How can he be in love with me? It’s silly. I don’t show him any affection. I hardly listen to him, in fact. He talks to Anastasia more than to me.
You don’t have to do anything, you only need to be. He’s got a fixation. He isn’t mad. Unless it’s madness to fall in love with an image You’re the physical image of his ideal, that’s obvious. He doesn’t need to plumb you, or even to get a response from you. He wants to gaze at you eternally—because you’ve incarnated the woman of his dreams.
That’s just the way he talks, said Mona, somewhat taken aback by my words. You two would get on wonderfully together. You speak the same language. I know he’s a sensitive creature, and a most intelligent one, too. I like him enormously, but he gets in my hair. He has no sense of humor, none whatever. When he smiles he looks even sadder than usual. He’s a lonely soul.
It’s a pity I don’t know him, I said. I like him more than anyone you’ve talked about. He sounds like a real human being. Besides, I like Spaniards. They’re men…
He’s not a Spaniard—he’s Cuban.
Same thing.
Not, it isn’t, Val. Ricardo told me so himself. He despises the Cubans.
Well, no matter. I’d like him even if he were a Turk.
Maybe I could introduce him to you, said Mona suddenly. Why not?
I reflected a moment before answering.
I don’t think you’d better, said I. You couldn’t fool a man like that. He’s not a Cromwell. Besides, even Cromwell isn’t the fool you take him to be.
I never said he was a fool!
But you tried to make me believe so, you can’t deny that.
Well, you know why. She gave me one of her faun-like smiles.
Listen, sister, I know so much more about you and your wiles than you’d ever give me credit for that it hurts to even mention the subject.
You have a great imagination, Val. That’s the reason why I sometimes tell you so little. I know how you build things up.
But you must admit I build on a firm foundation!
Again the faun-like smile.
Then she busied herself with something, in order to hide her face.
A pleasant sort of pause intervened. Then, out of a clear sky I suddenly remarked—I suppose women are obliged to lie … it’s in their nature. Men lie too, of course, but so differently. Women seem to have an unholy fear of the truth. You know, if you could stop lying, if you could stop playing this foolish, unnecessary game with me, I think…
I noticed that she had halted whatever it was she was pretending to be doing. Maybe she’ll really listen. I thought to myself. I could see only the side of her face. The expression was one of intense alertness. Of wariness too. Like an animal.
I think I would do anything you asked of me. I think I would even surrender you to another man, if that was what you wished.
These unexpected words of mine gave her intense relief, or so it seemed. What it was she had imagined I would say I don’t know. A weight had fallen off her shoulders. She came over to me—I was sitting on the edge of the bed—and sat beside me. She put a hand on mine. The look which stole into her eyes was one of utter sincerity and devotion.
Val, she began, you know I would never make such a demand of you. How could you say such a thing? Maybe I do tell you fibs now and then, but not lies. I couldn’t keep anything vital from you—it would give me too much pain. These little things … these fibs … I make them up because I don’t want to hurt you. There are situations sometimes which are so sordid that, even to relate them to you, I feel would soil you. It doesn’t matter what happens to me. I’m made of coarser fibre. I know what the world is like. You don’t. You’re a dreamer. And an idealist. You don’t know, nor will you ever suspect, much less believe, how wicked people are. You see only the good side of everyone. You’re pure, that’s what. And that’s what Claude meant when he said you were one of the few. Ricardo is another pure soul. People like you and Ricardo should never be involved in ugly things. I get involved now and then—because I’m not afraid of contamination. I’m of the world. With you I behave like another being. I want to be what you’d like me to be. But I’ll never be like you, never.
I wonder now, said I, what people would think—people like Kronski, O’Mara, Ulric, for example—if they heard you talking this way.
It doesn’t matter what other people think, Val. I know you. I know you better than any of your friends, no matter, how long they’ve known you. I know how sensitive you are. You’re the tenderest creature alive.
I’m beginning to feel frail and delicate, with all this.
You’re not delicate, said she feelingly. You’re tough—like all artists. But when it comes to the world, I mean dealing with the world, you’re just an infant. The world is vicious through and through. You’re in it, all right, but you’re not of it. You lead a charmed life. If you meet with a sordid experience you convert it into something beautiful.
You talk as if you knew me like a book.
I’m telling you the truth, am I not? Can you deny it?
She put her arm around me lovingly and brushed her cheek against mine.
Oh Val, maybe I’m not the woman you deserve, but I do know you. And the more I know you the better I love you. I’ve missed you so much lately. That’s why it means so much to me to have a friend. I was really getting desperate—without you.
O.K. But we were beginning to behave like two spoiled children, do you realize that? We expected everything to be handed to us on a platter.
I didn’t! she exclaimed. But I wanted you to have the things you craved. I wanted you to have a good life—so that you could do all the things you dream about. You can’t be spoiled! You take only what you need, no more.
That’s true, I said, moved by this unexpected observation. Not many people realize that. I remember how angry my folks got when I came home from Church one Sunday morning and told them enthusiastically that I was a Christian Socialist. I had heard a coal miner speak from the pulpit that morning and his words had struck home. He called himself a Christian Socialist. I immediately became one too. Anyway, it ended up with the usual nonsense … the folks saying that Socialists were concerned only with giving away other people’s money. ‘And what’s wrong with that?’ I demanded. The answer was: ‘Wait till you’ve earned your own money, then talk!’ That seemed to me a silly argument. What did it matter, I asked myself, whether I earned money or didn’t earn money? The point was that the good things of life were unjustly distributed. I was quite willing to eat less, to have less of everything, if those who had little might be better off. Then and there it occurred to me how little one really needs. If you’re content you don’t need material treasures … Well, I don’t know why I got off on that! Oh yes! About taking only what I need … I admit, my desires are great. But I also can do without. Though I talk a lot about food, as you know, I really don’t require much. I want just enough to be able to forget about food, that’s what I mean. That’s normal, don’t you think?
Of course, of course!
And that’s why I don’t want all the things you seem to think would make me happy, or make me work better. We don’t need to live the way we were. I gave in to please you. It was wonderful while it lasted, sure. So is Christmas. What I dislike more than anything is this perpetual borrowing and begging, this using people for suckers. You don’t enjoy it either, I’m sure of it. Why should we deceive each other about it, then? Why not put an end to it?
But I have!
You stopped doing it for me, but now you’re doing it for your friend Anastasia. Don’t lie to me, I know what I’m saying.
It’s different in her case, Val. She doesn’t know how to earn money. She’s even more of a child than you.
But you’re only helping her to remain a child—by aiding her the way you do. I don’t say that she’s a leech. I say this—you’re robbing her of something. Why doesn’t she sell her puppets, or her paintings, or her sculpture?
Why? She laughed outright at this. For the same reason that you can’t sell your stories. She’s too good an artist, that’s why.
But she doesn’t have to sell her work to art dealers—let her sell direct to individuals. Sell them for a song! Anything to keep afloat. It would do her good. She’d really feel better for it.
There you go again! Shows how little you know the world. Val, you couldn’t even give her work away, that’s how things are. If you ever get a book published you’ll have to beg people to accept copies gratis. People don’t want what’s good, I tell you. People like you and Anastasia—or Ricardo—you have to be protected.
To hell with writing, if that’s how it is … But I can’t believe
