GC-105 The Rosy Crucifixion Plexus Book I
by Henry Miller


“…CALL ME NOT NAOMI, call me Mara: for the Almighty hath dealt very 
bitterly with me … I went out full, and the LORD hath brought me home again
empty….”

I called to Mona, who had once been Mara, but there was no answer. I 
looked for her but she was not there. I sat down again, with tears in my 
eyes, thumbing through the worn and tattered pages. There would be no 
bridge, no heavenly synagogue music … not even an ephah of barley. Call me 
not Naomi, call me Mara! And Mara had disowned her people, had disowned the
very name they had given her. It was a bitter name, but she had not even 
known what it meant. Thy people shall be my people, and thy God my God. She
had left the fold and had been afflicted by the Lord.


CHAPTER ONE

In her tight-fitting Persian dress, with turban to match, she looked 
ravishing. Spring had come and she had donned a pair of long gloves and a 
beautiful taupe fur slung carelessly about her full, columnar neck. We had 
chosen Brooklyn Heights in which to search for an apartment, thinking to 
get as far away as possible from every one we knew, particularly from 
Kronski and Arthur Raymond. Ulric was the only one to whom we intended 
giving our new address. It was to be a genuine “vita nuova” for us, free of
intrusions from the outside world.

The day we set out to look for our little love-nest we were radiantly 
happy. Each time we came to a vestibule and pushed the door-bell I put my 
arms around her and kissed her again and again. Her dress fitted like a 
sheath. She never looked more tempting. Occasionally the door was opened on
us before we had a chance to unlock. Sometimes we were requested to produce
the wedding ring or else the marriage license.

Toward evening we encountered a broad-minded, warm-hearted Southern woman
who seemed to take to us immediately. It was a stunning place she had to 
rent, but far beyond our means. Mona, of course, was determined to have it;
it was just the sort of place she had always dreamed of living in. The fact
that the rent was twice what we had intended to pay didn’t disturb her. I 
was to leave everything to her—she would “manage” it. The truth is I wanted
the place as much as she did, but I had no illusions about “managing” the 
rent. I was convinced that if we took it we would be sunk.

The woman we were dealing with had no suspicion, of course, that we were 
a poor risk. We were comfortably seated in her flat upstairs, drinking 
sherry. Presently her husband arrived. He too seemed to find us a congenial
couple. From Virginia he was, and a gentleman from the word go. My position
in the Cosmodemonic world evidently impressed them. They expressed sincere 
amazement that one as young as myself should be holding such a responsible 
position. Mona, to be sure, played this up for all it was worth. To hear 
her, I was already in line for a superintendent’s job, and in a few more 
years a vice-presidency. “Isn’t that what Mr. Twilliger told you?” she 
said, obliging me to nod affirmatively.

The upshot was that we put down a deposit, a mere ten-spot, which looked 
a little ridiculous in view of the fact that the rent was to be ninety 
dollars a month. How we would raise the balance of that first month’s rent,
to say nothing of the furniture and other paraphernalia we needed, I hadn’t
the slightest idea. I looked upon the deposit as ten dollars lost. A 
face-saving gesture, nothing more. That Mona would change her mind, once we
were out of their ingratiating clutches, I was certain.

But I was wrong, as usual. She was determined to move in. The other 
eighty dollars? That we got from one of her devoted admirers, a room clerk 
at the Broztell. “And who is he?” I ventured to ask, never having heard his
name mentioned before. “Don’t you remember? I introduced you to him only a 
couple of weeks ago—when you and Ulric met us on Fifth Avenue. He’s 
perfectly harmless.”

Seemingly they were all “perfectly harmless.” It was her way of informing
me that never would they think of embarrassing her by suggesting that she 
spend a night with them. They were all “gentlemen,” and usually nitwits to 
boot. I had quite a job recalling what this particular duffer looked like. 
All I could recollect was that he was rather young and rather pale. In 
brief, nondescript. How she ever managed to prevent these gallant lovers 
from looking her up, ardent and impetuous as some of them were, was a 
mystery to me. No doubt, as she had once done with me, she gave them to 
believe that she was living with her parents, that “her mother was a witch 
and her father bed ridden, dying of cancer. Fortunately, I rarely took much
interest in these gallant suitors. (Better not pry too deeply, I always 
said to myself.) The important thing to bear in mind was—“perfectly 
harmless.”

One had to have something more than the rent money to set up house. I 
discovered, of course, that Mona had thought of everything. Three hundred 
dollars she had extracted from the poor sap. She had demanded five hundred 
but he had protested that his bank account was almost exhausted. For being 
so improvident she had made him buy her an exotic peasant dress and a pair 
of expensive shoes. That would teach him a lesson!

Since she was obliged to go to a rehearsal that afternoon I decided to 
select the furniture and other things myself. The idea of paying cash for 
these items, when the very’ principle of our country was founded on the 
installment plan, seemed foolish to me. I thought at once of Dolores, now a
buyer for one of the big department stores on Fulton Street. Dolores, I was
certain, would take care of me.

It took me less than an hour to chose all that was necessary to furnish 
our luxurious dove-cote. I chose with taste and discretion, not forgetting 
to include a handsome writing desk, one with plenty of drawers. Dolores was
unable to hide a measure of concern regarding our ability to meet the 
monthly payments, but I overcame this by assuring her that Mona was doing 
extraordinarily well at the theater. Besides, was I not still on the job at
the Cosmococcic whorehouse?

“Yes, but the alimony,” she murmured.

“Oh that! I won’t be paying that much longer,” I replied smilingly.

“You mean you’re going to run out on her?”

“Something of the sort,” I admitted. “We can’t have a millstone round our
necks forever, can we?”

She thought this typical of me, bastard that I was. She said it, however,
as if she thought bastards were likable people. As we were parting she 
added: “I suppose I ought to know better than to trust you.”

“Tut tut!” said I. “If we don’t pay they’ll call for the furniture. Why 
worry?”

“I’m not thinking of the store,” she said, “I’m thinking of myself.”

“Come, come! I won’t let you down, you know that.” Of course I did let 
her down, but unintentionally. At the time, despite my first misgivings, I 
really and sincerely believed that everything would turn out beautifully. 
Whenever I became a victim of doubt or despair I could always rely on Mona 
to give me a hypodermic. Mona lived entirely on the future. The past was a 
fabulous dream which she distorted at will. One was never to draw 
conclusions from the past—it was a thoroughly unreliable way of gauging 
things. The past, in so far as it spelled failure and frustration, simply 
did not exist.

It took no time to feel perfectly at home in our stunning new quarters. 
We learned that the house had been owned formerly by a wealthy judge who 
had remodeled it to suit his fancy. He must have been a man of excellent 
taste, and something of a Sybarite. The floors were of inlaid wood, the 
wall panels of rich walnut; there were rose silk tapestries and book cases 
roomy enough to be converted into sleeping bunks. We occupied the front 
half of the first floor, looking out onto the most sedate, aristocratic 
section in all Brooklyn. Our neighbors all had limousines, butlers, 
expensive dogs and cats whose meals made our mouths water. Ours was the 
only house in the block which had been broken up into apartments.

Back of our two rooms, and separated by a rolling door, was one enormous 
room to which had been added a kitchenette and a bath. For some reason it 
remained unrented. Perhaps it was too cloistral. Most of the day, owing to 
the stained glass windows, it was rather somber in there, or should I 
say—subdued. But when the late afternoon sun struck the windows, throwing 
fiery patterns on the highly polished floor, I enjoyed going in there and 
pacing back and forth in a meditative mood. Sometimes we would strip off 
our clothes and dance in there, marveling at the radiant patterns which the
stained glass made on our naked bodies. In more exalted moods I would 
shuffle into a pair of slippery slippers and give an imitation of an 
ice-skating star, or I would walk on my hands whilst singing falsetto. 
Sometimes, after a few drinks, I would try to repeat the antics of my 
favorite zanies from the burlesque stage.

The first few months, during which all our needs were met providentially,
it was just ducky. No other word for it. Not a soul popped in on us 
unexpectedly. We lived exclusively for each other—in a warm, downy nest. We
had need of no one, not even the Almighty. Or so we thought. The wonderful 
Montague Street Library, a morgue of a place but filled with treasures, was
hard by. While Mona was at the theater I read.

I read whatever pleased my fancy, and with a double awareness. Often it 
was impossible to read—the place was just too wonderful. I can see myself 
all over again closing the book, rising slowly from the chair, and 
wandering serenely and meditatively from room to room, filled with absolute
contentment. Truly, I wanted nothing, unless it were a continuous, 
uninterrupted muchness of the sameness. Everything I owned, everything I 
used, everything I wore, was a gift from Mona: the silk bathrobe, which was
more suited for a matinee idol than yours truly, the beautiful Moroccan 
slippers, the cigarette holder which I never used except in her presence. 
When I flicked the ashes on to the tray I would stoop over to admire it. 
She had bought three of them, all unique, exotic, exquisite. They were so 
beautiful, so precious, we almost worshiped them.

The neighborhood itself was a remarkable one. A short walk in any 
direction brought me to the most diverse districts: to the fantastic area 
beneath the fretwork of the Brooklyn Bridge; to the sites of the old 
ferries where Arabs, Turks, Syrians, Greeks and other peoples of the Levant
had flocked; to the docks and wharves where steamers from all over the 
world lay at anchor; to the shopping center near Borough Hall, a region 
which at night was phantasmal. In the very heart of this Columbia Heights 
stood stately old churches, club houses, mansions of the rich, all part of 
a solid, ancient core which was gradually being eaten into by the invading 
swarms of foreigners, derelicts and bums from the outer edge.

