Silence for a few moments. I reminded him of an evening in his office long ago, an evening when he had flung a new review at me and told me to read a story by John Dos Passes, then a young writer.
You know what you told me then? You said: ‘Hen, why don’t you try your hand at it? You can write as good as him any day. Read it and see!’
I said that?
Yes. Don’t remember, eh? Well, those words you dropped so carelessly that night stuck in my crop. Whether I’ll ever be as good as John Dos Passes is neither here nor there. What’s important is that once you seemed to think I could write.
Have I ever said any different, Hen?
No, but you act different. You act as if you were going along with me in some crazy escapade. As if it were all hopeless. You want me to do like every one else, do it their way, repeat their errors.
Jesus, but you’re sensitive I Go on, write your bloody novel! Write your fool head off, if you like! I was just trying to give you a little friendly advice … Anyway, that’s not what I came for, to talk writing. I’m in a jam, I need help. And you’re the one who’s going to help me.
How?
I don’t know. But let me tell you a bit first, then you’ll understand better. You can spare a half-hour, can’t you?
I guess so.
Well then, it’s like this … You remember that joint we used to go to in the Village Saturday afternoons? The place George always haunted? It was about two months ago, I guess, when I dropped in to look things over. It hadn’t changed much … still the same sort of gals hanging out there. But I was bored. I had a couple of drinks all by myself—nobody gave me a tumble, by the way—I guess I was feeling a little sorry for myself, getting old like and all that, when suddenly I spied a girl two tables away, alone like myself.
A raving beauty, I suppose?
No, Hen. No, I wouldn’t say that. But different. Anyway, I caught her eye, asked her for a dance, and when the dance was over she came and sat with me. We didn’t dance again. Just sat and talked. Until closing time. I wanted to take her home but she refused to let me. I asked for her phone number and she refused that too. ‘Maybe I’ll see you here next Saturday?’ I said. ‘Maybe,’ she replied. And that was that … You haven’t got a drink around here, have you?
Sure I have. I went to the closet and got out a bottle.
What’s this? he said, grabbing the bottle of Vermouth.
That’s a hair tonic, I said. I suppose you want Scotch?
If you have it, yes. If not, I’ve got some in my car.
I got out a bottle of Scotch and poured him a stiff drink.
How about yourself?
Never touch it. Besides, it’s too early in the day.
That’s right. You’ve got to write that novel, don’t you?
Just as soon as you leave, I said.
I’ll make it brief, Hen. I know you’re bored. But I don’t give a damn. You’ve got to hear me out … Where was I now? Yeah, the dance hall. Well, next Saturday I was back waiting for her, but no sign of her. I sat there the whole afternoon. Didn’t have a single dance. No Guelda.
What? Guelda? Is that her name?
Yeah, what’s wrong?
A funny name, that’s all. What is she … what nationality?
Scotch-Irish, I imagine. What difference does that make?
None, none at all. Just curious.
She’s no Gypsy, if that’s what’s on your mind. But there’s something about her that gets me. I can’t stop thinking about her. I’m in love, that’s what. And I don’t think I’ve ever been in love before. Not this way, certainly.
It sure is funny to hear you say that.
! know it, Hen.. It’s more than funny. It’s tragic.
I burst out laughing.
Yes, tragic, he repeated. For the first time in my life I’ve met some one who doesn’t give a shit about me.
How do you know? I said. Did you ever meet her again?
Meet her again? Man, I’ve been dogging her steps ever since that day. Sure, I’ve seen her again. I tracked her home one night. She was getting off a bus at Borough Hall. Didn’t see me, of course. Next day I rang her up. She was furious. What did I mean telephoning her? How did I get her number? And so on. Well, a few weeks later she was at the dance hall again. This time I had to literally get down on my knees to wangle a dance out of her. She told me not to bother her, that I didn’t interest her, that I was uncouth … oh, all sorts of things. I couldn’t get her to sit with me either. A few days later I sent her a bouquet of roses. No results. I tried phoning her again, but as soon as she heard my voice she hung up.
