CHAPTER TWELVE
ON
arriving at the office Monday morning I found a cablegram lying on my
desk. In black and white it said that
her boat was arriving Thursday, I should meet her at the pier.
I said
nothing to Tony, he’d only view it as a calamity. I kept repeating the message to myself over
and over; it seemed almost unbelievable.
It took
hours for me to collect myself. As I was
leaving the office that evening I looked at the message once again to be
certain I had not misread it. No, she
was arriving Thursday, no mistake about it.
Yes, this coming Thursday, not the next Thursday nor the last. This Thursday. It was
incredible.
The first
thing to do was to find a place to live.
A cosy little room somewhere, and not too expensive. It meant I would have to borrow again. From whom? Certainly not from Tony.
The folks
weren’t exactly overjoyed to hear the news.
My mother’s sole comment was – “I hope you won’t give up your job now
that she’s returning.”
Thursday
came and I was at the pier, an hour ahead of time. It was one of the fast German liners she had
taken. The boat arrived, a little late,
the passengers disembarked, the luggage melted from sight, but no sign of Mona
or Stasia. Panicky, I rushed to the
office where the passenger list was held.
Her name was not on the list, nor Stasia’s
either.
I returned
to the little room I had rented, my heart heavy as lead. Surely she could have sent me a message. It was cruel, utterly cruel, of her.
Next
morning, shortly after arriving at the office, I received a ‘phone call from
the telegraph office. They had a
cablegram for me. “Read it!” I
yelled. (The dopes, what were they
waiting for?)
Message:
“Arriving Saturday on Berengaria. Love.”
This time
it was the real McCoy. I watched her
coming down the gangplank. Her, her. And more ravishing than
ever. In addition to a small tin
trunk she had a valise and a hat bag crammed with stuff. But where was Stasia?
Stasia was
still in
Wonderful!
I thought to myself. No need to make
further inquiries.
In the
taxi, when I told her about the room I had taken she seemed delighted. “We’ll find a better place later,” she
remarked. (“Christ,
no!” I said to myself. “Why a
better place?”)
There were
a thousand questions I was dying to put to her but I checked myself. I didn’t even ask why she had changed
boats. What did it matter what had
happened yesterday, a month ago, five years ago? She was back – that was enough.
There was
no need to ask questions – she was bursting to tell me things. I had to beg her to slow down, not to let it
all out at once. “Save some for later,”
I said.
While she
was rummaging through the trunk – she had brought back all manner of gifts,
including paintings, carvings, art albums – I couldn’t resist making love to
her. We went at it on the floor amidst
the papers, books, paintings, clothing, shoes and what not. But even this interruption couldn’t check the
flow of talk. There was so much to tell,
so many names to reel off. It sounded to
my ears like a mad jumble.
“Tell me
one thing,” said I, stopping her abruptly.
“Are you sure I would like it
over there?”
Her face
took on an absolutely ecstatic expression.
“Like it? Val, it’s what
you’ve dreamed of all your life. You
belong there. Even
more than I. It has everything
you are searching for and never will find here.
Everything.”
She
launched into it again – the streets, how they looked, the crooked winding
ones, the alleys, the impasses, the charming little places, the great wide avenues, such as those radiating from the Etoile; then the markets, the butcher
shops, the bookstalls, the bridges, the bicycle cops, the cafés, the cabarets,
the public gardens, the fountains, even the urinals. On and on, like a Cook’s
tour. All I could do was roll my
eyes, shake my head, clap my hands. “If it’s only half as good,” thought I to myself, “it will be marvellous.”
There was
one sour note: the French women. They
were decidedly not beautiful, she wanted me to know. Attractive, yes. But not beauties, like our American
women. The men, on the other hand, were
interesting and alive, though hard to get rid of. She thought I would like the men, though she
hoped I wouldn’t acquire their habits, where women were concerned. They had a “medieval” conception of woman,
she thought. A man had the right to beat
up a woman in public. “It’s horrible to
see,” she exclaimed. “No one dares to
interfere. Even the cops look the other
way.”
I took
this with a grain of salt, the customary one.
A woman’s view.