As a boy I had often come here to visit my aunt who lived over a stable 
attached to one of the more hideous old mansions. A short distance away, on
Sackett Street, had once lived my old friend Al Burger, whose father was 
captain of a tug-boat. I was about fifteen when I first met Al Burger—on 
the banks of the Neversink River. It was he who taught me how to swim like 
a fish, dive in shallow water, wrestle Indian fashion, shoot with bow and 
arrow, use my dukes, run without tiring, and so on. Al’s folks were Dutch 
and, strange to say, they all had a marvelous sense of humor, all but his 
brother Jim, who was an athlete, a dandy, and a vain, stupid fool. Unlike 
their ancestors, however, they kept a disgracefully slovenly house. Each 
one, it seemed, went his own sweet way. There were also two sisters, both 
very pretty, and a mother who was rather sluttish in her ways but also 
beautiful, and what’s more, very jolly, very indolent, and very generous. 
She had been an opera singer once. As for the old man, “the captain,” he 
was seldom to be seen. When he did appear he was usually three sheets to 
the wind. I have no recollection of the mother ever cooking us a decent 
meal. When we got hungry she would fling up some change and tell us to go 
shop for ourselves. We always bought the same bloody victuals—frankfurters,
potato salad, pickles, pie and crullers. Ketchup and mustard were used 
liberally. The coffee was always weak as dishwater, the milk stale, and 
never a clean plate, cup, or knife and fork in the house. But they were 
jolly meals and we ate like wolves.

It was the life in the streets that I remember best and enjoyed most. 
Al’s friends seemed to belong to another species of boys from the ones I 
knew. A greater warmth, a greater freedom, a greater hospitality reigned in
Sackett Street. Though they were about the same age as myself, his friends 
gave me the impression of being more mature, as well as more independent. 
Parting from them I always had the feeling of being enriched. The fact that
they were from the waterfront, that their families had lived here for 
generations, that they were a more homogeneous group than ours, may have 
had something to do with the qualities which endeared them to me. There was
one among them I still remember vividly, though he is long dead. Frank 
Schofield. At the time we met, Frank was only seventeen, but already man 
size. There wasn’t anything at all that we had in common, as I look back on
our strange friendship. What drew me to him was his easy, relaxed, jovial 
manner, his utter flexibility, his unequivocal acceptance of whatever was 
offered him, whether it was a cold frankfurter, a warm handclasp, an old 
penknife, or a promise to see him again next week. He grew up into a great 
hulking figure, tremendously overweight, and capable in some queer, 
instinctive way, enough so to become the right hand man of a very prominent
newspaper man with whom he traveled far and wide and for whom he performed 
all manner of thankless tasks. I probably never saw him more than three or 
four times after the good old days in Sackett Street. But I had him always 
in mind. It used to do me good just to revive his image, so warm he was, so
good-natured, so thoroughly trusting and believing. All he ever wrote were 
post cards. You could hardly read his scrawl. Just a line to say he was 
feeling fine, the world was grand, and how the hell were you?

Whenever Ulric came to visit us, which was usually on a Saturday or 
Sunday, I would take him for long walks through these old neighborhoods. He
too was familiar with them from childhood. Usually he brought a sketch pad 
along with him, “to make a few notes,” as he put it. I used to marvel then 
at his facility with pencil and brush. It never once occurred to me that I 
might be doing the same myself one day. He was a painter and I was a 
writer—or at least I hoped to be one some day. The world of paint appeared 
to me to be a realm of pure magic, one utterly beyond my reach.

Though he was never, in the intervening years, to become a celebrated 
painter, Ulric nevertheless had a marvelous acquaintance with the world of 
art. About the painters he loved no man could talk with more feeling and 
understanding. To this day I can hear the reverberations of his long, 
felicitous phrases concerning such men as Cimabue, Uccello, Piero della 
Francesca, Botticelli, Vermeer and others. Sometimes we would sit and look 
at a book of reproductions—always of the great masters, to be sure. We 
could sit and talk for hours—he could, at least—about a single painting. It
was undoubtedly because he himself was so utterly humble and reverent, 
humble and reverent in the true sense, that Ulric could talk so 
discerningly and penetratingly about “the masters.” In spirit he was a 
master himself. I thank God that he never lost his ability to revere and 
adore. Rare indeed are the born worshipers.

Like O’Rourke, the detective, he had the tendency to become, at the most 
unexpected moments, absorbed and enrapt. Often during our walks along the 
waterfronts he would stop to point out some particularly decrepit facade or
broken-down wall, expatiating on its beauty in relation to the background 
of skyscrapers on the other shore or to the huge hulls and masts of the 
ships lying at anchor in their cradles. It might be zero weather and an icy
gale blowing, but Ulric seemed not to mind. At such moments he would 
shamefacedly extract a faded little envelope from his pocket and, with the 
stub of what had been once a pencil, endeavor to make “a few more notes.” 
Little ever came of these note-takings, I must say. Not in those days, at 
least The men who doled out commissions—to make bananas, tomato cans, lamp 
shades, etc.—were always hard on his heels.

Between “jobs” he would get his friends, more especially his women 
friends, to pose for him. He worked furiously during these intervals, as if
preparing for an exhibition at the Salon. Before the easel he had all the 
gestures and mannerisms of the “maestro.” It was almost terrifying to 
witness the frenzy of his attack. The results, strange to say, were always 
disheartening. “Damn it all,” he would say, “I’m nothing but an 
illustrator.” I can see him now standing over one of his abortions, 
sighing, wheezing, spluttering, tearing his hair. I can see him reach for 
an album of Cezanne, turn to one of his favorite paintings, then look with 
a sick grin at his own work. “Look, at this, will you?” he would say, 
pointing to some particularly successful area of the Cezanne. “Why in hell 
can’t I capture something like that—just once? What’s wrong with me, do you
suppose? Oh well … ” And he’d heave a deep sigh, sometimes a veritable 
groan. “Let’s have a snifter, what say? Why try to be a Cezanne? I know, 
Henry, what it is that’s wrong. It’s not just this painting, or the one 
before, it’s my’ whole life that’s wrong. A man’s work reflects what he is,
what he’s thinking the livelong day, isn’t that it? Looking at it in that 
light, I’m just a piece of stale cheese, eh what? Well, here’s how! Down 
the hatch’.” Here he would raise his glass with a queer, wry twist of the 
mouth which was painfully, too painfully, eloquent.

If I adored Ulric because of his emulation of the masters, I believe I 
really revered him for playing the role of “the failure.” The man knew how 
to make music of his failings and failures. In fact, he had the wit and the
grace to make it seem as though, next to success, the best thing in life is
to be a total failure.

Which is probably the truth. What redeemed Ulric was a complete lack of 
ambition. He wasn’t hankering to be recognized; he wanted to be a good 
painter for the sheer joy of excelling. He loved all the good things of 
life, and only the good things. He was a sensualist through and through. In
playing chess he preferred to play with Chinese pieces, no matter how poor 
his game might be. It gave him the keenest pleasure merely to handle the 
ivory pieces. I remember the visits we made to museums in search of old 
chess boards. Could Ulric have played on a board that once adorned the hall
of a medieval castle he would have been in seventh heaven, nor would he 
have cared ever again whether he won or lost. He chose everything he used 
with great care—clothes, valises, slippers, lamps, everything. When he 
picked up an object he caressed it. Whatever could be salvaged was patched 
or mended or glued together again. He talked about his belongings as some 
people do about their cats; he gave them his full admiration, even when 
alone with them. Sometimes I have caught him speaking to them, addressing 
them, as if they were old friends. What a contrast to Kronski, when I think
of it. Kronski, poor, wretched devil, seemed to be living with the 
discarded bric-a-brac of his ancestors. Nothing was precious to him, 
nothing had meaning or significance for him. Everything went to pieces in 
his hands, or became ragged, torn, splotched and sullied. Yet one day—how 
it came about I never learned—this same Kronski began to paint. He began 
brilliantly, too. Most brilliantly. I could scarcely believe my eyes. Bold,
brilliant colors he used, as if he had just come from Russia. Nor were his 
subjects lacking in daring and originality. He went at it for eight and ten
hours at a stretch, gorging himself before and after, and always singing, 
whistling, jiggling from one foot to another, always applauding himself. 
Unfortunately it was just a flash in the pan. Petered out after a few 
months. After that never a word about painting. Forgot, apparently, that he
had ever touched a brush.

It was during the period when things were going serenely with us that I 
made the acquaintance of a rum bird at the Montague Street Library. They 
knew me well there because I was giving them all kinds of trouble asking 
for books they didn’t have, urging them to borrow rare or expensive books 
from other libraries, complaining about the poverty of their stock, the 
inadequacy of their service, and in general making a nuisance of myself. To
make it worse I was always paying huge fines for books overdue or for books
lost (which I had appropriated for my own shelves), or for missing pages. 
Now and then I received a public reprimand, as if I were still a schoolboy,
for underlining passages in red ink or for writing comments in the margins.
And then one day, searching for some rare books on the circus—why, God 
knows—I fell into conversation with a scholarly looking man who turned out 
to be one of the staff. In the course of conversation I learned that he had
been to some of the famous circuses of Europe. The word Medrano escaped his
lips. It was virtually Greek to me, but I remembered it. Anyway, I took 
such a liking to the fellow that there and then I invited him to visit us 
the next evening. As soon as I got out of the library I called Ulric and 
begged him to join us. “Did you ever hear of the Cirque Medrano?” I asked.

To make it short, the next evening was given over almost exclusively to 
the Cirque Medrano. I was in a daze when the librarian left. “So that’s 
Europe!” I muttered aloud, over and over. Couldn’t get over it. “And that 
guy was there … he saw it all. Christ!”

The librarian came quite frequently, always with some rare books under 
his arm which he thought I would like to glance at. Usually he brought a 
bottle along too. Sometimes he would play chess with us, seldom leaving 
before two or three in the morning. Each time he came I made him talk about
Europe: it was his “admission fee.” In fact, I was getting drunk on the 
subject; I could talk about Europe almost as if I had been there myself. 
(My father was the same. Though he had never set foot outside of New York, 
he could talk about London, Berlin, Hamburg, Bremen, Rome as if he had 
lived abroad all his life.)

