«It’s all right, Juan,» I said, «everybody has to die some time.»
«Was that your wife who telephoned?» he asked. His eyes were moist and glistening.
«Yes,» I said, «that was my wife.»
«I’m sure she must be beautiful.»
«What makes you say that?»
«The way you talked to her… I could almost see her. I wish I could marry a beautiful woman some day. I think about it very of ten.»
«You’re a funny lad,» I said. «Thinking about marriage already. Why, you’re just a boy.»
«Here’s my application, sir. Will you kindly look it over now so that I may be sure I can come tomorrow?»
I gave it a quick glance and assured him it was satisfactory.
«Then I am at your service, sir. And now, sir, if you will pardon me, may I suggest that you let me stay with you a little while? I don’t think it is good for you to be alone at this moment. When the heart is sad one needs a friend.»
I burst out laughing. «A good idea,» I said. «We’ll go to dinner together, how’s that? And a movie afterwards—does that suit you?»
He got up and began to frisk about like a trained dog. Suddenly he became curious about the empty room in the rear. I followed him in and watched him good-naturedly as he examined the paraphernalia. The roller skates intrigued him. He had picked up a pair and was examining them as if he had never seen such things before.
«Put them on,» I said, «and do a turn. This is the skating rink.»
«Can you skate also?» he asked.
«Sure I can. Do you want to see me skate?»
«Yes,» he said, «and let me skate with you. I haven’t done it for years and years. It’s a rather comical diversion, is it not?»
We slipped the skates on. I shot forward with hands behind my back. Little Juan Rico followed at my heels. In the center of the room there were slender pillars; I looped in and around the pillars as if I were giving an exhibition.
«I say, but it’s very exhilarating, isn’t it?» said Juan breathlessly. «You glide like a zephyr.»
«Like a what?»
«Like a zephyr… a mild, pleasant breeze.»
«Oh, zephyr /»
«I wrote a poem once about a zephyr—that was long ago.»
I took his hand and swung him around. Then I placed him in front of me and with my hands on his waist I pushed him along, guiding him lightly and dexterously about the floor. Finally I gave him a good push and sent him skedaddling to the other end of the room.
«Now I’ll show you a few fancy turns that I learned in the Tyrol,» I said, folding my arms in front of me and raising one leg in the air. The thought that never in her life would Mona suspect what I was doing this minute gave me a demonic joy. As I passed and repassed little Juan, who was now sitting on the window-sill absorbed in the spectacle, I made faces at him—first sad and mournful, then gay, then insouciant, then hilarious, then meditative, then stern, then menacing, then idiotic. I tickled myself in the arm-pits, like a monkey; I waltzed like a trained bear; I squatted low like a cripple; I sang in a cracked key, then shouted like a maniac. Round and round, ceaselessly, merrily, free as a bird. Juan joined in. We stalked each other like animals, we turned into waltzing mice, we did the deaf and dumb act.
And all the time I was thinking of Mona wandering about in the house of mourning, waiting for her mourning dress, her black gloves, and what not.
Round and round, with never a care. A little kerosene, a match, and we would go up in flames, like, a burning merry-go-round. I looked at Juan’s poll—it was like dry tinder. I had an insane desire to set him on fire, set him aflame and send him hurtling down the elevator shaft. Then two or three wild turns, a la Breughel, and out the window!
I calmed down a little. Not Breughel, but Hieronymous Bosch. A season in hell, amidst the traps and pulleys of the medieval mind. First time around they yank off an arm. Second time around a leg. Finally just a torso rolling around. And the music playing with vibrant twangs. The iron harp of Prague. A sunken street near the synagogue. A dolorous peal of the bells. A woman’s guttural lament.
Not Bosch any longer, but Chagall. An angel in mufti descending slantwise just above the roof. Snow on the ground and in the gutters little pieces of meat for the rats. Cracow in the violet light of evisceration. Weddings, births, funerals. A man in an overcoat and only one string to his violin. The bride has lost her mind; she dances with broken legs.
