More laughter. Then: «For God’s sake, Henry, stop it! But come home to-night… I want to hear all about it. Arthur won’t be home, I’ll stand by you… though you don’t deserve it.»
So I went home, after taking a nap in the roller skating rink. I was rather exhilarated too, on arriving, owing to a last minute interview with an Egyptologist who wanted a job as a night messenger. A statement he had let drop about the probable age of the pyramids had thrown me out of the rut so violently that it was a matter of complete indifference to me how Mona would react to my story. There was reason to believe, he had said, and I am sure I heard him rightly, that the pyramids might be sixty thousand years old—at least. If that were true, the whole god-damned notion of Egyptian civilization could be thrown on the scrap-heap—and a lot of other historical notions too. In the subway I felt immeasurably older than I ever thought it was possible to feel. I was trying to reach back twenty or thirty thousand years, some half-way point between the erection of these enigmatic monoliths and the supposed dawn of that hoary civilization of the Nile. I was suspended in time and space. The word age began to take on a new significance. With it came a fantastic thought: what if I should live to be a hundred and fifty, or a hundred and ninety-five? How would this little incident that I was trying to cover up—the Organza Friganza business— stack up in the light of a hundred and fifty years of experience? What would it matter if Mona left me? What would it matter three generations hence how I had behaved on the night of the 14th of so and so and so? Supposing I was still virile at ninety-five and had survived the death of six wives, or eight or ten? Supposing that in the 21st century we had a return to Mormonism? Or that we began to see, and ,not only to see but to practice, the sexual logic of the Eskimos? Supposing the notion of property were abolished and the institution of matrimony wiped out? In seventy or eighty years tremendous revolutions could take place. Seventy or eighty years hence I would only be a hundred or so years old— comparatively young yet. I would probably have forgotten the names of most of my wives, to say nothing of the fly-by-nights… I was almost in a state of exaltation when I walked in.
Rebecca came at once to my room. The house was empty. Mona had telephoned, she said, to say that there was another rehearsal on. She didn’t know when she would be home.
«That’s fine,» I said. «Did you make dinner?»
«God, Henry, you’re adorable.» She put her arms around me affectionately and gave me a comradely hug. «I wish Arthur were like that. It would be easier to forgive him sometimes.»
«Isn’t there a soul around?» I asked. It was most unusual for the house to be so deserted.
«No, everybody’s gone,» said Rebecca, examining the roast in the oven. «Now you can tell me about that great love you were talking about over the phone.» She laughed again, a low, earthy laugh which sent a thrill through me.
«You know I wasn’t serious,» I said. «Sometimes I say anything at all… though in a way I mean it too. You understand, don’t you?»
«Perfectly! That’s why I like you. You’re utterly faithless and truthful. It’s an irresistible combination.»
«You know you’re safe with me, that’s it, eh?» I said, sidling up to her and putting an arm around her.
She wriggled away laughingly. «I don’t think any such thing—and you know it!? she burst out.
«I’m only making up to you out of politeness,» I said, with a huge grin. «We’re going to have a cosy little meal now… God, it smells good… what is it? chicken?»
«Pork!» she said. «Chicken… what do you think? That I made this especially for you? Go on, talk to me. Keep your mind off the food a little longer. Say something nice, if you can. But don’t come near me, or I’ll stick a fork in you… Tell me what happened last night. Tell me the truth, I dare you…»
«That isn’t hard to do, my wonderful Rebecca.
Especially since we’re alone. It’s a long story—are you sure you’d like to hear it?»
She was laughing again.
«Jesus, you’ve got a dirty laugh,» I said. «Well anyway, where was I? Oh yes, the truth… Listen, the truth is that I slept with my wife…»
«I thought as much,» said Rebecca.
«But wait, that isn’t all. There was another woman besides…»
«You mean after you slept with your wife—or before?»
«At the same time,» I said, grinning amiably.
«No, no! don’t tell me that!» She dropped the carving knife and stood with arms akimbo looking at me searchingly. «I don’t know… with you anything’s possible. Wait a minute. Wait till I set the table. I want to hear the whole thing, from beginning to end.»