She’s probably mad about you, I said.
I’m poison to her, that’s what.
Have you found out what she does for a living?
Yes. She’s a school teacher.
A school teacher? That beats everything. You running after a school teacher! Now I see her better—kind of big, awkward creature, very plain but not homely, hardly ever smiles, wears her hair…
You’re close, Hen, but you’re off too. Yes, she is sort of big and large, but in a good way. About her looks I can’t say. I only see her eyes—they’re china blue and they twinkle…
Like stars.
Violets, he said. Just like violets. The rest of the face doesn’t count. To be honest with you, I think she has a receding chin.
How about the legs?
Not too good. A bit on the plump side. But they’re not piano legs!
And her ass, does it wobble, when she walks?
He jumped to his feet. Hen, he said, putting an arm around me, it’s her ass that gets me. If I could just rub my hand over it—once—I’d die happy.
She’s prudish, in other words?
Untouchable.
Have you kissed her yet?
Are you crazy? Kiss her? She’d die first.
Listen, I said, don’t you think that perhaps the reason you’re so crazy about her is simply because she won’t have anything to do with you? You’ve had better girls than her, from what I gather about her looks. Forget her, that’s the best thing. It won’t break your heart. You haven’t got a heart. You’re a born Don Juan.
Not any more, Hen. I can’t look at another girl. I’m hooked.
How did you think I could help you then?
I don’t know. I was wondering if … if maybe you would try to see her for me, talk to her, tell her how serious I am … Something like that.
But how would I ever get to her—as an emissary of yours? She’d throw me out quick as look at me, wouldn’t she?
That’s true. But maybe we could find a way to have you meet without her knowing that you’re my friend. Work your way into her good graces and then…
Then spring it on her, eh?
What’s wrong with that? It’s possible, isn’t it?
Everything’s possible. Only…
Only what?
Well, did you ever think that maybe I’d fall for her myself? (I had no such fear of course, I merely wanted his reaction.)
It made him chuckle, this absurd notion. She’s not your type, Hen, don’t worry. You’re looking for the exotic. She’s Scotch-Irish, I told you. You haven’t a thing in common. But you can talk, damn it! When you want to, that is. You could have made a good lawyer, I’ve told you that before. Try to picture yourself pleading a cause … my cause. You could come down from your pedestal and do a little thing like that for an old friend, couldn’t you?
It might take a little money, I said.
Money? For what?
Spend money. Flowers, taxis, theatre, cabarets…
Come off it! he said. Flowers maybe. But don’t think of it in terms of a long-winded campaign. Just get acquainted and start talking. I don’t have to tell you how to go about it. Melt her, that’s the thing. Weep, if you have to. Christ, if I could only get into her home, see her alone, I’d prostrate myself at her feet, lick her toes, let her step on me. I’m serious, Hen. I wouldn’t have looked you up if I wasn’t desperate.
All right, I said, I’ll think it over. Give me a little time.
You’re not putting me off? You promise?
I promise nothing, I said. It needs thinking about. I’ll do my best, that’s all I can say.
Shake on it! he said, and put out his hand.
You don’t know how good it makes me feel to hear you say that, Hen. I had thought of asking George, but you know George. He’d treat it as a joke. It’s anything but a joke, you know that, don’t you? Hell, I remember when you were talking of blowing your brains out—over your what’s her name…
Mona, I said.
Yeah, Mona. You just had to have her, didn’t you? You’re happy now, I hope. Hen, I don’t even ask that—to be happy with her. All I want is to look at her, idolize her, worship her. Sounds juvenile, doesn’t it? But I mean it. I’m licked. If I don’t get her I’ll go nuts.
I poured him another drink.
I used to laugh at you, remember? Always falling in love. Remember how that widow of yours hated me? She had good reason to. By the way, what ever became of her?
I shook