One night Ulric brought over his large map of Paris (the Metro map) and 
we all got down on hands and knees to wander through the streets of Paris, 
visiting the libraries, museums, cathedrals, flower stalls, 
slaughter-houses, cemeteries, whorehouses, railway stations, bals musette, 
les magasins and so on. The next day I was so full up, so full of Europe, I
mean, that I couldn’t go to work. It was an old habit of mine to take a day
off when I felt like it. I always enjoyed stolen holidays best. It meant 
getting up at any old hour, loafing about in pajamas, playing records, 
dipping into books, strolling to the wharf and, after a hearty lunch, going
to a matinee. A good vaudeville show was what I liked best, an afternoon in
which I would burst my sides laughing. Sometimes, after one of these 
holidays, it was still more difficult to return to work. In fact, 
impossible. Mona would conveniently call the boss to inform him that my 
cold had gotten worse. And he would always say: “Tell him to stay in bed 
another few days. Take good care of him!”

“I should think they would be on to you by this time,” Mona would say.

‘They are, honey. Only I’m too good. They can’t do without me.”

“Some day they’ll send some one over here to see if you’re really ill.”

“Never answer the door bell, that’s all. Or tell them I’ve gone to see 
the doctor.”

Wonderful while it lasted. Just ducky. I had lost all interest in my job.
All I thought of was to begin writing. At the office I did less and less, 
grew more and more slack. The only applicants I bothered to interview were 
the suspects. My assistant did the rest. As often as possible I would clear
out of the office on the pretext of inspecting the branch offices. I would 
call one one or two in the heart of town—just to establish an alibi—then 
duck into a movie. After the movie I would drop in on another branch 
manager, report to headquarters, and then home. Sometimes I spent the 
afternoon in an art gallery or at the 42nd Street Library. Sometimes I 
called on Ulric or else visited a dance hall. I got ill more and more 
often, and for longer stretches at a time. Things were definitely riding to
a fall.

Mona encouraged my delinquency. She had never liked me in the role of 
employment manager. “You should be writing,” she would say. “Fine,” I would
retort, secretly pleased but putting up a battle to salve my conscience. 
“Fine! but what will we live on?”

“Leave that to me!”

“But we can’t go on swindling and bamboozling people forever.”

“Swindling? Anybody I borrow from can well afford to lend the money. I’m 
doing them a favor.”

I couldn’t see it her way but I would give in. After all, I had no better
solution to offer. To wind up the argument I would always say: “Well, I’m 
not quitting yet.”

Now and then, on one of these stolen holidays, we would end up on Second 
Avenue, New York. It was amazing the number of friends I had in this 
quarter. All Jews, of course, and most of them cracked. But lively company.
After a bite at Papa Moskowitz’s we would go to the Cafe Royal. Here you 
were sure to find any one you were looking for.

One evening as we were strolling along the Avenue, just as I was about to
peer into a bookshop window to have another look at Dostoievsky—his photo 
had been hanging in this same window for years—who should greet us but an 
old friend of Arthur Raymond. Nahoum Yood, no less. Nahoum Yood was a 
short, fiery man who wrote in Yiddish. He had a face like a sledgehammer. 
Once you saw it you never forgot it. When he spoke it was always a rush and
a babble; the words literally tripped over one another. He not only 
sputtered like a firecracker but he dribbled and drooled at the same time. 
His accent, that of the “Litvak,” was atrocious. But his smile was 
golden—like Jack Johnson’s. It gave his face a sort of Jack-o’-Lantern 
twist.

I never saw him in any other condition but effervescent. He had always 
just discovered something wonderful, something marvelous, something unheard
of. In unloading himself he always gave you a spritz bath, gratis. But it 
was worth it. This fine spray which he emitted between his front teeth had 
the same stimulating effect that a needle bath has. Sometimes with the 
spritz bath came a few caraway seeds.

Snatching the book which I was carrying under my arm, he shouted: “What 
are you reading? Ah, Hamsun. Good! Beautiful writer.” He hadn’t even said 
“How are you” yet. “We must sit down somewhere and talk. Where are you 
going? Have you had dinner?

I’m hungry.”

“Excuse me,” I said, “but I want to have a look at Dostoievsky.”

I left him standing there talking excitedly to Mona with both hands (and 
feet). I plunked myself in front of Dostoievsky’s portrait, as I had done 
before many a time, to study his familiar physiognomy anew. I thought of my
friend Lou Jacobs, who used to doff his hat every time he passed a statue 
of Shakespeare. It was something more than a bow or salute I made to 
Dostoievsky. It was more like a prayer, a prayer that he would unlock the 
secret of revelation. Such a plain, homely face, he had. So Slavic, so 
moujik-like. The face of a man who might pass unnoticed in a crowd. (Nahoum
Yood looked much more the writer than did the great Dostoievsky.)

I stood there, as always, trying to penetrate the mystery of the being 
lurking behind the doughy mass of features. All I could read clearly was 
sorrow and obstinacy. A man who obviously preferred the lowly life, a man 
fresh from prison. I lost myself in contemplation. Finally I saw only the 
artist, the tragic, unprecedented artist who had created a veritable 
pantheon of characters, figures such as had never been heard of before and 
never would be again, each one of them more real, more potent, more 
mysterious, more inscrutable than all the mad Czars and all the cruel, 
wicked Popes put together.

Suddenly I felt Nahoum Yood’s heavy hand on my shoulder. His eyes were 
dancing, his mouth ringed with saliva. The battered derby which he wore 
indoors and out had come down over his eyes, giving him a comical and 
almost maniacal look.

“Mysterium!” he shouted. “Mysterium! Mysterium!”

I looked at him blankly.

“You haven’t read it?” he yelled. What looked like a crowd began to 
gather around us, one of those crowds which spring up from nowhere as soon 
as a hawker begins to advertise his wares.

“What are you talking about?” I asked blandly.

“About your Knut Hamsun. The greatest book he ever wrote—Mysterium it is 
called, in German.”

“He means Mysteries,” said Mona.

“Yes, Mysteries,” cried Nahoum Yood.

“He’s just been telling me all about it,” said Mona. “It does sound 
wonderful.”

“More wonderful than A Wanderer Plays on Muted Strings?”

Nahoum Yood burst in: “That, that is nothing. For Growth of the Soil they
gave him the Nobel Prize. For Mysterium nobody even know about it. Look, 
let me explain … ” He paused, turned halfway round and spat. “No, better 
not to explain. Go to your Carnegie chewing gum library and ask for it. How
do you say it in English? Mysteries f Almost the same—but Mysterium is 
better. More mysterischer, nicht?”” He gave one of his broad trolley track 
smiles and with that the brim of his hat fell over his eyes.

Suddenly he realized that he had collected an audience. “Go home!” he 
shouted, raising both arms to shoo the crowd away. “Are we selling shoe 
laces here? What is it with you? Must I rent a hall to speak a few words in
private to a friend? This is not Russia. Go home … shoo!” And again he 
brandished his arms.

No one budged. They simply smiled indulgently. Apparently they knew him 
well, this Nahoum Yood. One of them spoke up in Yiddish. Nahoum Yood gave a
sad complacent sort of smile and looked at us helplessly.

“They want that I should recite to them something in Yiddish.”

“Fine,” I said, “why don’t you?”

He smiled again, sheepishly this time. “They are like children,” he said.
“Wait, I will tell them a fable. You know what is a fable, don’t you? This 
is a fable about a green horse with three legs. I can only tell it in 
Yiddish … you will excuse me.”

The moment he began talking Yiddish his whole countenance changed. He put
on such a serious, mournful look that I thought he would burst into tears 
any moment. But when I looked at his audience I saw that they were 
chuckling and giggling. The more serious and mournful his expression, the 
more jovial his listeners grew. Finally they were doubled up with laughter.
Nahoum Yood never so much as cracked a smile. He finished with a dead-pan 
look in the midst of gales of laughter.

“Now,” he said, turning his back on his audience and grasping us each by 
the arm, “now we will go somewhere and hear some music. I know a little 
place on Hester Street, in a cellar. Roumanian gypsies. We will have a 
little wine and some Mysterium, yes? You have money? I have only 
twenty-three cents.” He smiled again, this time like a huge cranberry pie. 
On the way he was constantly tipping his hat to this one and that. 
Sometimes he would stop and engage a friend in earnest conversation for a 
few minutes. “Excuse me,” he would say, running back to us breathless, “but
I thought maybe I could borrow a little money. That was the editor of a 
Yiddish paper—but he’s even broker than I am. You have a little money, yes?
Next time I will treat.”

At the Roumanian place I ran into one of my exmessengers, Dave Olinski. 
He used to work as a night messenger in the Grand Street office. I 
remembered him well because the night the office was robbed and the safe 
turned upside down, Olinski had been beaten to within an inch of his life. 
(As a matter of fact, I had taken it for granted that he was dead.) It was 
at his own request that I had put him in that office; because it was a 
foreign quarter, and because he could speak about eight languages, Olinski 
thought he would earn a lot of tips. Everybody detested him, including the 
men he worked with. Every time I ran into him he would chew my ear off 
about Tel Aviv. It was always Tel Aviv and Boulogn-sur-Mer. (He carried 
about with him post cards of all the ports the boat had stopped at. But 
most of the cards were of Tel Aviv.) Anyway, before the “accidents,” I once
sent him to Canarsie, where there was a “plage.” I use the word “plage” 
because every time Olinski spoke of Boulogne-sur-Mer, he mention the bloody
“plage” where he had gone bathing.

