With that I literally howled. The tears were blinding me. All I could see was a compassionate blur in front of me.
Please, please, she begged, try to control yourself!
I continued to weep and sob. And then the train came to a halt. Some passengers entered and we were crowded against the door.
Have you lost some one dear to you? she asked. Her voice was so gentle, so soothing.
I shook my head by way of answer.
Poor, dear man, I know what it is. Again I felt the pressure of her hand.
The doors were about to close. Suddenly I dropped the handkerchief, pushed my way through the crowd, and got out. I ran up the steps top speed and began walking like a madman. It had begun to rain. I walked into the rain with head down, laughing and crying. I jostled into people and was jostled back. Someone gave me a shove which sent me spinning into the gutter. I never even looked around. I kept on with head down, the rain running down my back. I wanted to be soaked through and through. I wanted to be cleansed of all iniquity. Yes, that’s how I put it to myself—cleansed of all iniquity. I wanted to be soaked through and through, then stabbed, then thrown into the gutter, then flattened out by a heavy truck, then ground down into the muck and mire, obliterated, annihilated for good and all.
10
With the turn of the solstice a new phase of existence has opened for us—not in the sunny South but in Greenwich Village. The first stage of the underground life.
To run a speakeasy, which is what we are doing, and to live in it at the same time, is one of those fantastic ideas which can only arise in the minds of thoroughly impractical individuals.
I blush when I think of the story I concocted to wheedle the money which we required to open the place from my mother.
Ostensibly I’m the manager of this joint. I also wait on tables, fill short orders, empty the garbage, run errands, make the beds, clean house and in general make myself as useful as possible. (The one thing I shall never be able to do is to clear the rooms of smoke. The windows have to be kept closed during operations, for reasons soon to be disclosed.) The place—a typical basement flat in the poor section of the Village—is composed of three small rooms, one of them a kitchen. The windows are heavily curtained, so that even in daytime the light scarcely filters through. No doubt about it, if the enterprise proves a success we’ll have tuberculosis. Our intention is to open towards evening and close when the last customer leaves, which will probably be towards dawn.
There’ll be no writing done here, I can see that. I’ll be lucky if I can find time to stretch my legs once a day.
Only our most intimate friends are to know that we live here—and that we are married. Everything is to be veiled in secrecy. Which means that if the bell rings and Mona happens to be out, I am not to answer it. I’m to sit quiet in the shadows until the person has gone away. If possible I am to peek out and see who it is—just in case. In case what? In case it’s a detective or a bill collector. Or one of the more recent, hence ignorant and intrepid, lovers…
Such is the set-up, in brief. The most we shall get out of if, I know in advance, is fret and worry. Mona, of course, is full of dreams about retiring in a few months and buying a house in the country. Pipe dreams. I’m so inoculated with them, however, that I’m immune. The only way to burst the bubble is to go through with the ideal. I have Another flock of dreams, but I’ve sense enough to keep them under my hat.
It’s amazing the number of friends we have, all of whom have promised to be on hand for the opening night. Some who were mere names to me before—all from Mona’s retinue—have been helping us put things to rights. Cedric Ross, I discover, is a fop with a monocle who pretends to be a pathobiologist; Roberto de Sundra, one of the heavy lovers, is a Chilean student reputed to be fabulously rich; George Innes, an artist who indulges in opium bouts occasionally, is a superb fencer; Jim Driscoll, whom I have seen in the ring, is a wrestler with intellectual pretentions; Trevelyan, an English writer with a past, is a remittance man; Caccicacci, whose parents are supposed to own a marble quarry in Italy, is a clown with a flair for telling incredible stories.
And then there’s Baronyi, the most ingratiating of all, who simply cannot do enough, to make the venture a success. A publicity man, he styles himself.
To my great surprise, the night before the opening, two ancient lovers appeared simultaneously, neither knowing the other, of course. I mean Carruthers and that man Harris who had paid a princely sum for the privilege of breaking my wife’s hymen. The latter arrived in a Rolls Royce with a chorus girl on either arm. Carruthers also had two girls with him, both former friends of Mona’s.
Of course all my old cronies have sworn to be on hand the opening night, including O’Mara who has just returned from the South. Cromwell is also expected, though he may only be able to stay for a few minutes. As for Rothermel, Mona is trying to persuade him to stay away—he blabbers too much. I’m wondering if Sheldon will show up—just by chance. Certainly one or two of the millionaires will make an appearance—the shoe manufacturer possibly, or the lumber king.
Will we have enough liquor to go round?—that’s our primary concern. Marjorie has promised to let us tap her private stock—in a pinch.
The understanding, between Mona and myself, is this—should either of us happen to get drunk the other will remain sober. Of course neither of us is a booze artist, but just the same … The chief problem will be—how to get rid of the drunks. The cops will be sitting on our necks, no use fooling ourselves about that. The natural thing, under the circumstances, would be to put something aside for hush money. But Mona is certain we can get better, bigger protection. Talks about Rothermel’s friends from the swamp lands—judges, politicians, bankers, ammunition makers.
That Rothermel! I’m dying to set eyes on him…
There’s one little detail about the new establishment which pleases me no end and that’s the ice-box. It’s filled with delicious edibles, and it’s got to be kept filled no matter what happens. I keep opening and closing the damned contraption just to gaze at all the wonderful good things to eat. The bread is excellent too—Jewish bread from the East Side. When I get bored I’ll sit down all by my lonesome and enjoy a little snack. What better than a caviar sandwich on black bread smeared with sweet butter’—at 2.00 A.M.? With a glass of Chablis or Riesling to wash it down, certes. And to round it off, perhaps a dish of strawberries floating in sour cream, or if not strawberries then blackberries or huckleberries or blueberries or raspberries. I see Halvah and Baklava too. Goody goody! And on the shelf Kirschwasser, Strega, Benedictine, Chartreuse Verte. As for the whiskey—we have a dozen different brands—it leaves me cold. The beer likewise. Beer and whiskey—they’re for the dogs. C’est-a-dire—les clients.
We also have on hand, I notice, an excellent stock of cigars, all choice brands. For the customers. Now and then I enjoy a cigar myself—a fine Havana, say. But I can also do without them. To really enjoy a cigar one has to be at peace with the world, that’s my belief. However, I’m sure the customers will be stuffing my pockets with them.
No, we won’t lack for food and drink, that’s certain. But exercise, fresh air…? I’m already feeling pale about the gills.
All we lack, frankly, is a cash register. I see myself running to the bank daily with a satchel full of bills and coins…
The opening night came off with a bang. We must have taken in close to five hundred dollars. For the first time in my life I was really lousy with money: every pocket, including my vest pockets, was stuffed with bills. Carruthers, who arrived with two new girls this time, must have pissed away a good hundred dollars standing treat to all our friends. Two of the millionaires showed up also, but they kept to themselves and left early. Steve Romero, whom I hadn’t seen for ages, showed up with his wife; he looked as good as ever, the Spanish bull through and through. From Steve I got an earful about my Cosmodemonic friends, most of them still on the job apparently, and all playing the horses on the side to make ends meet. I was delighted to hear that Spivak had fallen from favor, been transferred to some dinky place in South Dakota. Hymie, I learned, had become an insurance agent; he’d be down some night soon, some quiet night when we could have a good talk, the three of us. As for Costigan, the knuckle-duster, the poor bugger was in a sanatorium—had been taken down suddenly with galloping consumption.
Around midnight MacGregor arrived, had a few drinks on the house, and left in short order. Wasn’t at all impressed. Couldn’t understand, he said, how a man of my intelligence could fall for such a dumb
