To this outburst, Stasia, now in a slightly Satanic mood, replied: “Tell us, whom do you love more?”

       Without the slightest hesitation came the reply.  “I couldn’t possibly love either of you more.  I love you both.  My love for one has nothing to do with my love for the other.  The more I love you, Val, the more I love Stasia.”

       “There’s an answer for you,” said Stasia, picking up her brush to resume work on the portrait.

       There was silence for a few moments, then Mona spoke up.  “What on earth were you two talking about while I was gone?”

       “About you, of course,” said Stasia.  “Weren’t we, Val?”

       “Yes, we were saying what a wonderful creature you are.  Only we couldn’t understand why you try to keep things from us.”

       She bristled immediately.  “What things?  What do you mean?”

       “Let’s not go into it now,” said Stasia, plying the brush.  “But soon we ought to sit down, the three of us, and get things straight, don’t you think?”  With this she turned round and looked Mona full in the face.

       “I have no objection,” was Mona’s cold response.

       “See, she’s peeved,” said Stasia.

       “She doesn’t understand,” said I.

       Again a flare-up.  “What don’t I understand?  What is this?  What are you driving at, the two of you?”

       “We really didn’t have much to say while you were gone,” I put in.  “We were talking about truth and truthfulness mostly … Stasia, as you know, is a very truthful person.”

       A faint smile spread over Mona’s lips.  She was about to say something, but I cut in.

       “It’s nothing to worry about.  We’re not going to put you through a cross-examination.”

       “We only want to see how honest you can be,” said Stasia.

       “You talk as if I were playing a game with you.”

       “Exactly,” said Stasia.

       “So that’s it!  I leave the two of you alone for a few minutes and up rip me up the back.  What have I done to deserve such treatment?”

       At this point I lost track of the conversation.  All I could think of was that last remark – what have I done to deserve such treatment?  It was my mother’s favourite phrase when in distress.  Usually she accompanied it with a backward tilt of the head, as if addressing her words to the Almighty.  The first time I heard it – I was only a child – it filled me with terror and disgust.  It was the tone of voice more than the words which roused my resentment.  Such self-righteousness!  Such self-pity!  As if God had singled her out, her, a model of a creature, for wanton punishment.

       Hearing it now, from Mona’s lips, I felt as if the ground had opened beneath my feet.  “Then you are guilty,” I said to myself.  Guilty of what I made no effort to define.  Guilty, that was all.  Now and then Barley dropped in of an afternoon, closeted himself with Stasia in her little room, laid a few eggs (poems), then fled precipitously.  Each time he called strange sounds emanated from the hall bedroom.  Animal cries, in which fear and ecstasy were combined.  As if we had been visited by a stray alley cat.

       Once Ulric called, but found the atmosphere so depressing I knew he would never repeat the visit.  He spoke as if I were going through another “phase”.  His attitude was – when you emerge from the tunnel, look me up!  He was too discreet to make any comment on Stasia.  All he dropped was: “A rum one, that!”

       To further the courtship I decided one day to get tickets for the theatre.  It was agreed that we would meet outside the theatre.  The evening came.  I waited patiently a half-hour after the curtain had risen, but no Mona.  Like a schoolboy, I had bought a bunch of violets to present her.  Catching a reflection of myself in a shop window, the violets in my mitt, I suddenly felt so foolish that I dropped the violets and walked away.  Nearing the corner, I turned round just in time to catch sight of a young girl in the act of recovering the violets.  She raised them to her nostrils, took a deep whiff, then threw them away.

       On reaching the house I noticed the lights were on full blast.  I stood outside a few minutes, bewildered by the burst of song from within.  For a moment I wondered if there were visitors.  But no, it was just the two of them.  They were certainly in high spirits.

       The song which they were singing at the top of their lungs was – “Let Me Call You Sweetheart”.

       “Let’s sing it again!” I said, as I walked in.

       And we did, all three of us.

       “Let me call you sweetheart, I’m in love with you….”

       Again we sang it, and again.  The third time around I put up my hand.

       “Where were you?” I bawled.

       “Where was I?” said Mona.  “Why, right here.”

       “And our date?”

       “I didn’t think you were serious.”

       “You didn’t?”  With that I gave her a sound slap in the puss.  A real clout.

       “Next time, my lady, I’ll drag you there by the tail.”

       I sat down at the gut table and took a good look at them.  My anger fell away.