Since he left our employ, he was telling me, he had become an insurance 
salesman. In fact, we hadn’t exchanged more than a few words when he began 
trying to sell me a policy. Much as I disliked the fellow, I made no move 
to shut him off. I thought it might do him good to practice on me. So, much
to Nahoum Yood’s disgust, I let him babble on, pretending that perhaps I 
would also want accident, health and fire insurance too. Meanwhile, Olinski
had ordered drinks and pastry for us. Mona had left the table to engage the
proprietress in conversation. In the midst of it a lawyer named Mannie 
Hirsch walked in—another friend of Arthur Raymond. He was passionate about 
music, and particularly passionate about Scriabin. It took Olinski, who had
been drawn into the conversation against his will, quite a while to 
understand who it was we were talking about. When he learned that it was 
only a composer he showed profound disgust. Shouldn’t we go maybe to a 
quieter place, he wondered. I explained to him that that was impossible, 
that he should hurry up and explain everything to me quickly before we 
left. Mannie Hirsch hadn’t stopped talking from the time he sat down. 
Presently Olinski launched into his routine talk, switching from one policy
to another; he had to talk quite loudly in order to drown out Mannie 
Hirsch’s voice. I listened to the two of them at the same time. Nahoum Yood
was trying to listen with one ear cupped. Finally he broke into an 
hysterical fit of laughter. Without a word he began reciting one of his 
fables—in Yiddish. Still Olinski kept on talking, this time very low, but 
even faster than before, because every minute was precious. Even when the 
whole place began to roar with laughter Olinski kept on selling me one 
policy after another.

When I at last told him that I would have to think it over, he acted as 
if he had been mortally injured. “But I have explained everything clearly, 
Mr. Miller,” he whined.

“But I already have two insurance policies,” I lied.

“That’s all right,” he retorted, “We will cash them in and get better 
ones.”

“That’s what I want to think about,” I countered.

“But there is nothing to think about, Mr. Miller.”

“I’m not sure that I understood it all,” I said. “Maybe you’d better come
to my home tomorrow night,” and therewith I wrote down a false address for 
him.

“You’re sure you will be home, Mr. Miller?”

“If I’m not I will telephone.”

“But I have no telephone, Mr. Miller.”

“Then I will send you a telegram.”

“But I already made two appointments for tomorrow evening.”

“Then make it the next night,” I said, thoroughly unperturbed by all this
palaver. “Or,” I added maliciously, “you could come to see me after 
midnight, if that’s convenient. We’re always up till two or three in the 
morning.”

“I’m afraid that would be too late,” said Olinski, looking more and more 
disconsolate.

“Well, let’s see,” I said, looking meditative and scratching my head. 
“Suppose we meet right here a week from today? Say half-past nine sharp.”

“Not here, Mr. Miller, please.”

“O.K. then, wherever you like. Send me a post card in a day or so. And 
bring all the policies with you, yes?”

During this last chit-chat Olinski had risen from the table and was 
holding my hand in parting. When he turned round to gather up his papers he
discovered that Mannie Hirsch was drawing animals on them. Nahoum Yood was 
writing a poem—in Yiddish—on another. He was so disturbed by this 
unexpected turn of events that he began shouting at them in several 
languages at once. He was getting purple with rage. In a moment the 
bouncer, who was a Greek and an ex-wrestler, had Olinski by the seat of the
pants and was giving him the bum’s rush. The proprietress shook her fist in
his face as he went through the doorway head first. In the street the Greek
went through his pockets, extracted a few bills, brought them to the 
proprietress who made change for him and threw the remaining coins at 
Olinski who was now on his hands and knees, behaving as if he had the 
cramps.

“That’s a terrible way to treat a person,” said Mona.

“It is, but he seems to invite it,” I replied.

“You shouldn’t have egged him on—it was cruel.”

“I admit it, but he’s a pest. It would have happened anyway.” Thereupon I
began to narrate my experience with Olinski. I explained how I had humored 
him by transferring him from one office to another. Everywhere it was the 
same story. He was always being abused and mistreated—“for no reason at 
all,” as he always put it. “They don’t like me there,” he would say.

“You don’t seemed to be liked anywhere,” I finally told him one day. 
“Just what is it that’s eating you up?” I remember well the look he gave me
when I fired that at him. “Come on,” I said, “tell me, because this is your
last chance.”

To my amazement, here is what he said: “Mr. Miller, I have too much 
ambition to make a good messenger. I should have a more responsible 
position. With my education I would make a good manager. I could save the 
company money. I could bring in more business, make things more efficient.”

“Wait a minute,” I interrupted. “Don’t you know that you haven’t a chance
in the world to become a manager of a branch office? You’re crazy. You 
don’t even know how to speak English, let alone those eight other languages
you’re always talking about. You don’t know how to get along with your 
neighbor. You’re a nuisance, don’t you understand that? Don’t tell me about
your grand ideas for the future … tell me just one thing … how did you 
happen to become what you &re? … such a damned unholy pest, I mean.”

Olinski blinked like an owl at this. “Mr. Miller,” he began, “you must 
know that I am a good person, that I try hard to … “

“Horseshit!” I exclaimed. “Now tell me honestly, why did you ever leave 
Tel Aviv?”

“Because I wanted to make something of myself, that’s the truth.”

And you couldn’t do that in Tel Aviv—or Boulogne-sur-Mer?”

He gave a wry smile. Before he could put in a word I continued: “Did you 
get along with your parents? Did you have any close friends there? Wait a 
minute”—I held up my hand to head off his answer—“did anybody in the whole 
world ever tell you that he liked you? Answer me that!”

He was silent. Not crushed, just baffled.

“You know what you should be?’ I went on. “A stool pigeon.”

He didn’t know what the word meant. “Look,” I explained, “a stool pigeon 
makes his money by spying on other people, by informing on them—do you 
understand that?”

“And I should be a stool pigeon?” he shrieked, drawing himself up and 
trying to look dignified.

“Exactly,” I said, not batting an eyelash. “And if not that, then a 
hangman. You know—and I made a grim circular motion with my hand—“the man 
who strings them up.”

Olinski put on his hat and made a few steps toward the door. Suddenly he 
wheeled around, walked calmly back to my desk. He took off his hat and held
it with his two hands. “Excuse me,” he said, “but could I have another 
chance—in Harlem?” This in a tone of voice as if nothing untoward had 
occurred.

“Why certainly,” I replied briskly, “of course I’ll give you another 
chance, but it’s the last one, remember that. I’m beginning to like you, do
you know that?” This baffled him more than anything I had said before. I 
was surprised that he didn’t ask me why.

“Listen, Dave,” I said, leaning toward him as if I had something very 
confidential to propose, “I’m putting you in the worst office we have. If 
you can get along up there you will be able to get along anywhere. There’s 
one thing I have to warn you about … don’t start any trouble in that office
or else”—and here I drew my hand across my throat—“you understand f”

“Are the tips good there, Mr. Miller?” he asked, pretending not to be 
affected by my last remark.

“No one gives a tip in that neighborhood, my good friend. And don’t try 
to extract one either. Thank God each night when you go home that you’re 
still alive. We’ve lost eight messengers in that office in the last three 
years. Figure it out for yourself.”

Here I got up, grasped him by the arm and escorted him to the stairs. 
“Listen, Dave,” I said, as I shook hands with him, “maybe I’m a friend of 
yours and you don’t know it. Maybe you’ll thank me one day for putting you 
in the worst office in New York. You’ve got so much to learn that I don’t 
know what to tell you first. Above all, try to keep your mouth shut. Smile 
once in a while, even if it’s painful. Say thank you even if you don’t get 
a tip. Speak just one language and as little of that as possible. Forget 
about becoming a manager. Be a good messenger. And don’t tell people that 
you came from Tel Aviv because they won’t know what the hell you’re talking
about. You were born in the Bronx, do you understand? If you can’t act 
decently, be a dope, a Schlemiel, savvy? Here’s something to go to the 
movies with. See a funny picture for a change. And don’t let me hear from 
you again!”

Walking to the subway that night with Nahoum Yood brought back vivid 
memories of my midnight explorations with O’Rourke. It was to the East Side
I always came when I wanted to be stirred to the roots. It was like coming 
home. Everything was familiar in a way beyond all knowing. It was almost as
if I had known the world of the ghetto in a previous incarnation. The 
quality that got me most of all was the pullulation. Everything was 
struggling toward the light in glorious profusion. Everything burgeoned and
gleamed, just as in the murky canvases of Rembrandt. One was constantly 
being surprised, often by the homeliest trifles. It was the world of my 
childhood wherein common everyday objects acquired a sacred character. 
These poor despised aliens were living with the discarded objects of a 
world which had moved on. For me they were living out a past which had been
abruptly stifled. Their bread was still a good bread which one could eat 
without butter or jam. Their kerosene lamps gave their rooms a holy glow. 
The bed always loomed large and inviting, the furniture was old but 
comfortable. It was a constant source of wonder to me how clean and orderly
were the interiors of these hideous edifices which seemed to be crumbling 
to bits. Nothing can be more elegant than a bare poverty-stricken home 
which is clean and full of peace. I saw hundreds of such homes in my search
for vagrant boys. Many of these unexpected scenes we came upon in the dead 
of night were like illustrated pages from the Old Testament. We entered, 
looking for a delinquent boy or a petty thief, and we left feeling that we 
had broken bread with the sons of Israel. The parents had no knowledge 
whatever, usually, of the world which their children had penetrated in 
joining the messenger force. Hardly any of them had ever set foot in an 
office building. They had been transferred from one ghetto to another 
without even glimpsing the world in between. The desire sometimes seized me
to escort one of these parents to the floor of an Exchange, where he could 
observe his son running back and forth like a fire engine amid the wild 
pandemonium created by the crazy stock brokers, an exciting and lucrative 
game which sometimes permitted the boy to make seventy-five dollars in a 
single week. Some of these “boys” still remained boys though they had 
reached the age of thirty or forty and were the possessors, some of them, 
of blocks of real estate, farms, tenement houses of packs of gilt-edge 
bonds. Many of them had bank accounts running above ten thousand dollars. 
Yet they remained messenger boys, would remain messenger boys until they 
died. What an incongruous world for an immigrant to be plunged into! I 
could scarcely make head or tail of it myself. With all the advantages of 
an American upbringing had I not (in my twenty-eighth year) been obliged to
seek this lowest of all occupations? And was it not with extreme difficulty
that I succeeded in earning sixteen or seventeen dollars a week? Soon I 
would be leaving this world to make my way as a writer, and as such I would
become even more helpless than the lowliest of these immigrants. Soon I 
would be begging furtively in the streets at night, in the very purlieus of
my own home. Soon I would be standing in front of restaurant windows, 
looking enviously and desperately at the good things to eat. Soon I would 
be thanking newsboys for handing me a nickel or a dime to get a cup of 
coffee and a cruller.

