What I wanted more than anything was a good drink. But Karen rarely drank. When he wanted relaxation he employed his energies at a different kind of work. To work was his passion. He worked while he slept. I mean it seriously. On falling off he would set himself a problem which his unconscious was to solve during the night.
The best I could wheedle out of him was a coke. Even this I couldn’t enjoy in peace, for while I leisurely sipped it he was busy explaining to me the next day’s problems. What bothered me more than anything was his way of explaining things. He was one of those idiots who believe that diagrams make things easier to comprehend. For me, anything in the way of a chart or a diagram means hopeless confusion. I have to stand on my head to read the simplest plans. I tried to tell him this but he insisted that I had been miseducated, that if I would just be patient I would soon learn to read charts and diagrams with ease—and enjoyment. It’s like mathematics, he told me.
But I detest mathematics, I protested.
One shouldn’t say a thing like that, Henry. How can one detest something useful? Mathematics is only another instrument to serve us. And here he expatiated ad nauseam on the wonders and the benefits of a science in which I had not the slightest interest. But I was always a good listener. And I had discovered already, in the space of just a few days, that one way of reducing the working time was to involve him in just such lengthy discussions. The fact that I listened so good-naturedly made him feel that he was really seducing me. Now and then I would throw in a question, in order to put off for a few more minutes the inevitable return to the grind-stone. Of course, nothing he told me about mathematics made the least impression on me. It went in one ear and out the other.
You see, he would say, with all the seriousness of the fatuous ones, it’s not nearly as complicated as you imagined. I’ll make a mathematician of you in no time.
Meanwhile Mona was getting her education in the kitchen. All day long I heard the dishes rattling. I wondered what in hell they were up to in there. It sounded like a Spring cleaning. When we got to bed I learned that Lotta, Karen’s wife, had allowed the dirty dishes to accumulate for a week. She didn’t like housework, apparently. She was an artist. Karen never complained. He wanted her to be an artist—that is, after she had done the chores and assisted him in every possible way. He himself never set foot in the kitchen. He never noticed the condition of the plates or the cutlery, no more than he noticed what sort of food was being served him. He ate without relish, to stoke the furnace, and when he was through he pushed the dishes aside and began figuring on the table-is; cloth, or if there were no tablecloth, on the bare boards. He did everything leisurely, and with painful deliberation, which in itself was enough to drive me frantic. Wherever he worked there was dirt, disorder and a clutter of non-essentials. If he reached for something he had first to remove a dozen obstructions. If the knife he grabbed were dirty he would slowly and deliberately wipe it clean with the tablecloth, or with his handkerchief. Always without fuss or emotion. Always bearing down, pressing onward, like a glacier in its relentless advance. Sometimes there were three cigarettes burning at once at his elbow. He never stopped smoking, not even in bed. The butts piled up like sheep droppings. His wife was also an inveterate smoker, a chain smoker.
Cigarette was one thing we had a plentiful supply of. Food, that was another matter. Food was doled out scantily and in the most unappetizing fashion. Mona, of course, had offered to relieve Lotta of the burden of cooking, but Lotta had refused to hear of it. We soon discovered why. She was stingy. She feared that Mona might prepare succulent, bounteous repasts. She was damned right about that! To take over the kitchen and stage a feast was the one thought uppermost in our mind. We kept praying that they would go to town for a few days and let us take over. Then at last we would enjoy a good meal.
What I would like, Mona would say, is a good roast of beef.
Give me chicken—or a fine roast duck.
I’d like to have sweet potatoes for a change.
Suits me, honey, only make some rich gravy to go with them.
Like Badminton it was. We shuffled the phantom food back and fort like two starved peacocks. If only they would breeze! God, but we were sick of looking at sardine tins, cans of sliced pineapple, bags of potato chips. The two of them nibbled away like mice the whole damned day. Never a hint of wine, never a drop of whiskey. Nothing but coke and sarsaparilla.
I can’t say that Karen was stingy. No, he was insensitive, unobservant. When I informed him one day that we were not getting enough to eat he professed to be appalled. What would you like? he asked. And at once he got up from his work, borrowed a car from a neighbor, and whisked us off to town where we went from one store to another ordering provisions. It was typical of him to react in this way. Always to extremes. By going to extremes he intended, quite unconsciously, I believe, to make you slightly disgusted with yourself. Food? Is that all you want? he seemed to say. That’s easy, we’ll buy heaps of it, enough to choke a horse. There was a further implication in his exaggerated willingness to please you. Food? Why that’s a mere trifle. Of course we can get you food I thought you had deeper worries.
His wife, of course, was dismayed when she saw the load of provisions we brought back with us. I had asked Karen not to say anything to his wife about our hunger. He pretended, therefore, that he was laying in a supply against a rainy day. The larder was getting low, he explained. But when he added that Mona would like to fix a meal for us at dinner time her face dropped. For an instant there passed over her countenance that horrified look of the miser whose hoard is menaced. Once again Karen stepped into the breach. I thought, darling, that you would enjoy having some one else cook the meal for a change. Mona is an excellent cook, it appears. We’re going to have filet mignon this evening—how does that sound to you? Lotta, of course, had to feign delight.
We made the dinner an event. In addition to fried onions and mashed potatoes we had succotash, beets and brussels sprouts, with celery, stuffed olives and radishes on the side. We washed this down with red and white wine, the best obtainable. There were three kinds of cheese, followed by strawberries and rich cream. For a change we had some excellent coffee, which I prepared myself. Good, strong coffee with a bit of chicory in it. All that lacked was a good liqueur and Havana cigars.
Karen enjoyed the meal immensely. He acted like a different man. He joked, told stories, laughed until his sides ached, and never once referred to his work. Toward the end of the meal he even tried to sing.
Not bad, eh? I said.
Henry, we ought to do this oftener, he responded. He looked to Lotta for approval. She gave a thin, bleak smile which caused her face to crack. It was obvious that she was desperately trying to reckon the cost of the spread.
Suddenly Karen pushed his chair back and rose from the table. I thought he was going to bring his charts and diagrams to the table. Instead he went into the next room and returned in a jiffy with a book. He waved it before my eyes.
Ever read this, Henry? he demanded.
I looked at the title. No, I said, Never heard of it.
Karen passed the book to his wife and begged her to read us a morsel. I expected something dismal, and instinctively poured out some more wine.
Lotta solemnly turned the pages, looking for one of her favorite passages.
Read anywhere, said Karen. It’s good through and through.
Lotta stopped fumbling with the pages and looked up. Her expression changed suddenly. For the first time I saw her countenance illuminated. Even her voice had altered. She had become a disease.
It’s chapter three, she began, from The Crock of Gold, by James Stephens.
And a darling of a book it is! Karen broke in gleefully. With this he pushed his chair back a bit and put his big feet on the arm of the easy chair near by. Now you’re going to hear something, you two.
Lotta began: It’s a dialogue between the Philosopher and a farmer called Meehawl MacMurrachu. The two have just greeted one another. She begins reading.
Where is the other
