As I had surmised, Marjorie and Ulric hit it off perfectly. We had a staggering lunch, supplemented by a couple of bottles of Rhine wine. After lunch Ulric stretched himself out on the divan and took a little snooze. He explained that he had been working hard on a pineapple campaign. When he had had a little rest he might try a sketch or two. Perhaps Marjorie would be good enough to pose for him, yes? One eye was already closed. The other, frighteningly alive, rolled and lurched under his beetling brow. You sure eat well around here, he said, crossing his hands over his paunch. He raised himself on one elbow and shaded his eyes with his hand. I say, do you mind if we were to lower that shade just a little? That’s it, that’s fine. He gave a gentle sigh and sank quietly into sleep.
If you don’t mind, I said to Marjorie, we’ll take a little snooze ourselves. Call us when he wakes up, won’t you?
Towards evening we found Ulric sitting on the divan sipping a cool drink. He was thoroughly refreshed and in a mellow mood.
Golly, but it’s good to be with you folks again, he said, twisting his lips and moving that one infernal eyebrow up and down. I’ve just been giving Marjorie an earful about our life in the old days. He beamed at us affectionately, set his drink carefully down on the tabouret beside him, and took a deep breath. You know, when I don’t see you for a long time there are so many things I want to ask you about. I make hundreds of notes—about the damndest things—and then when I see you I forget everything … I say, wasn’t it somewhere around here that you once had a flat with O’Mara and—what was his name again, that crazy Hindu … you know, the one with the long hair and the hysterical laugh?
You mean Govindar, I said.
That’s it. He sure was a weird one, that fella. You thought quite highly of him, I remember. Wasn’t he writing a book then?
Several, I said. One of them, a long metaphysical treatise, was really extraordinary. I only realized how good it was years later, when I began comparing his work with the soporific tomes of our distinguished numb-skulls. Govindar was a metaphysical Dadaist, I should say. But in those days he was just a joke to us. I was a pretty insensitive brute, as you know. I didn’t give a shit about Hindu philosophy then; he might just as well have written his books in Sanskrit. He’s back in India now—one of Gandhi’s chief disciples, I’m told. Probably the most unusual Hindu I ever met.
You ought to know, said Ulric, you sure had a flock of them on your hands. And then there were those Egyptians—especially that cock-eyed fellow…
Shukrullah, you mean!
What a memory! Yes, I do remember the name now. And the other one, who wrote you those flowery espistles that never ended?
Mohamed Eli Sarwat.
Christ, what names! He was a Loulou, Henry. I hope you saved those letters.
I’ll tell you the chap I can never forget, Ulric. That was the little Jewish boy, Sid Harris. Do you remember—’Merry Xmas, President Carmichael, and be sure to ask Santa Glaus to give all the messenger boys a raise!’ What a guy! I can see him all over again as he sat beside me filling out the application blank. Sid Harris, born in his mother’s womb, address The East Side, religion unknown, previous occupations—errand boy, shoe shine boy, fire insurance, skeleton keys, soda water jerker, life-saver, cough-drops, and Merry Xmas from the American flag waving high over the Statue of Liberty.
You didn’t give him a job, I suppose?
No, but he used to call regularly every week and fill out an application blank. Always smiling, whistling, shouting Merry Xmas to everyone. I used to throw him a quarter to go to the movies. Next day I’d get a letter telling me what he had seen, whether he had sat in the third or fourth row, how many peanuts he ate, what the next program would be, and whether there were fire extinguishers or not. At the end he would sign his name in full: Sidney Roosevelt Harris, or Sidney R. Harris, or S. Roosevelt Harris, or S. R. Harris, or just plain Sidney—one after the other, one under the other, followed of course by the perennial Xmas greeting. Sometimes he would add a postscript saying that he preferred to be a night messenger, or a telegraph operator, or just a manager.
He was a nuisance, of course, but I enjoyed his visits—they gave me a lift for the day. Once I gave him an old trumpet which I had found in a rubbish bag. It was a battered looking thing and all the stops were eaten away. He polished it up, tied it around his shoulder with a piece of string, and came trooping in to my office one morning, looking like the Angel Gabriel. Nobody had noticed him coming up the stairs. There were about fifty boys waiting to be hired, the telephones were ringing like mad—one of those days when I thought I would burst a blood vessel. Suddenly there came a tremendous blast. I nearly fell off my perch. There he stood, little Sidney, trying to blow taps. Immediately there was pandemonium. Before we could collar him, Sidney began to sing the Star Spangled Banner; the other boys joined in of course, jeering, laughing, cursing, upsetting the inkwells, throwing the pens around like darts, marking the walls with chalk, and in general raising ructions. We had to clear the office out and lock the door downstairs. Outside, that damned trumpet was blasting away … He was completely cuckoo, Sidney, but in a delightful way. I could never get angry with him. I tried to find out where he lived, but it was impossible. He probably didn’t have a home, he probably slept in the streets. In winter he wore a man’s coat that reached right to the ground—and woolen mittens, b’Jesus! He never wore a hat or a cap, unless as a joke. Once, in mid-winter, he made his appearance in that grotesque overcoat and mittens—and on his head was a huge strawhat, a sort of Mexican sombrero with a gigantic cone-like crown. He came up to my desk, made a low bow, and doffed his huge straw hat. It was filled with snow. He shook the snow out on my desk and then scurried away like a rat. At the door he stood a moment and shouted ‘Merry Xmas and don’t forget to bless President Carmichael!’
I certainly remember those days, said Ulric, swallowing the remnants of his drink. I never did understand how you managed to hold your job. I’m sure there wasn’t another employment manager like you in all New York.
In all America, you mean, said Mona.
Ulric looked around appraisingly. Quite another life, this. I certainly do envy you … The thing I’ll always remember about this fellow—he looked from one to the other with a melting glow—is his inextinguishable gayety. I don’t think I’ve seen him depressed more than once or twice in all the time I know him. As long as there’s food and a place to flop … isn’t that it? He turned his gaze on me with unmingled affection. Some of my friends—you know the ones I mean—ask me occasionally if you aren’t just a bit touched. I always say, ‘Certainly he is … too bad we’re not all touched in the same way.’ And then they ask me how you support yourself—and your family. There I have to give up…
We all began to laugh rather hysterically. Ulric laughed even more heartily than the rest of us. He laughed at himself—for raising such silly issues. Mona, of course, had a different reason for laughing.
Sometimes I think I’m living with a madman, she blurted out, tears in her eyes.
Yes? said Ulric, drawling the word out.
Sometimes he wakes up in the middle of the night and begins laughing. He’s laughing about something that happened eight years ago. Something tragic usually.
I’ll be damned, said Ulric.
Sometimes he laughs that way because things are so hopeless he doesn’t know what to do. It worries me when he laughs that way.
Shucks, I said, it’s only another way of weeping.
Hear that! said Ulric. Golly, I wish I could see things that way. He raised the empty glass for Marjorie to replenish.
It sounds silly to ask, perhaps, he continued, gulping down a good throatful, but when you get into a state like that isn’t it usually followed by a rather painful fit of depression?
I shook my head. It might be followed by anything, I answered. The important thing is to first have a good meal. That usually sets me up, gives me equilibrium.
You never drink to drive away a mood, do you? Pshaw! don’t bother answering … I know you don’t. That’s another thing I envy about you … Just a good meal, you say. How simple!
You think so? I said. I wish it were … Well, let’s skip that! Now that we have Marjorie, food is no longer a problem. I never ate better in my life.
I can well believe that, said Ulric, smacking his lips. It’s strange—with me it’s often a job to work up an appetite. I’m the worrying sort,