«You haven’t got a little schnapps, have you?» I said.
«I’ve got some red wine… that’ll have to do you.»
«Good, good! Of course it’ll do. Where is it?»
As I was uncorking the bottle she came over to me and grasped me by the arm. «Look, tell me the truth,» she said. «I won’t give you away.»
«But I’m telling you the truth!»
«All right, hold it, then. Wait till we sit down-Do you like cauliflower? I haven’t any other vegetable.»
«I like any kind of food. I like everything. I like you, I like Mona, I like my wife, I like horses, cows, chickens, pinochle, tapioca, Bach, benzine, prickly heat…»
«You like…! That’s you all over. It’s wonderful to hear it. You make me hungry too. You like everything, yes… but you don’t love.»
«I do too. I love food, wine, women. Of course I do. What makes you think I don’t? If you like, you love. Love is only the superlative degree. I love like God loves—without distinction of time, place, race, color, sex and so forth. I love you too—that way. It’s not enough, I suppose?»
«It’s too much, you mean. You’re out of focus. Listen, calm down a moment. Carve the meat, will you? I’ll fix the gravy.»
«Gravy…. ooh, ooh. I love gravy.»
«Like you love your wife and me and Mona, is that it?»
«More even. Right now it’s all gravy. I could lick it up by the ladleful. Rich, thick, heavy, black gravy… it’s wonderful. By the way, I was just talking to an Egyptologist—he wanted a job as a messenger.»
«Here’s the gravy. Don’t get off the track. You were going to tell me about your wife.»
«Sure, sure I will. I’ll tell you that too. I’ll tell you everything. First of all, I want to tell you how beautiful you look—with the gravy in your hand.»
«If you don’t stop this,» she said, «I’ll put a knife in you. What’s come over you, anyway? Does your wife have such an effect upon you every time you see her? You must have had a wonderful time.» She sat down, not opposite me, but to one side.
«Yes, I did have a wonderful time,» I said. «And then just now there was the Egyptologist…»
«Oh, drat the Egyptologist! I want to hear about your wife… and that other woman. God, if you’re making this up I’ll kill you!»
I busied myself for a while with the pork and the cauliflower. Took a few swigs of wine to wash it down. A succulent repast. I was feeling mellow as could” be. I needed replenishment.
«It’s like this.» I began, after I had packed away a few forkfuls.
She began to titter.
«What’s the matter? What did I say now?»
It isn’t what you say, it’s the way you say it. You seem so serene and detached, so innocent like. God, yes, that’s it—innocent. If it had been murder instead of adultery, or fornication, I think you’d begin the same way. You enjoy yourself, don’t you?»
«Of course… why not? Why shouldn’t I? Is that so terribly strange?»
«No-o-h,» she drawled, «I suppose it isn’t… or it shouldn’t be, anyway. But you make everything sound a little crazy sometimes. You’re always a little wide of the mark… too big a swoop. You ought to have been born in Russia!»
«Yeah, Russia! That’s it. I love Russia!»
«And you love the pork and the cauliflower—and the gravy and me. Tell me, what don’t you love? Think first! I’d really like to know.»
I gobbled down a juicy bit of fatty pork dipped in gravy and looked at her. «Well, for one thing, I don’t like work.» I paused a minute to think what else I didn’t like. «Oh yes,» I said, meaning it utterly seriously, «and I don’t like flies.»
She burst out laughing. «Work and flies—so that’s it. I must remember that. God, is that all you don’t like?»
«For the moment that’s all I can think of.»
«And what about crime, injustice, tyranny and those things?»
«Well, what about them?» I said. «What can you do about such things? You might just as well ask me—what about the weather?»
«Do you mean that?»
«Of course I do.»
«You’re impossible! Or maybe you can’t think when you eat.»
«That’s a fact,» I said. «I don’t think very well when I eat, do you? I don’t want to, as a matter of fact. Anyway, I was never much of a thinker. Thinking doesn’t get you anywhere anyhow. It’s a delusion. Thinking makes you morbid… By the way, have you any dessert… any of that Liederkranz? That’s a wonderful cheese, don’t you think?»
«I suppose it does sound
