l listened as long as I could, then called the waiter and asked for the bill. ‘Won't you have another drink?’ he said. I told him I was tired, wanted to get home. Suddenly he changed front. ‘About that trip to Paris,’ he said, ‘why not stop at my place a few minutes and talk it over? Maybe I can help you.’ I knew what was on his mind, of course, and my heart sank. I got cold feet. But then I thought—'What the hell.’ He can't do anything unless I want him to. I'll talk him out of it ... the money, I mean.
I was wrong, of course. The moment he trotted out his collection of obscene photos I knew the game was up. They were something, I must say ... Japanese. Anyway, as he was showing them to me he rested a hand on my knee. Now and then he'd stop and look at one intently, saying—'What do you think of that one?’ Then he'd look at me with a melting expression, try to slide his hand up my leg. Finally I brushed him off. ‘I'm going,’ I said. With this his manner changed. He looked grieved. ‘Why go all the way to Brooklyn?’ he said. ‘You can stay the night here just as well. You don't have to sleep with me, if that's what bothers you. There's a cot in the other room.’ He went to the dresser and pulled out a pair of pajamas for me.
I didn't know what to think, whether he was playing it straight or ... I hesitated. ‘At the worst,’ I said to myself, ‘it will be a sleepless night.'
'You don't have to get to Paris to-morrow, do you?’ he said. ‘I wouldn't lose heart so quickly, if I were you.’ A double-edged remark, which I ignored. ‘Where's the cot?’ I said. ‘We'll talk about that some other time.'
I turned in, keeping one eye open in case he should try his funny business. But he didn't. Obviously he was disgusted with me—or perhaps he thought a bit of patience would turn the trick. Anyway, I didn't sleep a wink. I tossed about till dawn, then got up, very quietly, and dressed. As I was slipping into my trousers I spied a copy of Ulysses. I grabbed it and taking a seat by the front window, I read Molly Bloom's soliloquy. I was almost tempted to walk off with the copy. Instead, a better idea occurred to me. I tiptoed to the hallway, where the clothes closet was, opened it gently and went through his pockets, wallet and all. All I could find was about seven dollars and some change. I took it and scrammed ... And you never saw him again? No, I never went back to the restaurant. Supposing, Val, that he offered you the passage money, if...
It's hard to answer that. I've often thought about it since I know I could never go through with it, not even for you. It's easier to be a woman, in such circumstances.
She began to laugh. She laughed and laughed.
What's so funny? I said.
You! she cried. Just like a man!
How so? Would you rather I had given in?
I'm not saying, Val. All I say is that you reacted in typical male fashion.
Suddenly I thought of Stasia and her wild exhibitions. You never told me, I said, what happened to Stasia. Was it because of her that you missed the boat?
What ever put that thought in to your head? I told you how I happened to miss the boat, don't you remember?
That's right, you did. But I wasn't listening very well. Anyway, it's strange you've had no word from her all this time. Where do you suppose she is?
In Africa, probably.
Africa?
Yes, the last I heard from her she was in Algiers.
Hmmmnn.
Yes, Val, to get back to you I had to promise Roland, the man who took me to Vienna, that I would sail with him. I agreed on condition that he would wire Stasia the money to leave Africa. He didn't do it. I only discovered that he hadn't at the last moment. I didn't have the money then to cable you about the delay. Anyway, I didn't sail with Roland. I sent him back to Paris. I made him swear that he would find Stasia and bring her home safely. That's the story.
He didn't do it, of course?
No, he's a weak, spoiled creature, concerned only with himself.. He had deserted Stasia and her Austrian friend in the desert, when the going got too rough. He left them without a penny. I could have murdered him when I found it out...
So that's all you know?
Yes. For all I know, she may be dead by now.
I got up to look for a cigarette. I found the pack on the open book I had been reading earlier in the day. Listen to this, I said, reading the passage I had marked: The purpose of literature is to help man to know himself, to fortify his belief in himself and support his striving after truth...
Lie down, she begged. I want to hear you talk, not read.
Hurrah for the Karamazovs!
Stop it, Val! Let's talk some more, please.
All right, then. What about Vienna? Did you visit your uncle while there? You've hardly told me a thing about Vienna, do you realize that? I know it's a touchy subject ... Roland and all that. Still...
She explained that they hadn't spent much time in Vienna. Besides, she wouldn't dream of visiting her relatives without giving them money. Roland wasn't the sort to dole out money to poor relatives. She did, however, make him spend money freely whenever they ran into a needy artist.
Good! I said. And did you ever run into any of the celebrities in the world of art? Picasso, for instance, or Matisse?
The first person I got to know, she replied, was Zadkine, the sculptor.
No, really? I said.
And then there was Edgar Varese.
Who's he?
A composer. A wonderful person, Val. You'd adore him.
Any one else?
Marcel Duchamp. You know who he is, of course?
I should say I do. What was he like—as a person?
The most civilized man I ever met, was her prompt reply.
That's saying a great deal.
I know it, Val, but it's the truth. She went on to tell me of others she had met, artists I had never heard of ... Hans Reichel, Tihanyi, Michonze, all painters. As she talked I was making a mental note of that hotel she had stopped at in Vienna—Hotel Muller, am Graben. If I ever got to Vienna I'd have a look at the hotel register some day and see what name she had registered under. You never visited Napoleon's Tomb, I suppose? No, but we did get to Malmaison. And I almost saw an execution.
You didn't miss very much, I guess, did you? What a pity, I thought, as she rambled on, that talks like this happened so rarely. What I relished especially was the broken, kaleidoscopic nature of such talks. Often, in the pauses between remarks, I would make mental answers wholly at variance with the words on my lips. An additional spice, of course, was contributed by the atmosphere of the room, the books lying about, the droning of a fly, the position of her body, the comfortable feel of the couch. There was nothing to be established, posited or maintained. If a wall crumbled it crumbled. Thoughts were tossed out like twigs into a babbling brook. Russia, is the road still smoking under your wheels? Do the bridges thunder as you cross them? Answers? What need for answers? Ah, you horses! What horses! What sense in foaming at the mouth?
Getting ready to hit the sack I suddenly recalled that I had seen MacGregor that morning. I made mention of it as She was climbing over me to slide between the sheets.
I hope you didn't give him our address, she said.
We had no words. He didn't see me.
That's good, she said, laying hold of my prick.
What's good?
That he didn't see you.
I thought you meant something else.
14
Often when I stepped out for a breath of fresh air I would drop in on Sid Essen to have a chat with him. Only once did I see a customer enter the place. Winter or Summer it was dark inside and cool—just the right temperature for preserving stiffs. The two show windows were crammed with shirts faded by the sun and covered with fly specks.