Describe her again, will you?
I really can’t, said Mona, whereupon she launched into an extravagant description of her friend. The way she said my friend gave me a queer feeling. I had never heard her refer to any of her other acquaintances in quite this way. There was a fervor to her words which suggested veneration, adoration and other undefinable things. She had made of this meeting with her new-found friend an event of the first magnitude.
How old is she? I ventured to ask.
How old? I don’t know. Maybe twenty-two or three. She has no age. You don’t think of such things when you look at her. She’s the most extraordinary being I’ve ever met—outside of yourself, Val.
An artist, I suppose?
She’s everything. She can do anything.
Does she paint?
Of course! She paints, scuplts, makes puppets, writes poetry, dances—and with it all she’s a clown. But a sad clown, like you.
You don’t think she’s nuts?
I should say not! She does queer things, but only because she’s unusual. She’s about as free a person as I’ve ever seen, and tragic to boot. She’s really unfathomable.
Like Claude, I suppose.
She smiled. In a way, she said. Funny you mentioned him. You ought to see the two of them together. They look as if they hailed from another planet.
So they know each other?
I introduced them to one another. They get along splendidly, too. They talk their own private language. And do you know, they even resemble one another physically.
I suppose she’s a bit on the mannish side, this Anapopoulos or whatever it is?
Not really, said Mona, her eyes glistening. She prefers to dress in men’s clothes because she feels more comfortable that way. She’s more than a mere female, you see. If she were a man, I’d speak the same way. There’s some added quality in her which is beyond sexual distinction. Sometimes she reminds me of an angel, except that there’s nothing ethereal or remote about her. No, she’s very earthy, almost coarse at times … The only way to explain it to you, Val, is to say that she’s a superior being. You know how you felt about Claude? Well … Anastasia is a tragic buffoon. She doesn’t belong in this world at all. I don’t know where she belongs, but certainly not here. The very tone of her voice will tell you that. It’s an extraordinary voice, more like a bird’s than a human being’s. But when she gets angry it becomes frightening.
Why, does she fly into rages frequently?
Only when people insult her or make fun of her.
Why do they do that?
I told you—because she’s different. Even her walk is unique. She can’t help it, it’s her nature. But it makes me furious to see the way she’s treated. There never was a more generous, reckless soul. Of course she has no sense of reality. That’s what I love about her.
What do you mean by that exactly?
Just what I said. If someone came along who needed a shirt she’d take hers off—right in the street—and give it to the person. She’d never think about the fact that she was indecently exposed. She’d take her pants off too, if necessary.
You don’t call that mad?
No, Val, I don’t. For her it’s the natural, sane thing to do. She never stops to think of consequences; she doesn’t care what people think of her. She’s genuine through and through. And she’s as sensitive and delicate as a flower.
She must have had a strange bringing up. Did she tell you anything about her parents, anything about her childhood?
A little.
I could see that she knew more than she cared to reveal. o
She was an orphan, I believe. She said the people who adopted her were very kind to her. She had everything she wanted.
Well, let’s get to bed, what do you say?
She went to the bathroom to go through the usual interminable routine. I got in bed and waited patiently. The door to the bathroom was open.
By the way, I said, thinking to divert her mind, how is Claude these days? Anything new?
He’s leaving town in a day of two.
Where to?
He wouldn’t say. I have a notion he’s heading for Africa.
Africa? Why would he be going there?
Search me! It wouldn’t surprise me, though, if he said he were going to the moon. You know Claude…
You’ve said that several times now, and always the same way. No, I don’t know Claude, not like you mean. I know only what he chooses to tell, nothing more. He’s an absolute conundrum to me.
I heard her chuckling to herself.
What’s so funny about that? I asked.
I thought you understood one another perfectly.
No one will ever get to understand Claude, said I. He’s an enigma, and he’ll remain an enigma.
That’s just the way I feel about my friend.