       “I didn’t mean to hit you so hard,” said I, removing my hat.  “You’re unusually gay this evening.  What’s happened?”

       They took me by the arm and escorted me to the rear of the place, where the laundry tubs used to stand.

       “That’s what,” said Mona, pointing to a pile of groceries.  “I had to be here when they arrived.  There was no way to let you know in time.  That’s why I didn’t meet you.”

       She dove into the pile and extracted a bottle of Benedictine.  Stasia had already selected some black caviar and biscuits.

       I didn’t bother to ask how they had come by the loot.  That would leak out of itself, later.

       “Isn’t there any wine?” I asked.

       Wine?  Of course there was.  What would I like – Bordeaux, Rhine wine, Moselle, Chianti, Burgundy…?

       We opened a bottle of Rhine wine, a jar of lachs, and a tin of English biscuits – the finest.  Resumed our place around the gut table.

       “Stasia’s pregnant,” said Mona.  Like she might have said – “Stasia’s got a new dress.”

       “Is that what you were celebrating?”

       “Of course not.”

       I turned to Stasia.  “Tell us about it,” I said.  “I’m all ears.”

       She turned red and looked helplessly at Mona.  “Let her tell you,” she said.

       I turned to Mona.  “Well?”

       “It’s a long story, Val, but I’ll make it short.  She was attacked by the bunch of gangsters in the Village.  They raped her.”

       “They?  How many?”

       “Four,” said Mona.  “Do you remember the night we didn’t come home?  That was the night.”

       “Then you don’t know who the father is?”

       “The father?” they echoed.  “We’re not worrying about the father.”

       “I’d be glad to take care of the brat,” said I.  “All I need to learn is how to produce milk.”

       “We’ve spoken to Kronski,” said Mona.  “He’s promised to take care of things.  But first he wants to examine her.”

       “Again?”

       “He’s got to be certain.”

       “Are you certain?”

       “Stasia is.  She stopped menstruating.”

       “That means nothing,” said I.  “You’ve got to have better evidence than that.”

       Stasia now spoke up.  “My breast are getting heavy.”  She unbuttoned her blouse and took one out.  “See!”  She squeezed it gently.  A drop or two or what looked like yellow puss appeared.  “That’s milk,” she said.

       “How do you know?”

       “I tasted it.”

       I asked Mona to squeeze her breasts and see what would happen, but she refused.  Said it was embarrassing.

       “Embarrassing?  You sit with your legs crossed and show us everything you’ve got, but you won’t take your boobies out.  That’s not embarrassing, that’s perverse.”

       Stasia burst out laughing.  “It’s true,” she said.  “What’s wrong with showing us your breasts?”

       “You’re the one who’s pregnant, not I,” said Mona.

       “When is Kronski coming?”

       “Tomorrow.”

       I poured myself another glass of wine and raised it on high.  “To the unborn!” I said.  Then lowering my voice, I inquired if they had notified the police.

       They ignored this.  As if to tell me the subject was closed, they announced that they were planning to go to the theatre shortly.  They’d be glad to have me come along, if I wished.

       “To see what?” I asked.

       “The Captive,” said Stasia.  “It’s a French play.  Everybody’s talking about it.”

       During the conversation Stasia had been trying to cut her toenails.  She was so awkward that I begged her to let me do it for her.  When I had finished the job I suggested that she let me comb her hair.  She was delighted.

       As I combed her hair she read aloud from The Drunken Boat.  Since I had listened with evident pleasure she jumped up and went to her room to fetch a biography of Rimbaud.  It was Carré’s Season in Hell.  Had events not conspired to thwart it, I would have become a devotee of Rimbaud then and there.

       It wasn’t often, I must say, that we passed an evening together in this manner, or ended it on such a good note.

       With Kronski’s arrival next day and the results of the examination negative, things commenced to go awry in earnest.  Sometimes I had to vacate the premises while they entertained a very special friend, usually a benefactor who brought a supply of groceries or who left a cheque on the table.  Conversing before me they often indulged in double talk, or exchanged notes which they wrote before my eyes.  Or they would lock themselves in Stasia’s room and there keep up a whispered conversation for an ungodly while.  Even the poems Stasia wrote were becoming more and more unintelligible.  At least, those she deigned to show me.  Rimbaud’s influence, she said.  Or the toilet-box, which never ceased gurgling.