Yes, long before it came to pass I was thinking of just such 
eventualities. Perhaps the reason I loved the new love-nest so much was 
because I knew it could not last for long. Our “Japanese” love nest, I 
called it. Because it was bare, immaculate, the low divan placed in the 
very center of the room, the lights just right, not one object too many, 
the walls glowing with a subdued velvety fire, the floor gleaming as if it 
had been scraped and polished every morning. Unconsciously we did 
everything in ritualistic fashion. The place impelled one to behave thus. 
Made for a rich man, it was tenanted by two devotees who had only an inner 
wealth. Every book on the shelves had been acquired with a struggle, 
devoured with gusto, and had enriched our lives. Even the tattered Bible 
had a history behind it …

*

One day, feeling the need for a Bible, I had sent Mona out to search for 
one. I cautioned her not to buy one. “Ask some one to make you a present of
his copy. Try the Salvation Army or go to one of the Rescue Missions.” She 
had done as I asked and been refused everywhere. (Damned strange! I thought
to myself.)

Then, as if in answer to a prayer, who pops up out of a clear sky but 
Crazy George! There he is, waiting for me, when I arrive home one Saturday 
afternoon. And Mona serving him tea and cake. I thought I was looking at an
apparition.

Mona of course didn’t know that it was Crazy George, a figure out of my 
childhood. She had seen a man with a vegetable wagon standing on the 
dashboard preaching the word of God. The children were jeering at him, 
throwing things in his face, and he was blessing them (with whip in hand), 
saying: “Suffer the little children to come unto me … Blessed are the meek 
and lowly … “

“George,” I said, “don’t you remember me? You used to bring us coal and 
wood. I’m from Driggs Avenue—the 14th Ward.”

“I remember all God’s children,” said George. “Even unto the third and 
fourth generation. Bless you, my son, may the Holy Spirit abide with you 
forever.”

Before I could say another word George had begun to pontificate in the 
old fashion. “I am one that bears witness of myself, and the Father that 
sent me beareth witness of me … Amen! Hallelujah! Praise the Lord!”

I got up and put my arms around George. He had become an old man, a 
cracked, peaceful, lovable old man, the last man in the world I expected to
see seated in my own home. He had been a terrifying figure to us boys, 
always cracking that long whip in our faces, and threatening eternal 
damnation, fire and brimstone. Lashing his horse furiously when it slipped 
on the icy pavement, raising his fist to heaven and imploring God to punish
us for our wickedness. What misery we inflicted on him in those days! 
“Crazy George! Crazy George!” we shouted until we were blue in the face. 
Then we would fling snowballs at him, icy, packed snowballs, which 
sometimes struck him between the eyes and made him dance with rage. And 
while he chased one of us like a demon another would steal his vegetables 
or fruit, or dump a sack of potatoes into the gutter. Nobody knew how he 
had become that way. He had been preaching the word of God from his wagon 
ever since he was born, it seemed. He was like one of the prophets of old, 
and as filthy as some of the great Biblical prophets.

Twenty years had passed since I last saw George Denton. And here he was 
again, telling me about Jesus, the Light of the world. “And He that sent 
me,” said George, “is with me! The Father hath not left me alone; for I do 
always those things that please Him … Ye shall know the Truth, and the 
Truth shall make you free. Amen, brother! May God’s grace abide in you and 
protect you!”

There was little sense asking a man like George what had happened to him 
during all these years. His days had probably passed like a dream. It was 
plain to see that he took no thought for the morrow. He was still roaming 
about the city with his horse and wagon, quite as if the automobile did not
exist. The whip was lying beside him on the floor—it was inseparable from 
him.

I thought I would offer him a cigarette. Mona had a bottle of Port in her
hand.

“The kingdom of God,” said George, raising his hand in protest, “is not 
meat and drink; but righteousness, and peace, and joy in the Holy Ghost … 
It is good neither to eat flesh, nor to drink wine, nor any thing whereby 
thy brother stumbleth, or is offended, or is made weak.”

Pause whilst Mona and myself take a sip of Port.

Continuing as if he saw not nor heard not, George spouted: “Know ye not 
that your body is the temple of the Holy Ghost which is in you, which ye 
have of God, and ye are not your own? Ye are bought with a price: therefore
glorify God in your body, and in your spirit, which are God’s. Amen! Amen!”

Not derisively but softly and easily I began to laugh—out of intoxication
with the Holy Writ. George didn’t mind. He went on babbling, just as of 
old. Never addressed us as persons but rather as vessels into which he was 
pouring the blessed milk of the Holy Virgin. Of the material objects which 
surrounded him his eyes saw nothing. One room was like another to him, and 
none any better than the stable to which he led his horses. (He probably 
slept with them.) No, he had a mission to fulfill and it brought him joy 
and forgetfulness. From mom to midnight he was busy spreading God’s word. 
Even in buying his produce he continued to spread the Gospel.

What a beautiful, untrammeled existence, I thought to myself. Mad? Sure 
he was mad, mad as a bedbug. But in a good way. George never really hurt 
any one with that whip. He loved to crack it, just to convince nasty little
urchins that he was not altogether a helpless old idiot.

“Resist the devil,” said George, “and he will flee from you. Draw nigh to
God, and He will draw nigh to you. Cleanse your hands, ye sinners; and 
purify your hearts, ye double-minded. Humble yourselves in the sight of the
Lord, and He shall lift you up.”

“George,” I said, quelling the bubble of laughter, “you make me feel 
good. It’s so long … “

“Salvation to our God which sitteth upon the throne, and unto the Lamb … 
Hurt not the earth, neither the sea, nor the trees, till we have sealed the
servants of our God in their foreheads.”

“O.K.! Listen, George, do you remem … “

“They shall hunger no more, neither thirst any more; neither shall the 
sun light on them, nor any heat. The Lamb which is in the midst of the 
Throne shall feed them, and shall lead them unto living fountains of 
waters: and God shall wipe away all tears from their eyes.”

With this George took out a huge, filthy red polka dot kerchief and wiped
his eyes, then blew his nose vigorously. “Amen! Praise God for His saving 
and keeping power!”

He got up and went to the fireplace. On the mantel there was lying an 
unfinished manuscript weighted down by a figurine representing a dancing 
Hindu goddess. George veered round quickly and spake: “Seal up those things
which the seven thunders uttered, and write them not … In the days of the 
voice of the seventh angel, when he shall begin to sound, the mystery of 
God shall be finished, as He hath declared to His servants and the 
prophets.”

Just then I thought I heard the horses stirring outside. I went to the 
window to see what was up. George had raised his voice. It was almost a 
shout now which went up from his throat. “Who shall not hear Thee, O Lord, 
and glorify Thy name? for Thou only art holy.” The horses were tugging the 
wagon off, the urchins screaming with delight and helping themselves as of 
yore to the fruit and vegetables. I beckoned to George to come to the 
window. He was still shouting … “The waters which thou sawest, where the 
whore sitteth, are peoples, and multitudes, and nations, and tongues.

And the ten horns … “

“Better hurry, George, or they’ll get away from you!”

Quick as a flash George ducked for his whip and dashed out into the 
street. “Whoa there, Jezebel,” I heard him shout. ‘Whoa there!”

He was back in a jiffy offering us a basket of apples and some 
cauliflower. “Accept the blessings of the Lord,” he said. “Peace be with 
you! Amen, brother! Glory, sister! Glory to God in the Highest!” Then he 
made for his wagon, flicked the horses with his long whip, and waved 
blessings in all directions.

It was only after he had been gone some time that I discovered the 
worn-out Bible which he had forgotten. It was greasy, thumb-marked, 
fly-bitten; the covers were gone and pages were missing here and there. I 
had asked for the Bible and I had received it. “Seek and ye shall find. Ask
and it shall be given unto you. Knock and it shall be opened.” I began 
spouting a bit myself. The Scriptures are headier than the strongest wines.
I opened the Book at random and it fell open to one of my favorite 
passages; “And upon her forehead was a name written, MYSTERY, BABYLON THE 
GREAT, THE MOTHER OF HARLOTS AND ABOMINATIONS OF THE EARTH.

“And I saw the woman drunken with the blood of the saints, and with the 
blood of the martyrs of Jesus; and when I saw her, I wondered with great 
admiration.

“And the angel said unto me, Wherefore didst thou marvel? I will tell 
thee the mystery of the woman, and of the beast that carrleth her, which 
hath the seven heads and ten horns.

“The beast that thou sawest was, and is not; and shall ascend out of the 
bottomless pit, and go into perdition: and they that dwell on the earth 
shall wonder, whose names were not written in the Book of Life from the 
foundation of the world, when they behold the beast that was, and is not, 
and yet is.”

Listening to religious zealots always makes me hungry and thirsty—I mean 
for the so-called good things of life. A full spirit creates an appetite 
throughout all parts and members of the body. George had no sooner left 
than I began to wonder where in this bloody aristocratic quarter I could 
find a bakery that sold streusel kuchen or jelly doughnuts (Pfann Kuchen) 
or a good rich cinnamon cake which would melt in one’s mouth. After a few 
more glasses of Port I began to think of more substantial comestibles, such
as sauerbraten and potato dumplings with fried bread crumbs swimming in a 
rich spicy black gravy: I thought of a tender roast shoulder of pork with 
fried apples on the side, of scallops and bacon as an hors d’oeuvre, of 
crapes Suzette, of Brazil nuts and pecans, of charlotte russe, such as they
make only in Louisiana. I would have relished anything at that moment which
was rich, succulent and savory. Sinful food, that was what I craved. Sinful
food and wines that were aphrodisiac, and some excellent Kummel to top it 
off.