Your friend, said I a little testily. You hardly know her and you speak of her as if she were a life-long friend.
Don’t be silly. She is my friend—the only friend I’ve ever had.
You sound as if you were infatuated…
I am! She appeared at the right moment.
Now what does that mean?
That I was desperate, lonely, miserable. That I needed someone I could call a friend.
What’s come over you anyway? Since when have you needed a friend? I’m your friend. Isn’t that enough for you? I said it mockingly, but I was half in earnest.
To my astonishment she replied: No, Val, you’re not my friend any more. You’re my husband, and I love you … I couldn’t live without you, but…
But what?
I had to have a friend, a woman friend. Someone I can confide in, someone who understands me.
Well I’ll be damned! So that’s it? And you mean you can’t confide in me?
Not like I can in a woman. There are some things you just can’t tell a man, even if you love him. Oh, they’re not big things, don’t worry. Sometimes little things are more important than big things, you know that. Besides, look at you … you’ve got loads of friends. And when you’re with your friends you’re a different person entirely. I used to envy you sometimes. Maybe I was jealous of your friends. Once I thought that I could be everything to you. But I see I was wrong. Anyway, now I have a friend—and I’m going to keep her.
Half teasingly, half seriously, I said: Now you want to make me jealous, is that it?
She came out of the bathroom, knelt beside the bed and put her head in my arms. Val, she murmur-ad, you know that isn’t true. But this friendship is something very dear and very precious to me. I don’t want to share her with anyone, not even with you. Not for a while, at least.
All right, I said. I get it. My voice sounded a trifle husky, I noticed.
Gratefully she burbled: I knew you’d understand.
But what is there to understand? I asked. I said it softly and gently.
That’s it, she answered, nothing, nothing. It’s only natural. She bent forward and kissed me affectionately on the lips.
As she got to her feet to put out the lights I said impulsively: You poor girl! Wanting a friend all this time and I never knew it, never suspected it. I guess I must be a dumb, insensitive bugger.
She switched off the lights and crawled into bed. There were twin beds but we used only one.
Hold me tight, she whispered. Val, I love you more than ever. Do you hear me?
I said nothing, just held her tight.
Claude said to me the other day—are you listening?—that you were one of the few.
One of the elect, is that it? I said jokingly.
The only man in the world for me.
But not a friend…
She put her hand over my mouth.
Every night it was the same theme song—My friend ‘Stasia. Varied, of course, to add a little spice, with tall tales of the annoying attentions lavished upon her by an incongruous quartette. One of them—she didn’t even know his name—owned a string of book stores; another was the wrestler, Jim Driscoll; the third was a millionaire, a notorious pervert, whose name—it sounded incredible—was Tinkelfels; the fourth was a mad individual who was also somewhat of a saint. Ricardo, this last-named, appealed to me warmly, assuming that her description of him tallied with reality. A quiet, sober individual who spoke with a strong Spanish accent, had a wife and three children whom he loved dearly, was extremely poor but made lavish gifts, was kind and gentle—tender as a lamb—wrote metaphysical treatises which were unpublishable, gave lectures to audiences of ten or twelve, et patati et patata. What I liked about him was this—each time he accompanied her to the subway, each time he said good-night, he would clutch her hands and murmur solemnly: If I can’t have you, nobody will. I will kill you.
She came back to Ricardo again and again, saying how much he thought of Anastasia, how beautifully he treated her, and so forth. And each time she brought up his name she would repeat his threat, laughing over it as if it were a great joke. Her attitude began to annoy me.
How do you know he won’t keep his word some day? I said one night.
She laughed even harder at this.
You think it’s so impossible, do you?
You don’t know him, said she. He’s one of the gentlest creatures on earth.
That’s precisely why I think he’s capable of doing it. He’s serious. You’d better watch yourself with him.
Oh, nonsense! He wouldn’t hurt a fly.
Maybe not. But he sounds passionate enough to kill the woman
