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