I tried to think of some one at whose house we could be certain of 
getting a good meal. (Most of my friends ate out.) The ones that came to 
mind lived too far away or else were not the sort you could bust in on 
unannounced. Mona of course was all for eating in some excellent 
restaurant, eating until we were ready to burst, after which I was to sit 
and wait until she could find some one to pay for the meal. I didn’t relish
the idea at all. Had done it too often. Besides, it had happened to me once
or twice to sit like that all night waiting for some one to show up with 
the dough. No sir, if we were going to eat well I wanted the money for it 
right in my pocket.

“How much have we, anyway?” I asked. “Have you looked everywhere?”

About seventy-two cents was all that could be mustered, it seemed. Pay 
day was six days off. I was in no mood—and too hungry—to start making the 
rounds of the telegraph offices just to gather in a few shekels.

“Let’s go to the Scotch bakery,” said Mona. “They serve food there. It’s 
very simple but it’s substantial. And cheap.”

The Scotch bakery was near Borough Hall. A dismal place, with marble 
table tops and sawdust on the floor. The owners were dour Presbyterians 
from the old country. They spoke with an accent which reminded me 
unpleasantly of MacGregor’s parents. Every syllable they uttered had the 
clink of small coin, the resonance of the bone-yard. Because they were 
civil and proper one was supposed to be grateful for the service they 
rendered.

We had a concoction of horse’s hocks and bloated porridge with buttered 
scones on the side and a thin leaf of unseasoned lettuce to garnish it. 
There was no taste to the food whatever; it had been cooked by a sour-faced
spinster who had never known a day of joy. I would rather have had a bowl 
of barley soup with some matzoth balls in it. Or fried frankfurters and 
potato salad, such as Al Burger’s family indulged in.

The meal had a most sobering effect. But it left me with the aura of 
intoxication. Somehow I began to get that light, extra-clearheaded feeling,
that hollow bones and transparent veins set-up, in which I knew an 
insouciance that was always extraordinary. Every time the door opened a 
hideous jangle and jumble assailed our ears. There were two sets of trolley
tracks in front of the door, a phonograph shop and a radio shop just 
opposite, and at the corner a perpetual congestion of traffic. The lights 
were just going on as we rose to leave. I had a toothpick in the corner of 
my mouth which I was chewing complacently, my hat was cocked over one ear, 
and as I stepped toward the curb I was aware that it was a wonderfully 
balmy evening, one of the last days of Summer. Queer fragments of thought 
assailed me. For example, I kept harking back to a Summer’s day about 
fifteen years previous when, at that very corner where all was now 
pandemonium, I had boarded a street car with my old friend MacGregor. It 
was an open trolley and we were headed for Sheepshead Bay. Under my arm was
a copy of Sanine. I had finished the book and was about to lend it to my 
friend MacGregor. As I was ruminating on the pleasurable shock which this 
forgotten book had made upon me I caught a burst of strangely familiar 
music from the loudspeaker in the radio shop across the way. I stood there 
as if rooted to the spot. It was Cantor Sirota singing one of the old 
synagogue tunes. I knew it only too well because I had listened to it 
dozens of times. Once I had owned every record of his which was available. 
And I had purchased them “at a price!”

I looked at Mona to see what effect the music had produced. Her eyes were
moist, her face strained. Quietly I took her hand and held it. We stood 
thus for several minutes after the music had ceased, neither of us 
attempting to say a word.

Finally I mumbled—“You recognize that?”

She made no answer. Her lips were quivering. I saw a tear roll down her 
cheek.

“Mona, dear Mona, why hold it back? I know everything. I’ve known for a 
long time … Did you think I would be ashamed of you?”

“No, no Val. I just couldn’t tell you. I don’t know why.”

“But didn’t it ever occur to you, my dear Mona, that I love you more just
because you are a Jew? Why I say this I don’t know either, but it’s a fact.
You remind me of the women I knew as a boy—in the Old Testament. Ruth, 
Naomi, Esther, Rachel, Rebecca … I always wondered as a child why no one I 
knew was called by such names. They were golden names to me.”

I put my arm around her waist. She was half sobbing now. “Don’t let’s go 
yet. There’s something more I want to say. What I tell you now, I mean—I 
want you to know that. I’m speaking from the bottom of my heart. It isn’t 
something that’s just occurred to me, it’s something I’ve wanted to broach 
for a long time.”

“Don’t say it, Val. Please don’t say any more.” She put her hand over my 
mouth to stop me. I permitted it to rest there a few moments, then I gently
withdrew it.

“Let me,” I begged. “It won’t hurt you. How could I possibly hurt you or 
wound you now?”

“But I know what you’re going to say. And … And I’ don’t deserve it.”

“Nonsense! Now listen to me … You remember the day we got married … in 
Hoboken? You remember that filthy ceremony? I’ve never forgotten it. 
Listen, here’s what I’ve been thinking … Supposing I become a Jew—. Don’t 
laugh! I mean it. What’s so strange about it? Instead of becoming a 
Catholic or a Mohammedan, I’ll become a Jew. And for the best reason in the
world.”

“And that is?” She looked up into my eyes as if completely mystified.

“Because you’re a Jew and I love you—isn’t that reason enough? I love 
everything about you … why shouldn’t I love your religion, your race, your 
customs and traditions? I’m no Christian, you know that. I’m nothing. I’m 
not even a Goy … Look, why don’t we go to a rabbi and get married in true 
orthodox style?” She had begun to laugh as if her sides would burst. 
Somewhat offended, I said: “You don’t think I’m good enough, is that it?”

“Stop it!” she cried. “You’re a fool, a clown, and I love you. I don’t 
want you to become a Jew … you could never be one anyhow. You’re too … too 
something or other. And anyway, my dear Val, I don’t want to be a Jew 
either. I don’t want to hear anything about the subject. I beg you, don’t 
ever mention it again. I’m not a Jew. I’m not anything. I’m just a 
woman—and to hell with the rabbi! Come, let’s go home … ” We walked home in
absolute silence, not a hostile silence but a rueful one. The wide, 
handsome street on which we lived seemed more than ever prim and 
respectable, a thoroughly bourgeous Gentile street such as only Protestants
could inhabit. The big brownstone stoops, some with heavy stone 
balustrades, some with delicate wrought iron banisters, gave a solemn, 
pompous touch to the buildings.

I was deep in thought as we entered the love-nest. Rachel, Esther, Ruth, 
Naomi—those wonderful old Biblical names kept flitting through my head. 
Some ancient memory was stirring at the base of my skull, trying to voice 
itself … “Whither thou goest, I will go; and where thou lodgest, I will 
lodge; thy people shall be my people, and thy God my God.” The words rang 
in my ears, but I couldn’t place them. The Old Testament has this peculiar 
lilt, this repetitive quality so seductive to the Anglo-Saxon ear.

Suddenly there came this phrase: “Why have I found grace in thine eyes, 
that thou shouldst take knowledge of me, seeing I am a stranger?”

With this I saw myself again as a tiny boy seated in a little chair by 
the window in the old neighborhood I had been ill and was slowly 
recuperating. One of the relatives had brought me a large, thin book with 
striking illustrations. It was called Stories from the Bible. There was one
I read over and over again—about Daniel in the lions’ den.

I see myself once more, a little older now, wearing short pants still, 
sitting up front in the Presbyterian Church where I had learned to be a 
soldier. The minister is a very old man named the Reverend Dr. Dawson. A 
Scot, but a warm, tender-hearted soul beloved of his flock. He reads long 
passages from the good book to his congregation before starting his sermon.
He takes a long time to begin, too, first blowing his nose vigorously, then
tucking the handkerchief away in the tail of his frock coat, then taking a 
deep draught of water from the pitcher beside his lectern, then clearing 
his throat and looking heavenward, and so on and so forth. He is not much 
of an orator any more He is aging and he rambles a good deal. When he loses
the thread, he picks up the Bible and rereads a verse of two to refresh his
memory. I am very conscious of his failings; I twitch and turn in my seat 
during his moments of forgetfulness. I encourage him silently as best I 
can.

But now, sitting in the soft light of the immaculate love-nest, I 
suddenly realize where all these phrases which have come to my lips stem 
from. I go to the bookcase and get the battered old Bible which Crazy 
George left with us. I skim the pages absent-mindedly, thinking tenderly of
old man Dawson, thinking of my little pal, Jack Lawson, who died so young 
and such a horrible death, thinking of the basement of the old Presbyterian
Church and the dust we raised drilling in squads and batallions every 
night, all fitted up with stripes and chevrons, with epaulettes, with 
swords, leggings, flags, the drums deafening us, the bugles splitting our 
ear-drums. And as these memories pass to and fro there ring in my ears the 
melodious verses from the Bible which the Reverend Mr. Dawson spooled off 
like an eight-reel film.

The book is lying open on the table, and behold ,it is open at the 
chapter called Ruth. In large letters it reads: THE BOOK OF RUTH. And just 
above it, the last and 25th verse of Judges, a glorious verse whose source 
lies far behind childhood, so far back into the past that no man can 
remember anything but the wonder of it: “In those days there was no king in
Israel: every man did that which was right in his own eyes.”

In what days? I ask myself. When ever was this glorious period and why 
has man forgotten it? In those days there was no king in Israel. This is 
not from the history of the Jews, this is out of the history of Man. That 
is how man began, in high estate, in dignity, honor and wisdom. Every man 
did that which was right in his own eyes. Here in a few words is the secret
of a decent, happy human society. Once upon a time the Jews knew such a 
condition of life. Once upon a time the Chinese knew it, too, and the 
Minoans, and the Hindus, and the Polynesians, and the Africans, and the 
Eskimos.

