Well, well! Now we were getting somewhere. He had suspected something of the sort all along. Could he help me, perhaps? He knew a number of editors intimately, he confided. Had once hoped to be a writer himself. And so on…
I remained with them an hour or two, eating and drinking, and feeling thoroughly at home with them. Every one present bought a box of candy. One or two went over to the other tables and induced their friends to buy too, somewhat to my embarrassment. Their manner of doing it suggested that this was the least they could do for a man who was obviously destined to be one of America’s great writers. It was astonishing to me what sincerity and genuine sympathy they now displayed. And only a little while ago I had been the butt of their crude jokes. They were all Jews, it turned out. Middle class Jews who took a lively interest in the arts. I suspected that they took me for a Jew too. No matter. It was the first time I had met any Americans for whom the word artist suggested magic. That I happened to be an artist and a peddler made me doubly interesting to them. Their ancestors had all been peddlers and, if not artists, scholars. I was in the tradition.
I was in the tradition all right. Shuffling about from joint to joint I wondered what Ulric would say if he were to run into me. Or Ned, who was still slaving for that grand old man McFarland. Musing thus, I suddenly noticed a Jewish friend of mine, an ear doctor, approaching. (I owed him quite a bill.) Before he could catch my eyes I ran into the street and hopped a bus going uptown. I waved to him from the platform. After I had ridden a few blocks I got off, walked wearily back to the bright lights, and began all over again, selling a box now and then, always, it seemed, to a middle-class Jew, a Jew who felt sorry, and perhaps a little ashamed, for me. It was strange to be receiving the commiseration of a down-trodden people. The reversal of roles yielded a mysterious assuagement. I shuddered to think what would happen to me should I have the misfortune to run into a gang of rowdy Irishers.
Around midnight I ducked home. Mona was already back and in a good mood. She had sold a whole valiseful of candies. And all in one spot. Had been wined and dined as well. Where? At Papa Moskowitz’s. (I had skipped Moskowitz’s because I had seen the ear doctor heading for it.)
I thought you were going to start with the Village to-night?
I did, she exclaimed, then hurriedly explained how she had run into that banker, Alan Cromwell, who was looking for a quiet place to chat. She had dragged him to Moskowitz’s where they had listened to the cymbalon and so on and so on. Anyway, Moskowitz had bought a box of candy, then introduced her to his friends, all of whom insisted on buying candy. And then who should happen along but that man she had met in an office building the first morning. Mathias was his name. He and Moskowitz were friends from the old country. This Mathias of course also bought a half-dozen boxes.
Here she switched off about the real estate business. Mathias, it seems, was eager to have her learn the business. He was certain she could sell houses as easily as imported candies. First, of course, she would have to learn how to drive a car. He would teach her himself, she said. She thought it a good idea to learn, even if she never sold real estate. We could use the car to go for a spin occasionally. Wouldn’t that be wonderful? And so on…
And how did he and Cromwell get along? I finally managed to put in.
Just fine.
No, really?
Why not? They’re both intelligent and sensitive. Because Cromwell’s a drunkard you needn’t think he’s a sap.
O. K. But what did Cromwell have to tell—you that was so important?
Oh that I We never got to that. There were so many people at our table…
O. K. I must say, though, you certainly did handsomely. Pause. I sold a few myself.
I’ve been thinking, Val, she began, as if she hadn’t heard me.
I knew what was coming. I made a wry grimace.
Seriously, Val, you shouldn’t be selling candy. Let me do it! You see how easy it is for me. You stay home and write.
But I can’t write night and day.
Well read then, or go to the theatre, or see your friends. You never go to see your friends any more.
I said I would think about it. Meanwhile she had emptied her purse on the table. Quite a haul, it was.
Our patron will certainly be surprised, said I.
Oh, did I tell you? I saw him to-night. I had to go back for more candy. He said if it keeps up this way we’ll soon be able to open a shop of our own.
Won’t that be swell!
Things rolled along merrily for a couple of weeks. I had made a compromise with Mona: I carried the two valises and waited outside while she cleaned up.
I always took a book along and read. Sometimes Sheldon accompanied us. He not only insisted on carrying the valises-but he also insisted on paying for the midnight repast which we always ate in a Jewish delicatessen on Second Avenue. A wonderful meal it was each night. Plenty of sour cream, radishes, onions, strudels, pastrami, smoked fish, all kinds of dark bread, creamy sweet butter, Russian tea, caviar, egg noodles—and Seltzer water. Then home in a taxi, always over the Brooklyn Bridge. Alighting in front of our stately brown stone house, I often wondered what the landlord would think were he to notice us coming home at that hour of the morning with our two valises.
There were always new admirers cropping up. She had a difficult time, Mona, to shake them off. The latest one as a Jewish artist—Manuel Siegfried. He hadn’t much money but he had a wonderful collection of art books. We borrowed them freely, especially the erotic ones. We liked best the Japanese artists. Ulric came several times with a magnifying glass, so as not to miss a stroke.
O’Mara was for selling them and have Mona pretend they had been stolen. He thought we were overly scrupulous.
One night, when Sheldon called to accompany us, I opened one of the most sensational albums and asked him to look at it. He took one glance and turned his back to me. He held his two hands over his eyes until I had closed the book.
What’s the matter with you? I asked.
He put his finger to his lips and looked away.
They won’t bite you, I said.
Sheldon wouldn’t answer, just kept edging towards the door. Suddenly he put his two hands to his mouth and made a bee line for the toilet. I heard him retching. When he returned he came up to me, and, putting his two hands in mine, looked into my eyes imploringly. Never let Mrs. Millet see them! he begged in a hushed voice. I put my two fingers to my lips and said: All right, Sheldon, on my word of honor!
He was on hand now almost every night. When I didn’t feel like talking I would let him stand beside me, like a post, while I read. After a time it struck me as foolish to be making the rounds with this blinking idiot. Mona, when she learned that I intended to stay home, was delighted. She would be able to operate more freely, she said. We would all be better off.
And so, one night while chewing the fat with O’Mara, who was also delighted that I was staying home, the idea came to me to start a mail order candy business. O’Mara, always ready for a new proposition, fairly jumped to the bait. Put it over in a big way, that was his idea. We began at once to make plans: the right kind of letter-head, circular letters, follow-up letters, lists of names, and so on. Thinking of names, I began to count up all the clerks, telegraphers and managers I knew in the telegraph company. They couldn’t possibly refuse to buy a box of candy once a week. That was all we intended to ask of our potential clients—a box a week. It never occurred to us that one might grow tired of eating a box of candy, even imported candy, once a week every week for fifty-two weeks of the year.
We decided that it was better not to let Mona know about our scheme for a while. You know how she is, said O’Mara.
Of course nothing of any consequence developed. The stationery was beautiful, the letters perfect, but the sales were virtually nil. In the midst of our campaign Mona discovered what we were up to. She didn’t approve of it at all. Said we were wasting time. Besides, she was about sick of the game. Mathias, her real estate friend, was ready to launch her any day. She already knew how to drive, she said. (Neither of us believed this.) A few good sales and we would soon have a house of our own. And so on … And then there was Alan Cromwell. She hadn’t told me of his proposition. She had been waiting for a propitious moment.
Well, what is it? I asked.
He wants me to write a column—for the Hearst papers. One
