NEXUS

12

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 Me Coy. I watched her coming down the gang-plank. 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 Paris. Couldn't say when she'd return.

Wonderful! thought I 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! said I to myself. Why a better place?)

There were a thousand questions I was dying to put 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 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 7 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 book stalls, the bridges, the bicycle cops, the cafes, 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 marvelous.

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 a woman up 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, America could keep her beauties. They had never had any attraction for me.

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 all's rosy. She paused, thinking no doubt that I would show skepticism. 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 some one 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 Europe things will work out differently. You'll blossom there, I know it. This is such a meagre, paltry life we lead here. Do you realize, Val, that you've hardly got a friend any more whom you care to see? Doesn't that tell you something? There you have only to take a seat in a cafe and you make friends instantly. Besides, they talk the things you like to talk. Ulric's the only friend you ever talk to that way. With the rest you're just a buffoon. Now that's true, isn't it?

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 new quarters for us to move to—on one of the most beautiful streets in all Brooklyn. She had found exactly the right place, had paid a month's rent in advance, rented me a typewriter, filled the larder, and God knows what all. I was curious to know how she came by the dough.

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, every one's so happy to see me back they can't refuse me anything.

Every one. I translated that to mean some one.

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 grave-diggers any day, but not a writer. Eh what?

Hardly a week elapsed before I said good-bye 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 Gorky called it.

The new quarters were divine. Rear half of a second floor in an old brown-stone house. Every convenience, including soft rugs, thick woolen 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 toward 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 her 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 neighborhood 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 rue, 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 I 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. 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 up. 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 so 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 Europe worked a magical change? Or was there something cooking that she wasn't ready to tell about just yet? I wasn't eager to cultivate doubts. But there was the past with all its tell tale scars. This proposition of Pop's now—it all seemed above board, genuine. And obviously entered into for my sake, not hers. What if it did give her a thrill to be taken for a writer instead of an actress? She was doing it to get me started. It was her way of solving my problem.

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. He would ask questions. Difficult ones sometimes. 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 some one. 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 gone 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 arbors, 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 windows 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 home-made 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 for having had a peek into a writer's den.

It was on one of our evening walks that we stopped off at the corner stationery 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, Cezanne's card players particularly. The heavy man with gray 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 Cafe” 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 also play chess? he said. That's fine. Why don't you join us?

Not to-night, I replied. We're out for a breath of air.

Are you living in the neighborhood?

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 gents’ furnishing shop a block or so away ... on Myrtle Avenue. Why don't you drop in some time?

With this he extended his hand and said: Essen's the name. Sid Essen. He then shook hands with Mona.

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 Bukovina.

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 were only killing time. It's a pleasure to talk to some one 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 could 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 honor of meeting his family. We were almost next door neighbors, he said.

We've 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 love to make gifts, have you ever noticed?

Can't we talk about something else?

Of course I 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 America, Val. You get on famously with any people except your own. You're an outcast.

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 Paris first.

Righto! But I'd like to see other places too ... Rome, Budapest, Madrid, Vienna, Constantinople. I'd like to visit your Bukovina too some day. And Russia—Moscow, Petersburg, Nijny-Novgorod ... Ah, to walk down the Nevsky Prospekt ... in Dostoievsky's footsteps! What a dream!

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 every one 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, cole slaw, washed down with a delicious Moselle—I felt as if I could go to the machine and really write. Perhaps it was the talk, the mention of travel, of strange cities ... of a new life. Or that I had successfully prevented our talk from degenerating into a quarrel. (It was such a delicate subject, Stasia.) Or perhaps it was the Jew, Sid Essen, and the stir of racial memories. Or perhaps nothing more than the Tightness of our quarters, the feeling of snugness, cosiness, at homeness.

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 my self I

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 what ever 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 Palestine? A strange fellow, Gogol. Imagine a crazy Russian like that dying in Rome! I wonder where I'll die.

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 a little about the novel. Guess what I call myself in the book! I said. She couldn't. I took your uncle's name, the one who lives in Vienna. You told me he was in the Hussars, I think. Somehow I can't picture him as the colonel of a death's head regiment. And a Jew. But I like him ... I like everything you told me about him. That's why I took his name...

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. Sleep-walking 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 I