As for the American beauty business,
“We’ve got
to go back,” she said, forgetting that “we” had not gone there together. “It’s the only life for you, Val. You’ll write there, I promise you. Even if we starve. No one seems to have money there. Yet they get by – how, I can’t say. Anyway, being broke there is not the same as
being broke here. Here it’s ugly. There it’s … well, romantic, I guess you’d
say. But we’re not going to be broke
when we go back. We’ve got to work hard
now, save our money, so that we can have at least two or three years of it when
we do go.”
It was
good to hear her talk so earnestly about “work”. The next day, Sunday, we spent walking,
talking. Nothing but
plans for the future. To
economize, she decided to look for a place where we could cook. Something more homelike than the hall bedroom
I had rented. “A place where you can
work,” was how she put it.
The
pattern was all too familiar. Let her do
as she likes, I thought. She will,
anyway.
“It must
be terribly boring, that job,” she remarked.
“It’s not too bad.” I knew what the next line would be.
“You’re
not going to keep it forever, I hope?”
“No, dear. Soon I’ll
get down to writing again.”
“Over
there,” she said, “people seem to manage better than here. And
on much less. If a man is a
painter he paints; if he’s a writer he writes.
No putting things off until it’s all rosy.” She paused, thinking no doubt that I would
show scepticism. “I know, Val,” she
continued, with a change of voice, “I know that you hate to see me do the
things I do in order to make ends meet.
I don’t like it myself. But you
can’t work and write,
that’s clear. If one someone has
to make a sacrifice, let it be me.
Frankly, it’s no sacrifice, what I do.
All I live for is to see you do what you want to do. You should trust me,
trust me to do what’s best for you. Once we get to
I had to
admit it was only too true. Talking this
way, heart to heart, made me feel that perhaps she did know better than I what
was good for me and what wasn’t. Never
was I more eager to find a happy solution to our problems. Especially the problem of
working in harness. The problem
of seeing eye to eye.
She had returned with just a few cents in her
purse. It was the lack of money which
had to do with the last-minute change of boats, so she said. There was more to it than this, of course,
and she did make further explanations, elaborate ones, but it was all so
hurried and jumbled that I couldn’t keep up with it. What did surprise me was that in no time at
all she had found now quarters for us to move to – on one of the most beautiful
streets in all
“Don’t ask
me,” she said. “There’ll be more when we
need it.”
I thought
of my lame efforts to scrounge a few measly dollars. And of the debt I still owed Tony.
“You
know,” she said, “everyone’s so happy to see me back they can’t refuse me
anything.”
“Everyone.” I
translated that to mean “someone.”
I knew the
next thing would be – “Do quit that horrid job!”
Tony knew
it too. “I know you won’t be staying
with us much longer,” he said one day.
“In a way I envy you. When you do leave see that we don’t lose track of one another. I’ll miss you, you bastard.”
I tried to
tell him how much I had appreciated all he had done for me, but he brushed it
off. “You’d do the same,” he said, “if
you were in my place. Seriously, though,
are you going to settle down and write now?
I hope so. We can get
gravediggers any day, but not a writer. Eh what?”
Hardly a week
elapsed before I said goodbye to Tony.
It was the last I ever saw of him.
I did pay him off, eventually, but in driblets. Others to whom I was indebted only got theirs
fifteen or twenty years later. A few had
died before I got round to them. Such is
life – “the university of life,” as
The new
quarters were divine. Rear half of a
second floor in an old brownstone house.
Every convenience, including soft rugs, think woollen blankets,
refrigerator, bath and shower, huge pantry, electric stove, and so on. As for the landlady, she was absolutely taken
with us. A Jewess with
liberal ideas and passionately fond of art. To have a writer and an actress – Mona had
given that as her profession – was a double triumph for her. Up until her husband’s sudden death she had
been a school teacher – with leanings towards authorship. The insurance she had collected on her
husband’s death had enabled her to give up teaching. She hoped that soon she would get started
with her writing. Maybe I could give her
some valuable hints – when I had time, that is.