       By way of relief there were occasional visits from Osiecki who had discovered a nice speakeasy, over a funeral parlour, a few blocks away.  I’d have a few beers with him – until he got glassy-eyed and started scratching himself.  Sometimes I’d take it into my head to go to Hoboken and, while wandering about forlornly, I’d try to convince myself that it was an interesting burg.  Weehawken was another God-forsaken place I’d go to occasionally, usually to see a burlesque show.  Anything to escape the loony atmosphere of the basement, the continual chanting of love songs – they had taken to singing in Russian, German, even Yiddish! – they mysterious confabs in Stasia’s rooms, the barefaced lies, the dreary talk of drugs, the wrestling matches….

       Yes, now and then they would stage a wrestling match for my benefit.  Were they wrestling matches?  Hard to tell.  Sometimes, just to vary the monotony, I would borrow brush and paints and do a caricature of Stasia.

       Always on the walls.  She would answer in kind.  One day I painted a skull and cross-bones on her door.  The next day I found a carving knife hanging over the skull and bones.

       One day she produced a pearl-handled revolver.  “Just in case,” she said.

       They were accusing me now of sneaking into her room and going through her things.

       One evening, wandering by my lonesome through the Polish section of Manhattan, I stumbled into a pool room where, to my great surprise, I found Curley and a friend of his shooting pool.  He was a strange youngster, this friend, and only recently released from prison.  Highly excitable and full of imagination.  They insisted on returning to the house with me and having a gob feast.

       In the subway I gave Curley an earful about Stasia.  He reacted as if the situation were thoroughly familiar to him.

       “Something’s got to be done,” he remarked laconically.

       His friend seemed to be of the same mind.

       They jumped when I turned on the lights.

       “She must be crazy!” said Curley.

       His friend pretended to be frightened by the paintings.  He couldn’t take his eyes off them

       “I’ve seen them before,” he said, meaning in the bobby hatch.

       “Where does she sleep?” said Curley.

       I showed them her room.  It was in a state of complete disorder – books, towels, panties, pieces of bread scattered over the bed and on the floor.

       “Nuts!  Plain nuts!” said Curley’s friend.

       Curley meanwhile had begun to poke around.  He busied himself opening one drawer after another, pulling the contents out, then shoving them back in.

       “What is it you’re looking for?” I asked.

       He looked at me and grinned.  “You never know,” he said.

       Presently he fixed his eyes on the big trunk in the corner under the toilet box.

       “What’s in there?”

       I shrugged my shoulders.

       “Let’s find out,” he said.  He unfastened the hasps, but the lid was locked.  Turning to his friend, he said: “Where’s that gimmick of yours?  Get busy!  I’ve a hunch we’re going to find something interesting.”

       In a moment his friend had pried open the lock.  With a jerk they threw back the lid of the trunk.  The first object that greeted our eyes was a little iron casket, a jewellery box, no doubt.  It wouldn’t open.  The friend again produced his gimmick.  It was the work of a moment to unlock the casket.

       Amidst a heap of billets-doux – from friends unknown – we discovered the note which had supposedly been flushed down the toilet.  It was in Mona’s handwriting, sure enough.  It began thus: “Desperate, my lover….”

       “Hold on to it,” said Curley, “you may need it later on.”  He began stuffing the other letters back into the casket.  Then he turned to his friend and advised him to make the lock look as it should.  “See that the trunk lock works right too,” he added.  “They mustn’t suspect anything.”

       Then, like a pair of stage hands, they proceeded to restore the room to its original state of disorder, even down to the distribution of the breadcrumbs.  They argued a few minute as to whether a certain book had been lying on the floor open or unopened.

       As we were leaving the room the young man insisted that the door had been ajar, not closed.

       “Fuck it!” said Curley.  “They wouldn’t remember that.”

       Intrigued by this observation, I said: “What makes you so sure?”

       “It’s just a hunch,” he replied.  “You wouldn’t remember, would you, unless you had a reason for leaving the door partly open.  What reason could she have had?  None.  It’s simple.”

       “It’s too simple,” I said.  “One remembers trivial things without reason sometimes.”

       His answer was that anyone who lived in a state of filth and disorder couldn’t possibly have a good memory.  “Take a thief,” he said, “he knows what he’s doing, even when he makes a mistake.  He keeps track of things.  He has to or he’d be shit out of luck.  Ask this guy!”

       Sailing into the street, Curley turned to inform me that I could count on his aid any time.  “We’ll fix her,” he said.