We had reached the end of the bridge. You will try to raise some money for me, won’t you? she said.
Of course I will. And don’t you forget to pretend to change your mind and stay. Otherwise we’ll have a frightful scene.
There was a scene, as I predicted, but the moment Stasia relented it ended like a Spring shower. To me, however, it was not only depressing, but humiliating, to observe Mona’s grief. On arriving we found her in the toilet, weeping like a pig. She had found the valise packed, the trunk locked, and Stasia’s room in a state of wild disorder. She knew it was quits this time.
It was only natural for her to accuse me of inspiring the move. Fortunately Stasia denied this vehemently. Then why had she decided to go? To this Stasia lamely replied that she was weary of it all. Then bang bang, like bullets, came Mona’s reproachful queries. How could you say such a thing? Where would you go? What have I done to turn you against me? She could have fired a hundred more shots like that. Anyway, with each reproach her hysteria mounted; her tears turned to sobs and her sobs to groans. That she would have me all to herself, was of no importance. It was obvious that I didn’t exist, except as a thorn in her side.
As I say, Stasia finally relented, but not until Mona had stormed and raged and pleaded and begged. I wondered why she had permitted the scene to last so long. Was she enjoying it? Or was she so disgusted that she had become fascinated? I asked myself what would have happened had I not been at her side.
It was I who couldn’t take any more, I who turned to Stasia and begged her to reconsider.
Don’t go yet, I begged. She really needs you. She loves you, can’t you see?
And Stasia answers: But that’s why I should go.
No, said I, if any one should leave, it’s me.
(At the moment I really meant it, too.)
Please, said Mona, won’t you go too! Why does either of you have to go? Why? Why? I want you both. I need you. I love you.
We’ve heard that before, said Stasia, as if still adamant.
But I mean it, said Mona. I’m nothing without you. And now that you’re friends at last, why can’t we all live together in peace and harmony? I’ll do anything you ask. But don’t leave me, please!
Again I turned to Stasia. She’s right, I said. This time it may work out. You’re not jealous of me … why should I be jealous of you? Think it over, won’t you? If it’s me you’re worried about, put your mind at ease. I want to see her happy, nothing more. If keeping you with us will make her happy, then I say stay! Maybe I’ll learn to be happy too. At least, I’ve grown more tolerant, don’t you think? I gave her a queer smile. Come now, what do you say? You’re not going to ruin three lives, are you?
She collapsed on to a chair. Mona knelt at her feet and put her head in her lap, then slowly raised her eyes and looked at Stasia imploringly. You will stay, won’t you? she pleaded.
Gently Stasia pushed her away. Yes, she said, I’ll stay. But on one condition. There must be no more scenes.
Their eyes were now focused on me. After all, I was the culprit. It was I who had instigated all the scenes. Was I going to behave? That was their mute query.
I know what you’re thinking, said I. All I can say is that I will do my best.
Say more! said Stasia. Tell us how you really feel now.
Her words set me back on my heels. I had the uneasy feeling that she had been taken in by her own acting. Was it necessary for me to be put on the grill—at this point? What I really felt like, if I dared to speak my mind, was a scoundrel. An utter scoundrel. To be sure, it had never occurred to me, in making the suggestion, that we would be obliged to carry the farce to such lengths. For Stasia to weaken was one thing, and in keeping with our bargain, but to be exacting solemn promises of me, to be searching my very heart, was something else. Maybe we had never been anything but actors, even when we thought we were sincere. Or the other way round. I was getting confused. It struck me with force, suddenly, that Mona, the actress, was probably the most sincere of all. At least she knew what she wanted.
All this ran through my head like lightning.
My reply, and it was the truth, was—To be honest, I don’t know how I feel. I don’t think I have any feelings left. Anyway, I don’t want to hear any more about love, ever…
Like that it ended, in a fizzle. But Mona was thoroughly content. Stasia too, it seemed.
None of us had been too badly damaged. Veterans, that’s what we were.
And now I’m trotting around like a blood-hound to raise money, presumably so that Stasia may take off. I’ve already visited three hospitals, in an effort to sell my blood. Human blood is at twenty-five dollars the pint now. Not long ago it was fifty dollars, but now there are too many hungry donors.
Useless to waste more time in that direction. Better to borrow the money. But from whom? I could think of no one who would offer me more than a buck or two. She needed at least a hundred dollars. Two hundred would be still better.
If only I knew how to reach that millionaire pervert! I thought of Ludwig, the mad ticket-chopper—another pervert!—but with a heart of gold, so Mona always said, But what to tell him?
I was passing Grand Central Station. Would run down to the sub-basement, where the messengers were herded, and see if any one was there who remembered me. (Costigan, the old reliable, had passed away.) I sneaked down and looked over the crew. Not a soul I could recognize. Climbing the ramp to the street I recalled that Doc Zabriskie was somewhere in the neighborhood. In a jiffy I was leafing the telephone directory. Sure enough, there he was—on West 45th Street. My spirits rose. Here was a guy I could surely count on. Unless he was broke. That was hardly likely, now that he had set up an office in Manhattan. My pace quickened. I didn’t even bother to think what kind of cock and bull story I would trump up … In the past, when I would visit him to have a tooth filled, it was he who would ask me if I wasn’t in need of a little dough. Sometimes I would say No, ashamed of myself for imposing on such good nature. But that was back in the 18 th century.
Hurrying along, I suddenly recalled the location of his old office. It was that three-story red brick building where I once lived with the widow. Carlotta. Every morning I hauled the ash cans and the garbage pails from the cellar and placed them at the kerb. That was one of the reasons he had taken such a fancy to me, Doc Zabriskie—because I wasn’t ashamed to soil my hands. It was so Russian, he thought. Like a page out of Gorky … How he loved to chat with me about his Russian authors! How elated he was when I showed him that prose poem I had written on Jim Londos, Londos the little Hercules, as he was called. He knew them all—Strangler Lewis, Zbysko, Earl Caddock, Farmer what’s his name … all of them. And here I was writing like a poet—he couldn’t get over my style!—about his great favorite, Jim Londos. That afternoon, I remember, he stuffed a ten dollar bill in my hand as I was leaving. As for the manuscript, he insisted on keeping it—in order to show it to a sports writer he knew. He begged me to show him more of my work. Had I written anything on Scriabin? Or on Alekhine, the chess champion? Come again soon, he urged. Come any time, even if your teeth don’t need attention. And I would go back from time to time, not just to chew the fat about chess, wrestlers and pianoforte, but in the hope that he would slip me a fiver, or even a buck, on leaving. I was trying to recall, as I entered the new office, how many years it was since I had last talked to him. There were only two three clients in the waiting room. Not like the old days when there was standing room only, and women with shawls sat red-eyed holding their swollen jaws, some with brats in their arms, and all of them poor, meek, down-trodden, capable of sitting there for hours on end. The new office was different. The furniture looked brand new and luxuriously comfortable, there were paintings on the wall—good ones—and all was noiseless, even (he drill. No samovar though.
I had hardly seated myself when the door of the torture chamber opened to evacuate a client. He came over to me at once, shook hands warmly, and begged me to wait a few minutes. Nothing serious? he hoped. I told him to take his time. A few cavities, nothing more. I sat down again and picked up a magazine. Poring over the illustrations I decided that the best thing to say was