From every
angle the situation was ducky. How long would it last? That was ever the question in my mind. More than anything it did me good to see Mona
arrive each afternoon with her shopping bag full. So good to see how change, don an apron, cook
the dinner. The
picture of a happily wedded wife.
And while the meal was cooking a new phonograph record to listen to –
always something exotic, something I could never afford to buy myself. After dinner an excellent
liqueur, with coffee. Now and then a movie to round it off. If not, a walk through the aristocratic
neighbourhood surrounding us. Indian Summer, in every sense of the word.
And so,
when in a burst of confidence one day she informed me that there was a rich old
geezer who had taken a fancy to her, who believed in her – as a writer! – I listened patiently and without the least show of
disturbance or irritation.
The reason
for this burst of confidence was soon revealed.
If she could prove to this admirer – wonderful how she could vary the
substantive! – that she could write a book, a novel,
for example, he would see to it that it got published. What’s more, he offered to pay a rather
handsome weekly stipend while the writing of it was in process. He expected, of course, to be shown a few
pages a week. Only fair, what?
“And
that’s not all, Val. But the rest I’ll
tell you later, when you’ve gotten on with the book. It’s hard not to tell you, believe me, but
you must trust me. What have you to
say?”
I was too
surprised to know what to think.
“Can you
do it? Will you do it?”
“I can
try. But -.”
“But what, Val?”
“Wouldn’t
he be able to tell straight off that it’s a man’s writing and not a woman’s?”
“No, Val,
he wouldn’t!” came the prompt reply.
“How do
you know? How can you be so sure?”
“Because I’ve already put him to the test. He’s read some of your work – I passed it off
as mine, of course – and he never suspected a thing.”
“So-o-o-o. Hmmm. You don’t miss
a trick, do you?”
“If you’d
like to know, he was extremely interested.
Said there was no doubt I had talent.
He was going to show the pages to a publisher friend of his. Does that satisfy you?”
“But a
novel … do you honestly think I can write a novel?”
“Why not? You can do
anything you put your mind to. It
doesn’t have to be a conventional novel.
All he’s concerned about is to discover if I have stick-to-it-iveness. He says I’m erratic, unstable, capricious.”
“By the
way,” I put in, “does he know where we … I mean you … live?”
“Of course not! Do
you think I’m crazy? I told him I’m
living with my mother and that she’s an invalid.”
“What does
he do for a living?”
“He’s in
the fur business, I think.” As she was
giving me this answer I was thinking how interesting it would be to know how
she became acquainted with him and even more, how she had managed to progress
so far in such a short time. But to such
queries I would only receive the-moon-is-made-of-green-cheese replies.
“He also
plays the stock market,” she added. “He
probably has a number of irons in the fire.”
“So he
thinks you’re a single woman living with an invalid mother?”
“I told
him I had been married and divorced. I
gave him my stage name.”
“Sounds
like you’ve got it all sewed. Well, at
least you won’t have to be running around nights, will you?”
To which
she replied: “He’s like you, he hates the Village and all that bohemian
nonsense. Seriously, Val, he’s a person
of some culture. He’s passionate about
music, for one thing. He once played the
violin, I believe.”
“Yeah? And what do
you call him, this old geezer?”
“Pop.”
“Pop?”
“Yes, just Pop.”
“How old
is he … about?”
“Oh,
fiftyish, I suppose.”
“That’s
not very old, is it?”
“No-o-o. But he’s
settled in his ways. He seems older.”
“Well,” I
said, by way of closing the subject, “it’s all highly interesting. Who knows, maybe it will lead to
something. Let’s go for a walk, what do
you say?”
“Certainly,”
she said. “Anything you like.”
Anything you like. That was an expression I hadn’t heard from
her lips in many a moon. Had the trip to
There was
one aspect of the situation which intrigued me vastly. I got hep to it later, on hearing her report
certain conversations which she had had with Pop. Conversations dealing with
“her work”. Pop was not
altogether a fool, apparently. And she,
not being a writer, could hardly be expected to know that, faced with a direct
question – “Why did you say this?” – the answer might
well be: “I don’t know.” Thinking that
she should know, she would give the
most amazing explanations, explanations which a writer might be proud of had he
the wits to think that fast. Pop
relished these responses. After all, he was no writer either.