Round and round, ringing door-bells, ringing sleigh-bells. The cosmococcic round of grief and slats. At the roots of my hair a touch of frost, in the tips of my toes a fire. The world is a merry-go-round in flames, the horses burn down to the hocks. A cold, stiff father lying on a feather-bed. A mother green as gangrene. And the bridegroom rolling along.
First we’ll bury him in the cold ground. Then we’ll bury his name, his legend, his kites and race horses. And for the widow a bon-fire, a suttee Viennoise. I will marry the widow’s daughter—in her mourning gown and black gloves. I will do atonement and anoint my head with ashes.
Round and round… Now the figure eight. Now the dollar sign. Now the spread eagle. A little kerosene and a match, and I would go up like a Christmas tree.
«Mr. Miller! Mr. Miller!» calls Juan. «Mr. Miller, stop it! Please stop it!»
The boy looks frightened. What can it be that makes him stare at me so?
«Mr. Miller,» he says, clutching me by the coat tail, «please don’t laugh so! Please, I’m afraid for you.»
I relaxed. A broad grin came over my face, then softened to an amiable smile.
«That’s better, sir. You had me worried. Hadn’t we better go now?»
«I think so, Juan. I think we’ve had enough exercise for to day. To-morrow you will get a bicycle. Are you hungry?»
«Yes sir, I am indeed. I always have a fabulous appetite. Once I ate a whole chicken all by myself. That was when my aunt died.»
«We’ll have chicken to-night, Juan me lad. Two chickens—one for you and one for me.»
«You’re very kind, sir… Are you sure you’re all right now?»
«Fine as a fiddle, Juan. Now where do you suppose we could buy a mourning dress at this hour?»
«I’m sure I don’t know,» said Juan. In the street I hailed a taxi. I had an idea that on the East Side there would be shops still open. The driver was certain he could find one.
«It’s very lively down here, isn’t it?» said Juan, as we alighted in front of a dress shop. «Is it always this way?»
«Always,» I said. «A perpetual fiesta. Only the poor enjoy life.»
«I should like to work down here some time,» said Juan. «What language do they speak here?»
«All languages,» I said. «You can also speak English.»
The proprietor was standing at the door. He gave Juan a friendly pat on the head.
«I would like a mourning dress, size 16,» I said. «Not too expensive. It must be delivered to-night, C. O. D.»
A dark young Jewess with a Russian accent stepped forward. «Is it for a young or an old woman?» she said.
«A young woman, about your size. For my wife.»
She began showing me various models. I told her to choose the one she thought most suitable. «Not an ugly one,» I begged, «and not too chic either. You know what I mean.»
«And the gloves,» said Juan. «Don’t forget the gloves.»
«What size?» asked the young lady.
«Let me see your hands,» I said. I studied them a moment. «A little larger than yours.»
I gave the address and left a generous tip for the errand boy. The proprietor now came up, began talking to Juan. He seemed to take a great fancy to him.
«Where do you come from, sonny?» he asked. «From Puerto Rico?»
«From Cuba,» said Juan.
«Do you speak Spanish?»
«Yes sir, and French and Portuguese.»
«You’re very young to know so many languages.»
«My father taught me them. My father was the editor of a newspaper in Havana.»
«Well, well,» said the proprietor. «You remind me of a little boy I knew in Odessa.»
«Odessa!» said Juan. «I was in Odessa once. I was a cabin boy on a trading ship.»
«What!» exclaimed the proprietor. «You were in Odessa? It’s unbelievable. How old are you?»
«I’m eighteen, sir.»
The proprietor turned to me. He wanted to know if he couldn’t invite us to have a drink with him in the ice cream parlor next door.
We accepted the invitation with pleasure. Our host, whose name was Eisenstein, began to talk about Russia. He had been a medical student originally. The boy who resembled Juan was his son who had died. «He was a strange boy,» said Mr. Eisenstein. «He didn’t resemble any of the family. And he had his own way of thinking. He wanted to tramp around the world. No matter what you told him he had a different idea. He was
