As I hurried up the stoop I caught a glimpse of Mona moving about in her kimono. The big window with the stone ledge was wide open. I swung myself over the balustrade and entered by the window.
Well, I did it! I exclaimed, handing her the flowers, the wine, the music. To-day we begin a new life. I don’t know what we’re going to live on, but we’re going to live. Is the typewriter in good shape? Have you food for lunch? Should I ask Ulric to come over? I’m bursting with effervescence. To-day I could go through a trial by ordeal and come out of it in ecstasy. Let me sit down and look at you. Go on, move about as you were a minute ago. I want to see how it feels to sit here and do nothing.
A pause to give Mona a chance to collect herself. Then spilling over again.
You weren’t sure I would do it, were you? I never would have if it weren’t for you. You know, it’s easy to go to work every day. What’s difficult is to stay free. I thought of everything under the sun that I would like to do, now that I’m footloose and free. I want to do things. It seems to me I’ve been standing still for five years.
Mona began to laugh quietly. Do things? she echoed. Why, you’re the most active person in creation. No, dear Val, what you need is to do nothing. I don’t want you to even think about writing … not until you’ve had a long rest. And don’t worry about how we’re going to get along. Leave that to me. If I can keep that lazy family of mine I can certainly keep you and me. Anyway, don’t let’s think of such things now.
There’s a wonderful bill at the Palace, she added in a moment. Roy Barnes is there. He’s one of your favorites, isn’t he? And there’s that comedian who used to be in burlesque—I forget his name. It’s just a suggestion.
I sat there in a daze, my hat on, my feet sprawled out in front of me. Too good to be true. I felt like King Solomon. Better than King Solomon, in fact, because I had cast off all responsibilities. Sure I would go to the theatre. What better than a matinee on a lazy day? I’d call Ulric later on and ask him to have dinner with us. A red letter day like this had to be shared with some one, and what better than to share it with a good friend? (I knew too what Ulric would say. You don’t think that maybe it would have been better…? Oh, what the hell am I saying? You know best … Et cetera.) I was prepared for anything from Ulric. His dubiety, his cautiousness, would be refreshing. I was almost certain that before the evening ended he would be saying—Maybe I’ll throw up the sponge myself! Not meaning it, of course, but toying with it, flirting with it, just to titivate me. As though to say that if he, Ulric, the greatest stick-in-the-mud ever, could entertain such a notion why then it was self-evident that a man like his friend Henry Val Miller must act on it, that not to act would be suicidal.
Do you think we might be able to afford to buy my bicycle back? This out of a clear sky.
Why of course, Val, she answered, without a moment’s hesitation.
You don’t think it funny, do you? I’ve got a tremendous desire to ride the bike again. I gave it up just before I met you, you know.
It was the most natural desire in the world, she thought. But it made her laugh, just the same. You’re still a boy, aren’t you? she couldn’t resist saying.
Yep! But it’s damned sight better than being a zombie, what?
After a few moments I spoke up again. Do you know what? There’s another thing I thought of this morning…
What’s that?
A piano. I’d like to get a piano and start playing again.
That would be wonderful, she said. I’m sure we can rent one cheaply—and a good one, too. Would you take lessons again?
No, not that. I want to amuse myself, that’s all.
Maybe you could teach me to play.
Of course! If you really want to learn.’
It’s always good to know, especially in the theatre.
Nothing easier. Just get me the piano.
Suddenly, getting up to stretch, I burst out laughing. And what are you going to get out of this new life?
You know what I’d like, said Mona.
No I don’t. What?
She came over to me and put her arms around me. All I would like is for you to become what you want to be—a writer. A great writer.
And that’s all you would like?
Yes, Val, that’s all, believe me.
And what about the theatre? Don’t you want to become a great actress some day?
No, Val, I know I’ll never be that. I haven’t enough ambition. I took up the theatre because I thought it would please you. I don’t really care what I do—so long as it makes you happy.
But you won’t make a good actress if you think that way, I said. Really, you must think about yourself. You must do what you like best, no matter what I do. I thought you were crazy about the theatre.
I’m only crazy about one thing, you
Now you’re acting, I said.
I wish I were, it would be easier.
I chucked her under the chin. Well, I drawled, you’ve got me now for good and all. We’ll see how you like it a month from now. Maybe you’ll be sick of seeing me around before then.
Not I, she said. I’ve prayed for this ever since I met you. I’m jealous of you, do you know that? I want to watch your every move. She came very close and as she spoke she tapped my forehead lightly. Sometimes I wish I could get inside there and know what you’re thinking about. You seem so far away at times. Especially when you’re silent. Ill be jealous of your writing too—because I know you won’t be thinking of me then.
I’m already in a spot, I said laughingly. Listen, what are we doing? What’s the use of all this—the day is slipping by. To-day is one day we don’t try to read the future. To-day we’re going to celebrate … Where’s that Jewish delicatessen you were telling me about? In think I’ll go and get some good black bread, some olives and cheese, some pastrami, some sturgeon, if they have any—and what else? This is a wonderful wine I bought—it needs good food to go with it. I’ll get some pastry too—how about apple strudel? Oh, have you any money—I’m cleaned out. Fine. A five dollar bill? I hope you’ve got more? To-morrow we’ll think things out, yes? You know, the spondulix: how and where to get it.
She put her hand over my mouth. Please, Val, don’t talk about it. Not even jokingly. You’re not to think about money … not ever, do you understand?
There exists a curious book by an American anarchist, Benjamin R. Tucker, entitled INSTEAD OF A BOOK BY A MAN TOO BUSY TO WRITE ONE.
The title describes my new-found situation to a T. My creative energy suddenly released, I spilled over in all directions at once. Instead of a book, the first thing I sat down to write was a prose poem about Brooklyn’s back-yard. I was so in love with the idea of being a writer that I could scarcely write. The amount of physical energy I possessed was unbelievable. I wore myself out in preparation. It was impossible for me to sit down quietly and just turn on the flow; I was dancing inside. I wanted to describe the world I knew and be in it at the same time. It never occurred to me that with just two or three hours of steady work a day I could write the thickest book imaginable. It was my belief then that if a man sat down to write he should remain glued to his seat for eight or ten hours at a stretch. One ought to write and write until he dropped from exhaustion. That was how I imagined writers went about their task. If only I had known then the program which Cendrars describes in one of his books! Two hours a day, before dawn, and the rest of the day to one’s self. What a wealth of books he has given the world, Cendrars! All en marge. Employing a similar procedure—two or three hours a day regularly every day of one’s life—Remy de Gourmont had demonstrated, as Cendrars points out, that it is possible for a man to