I began reading The Book of Ruth, wherein it speaks of Naomi and the 
Moabites. At the twentieth verse I was electrified: “And she said unto 
them, Call me not Naomi, call me Mara: for the Almighty hath dealt very 
bitterly with me.” And in the 21st verse it continues: “I went out full, 
and the LORD hath brought me home again empty … ” I called to Mona, who had
once been Mara, but there was no answer. I looked for her but she was not 
there. I sat down again, with tears in my eyes, thumbing through the worn 
and tattered pages. There would be no bridge, no heavenly synagogue music …
not even an ephah of barley. Call me not Naomi, call me Mara! And Mara had 
disowned her people, had disowned the very name they had given her. It was 
a bitter name, but she had not even known what it meant. Thy people shall 
be my people, and thy God my God. She had left the fold and had been 
afflicted by the Lord.

I got up and walked about. The atmosphere of the place was one of 
elegance, simplicity and serenity. I was deeply roused but not in the least
sad. I felt like the chambered nautilus walking the sands of time. I threw 
back the rolling doors which separated our apartment from the vacant one in
the rear. I lit a candelabrum at the far end of the vacant apartment. The 
stained glass windows gave off a smouldering glow. I moved about in the 
shadows, letting my mind wander freely. My heart was at rest. Now and then 
I wondered dreamily where she had gone. I knew she would return soon and be
at ease. I hoped that she would remember to rustle up a bit of food. I was 
in a mood to break bread again and sip a little wine. It was in such a 
mood, I thought to myself, that one ought to sit down to write. I was 
mellow and open, fluid, solvent. I could see how easy it was, given the 
right ambiance, to pass from the life of a paid employee, a hack, a slave, 
to that of an artist. It was such a delicious thing to be alone, to revel 
in one’s thoughts and emotions. It hardly occurred to me that I would have 
to write about something; all I thought of was that one day, in just such a
mood as this, I would write. The important thing, was to be perpetually 
what I now was, to feel as I did, to make music. From childhood on that had
been my dream, to sit still and make music. It was just dawning on me that 
to make music one had first to make himself into an exquisite, sensitive 
instrument. One had to stop living and breathe. One had to take off the 
roller skates. One had to unhitch all connections with the world outside. 
One had to speak privately, with God as his witness. Oh yes, that was it. 
Indeed yes. Suddenly I became unalterably certain of what I had just 
quietly realized … For the Lord thy God is a jealous God …

The strange thing was, I reflected, that most everybody I knew already 
considered me a writer, though I had done little to prove it. They assumed 
I was, not only because of my behavior, which had always been eccentric and
unpredictable, but because of my passion for language. From the time I 
learned to read I was never without a book. The first person to whom I 
ventured to read aloud was my grandfather; I used to sit at the edge of his
work bench where he sat sewing coats. My grandfather was proud of me but he
was also somewhat alarmed. I remember him warning my mother that she would 
do better to take the books away from me … Only a few years later and I am 
reading aloud to my little friends, Joey and Tony, on my visits to them in 
the country. Sometimes I read to a dozen or more children gathered around 
me. I would read and read until they fell asleep one by one. If I took the 
trolley or the subway I would read standing up, even outside on the 
platform of the elevated train. Leaving the train I would still be reading 
… reading faces, reading gestures, reading gaits, reading architecture, 
reading streets, passions, crimes. Everything, yes, everything, was noted, 
analyzed, compared and described—for future use. Studying an object, a 
face, a facade, I studied it the way it was to be written down (later) in a
book, including the adjectives, adverbs, prepositions, parentheses and what
not. Before I had even planned the first book my mind was teeming with 
hundreds of characters. I was a walking, talking book, an encyclopedic 
compendium which kept swelling like a malignant tumor. If I bumped into a 
friend or an acquaintance, or even a stranger, I would continue the writing
while conversing with him. It was the work of only a few seconds to steer 
the conversation into my own groove, to fix my victim with a hypnotic eye 
and inundate him. If it were a woman I encountered I could do it even more 
easily. Women responded to this sort of thing better than men, I noticed. 
But with a foreigner it went best of all. My language always intoxicated 
the alien, first because I made an effort to speak clearly and simply to 
him, second because his greater tolerance and sympathy brought out the best
in me. I always spoke to a foreigner as if I were acquainted with the ways 
and customs of his country; I always left him with the impression that I 
valued his country more than my own, which was usually the truth. And I 
always planted in him a desire to become better acquainted with the English
language, not because I deemed it the best in the world but because no one 
I knew used it with its full potency. If I were reading a book and happened
to strike a wonderful passage I would close the book then and there and go 
for a walk. I hated the thought of coming to the end of a good book. I 
would tease it along, delay the inevitable as long as possible. But always,
when I hit a great passage, I would stop reading immediately. Out I would 
go, rain, hail, snow or ice, and chew the cud. One can become so full with 
the spirit of another being as to be literally afraid of bursting. Every 
one, I presume, has had the experience. This “other being,” let me observe,
is always a sort of alter ego. It isn’t a mere matter of recognizing a 
kindred soul, it is a matter of recognizing oneself. To come suddenly face 
to face with yourself! What a moment! Closing the book you continue the act
of creation. And this procedure, this ritual, I should say, is always the 
same: a communication on all fronts at once. No more barriers. More alone 
than ever, you are nevertheless glued to the world as never before. 
Incorporated in it. Suddenly it becomes clear to you, that when God made 
the world He did not abandon it to sit in contemplation—somewhere in limbo.
God made the world and He entered into it: that is the meaning of creation.

CHAPTER TWO

It was only a few months of bliss we enjoyed in the Japanese love-nest. 
Once a week I paid my visit to Maude and the child, brought the alimony, 
went for a stroll in the park. Mona had her job in the theater and from her
earnings took care of her mother and two healthy brothers. About once every
ten days I ate at the French-Italian grocery, usually without Mona because 
she had to be at the theater early. Occasionally I visited Ulric to play a 
quiet game of chess with him. The session usually ended in a discussion of 
painters and how they painted. Sometimes I simply went for a stroll in the 
evening, generally to the foreign quarters. Often I stayed home and read or
played the gramophone. Mona usually arrived home about midnight; we would 
have a little snack, talk for a few hours, and then to bed. It was getting 
more and more difficult to get up in the morning. To say good-bye to Mona 
was always a tussle. Finally it came about that I remained away from the 
office three days running. It was just a sufficient break to make it 
impossible for me to return. Three glorious days and nights, doing exactly 
what I pleased, eating well, sleeping long, enjoying every minute of the 
day, feeling immeasurably rich inside, losing all ambition to battle with 
the world, itching to begin my own private life, confident of the future, 
done with the past, how could I go back into harness? Besides, I felt I had
been doing Clancy, my boss, a great injustice. If I had any loyalty or 
integrity I ought to tell him that I was fed up. I knew that he was 
constantly defending me, constantly making excuses for me to his boss, the 
right holy Mr. Twilliger. Sooner or later, Spivak, always on my trail, 
would get the goods on me. Of late he had been spending a great deal of 
time in Brooklyn, right in my own precincts. No, the jig was up. It was 
time to make a clean breast of it.

On the fourth day I got up early as if in preparation for work. I waited 
almost until ready to leave before broaching my thought to Mona. She was so
delighted at the idea that she begged me to resign at once and be back for 
lunch. It seemed to me likewise that the quicker it was over the better. 
Spivak would undoubtedly find another employment manager in jig time.

When I got to the office there was an unusual swarm of applicants waiting
for me. Hymie was at his post, his ear glued to the telephone, frantically 
operating the switchboard as usual. There were so many new vacancies that 
if he had had an army of waybills to manipulate he would still have been 
helpless. I went to my desk, emptied it of my favorite effects, gathered 
them up in a briefcase, and beckoned Hymie to approach.

“Hymie, I’m quitting,” I said. “I’ll leave it to you to notify Clancy or 
Spivak.”

Hymie looked at me as if I had taken leave of my wits. There was an 
awkward pause and then in a matter-of-fact tone he asked me what I was 
going to do about my pay. “Let them keep it,” I said.

“What?” he yelled. This time, I could see, he knew definitely I was nuts.

“I haven’t got the heart to ask for my pay since I’m leaving without 
notice, don’t you see? I’m sorry to leave you in the lurch, Hymie. But you 
won’t be here long either, I take it.” A few more words and I was off. I 
stood outside the big show window a few moments to observe the applicants 
stewing and milling about. It was over with. Like a surgical operation. It 
didn’t seem possible to me that I had spent almost five years in the 
service of this heartless corporation. I understood how a soldier must feel
on being mustered out of the army.

Free! Free! Free!

Instead of ducking immediately into the subway I strolled up Broadway, 
just to see how it felt to be on one’s own and at large at that hour of the
morning. My poor fellow-workers, there they were scurrying to their jobs, 
all with that grim, harried look I knew so well. Some were already grinding
the pavement, selling an insurance policy, or placing an ad. How stupid, 
meaningless, idiotic it appeared now, the rat race. It always had seemed 
crazy to me, but now it appeared diabolical as well.

If only I were to run into Spivak! If only he were to ask me what I was 
doing strolling about so leisurely!

I walked about aimlessly for the sheer thrill of tasting my new-found 
freedom; it gave me a perverse pleasure to watch the slaves fulfilling 
their appointed rounds. A whole lifetime lay ahead of me. In a few months I
would be thirty-three years of age—and “my own master absolute.” Then and 
there I made a vow never to work for any one again. Never again would I 
take orders. The work of the world was for the other blokes—I would have no
part in it. I had talent and I would cultivate it. I would become a writer 
or I would starve to death.

On the way home I stopped off at a music shop and bought an album of 
records—a Beethoven quartet, if I remember rightly. On the Brooklyn side I 
bought a bunch of flowers and wangled a bottle of Chianti out of the 
private stock of an Italian friend. The new life would begin with a good 
lunch—and music. It would take a lot of good living to wipe out all 
remembrance of the days, months, years I had wasted in the cosmococcic 
treadmill. To do absolutely nothing for a stretch, to idle the days away, 
what a heavenly pastime that would be!

