As he came up, I could feel myself and the others getting tense, like dogs at the approach of the unknown.
The Stranger stopped by our table and stood looking at Helen as if he knew her. The four of us realized more than ever that we wanted Helen to be ours alone (and especially mine), that we hated to think of her having close ties with anyone else.
What got especially under my skin was the suggestion that there was some kinship between the Stranger and Helen, that behind his proud, remote-eyed face, he was talking to her with his mind.
Gene apparently took the Stranger for one of those unpleasant fellows who strut around bars looking for trouble—and proceeded to act as if he were one of those same fellows himself. He screwed his delicate features into a cheap frown and stood up as tall as he could, which wasn’t much. Such tough-guy behavior, always a symptom of frustration and doubts of masculinity, had been foreign to Gene for some months. I felt a pulse of sadness—and almost winced when Gene opened the side of his mouth and began, “Now look here, Joe—”
But Helen laid her hand on his arm. She looked calmly at the
Stranger for a few more moments and then she said, “I won’t talk to you that way. You must speak English.”
If the Stranger was surprised, he didn’t show it. He smiled and said softly, with a faint foreign accent, “The ship sails at midnight, Helen.”
I got a queer feeling, for our city is two hundred miles from anything you’d call navigable waters.
For a moment I felt what you might call supernatural fear. The bar so tawdry and dim, the line of hunched neurotic shoulders, the plump dice-girl at one end and the tiny writhing television screen at the other. And against that background, Helen and the Stranger, light-haired, olive-skinned, with proud feline features, facing each other like duelists, on guard, opposed, yet sharing some secret knowledge. Like two aristocrats come to a dive to settle a quarrel-like that, and something more. As I say, it frightened me.
“Are you coming, Helen?” the Stranger asked.
And now I was really frightened. It was as if I’d realized for the first tune just how terribly much Helen meant to all of us, and to me especially. Not just the loss of her, but the loss of things in me that only she could call into being. I could see the same fear in the faces of the others. A lost look in Gene’s eyes behind the fake gangster frown. Louis’ fingers relaxing from his glass and his chunky head turning toward the Stranger, slowly, with empty gaze, like the turret-guns of a battleship. Es starting to stub out her cigarette and then hesitating, her eyes on Helen—although in Es’s case I felt there was another emotion besides fear.
“Coming?” Helen echoed, like someone in a dream.
The Stranger waited. Helen’s reply had twisted the tension tighter. Now Es did stub out her cigarette with awkward haste, then quickly drew back her hand. I felt suddenly that this had been bound to happen, that Helen must have had her Me, her real life, before we had known her, and that the Stranger was part of it; that she had come to us mysteriously and now would leave us as mysteriously. Yes, I felt all of that, although in view of what had happened between Helen and me, I knew I shouldn’t have.
“Have you considered everything?” the Stranger asked finally.
“Yes,” Helen replied.
“You know that after tonight there’ll be no going back,” he continued as softly as ever. “You know that you’ll be marooned here forever, that you’ll have to spend the rest of your life among.” (he looked around at us as if searching for a word) “. among barbarians.”
Again Helen laid her hand on Gene’s arm, although her glance never left the Stranger’s face.
“What is the attraction, Helen?” the Stranger went on. “Have you really tried to analyze it? I know it
might be fun for a month, or a year, or even five years. A kind of game, a renewal of youth. But when it’s over and you’re tired of the game, when you realize that you’re alone, completely alone, and that there’s no going back ever— Have you thought of that?”
“Yes, I have thought of all that,” Helen said, as quietly as the Stranger, but with a tremendous finality. “I won’t try to explain it to you, because with all your wisdom and cleverness I don’t think you’d quite understand. And I know I’m breaking promises—and more than promises. But I’m not going back. I’m here with my friends, my true and equal friends, and I’m not going back.”
And then it came, and I could tell it came to all of us—a great big lift, like a surge of silent music or a glow of invisible light. Helen had at last declared herself. After the faint equivocations and reservations of the spring and summer, she had put herself squarely on our side. We each of us knew that what she had said she meant wholly and forever. She was ours, ours more completely than ever before. Our quasi-goddess, our inspiration, our key to a widening future; the one who always understood, who could open doors in our imaginations and feelings that would otherwise have remained forever shut. She was our Helen now, ours and (as my mind persisted in adding exultingly) especially mine.
And we? We were the Gang again, happy, poised, wise as Heaven and clever as Hell, out to celebrate, having fun with whatever came along.
The whole scene had changed. The frightening aura around the Stranger had vanished completely. He was just another of those hundreds of odd people whom we met when we were with Helen.
He acted almost as if he were conscious of it. He smiled and said quickly, “Very well. I had a feeling you’d decide this way.” He started to move off. Then, “Oh, by the way, Helen—”
“Yes?”
“The others wanted me to say goodby to you for them.”
“Tell them the same and the best of luck.”
The Stranger nodded and again started to turn away, when Helen added, “And you?”
The Stranger looked back.
“I’ll be seeing you once more before midnight,” he said lightly, and almost the next moment, it seemed, was out the door.
We all chuckled. I don’t know why. Partly from relief, I suppose, and partly—God help us!—hi triumph over the Stranger. One thing I’m sure of: three (and maybe even four) of us felt for a moment happier and more secure in our relationship to Helen than we ever had before. It was the peak. We were together. The Stranger had been vanquished, and all the queer unspoken threats he had brought with him. Helen had declared herself. The future stood open before us, full of creation and achievement, with Helen ready to lead us into it. For a moment everything was perfect. We were mankind, vibrantly alive, triumphantly progressing.
It was, as I say, perfect.
And only human beings know how to wreck perfection.
Only human beings are so vain, so greedy, each wanting everything for himself alone.
It was Gene who did it. Gene who couldn’t stand so much happiness and who had to destroy it, from what self-fear, what Puritanical self-torment, what death-wish I don’t know.
It was Gene, but it might have been any of us.
His face was flushed. He was smiling, grinning rather, in what I now realize was an oafish and overbearing complacency. He put his hand on Helen’s arm in a way none of us had ever touched Helen before, and said, “That was great, dear.”
It wasn’t so much what he said as the naked possessiveness of the gesture. It was surely that gesture of ownership that made Es explode, that started her talking hi a voice terribly bitter, but so low it was some moments before the rest of us realized what she was getting at.
When we did we were thunderstruck.
She was accusing Helen of having stolen Gene’s love.