“Tell me
more!” I would say.
And she
would, though much of it was probably fictive.
I would sit back and roar with laughter.
Once I was so delighted that I remarked – “How do you know you might not
also be a writer?”
“Oh no, Val, not me.
I’ll never be a writer. I’m an
actress, nothing more.”
“You mean
you’re a fake?”
“I mean, I
have no real talent for anything.”
“You
didn’t always think that way,” I said, somewhat pained to have forced such an
admission from her.
“I did
too!” she flashed. “I became an actress
… or rather I went on the stage … only to prove to my parents that I was more
than they thought me to be. I didn’t
really love the theatre. I was terrified
every time I accepted a role. I felt like
a cheat. When I say I’m an actress I
mean that I’m always making believe. I’m
not a real actress, you know that. Don’t
you always see through me? You see
through everything that’s false or pretentious.
I wonder sometimes how you can bear to live with me. Honestly I do …”
Strange talk, from her
lips. Even now, in being so
honest, so sincere, she was acting. She
was making believe now that she was only a make-believer. Like so many women with histrionic talent,
when her real self was in question she either belittled herself or magnified herself. She could
only be natural when she wished to make an impression on someone. It was her way of disarming the adversary.
What I
wouldn’t have given to overhear some of these conversations with Pop! Particularly when they
discussed writing. Her writing. Who knows?
Maybe the old geezer, as she reluctantly called him, did see through
her. Maybe he only pretended to be
testing her (with this writing chore) in order to make it easier for her to
accept the money he showered on her.
Possibly he thought that by permitting her to think she was earning this money he would save himself
embarrassment. From what I gathered, he
was scarcely the type to openly suggest that she become his mistress. She never said so squarely but she insinuated
that physically he was somewhat repulsive.
(How else would a woman put it?)
But to continue the thought … By flattering her ego – and what could be
more flattering to a woman of her type than to be taken seriously as an artist?
– perhaps she would assume the role of mistress
without being asked. Out
of sheer gratitude. A woman, when
truly grateful for the attentions she receives, nearly always offers her body.
The
chances were, of course, that she was giving value for value, and had been from
the very beginning.
Speculations
of this order in no way disturbed the smooth relationship we had
established. When things are going right
it’s amazing how far the mind can travel without doing damage to the spirit.
I enjoyed
our walks after dinner. It was a new
thing in our life, these walks. We
talked freely, more spontaneously. The fact that we had money in our pockets also helped; it enabled
us to think and talk about other things than our usual sad predicament. The streets roundabout were
wide, elegant, expansive. The old
mansions, gracefully going to seed, slept in the dust of time. There was still an air of grandeur about
them. Fronting some of them were iron negroes, the hitching posts of former days. The driveways were shaded by arbours, the old
trees rich in foliage; the lawns, always neat and trim, sparkled with an
electric green. Above all, a serene
stillness enveloped the streets; one could hear footsteps a block away.
It was an
atmosphere which was conducive to writing.
From the back window of our quarters I looked out upon a beautiful
garden in which there were two enormous shade trees. Through the open window there often floated
up the strains of good music. Now and
then there came to my ears the voice of a cantor – Sirota or Rosenblatt usually
– for the landlady had discovered that I adored synagogue music. Sometimes she would knock at the door to
offer me a piece of homemade pie or a strudel she had baked. She would take a lingering look at my work
table, always strewn with books and papers, and rush away, grateful, it seemed,
for the privilege of having had a peek into a writer’s den.
It was on
one of our evening walks that we stopped off at the corner stationary store,
where they served ice cream and sodas, to get cigarettes. It was an old-time establishment run by a
Jewish family. Immediately I entered I
took a fancy to the place; it had that faded, somnolescent air of the little
shops I used to patronize as a boy when looking for a chocolate cream drop or a
bag of Spanish peanuts. The owner of the
place was seated at a table in a dim corner of the store, playing chess with a
friend. The way they were hunched over
the board reminded me of celebrated paintings, Cézanne’s card players
particularly. The heavy man with grey
hair and a huge cap pulled down over his eyes continued to study the board
while the owner waited on us.
