So that’s all you know?
Yes. For all I know, she may be dead by now.
I got up to look for a cigarette. I found the pack on the open book I had been reading earlier in the day. Listen to this, I said, reading the passage I had marked: The purpose of literature is to help man to know himself, to fortify his belief in himself and support his striving after truth…
Lie down, she begged. I want to hear you talk, not read.
Hurrah for the Karamazovs!
Stop it, Val! Let’s talk some more, please.
All right, then. What about Vienna? Did you visit your uncle while there? You’ve hardly told me a thing about Vienna, do you realize that? I know it’s a touchy subject … Roland and all that. Still…
She explained that they hadn’t spent much time in Vienna. Besides, she wouldn’t dream of visiting her relatives without giving them money. Roland wasn’t the sort to dole out money to poor relatives. She did, however, make him spend money freely whenever they ran into a needy artist.
Good! I said. And did you ever run into any of the celebrities in the world of art? Picasso, for instance, or Matisse?
The first person I got to know, she replied, was Zadkine, the sculptor.
No, really? I said.
And then there was Edgar Varese.
Who’s he?
A composer. A wonderful person, Val. You’d adore him.
Any one else?
Marcel Duchamp. You know who he is, of course?
I should say I do. What was he like—as a person?
The most civilized man I ever met, was her prompt reply.
That’s saying a great deal.
I know it, Val, but it’s the truth. She went on to tell me of others she had met, artists I had never heard of … Hans Reichel, Tihanyi, Michonze, all painters. As she talked I was making a mental note of that hotel she had stopped at in Vienna—Hotel Muller, am Graben. If I ever got to Vienna I’d have a look at the hotel register some day and see what name she had registered under. You never visited Napoleon’s Tomb, I suppose? No, but we did get to Malmaison. And I almost saw an execution.
You didn’t miss very much, I guess, did you? What a pity, I thought, as she rambled on, that talks like this happened so rarely. What I relished especially was the broken, kaleidoscopic nature of such talks. Often, in the pauses between remarks, I would make mental answers wholly at variance with the words on my lips. An additional spice, of course, was contributed by the atmosphere of the room, the books lying about, the droning of a fly, the position of her body, the comfortable feel of the couch. There was nothing to be established, posited or maintained. If a wall crumbled it crumbled. Thoughts were tossed out like twigs into a babbling brook. Russia, is the road still smoking under your wheels? Do the bridges thunder as you cross them? Answers? What need for answers? Ah, you horses! What horses! What sense in foaming at the mouth?
Getting ready to hit the sack I suddenly recalled that I had seen MacGregor that morning. I made mention of it as She was climbing over me to slide between the sheets.
I hope you didn’t give him our address, she said.
We had no words. He didn’t see me.
That’s good, she said, laying hold of my prick.
What’s good?
That he didn’t see you.
I thought you meant something else.
14
Often when I stepped out for a breath of fresh air I would drop in on Sid Essen to have a chat with him. Only once did I see a customer enter the place. Winter or Summer it was dark inside and cool—just the right temperature for preserving stiffs. The two show windows were crammed with shirts faded by the sun and covered with fly specks.
He was usually in the rear of the store, reading under a dim electric bulb suspended from the ceiling by a long cord from which dangled sheets of tanglefoot fly-paper. He had made himself a comfortable seat by mounting a car seat on two packing boxes. Beside the boxes was a spittoon which he made use of when he chewed his baccy. Usually it was a filthy pipe he had between his teeth, sometimes an Owl cigar. The big heavy cap he removed only when he went to bed. His coat collar was always white with dandruff and when he blew his nose, which he did frequently—like an elephant trumpeting—he made use of a blue bandanna kerchief a yard wide.
On the counter near by were piles of books, magazines and newspapers. He switched from one to the other in accordance with his mood. Beside this reading matter there was always a box of peanut brittle which he dove into when he got excited. It was obvious, from his girth, that he was a hearty eater. His wife, he told me several times, was a divine cook. It was her most attractive side, from all I gathered. Though he always supplemented this by saying how well read she was.
No matter what time of the day I dropped in he always brought out a bottle. Just a snifter, he would say, flourishing a flask of schnaps or a bottle of vodka. I’d take a drink to please him. If I made a face he’d say—Don’t like it much, do you? Why don’t you try a drop of rye?
One morning, over a tumbler of rye, he repeated his desire to teach me to drive. Three lessons is all you’ll need, he said. There’s no sense in letting the car stand idle. Once you get the hang of it you’ll be crazy about it. Look, why not go for a spin with me Saturday afternoon? I’ll get some one to mind the store.
He was so eager, so insistent, that I couldn’t refuse.
Come Saturday I met him at the garage. The big four-door sedan was parked at the curb. One look at it and I knew it was too much for me. However, I had to go through with it. I took my place at the wheel, manipulated the gears, got acquainted with the gas pedal and the brakes. A brief lesson. More instruction was to follow once we were out of town.
At the wheel Reb became another person. King now. Wherever it was we were heading for it was at top speed. My thighs were aching before we were half-way there, from braking.
You see, he said, taking both hands off the wheel to gesitculate, there’s nothing to it. She runs by herself. He took his foot off the gas pedal and demonstrated the use of the hand throttle. Just like running a locomotive.
On the outskirts of the city we stopped here and there to collect rent money. He owned a number of houses here and elsewhere farther out. All in run-down neighborhoods. All occupied by Negro families. One had to collect every week, he explained. Colored people didn’t know how to handle money.
In a vacant lot near one of these shacks he gave me further instruction. This time how to turn round, how to stop suddenly, how to park. And how to back up. Very important, backing up, he said.
The strain of it had me sweating in no time. Okay, he said, let’s get going. We’ll hit the speedway soon, then I’ll let her out. She goes like the wind—you’ll see … Oh, by the way, if ever you get panicky and don’t know what to do, just shut off the motor and slam on the brakes.
We came to the speedway, his face beaming now. He pulled his cap down over his eyes. Hang on! he said, and phttt! we were off. It seemed to me that we were hardly touching the ground. I glanced at the speedometer: eighty-five. He gave her more gas. She can do a hundred without feeling it. Don’t worry, I’ve got her in hand.
I said nothing, just braced myself and half closed my eyes. When we turned off the speedway I suggested that he stop a few minutes and let me stretch my legs.
Fun, wasn’t it? he shouted.
You betcha.
Some Sunday, he said, after we collect the rents, I’ll take you to a restaurant I know, where they make delicious ducklings. Or we could go down on the East Side, to a Polish place. Or how about some Jewish cooking? Anything you say. It’s so good to have your company.
In Long Island City we made a detour to buy some provisions: herring, smoked white fish, begels, lachs, sour pickles, corn bread, sweet butter, honey, pecans, walnuts and niggertoes, huge red onions, garlic, kasha, and so on.
If we don’t do anything else we eat well, he said. Good food, good music, good talk—what else does one need?
A good wife, maybe, I said rather thoughtlessly.
I’ve got a good wife, only we’re temperamentally unsuited to one another. I’m too common for her. Too much of a roustabout.
You don’t strike me that way, said I.
I’m pulling in my horns … getting old, I guess. Once I was pretty handy with my dukes. That got me into heaps of trouble. I used to gamble a lot too. Bad, if you have a wife like mine. By the way, do you ever play the horses? I still place a few bets now and then. I can’t promise to make you a millionaire but I can always double your money for you. Let me know any time; your money’s safe with me, remember that.
We were pulling
