Not Stanley however. He could think only in terms of privation. What would they do when we left? The children were being spoiled. His wife would expect miracles which it was beyond his power to perform. He began to resent our luxurious ways. One day he opened the cupboard, took down some tins and jars of the finest delicacies, and said he was going to exchange them for money. There was a gas bill to pay, long overdue. The next day he took me aside and informed me bluntly that that wife of mine was to cut out bringing candies and cakes for the children. He was getting to look more and more glum. Perhaps the restless days on the bare springs were wearing him down. Perhaps he surmised that we were making no effort to get work.
The situation was definitely Hamsunesque, but Stanley was in no mood to appreciate this quality. At table we scarcely spoke. The children acted as if they were cowed. Sophie spoke only when her Lord and Master approved. Now and then even the carfare was lacking. It was always Mona who handed out the dough, I expected to be asked point blank one day how she happened to always have ready cash on hand. Sophie, of course, never asked questions. Mona had her enchanted. Sophie followed her constantly with her eyes, observing every movement, every gesture. It was apparent that to her Mona was a sort of goddess.
I used to wonder, when I lay awake nights, how Sophie would react if she were permitted to follow Mona in her eccentric course for just one day. Let us suppose a day when Mona is keeping an appointment with the one-legged veteran from Weehawken. Rothermel, that was his name, would of course be drunk as usual. He would be waiting in the back of a beer parlor in one of those lugubrious side streets of Weehawken. He would already be drooling in his beer. As Mona enters he endeavors to rise from his seat and make a ceremonious bow, but his artificial leg hinders him. He flutters helplessly, like a big bird whose leg is caught in a trap. He sputters and curses, wiping the spittle from his vest with a dirty napkin.
You’re only two hours late this time, he grumbles. How much? and he reaches inside his breast pocket for his fat wallet.
Mona of course—it is a scene they enact frequently—pretends to be insulted. Put that thing away! Do you think that’s all I come for?
He: I’m damned if I can think of any other reason. Certainly it’s not on my account.
That’s how it begins. A duet which they have rehearsed a hundred times.
He: Well, what’s the story this time? Even if I’m a dope, I must say I admire your invention.
She: Must I always give you a reason? When will you learn to put confidence in other human beings?
He: A nice question, that. If you would stay for a half-hour sometime maybe I could answer it. When must you be going? He looks at his watch. It’s just a quarter to three.
She: You know that I have to be back by six.
He: Your mother’s still an invalid, then?
She: What do you suppose—that a miracle occurred?
He: I thought maybe it was your father this time.
She: Oh, stop it! You’re drunk again.
He: Fortunately for you. Otherwise I might forget to bring my wallet along. How much? Let’s get that over with, then perhaps we can chat a bit. It’s an education to talk with you.
She: You’d better make it fifty to-day…
He: Fifty? Listen, sister, I know I’m a fool, but I’m not a gold mine.
She: Must we go through this all over again?
Rothermel pulls out his wallet ruefully. He lays it on the table. What are you going to have?
She: I told you.
He: I mean what will you have to drink? You’re not going to rush off without a drink, are you?
She: Oh well … make it a champagne cocktail.
He: You never drink beer, do you? He toys with the wallet.
She: What are you fiddling with that for? Are you trying to humiliate me?
He: That would be rather difficult, it seems to me. A pause. You know, sitting here waiting for you, I was thinking of how I might give you a real thrill. You don’t deserve it, but shit! if I had any sense I wouldn’t be sitting here talking to you. Pause. Do you want to know what I was thinking of? How to make you happy. You know, for a beautiful girl you’re about the most unhappy creature I ever met. I’m not a bundle of optimism myself, and I’m not much to look at, and I’m getting more decrepit every day, but I can’t say I’m thoroughly miserable. I still have one leg. I can hop around. I laugh now and then, even if it’s at my own expense. Bui, do you know something—I’ve never once heard you laugh. That’s terrible. In fact it’s painful. I give you all you ask for but you never change. You’re always set for a touch. It ain’t right. You’re doing yourself harm, that’s what I mean…
She (cutting him short): Everything would be different if I married you, is that what you mean to say?
He: Not exactly. Christ knows, it wouldn’t be a bed of roses. But at least I could provide for you. I could put an end to this begging and borrowing.
She: If you really wanted to free me you wouldn’t put a price on it.
He: It’s just like you to put it that way. You never suppose for an instant…
She: That we could lead separate lives?
The waiter arrives with the champagne cocktail.
He: Better fix another one—the lady is thirsty.
She: Do we have to go through this farce every time we meet? Don’t you think it’s a bit boring?
He: To me it isn’t. I haven’t any illusions left. But it’s a way of talking to you. I prefer this subject to hospitals and invalids.
She: You don’t believe my stories, is that it?
He: I believe every word you tell me—because I want to believe. I have to believe in something, even if it’s only you.
She: Only me?
He: Come, you know what I mean.
She: You mean that I treat you like a sucker.
He: I couldn’t express it more accurately myself. Thank you.
She: What time is it now, please?
Rothermel looks at his watch. He lies: It’s three twenty exactly. Then, with an air of consternation: You got to have another drink. I told him to fix one for you.
She: You drink it, I won’t have time.
He (frantically): Hey, waiter, where’s that cocktail I ordered an hour ago? He forgets himself and attempts to rise from his seat. Stumbles and sinks back again, as if exhausted. Damn that leg! I’d be better off with a wooden stump. Damn the bloody, fucking war! Excuse me, I’m forgetting myself…
To humor him Mona takes a sip of the cocktail, then rises abruptly. I must be going, she says. She starts walking towards the door.
Wait a minute, wait a minute! shouts Rothermel. I’ll call a taxi for you. He pockets his wallet and hobbles after her.
In the taxi he puts the wallet in her hand. Help yourself, he says, you know I was only joking before.
Mona cooly helps herself to a few bills and stuffs the wallet in his side pocket.
When will I see you again?
When I need more money, no doubt.
Don’t you ever need anything but money? Silence. They ride through the crazy streets of Weehawken which is in the New World, according to the atlas, but which might just as well be a wart on the planet Uranus. There are cities one never visits except in moments of desperation—or at the turn of the moon when the whole endocrine system goes haywire. There are cities which were planned aeons ago by men of the antediluvian world who had the consolation of knowing they would never inhabit them. Nothing is amiss in this anachronistic scheme of things except the fauna and flora of a lost geological age. Everything is familiar yet strange. At every corner one is disoriented. Every street spells micmac.
Rothermel, sunk in despair, is dreaming of the variegated life of the trenches. He remains a lawyer even though he has but one leg. He not only hates the Boches who took his leg away, he hates his own countrymen equally. Above all, he hates the town he was born in. He hates himself for drinking like a sot. He hates all mankind as well as birds, animals, trees and sunlight. All he has left of an empty past is money. He hates that too. He rises each day from a sodden sleep to pass into a world of quicksilver. He deals in crime as if it were a commodity, like barley, wheat, oats. Where once he gamboled, caroling like a lark, now he hobbles furtively, coughing,
