«Yeah, and I got mustard too,» she snarled. «Any bread?»
She gave me a look of clean disgust. I quickly yanked the things out of the ice-box and set them on the table.
«Better make some coffee too,» I said. «I suppose you’d like some whipped cream with it, wouldn’t you? You know, I feel like poisoning you. Jesus, if you’re hard up you could ask me to lend you some money… you oughtn’t to come here and try to sell me a lot of crap. If you’d been a little nicer I’d have asked you out to lunch. I’ve got tickets for the theatre. We could have had a good time… I might even have bought the fool books. Mike isn’t a bad guy. He’d have bought the books even if we had no intention of reading them. If he thought you needed help…. You walk in and treat me as if I were dirt. What did I ever do to you? I don’t get it. Don’t laugh! I’m serious. I don’t know why I should take this from you. Who the hell do you think you are?»
She slammed a dish down in front of me. Then she turned on her heel and went to the kitchen. I was left there with all the food heaped up in front of me.
«Come, come, don’t take it like that!» I said, shoveling a forkful into my mouth. «You know I didn’t mean anything personal.» (The word personal struck me as being highly incongruous, but I knew she’d like it.)
«Personal or not, I’m not joining you,» she retorted. «You can eat your fill and get out. I’ll make you some coffee. I don’t want to ever see you again. You’re disgusting.»
I put the knife and fork down and went into the kitchen. The things were cold anyway, so it wouldn’t matter if I did spend a few minutes soothing her feelings.
«I’m sorry, Julie,» I said, trying to put my arm around her. She brushed me away angrily. «You see,» and I began to put some feeling into my words, «Maude and I don’t get along very well. We had a bad quarrel this morning. I must be out of sorts….»
«Is that any reason to take it out on me?»
«No, it isn’t. I don’t know, I was desperate this morning. That’s why I came to see you. And then, when I started in to work on you… to sell you the books… I felt ashamed of myself. I wouldn’t have let you take the books even if you had pretended you wanted them….»
«I know what’s the matter with you,» she said. «You were disappointed in my looks. I’ve changed, that’s what’s the matter. And you’re a bad loser. You want to take it out on me—but it’s your own fault. You’ve got a good-looking wife… why don’t you stick to her? Everybody has quarrels—you’re not the only two in the world. Do I run off to somebody else’s husband when things go wrong? Where the hell would that get us? Mike’s no angel to live with… nobody is, I guess. You act like a spoiled child. What do you think life is, a wet dream?»
This speech couldn’t be laughed off. I had to beg her to sit down and eat with me, give me a chance to explain myself. Reluctantly she consented.
It was a long drawn-out story I unfolded, as I polished off one plate after another. She seemed so impressed by my sincerity that I began to toy with the idea of re-introducing the world’s best literature. I had to skate very delicately because this time it would have to look as if I were doing her a favor. I was trying to jockey myself into the position of letting her help me. At the same time I was wondering if it were worth it, if perhaps it wouldn’t be more pleasant to go to the matinee.
She was just getting back to normal, getting friendly and trusting. The coffee was excellent, and I had just finished the second cup when I felt a bowel movement coming on. I excused myself and went to the bathroom. There I enjoyed the luxury of a thorough evacuation. I pulled the chain and sat there a few moments, a bit dreamy and a bit lecherous too, when suddenly I realized that I was getting a sitz bath. I pulled the chain again. The water started to overflow between my legs on to the floor. I jumped up, dried my ass with a towel, buttoned my trousers and looked frantically up at the toilet box. I tried everything I could think of but the water kept rising and flowing over—and with it came one or two healthy turds and a mess of toilet paper.
In a panic I called Julie. Through a crack in the door I begged her to tell me what to do.
«Let me in, I’ll fix it,» said she.
«Tell me,» I begged, «I’ll do it. You can’t come in yet.»
«I can’t explain,» said Julie, «you’ll have to let me in.»
There was no help for it, I had to open the door. I was never more embarrassed in my life. The floor was one ungodly mess. Julie, however, went to work with dispatch, as though it were an everyday affair. In a jiffy the water had stopped running; it only remained to clean up the mess.
«Listen, you get out now,» I begged. «Let me handle this. Have you got a dust-pan—and a mop?»
«You get out!» said she. «I’ll take care of it.» And with that she pushed me out and closed the door.
I waited on pins and needles for her to come out. Then a real funk took hold of me. There was only one thing to do—escape as fast as possible.
I fidgeted a few moments, listening first on one foot, then the other, not daring to make a peep. I knew I’d never be able to face her. I looked around, measured the distance to the door, listened intently for just a second, then grabbed my things and tiptoed out.
It was an elevator apartment, but I didn’t wait for the elevator. I skipped down the stairs, three steps at a time, as though the devil himself were pursuing me.
The first thing I did was to go to a restaurant and wash my hands thoroughly. There was a machine which, by inserting a coin, squirted perfume over you. I helped myself to a few squirts and sallied out into the bright sunshine. I walked aimlessly for a while, contrasting the beautiful weather with my uncomfortable state of mind.
Soon I found myself walking near the river. A few yards ahead was a little park, or at least a strip of grass and some benches. I took a seat and began to ruminate. In less than no time my thoughts had reverted to Coleridge. It was a relief to let the mind dwell on problems purely aesthetic.
Absent-mindedly I opened the prospectus and began rereading the fragment which had so absorbed me— prior to the horrible fiasco at Julie’s. I skipped from one item to another. At the back of the prospectus there were maps and charts and reproductions of ancient writings found on tablets and monuments in various parts of the world. I came upon «the mysterious writing» of the Uighurs who had once overrun Europe from the over-flowing well of Central Asia. I read of cities which had been lifted heavenward twelve and thirteen thousand feet when the mountain ranges began to form; I read about Solon’s discourse with Plato and about the 70,000 year old glyphs found in Tibet which hinted all too clearly of the existence of now unknown continents. I came upon the sources of Pythagoras’ conceptions and read with sadness of the destruction of the great library at Alexandria. Certain Mayan tablets reminded me vividly of the canvases of Paul Klee. The writings of the ancients, their symbols, their patterns, their compositions, were strikingly like the things children invent in kindergartens. The insane, on the other hand, produced the most intellectual sort of compositions. I read about Laotse and Albertus Magnus and Cagliostro and Cornelius Agrippa and Iamblichus, each one a universe, each one a link in an invisible chain of now exploded worlds. I came to a chart arranged like parallel strips of banjo frets, telling off laterally the centuries «since the dawn of civilization» and vertically listing the literary figures of the epochs, their names and their works. The Dark Ages stood out like blind windows in the side of a skyscraper; here and there in the great blank wall there was a beam of light shed by the spirit of some intellectual giant who had managed to make his voice heard above the croaking of the submerged and dispirited denizens of the marshes. When it was dark in Europe it had been bright elsewhere: the spirit of man was like a veritable switchboard, revealing itself in signals and flashes, often across oceans of darkness. One thing stood out clearly—on that switchboard certain great spirits were still plugged in, still standing by for a call. When the epoch which had called them forth was drowned out they emerged from the darkness like the towering snow-capped peaks of the Himalayas. And there was reason to believe, it seemed to me, that not until another unspeakable catastrophe occurred would the light they shed be extinguished. As I shut off the current of reverie into which I had fallen a Sphinx-like image registered itself on the fallen curtain: it was the