We got our
cigarettes, then decided to have some ice cream.
“Don’t let
me keep you from your game,” said I, when we had been served. “I know what it is to be interrupted in a
chess game.”
“So you
play?”
“Yes, but
poorly. I’ve wasted many a night at
it.” Then, though I had no intention of
detaining him, I threw out a few remarks about Second Avenue, of the chess club
I once haunted there, of the Café Royal, and so on.
The man
with the big cap now got up and approached us.
It was the way he greeted us which made me realize that he had taken us
for Jews. It gave me a warm feeling.
“So you
play chess?” he said. “That’s fine. Why don’t you join us?”
“Not
tonight,” I replied. “We’re out for a
breath of air.”
“Are you
living in the neighbourhood?”
“Right up
the street,” I replied. I gave him the
address.
“Why
that’s Mrs. Skolsky’s house,” he said.
“I know her well. I’ve got a
gent’s furnishing shop a block or so away … on
With this
he extended his hand and said: “
We gave
our names and again he shook hands with us.
He seemed strangely delighted.
“You’re not a Jew, then?” he said.
“No,” said
I, “but I often pass for one.”
“But your
wife, she’s Jewish isn’t she?” He looked
at Mona intently.
“No,” I
said, “she’s part Gypsy, part Roumanian.
From
“Wonderful!”
he exclaimed. “Abe, where are those
cigars? Pass the box to Mr. Miller, will
you?” He turned to Mona. “And what about some pastry
for the Missus?”
“Your
chess game …” I said.
“Drat it!”
he said. “We’re only killing time. It’s a pleasure to talk to someone like you –
and your charming wife. She’s an
actress, isn’t she?”
I nodded.
“I could
tell at a glance,” he said.
It was
thus the conversation began. We must
have gone on talking for an hour or more.
What intrigued him, evidently, was my fondness for things Jewish. I had to promise that I would look him up at
his store soon. We would have a game of
chess there if I felt like it. He
explained that the place had become like a morgue. He didn’t know why he held on to the place –
there was only a handful of customers left. Then, as we shook hands again, he said he
hoped we would do him the honour of meeting his family. We were almost next-door neighbours, he said.
“We’re got
a new friend,” I remarked, as we sauntered down the street.
“He adores
you, I can see that,” said Mona.
“He was
like a dog that wants to be stroked and patted, wasn’t he?”
“A very lonely man, no doubt.”
“Didn’t he
say he played the violin?”
“Yes,”
said Mona. “Don’t you remember, he
mentioned that the string quartet met at his home once a week … or used to.”
“That’s
right. God, how the
Jews love the violin!”
“I suspect
he thinks you have a drop of Jewish blood in you, Val.”
“Maybe I
have. I certainly wouldn’t be ashamed of
it if I did.”
An awkward
silence ensued.
“I didn’t
mean it the way you took it,” I finally said.
“I know
it,” she replied. “It’s all right.”
“They all
know how to play chess too.” I was half
talking to myself. “And they have to
make gifts, have you ever noticed?”
“Can’t we
talk about something else?”
“Of course! Of course
we can! I’m sorry. They excite me, that’s
all. Whenever I bump into a real Jew I
feel I’m back home.
I don’t know why.”
“It’s
because they’re warm and generous – like yourself,”
she said.
“It’s
because they’re an old people, that’s
what I think.”
“You were
made for some other world, not
“And what about you? You don’t belong here either.”
“I know,”
she said. “Well, get the novel written
and we’ll clear out. I don’t care where
you take me, but you must see
“Righto! But I’d like
to see other places too …
“It could
be done, Val. There’s no reason why we
can’t go anywhere we want … anywhere in the world.”
“You
really think so?”
“I know
so.” Then, impulsively she blurted out –
“I wonder where Stasia is now.”
“You don’t
know?”
“Of course
I don’t. I haven’t had a word from her
since I got back. I have a feeling I may
never hear from her again.”
“Don’t
worry,” I said, “you’ll hear from her all right. She’ll turn up one day – just like that!”
“She was a
different person over there.”
“How do
you mean?”
