Would you mind stopping in front of 181 Devoe Street? I asked.
Sure, why not? Know some one there?
Used to. My first sweetheart. I’d like to have one look at the house, that’s all.
Automatically he came down hard on the gas pedal. A stop light stared us in the face. He went right through. Signs mean nothing to me, he said, but don’t follow my example.
At 181 I got out, took my hat off (as if visiting a grave) and approached the railing in front of the grass plot. I looked up at the parlor floor windows; the shades were down, as always. My heart began to go clip-clop the same as years ago when, looking up at the windows, I hoped and prayed to catch sight of her shadow moving about. Only for a brief moment or two would I stand there, then off again. Sometimes I’d walk around the block three or four times—just in case. (You poor bugger, I said to myself, you’re still walking around that block.)
As I turned back to the car the gate in the basement clicked. An elderly woman stuck her head out. I went up to her and, almost tremblingly, I asked if any of the Giffords still lived in the neighborhood.
She looked at me intently—as if she had seen an apparition, it seemed to me—then replied: Heavens no! They moved away years ago.
That froze me.
Why, she said, did you know them?
One of them, yes, but I don’t suppose she’d remember me. Una was her name. Do you know what’s become of her?
They went to Florida. (They, she said. Not she.)
Thanks. Thank you very much! I doffed my hat, as if to a Sister of Mercy.
As I put my hand on the car door she called out: Mister! Mister, if you’d like to know more about Una there’s a lady down the block could tell you…
Never mind, I said, wit’s not important.
Tears were welling up, stupid though it was.
What’s the matter? said Reb.
Nothing, nothing. Memories, that’s all.
He opened the glove compartment and pulled out a flask I took a swig of the remedy for everything; it was pure fire water. I gasped.
It never fails, he said. Feel better now?
You bet. And the next moment I found myself saying—Christ! To think one can still feel these things. It beats me. What would have happened if she had appeared—with her child? It hurts. It still hurts. Don’t ask me why. She belonged to me, that’s all I can tell you.
Must have been quite an affair. The word affair rubbed me the wrong way.
No, I said, it was a pure abortion. An assassination. I might as well have been in love with Queen Guinevere. I let myself down, do you understand? It was bad. I’ll never get over it, I guess. Shit! Why talk about it?
He kept quiet, the good Reb. Looked straight ahead and gave her more gas.
After a time he said very simply—You should write about it some time. To which I replied—Never! I could never find words for it.
At the corner, where the stationery store was, I got out.
Let’s do it again soon, eh? said Reb, extending his big hairy mitt. Next time I’ll introduce you to my colored friends.
I walked up the street, past the iron hitching posts, the wide lawns, the big verandahs. Still thinking of Una Gifford. If only it were possible to see her once again … one look, no more. Then close the book—forever.
I walked on, past the house, past more iron Negroes with pink watermelon mouths and striped blouses, past more stately mansions, more ivy-covered porches and verandahs. Florida, no less. Why not Cornwall, or Avalon, or the Castle of Carbonek? I began to chant to myself … There was never knight in all this world so noble, so unselfish … And then a dreadful thought took hold of me. Marco! Dangling from the ceiling of my brain was Marco who had hanged himself. A thousand times he had told her, Mona, of his love; a thousand times he had played the fool; a thousand times he had warned her he would kill himself if he could not find favor in her eyes. And she had laughed at him, ridiculed him, scorned him, humiliated him. No matter what she said or did he continued to abase himself, continued to lavish gifts upon her; the very sight of her, the sound of her mocking laugh, made him cringe and fawn. Yet nothing could kill his love, his adoration. When she dismissed him he would return to his garret to write jokes. (He made his living, poor devil, selling jokes to magazines.) And every penny he earned he turned over to her, and she took it without so much as a thank you. (Go now, dog!) One morning he was found hanging from a rafter in his miserable garret. No message. Just a body swinging in the gloom and the dust. His last joke.
And when she broke the news to me I said—Marco? What’s Marco to me?
She wept bitter, bitter tears. All I could say by way of comforting her was: He would have done it anyway sooner or later. He was the type.
And she had replied: You’re cruel, you have no heart.
It was true, I was heartless. But there were others whom she was treating equally abominably. In my cruel, heartless way I had reminded her of them, saying—Who next? She ran out of the room with hands over her ears. Horrible. Too horrible.
Inhaling the fragrance of the syringeas, the bougainvilleas, the heavy red roses, I thought to myself—Maybe that poor devil Marco loved her as I once loved Una Gifford. Maybe he believed that by a miracle her scorn and disdain would one day be converted into love, that she would see him for what he was, a great bleeding heart bursting with tenderness and forgiveness. Perhaps each night, when he returned to his room, he had gone down on his knees and prayed. (But no answer.) Did I not groan too each night on climbing into bed? Did I not also pray? And how! It was disgraceful, such praying, such begging, such whimpering! If only a Voice had said: alt is hopeless, you are not the man for her. I might have given up, I might have made way for some one else. Or at least cursed the God who had dealt me such a fate.
Poor Marco! Begging not to be loved but to be permitted to Jove. And condemned to make jokes! Only now do I realize what you suffered, what you endured, dear Marco. Now you can enjoy her—from above. You can watch over her day and night. If in life she never saw you as you were, you at least may see her now for what she is. You had too much heart for that frail body. Guinevere herself was unworthy of the great love she inspired. But then a queen steps so lightly, even when crushing a louse…
The table was set, dinner waiting for me when I walked in. She was in an unusually good mood, Mona.
How was it? Did you enjoy yourself? she cried, throwing her arms around me.
I noticed the flowers standing in the vase and the bottle of wine beside my plate. Napoleon’s favorite wine, which he drank even at St. Helena.
What does it mean? I asked.
She was bubbling over with joy. It means that Pop thinks the first fifty pages are wonderful. He was all enthusiasm.
He was, eh? Tell me about it. What did he say exactly?
She was so stunned herself that she couldn’t remember much now. We sat down to eat. Eat a bit, I said, it will come back.
Oh yes, she exclaimed, I do remember this … He said it reminded him a little of the early Melville … and of Dreiser too.
I gulped.
Yes, and of Lafcadio Hearn.
What? Pop’s read him too?
I told you, Val, that he was a great reader.
You don’t think he was spoofing, do you?
Not at all. He was dead serious. He’s really intrigued, I tell you.
I poured the wine. Did Pop buy this?
No, I did.
How did you know it was Napoleon’s favorite wine? . The man who sold it to me told me so.
I took a good sip.
Well?
Never tasted anything better. And Napoleon drank this every day? Lucky devil!
Val, she said, you’ve got to coach me a bit if I’m to answer some of the questions Pop puts me.
! thought you knew all the answers.
To-day he was talking grammar and rhetoric. I don’t know a thing about grammar and rhetoric.
Neither do I, to be honest. You went to school, didn’t you? A graduate of Wellesley should know something…
You know I never went to college.
You said you did.
Maybe I did when I first met you. I didn’t want you to think me ignorant.
Hell, I said, it wouldn’t have mattered to me if you hadn’t finished grammar school. I have no respect for learning. It’s sheer crap, this business of grammar and rhetoric. The less you know about such things the better. Especially if you’re a writer.
But supposing he points out errors. What then?
Say—’Maybe you’re right. I’ll think about it.’ Or better yet, say—’How would you phrase it?’ Then you’ve got him. on the defensive, see?
I wish you were in my place sometimes.
So do I. Then I’d know if the bugger was sincere or not.
To-day, she said, ignoring the remark, he was talking about Europe. It
