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