“I don’t
know exactly. Different, that’s
all. More normal,
perhaps. Certain types of men
seemed to attract her. Like that
Austrian I told you about. She thought
he was so gentle, so considerate, so full of
understanding.”
“Do you
suppose there was anything between them?”
“Who
knows? They were together constantly, as
if they were madly in love with each other.”
“As if, you say. What does that mean?”
She
hesitated, then heatedly, as if still smarting: “No woman could fall for a
creature like that! He fawned on her, he
ate from her hand. And she adored
it. Maybe it made her feel feminine.”
“It
doesn’t sound like Stasia,” I said. “You
don’t think she really changed, do you?”
“I don’t
know what to think, Val. I feel sad,
that’s all. I feel I’ve lost a great
friend.”
Nonsense!” I said.
“One doesn’t lose a friend as easily as that.”
“She said
I was too possessive, too …”
“Maybe you
were – with her.”
“No one
understood her better than I. All I
wanted was to see her happy. Happy and free.”
“That’s
what everyone says who’s in love.”
“It was
more than love, Val. Much
more.”
“How can
there be anything more than love? Love
is all, isn’t it?”
“Perhaps
with women there’s something else. Men
are not subtle enough to grasp it.”
Fearing
that the discussion would degenerate into argument I changed the subject as
skilfully as I could. Finally I
pretended that I was famished. To my
surprise she said – “So am I.”
We
returned to our quarters. After we had
had a good snack – pate de foie gras,
cold turkey, cold slaw, washed down with a delicious
Anyway, as
she was clearing the table, I said: “If only one could write as one talks …
write like Gorky, Gogol, or Knut Hamsun!”
She gave
me a look such as a mother sometimes directs at the child she is holding in her
arms.
“Why write
like them?” she said. “Write like you
are, that’s so much better.”
“I wish I
thought so. Christ! Do you know what’s the
matter with me? I’m a
chameleon. Every author I fall in love
with I want to imitate. If only I could
imitate myself!”
“When are
you going to show me some pages?” she said.
“I’m dying to see what you’ve done so far.”
“Soon,” I
said.
“Is it
about us?”
“I suppose
so. What else could I write about?”
“You could
write about anything, Val.”
“That’s
what you think. You never seem to realize my
limitations. You don’t know what a
struggle I go through. Sometimes I feel
thoroughly licked. Sometimes I wonder
whatever gave me the notion that I could write.
A few minutes ago, though, I was writing like a madman. In my head, again. But the moment I sit down to the machine I
become a clod. It gets me. It gets me down.
“Did you
know,” I said, “that toward the end of his life Gogol went to
“What’s
the matter with you, Val? What are you
talking about? You’ve got eighty more
years to live. Write! Don’t talk about
dying.”
I felt I
owed it to her to tell her about the novel.
“Guess what I call myself in the book!” I said. She couldn’t.
“I took my uncle’s name, the one who lives in
Pause.
“What I’d
like to do with this bloody novel – only Pop might not
feel the same way – is to charge through it like a drunken Cossack. Russia,
Russia, where are you heading? On,
on, like the whirlwind! The only way
I can be myself is to smash things. I’ll
never write a book to suit the publishers.
I’ve written too many books. Sleepwalking books.
You know what I mean. Millions and millions of words – all in the head. They’re banging around up there, like gold
pieces. I’m tired of making gold
pieces. I’m sick of these cavalry
charges … in the dark. Every word I put
down now must be an arrow that goes straight to the mark. A poisoned arrow. I want to kill off books, writers,
publishers, readers. To write for the
public doesn’t mean a thing to me. What
I’d like is to write for madmen – or for the angels.”
I paused
and a curious smile came over my face at the thought which had entered my head.
“That
landlady of ours, I wonder what she’d think if she heard me talking
this way. She’s too good to us, don’t
you think? She doesn’t know us.
She’d never believe what a walking pogrom I am. Nor has she any idea why I’m so crazy about
Sirota and that bloody synagogue music.”
I pulled up short. “What the hell
has Sirota got to do with it anyway?”
“Yes, Val,
you’re excited. Put it in the book. Don’t waste yourself in talk!”