It was the glorious month of September; the leaves were turning and there
was the smell of smoke in the air. It was hot and cool at the same time. 
One could still go to the beach for a swim. There were so many things I 
wanted to do all at once that I was almost jumping out of my skin. First of
all I would get a piano and start playing again. Perhaps I would even take 
up painting. Letting my mind roam at will, suddenly it came to rest on a 
beloved image. The bike! How wonderful it would be if I could get my old 
racing wheel back again! It was only about two years ago that I had sold it
to my cousin who lived nearby. Perhaps he would sell it back to me. It was 
a special model which I had picked up from a German cyclist at the end of a
six-day race. Made in Chemnitz, Bohemia. Ah, but it was a long time since I
had taken a spin to Coney Island. Autumn days! Just made for cycling. I 
prayed that my fool cousin hadn’t changed the saddle; it was a Brooks 
saddle and well broken-in. (And those straps that fitted round the 
toe-clips, I hoped he hadn’t discarded them.)

Recalling the feel of my foot slipping into the toe-clip, I 
re-experienced the most delicious sensations. Riding now along the gravel 
path under the archway of trees that runs from Prospect Park to Coney 
Island, my rhythm one with the machine, my brain thoroughly emptied, only 
the sensation of rushing through space, fast or slow, according to the 
dictates of the chronometer inside me. The landscape to either side falling
away like the leaves of a calendar. No thoughts, no sensations even. Just 
everlasting movement forward into space, one with the machine … Yes, I 
would go cycling again—every morning—just to get my blood up. A spin to 
Coney Island and back, a shower and rub-down, a delicious breakfast, and 
then to work. At my writing desk, of course. Not work, but play. A whole 
lifetime ahead of me and nothing to do but write. How wonderful! It seemed 
to me that all I had to do was to sit down, turn on the tap, and out it 
would flow. If I could write twenty and thirty-page letters without a halt,
surely I could write books with the same ease. Everybody recognized the 
writer in me: all I had to do was make it a fact.

As I hurried up the stoop I caught a glimpse of Mona moving about in her 
kimono. The big window with the stone ledge was wide open. I swung myself 
over the balustrade and entered by the window.

“.Well, I did it!” I exclaimed, handing her the flowers, the wine, the 
music. “Today we begin a new life. I don’t know what we’re going to live 
on, but we’re going to live. Is the typewriter in good shape? Have you food
for lunch? Should I ask Ulric to come over? I’m bursting with 
effervescence. Today I could go through a trial by ordeal and come out of 
it in ecstasy. Let me sit down and look at you. Go on, move about as you 
were a minute ago. I want to see how it feels to sit here and do nothing.”

A pause to give Mona a chance to collect herself. Then spilling over 
again.

“You weren’t sure I would do it, were you? I never would have if it 
weren’t for you. You know, it’s easy to go to work every day. What’s 
difficult is to stay free. I thought of everything under the sun that I 
would like to do, now that I’m footloose and free. I want to do things. It 
seems to me I’ve been standing still for five years.”

Mona began to laugh quietly. “Do things?” she echoed. “Why, you’re the 
most active person in creation. No, dear Val, what you need is to do 
nothing. I don’t want you to even think about writing … not until you’ve 
had a long rest. And don’t worry about how we’re going to get along. Leave 
that to me. If I can keep that lazy family of mine I can certainly keep you
and me. Anyway, don’t let’s think of such things now.”

“There’s a wonderful bill at the Palace,” she added in a moment. “Roy 
Barnes is there. He’s one of your favorites, isn’t he? And there’s that 
comedian who used to be in burlesque—I forget his name. It’s just a 
suggestion.”

I sat there in a daze, my hat on, my feet sprawled out in front of me. 
Too good to be true. I felt like King Solomon. Better than King Solomon, in
fact, because I had cast off all responsibilities. Sure I would go to the 
theater. What better than a matinee on a lazy day? I’d call Ulric later on 
and ask him to have dinner with us. A red letter day like this had to be 
shared with some one, and what better than to share it with a good friend? 
(I knew too what Ulric would say. “You don’t think that maybe it would have
been better … ? Oh, what the hell am I saying? You know best … ” Et cetera)

I was prepared for anything from Ulric. His dubiety, his cautiousness, 
would be refreshing. I was almost certain that before the evening ended he 
would be saying—“Maybe I’ll throw up the sponge myself!” Not meaning it, of
course, but toying with it, flirting with it, just to titivate me. As 
though to say that if he, Ulric, the greatest stickin-the-mud ever, could 
entertain such a notion why then it was self-evident that a man like his 
friend Henry Val Miller must act on it, that not to act would be suicidal.

“Do you think we might be able to afford to buy my bicycle back?” This 
out of a clear sky.

“Why of course, Val,” she answered, without a moment’s hesitation.

‘You don’t think it funny, do you? I’ve got a tremendous desire to ride 
the bike again. I gave it up just before I met you, you know.”

It was the most natural desire in the world, she thought. But it made her
laugh, just the same. “You’re still a boy, aren’t you?” she couldn’t resist
saying.

“Yep! But it’s damned sight better than being a zombie, what?”

After a few moments I spoke up again. “Do you know what? There’s another 
thing I thought of this morning … “

“What’s that?”

“A piano. I’d like to get a piano and start playing again.”

“That would be wonderful,” she said. “I’m sure we can rent one 
cheaply—and a good one, too. Would you take lessons again?”

“No, not that. I want to amuse myself, that’s all.”

“Maybe you could teach me to play.”

“Of course! If you really want to learn.”

“It’s always good to know, especially in the theater.”

“Nothing easier. Just get me the piano.”

Suddenly, getting up to stretch, I burst out laughing. “And what are you 
going to get out of this new life?”

“You know what I’d like,” said Mona.

“No I don’t. What f” She came over to me and put her arms around me. “All
I would like is for you to become what you want to be—a writer. A great 
writer.”

“And that’s all you would like?”

“Yes, Val, that’s all, believe me.”

“And what about the theater? Don’t you want to become a great actress 
some day?”

“No, Val, I know I’ll never be that. I haven’t enough ambition. I took up
the theater because I thought it would please you. I don’t really care what
I do—so long as it makes you happy.”

“But you won’t make a good actress if you think that way,” I said. 
“Really, you must think about yourself. You must do what you like best, no 
matter what I do. I thought you were crazy about the theater.”

“I’m only crazy about one thing, you.”

“Now you’re acting,” I said.

“I wish I were; it would be easier.”

I chucked her under the chin. “Well,” I drawled, “you’ve got me now for 
good and all. We’ll see how you like it a month from now. Maybe you’ll be 
sick of seeing me around before then.”

“Not I” she said. “I’ve prayed for this ever since I met you. I’m jealous
of you, do you know that? I want to watch your every move.” She came very 
close and as she spoke she tapped my forehead lightly. “Sometimes I wish I 
could get inside there and know what you’re thinking about. You seem so far
away at times. Especially when you’re silent. I’ll be jealous of your 
writing too—because I know you won’t be thinking of me then.”

“I’m already in a spot,” I said laughingly. “Listen, what are we doing? 
What’s the use of all this?—the day is slipping by. Today is one day we 
don’t try to read the future. Today we’re going to celebrate … Where’s that
Jewish delicatessen you were telling me about? I think I’ll go and get some
good black bread, some olives and cheese, some pastrami, some sturgeon, if 
they have any—and what else? This is a wonderful wine I bought—it needs 
good food to go with it. I’ll get some pastry too—how about apple strudel? 
Oh, have you any money?—I’m cleaned out. Fine. A five dollar bill? I hope 
you’ve got more. Tomorrow we’ll think things out, yes? You know, the 
spondulix: how and where to get it.”

She put her hand over my mouth. “Please, Val, don’t talk about it. Not 
even jokingly. You’re not to think about money … not ever, do you 
understand?”

*

There exists a curious book by an American anarchist, Benjamin R. Tucker,
entitled INSTEAD OF A BOOK BY A MAN TOO BUSY TO WRITE ONE. The title 
describes my new-found situation to a T. My creative energy suddenly 
released, I spilled over in all directions at once. Instead of a book, the 
first thing I sat down to write was a prose poem about Brooklyn’s back 
yard. I was so in love with the idea of being a writer that I could 
scarcely write. The amount of physical energy I possessed was unbelievable.
I wore myself out in preparation. It was impossible for me to sit down 
quietly and just turn on the flow; I was dancing inside. I wanted to 
describe the world I knew and be in it at the same time. It never occurred 
to me that with just two or three hours of steady work a day I could write 
the thickest book imaginable. It was my belief then that if a man sat down 
to write he should remain glued to his seat for eight or ten hours at a 
stretch. One ought to write and write until he dropped from exhaustion. 
That was how I imagined writers went about their task. If only I had known 
then the program which Cendrars describes in one of his books! Two hours a 
day, before dawn, and the rest of the day to one’s self. What a wealth of 
books he has given the world, Cendrars! All en marge. Employing a similar 
procedure—two or three hours a day regularly every day of one’s life—Remy 
de Gourmont had demonstrated, as Cendrars points out, that it is possible 
for a man to read virtually everything of value which has ever been 
written. But I had not order, no discipline, no set goal. I was completely 
at the mercy of my impulses, my whims, my desires. My frenzy to live the 
life of the writer was so great that I overlooked the vast reservoir of 
material which had accumulated during the years leading up to this moment. 
I felt impelled to write about the immediate, about what was happening 
outside my very door. Something fresh, that’s what I was after. To do this 
was compulsive because, whether I was aware of it or not, the material 
which I had stored up had been chewed to a frazzle during the years of 
frustration, doubt and despair when everything I had to say was written out
in my mind. Add to this that I felt like a boxer or wrestler getting ready 
for the big event. I needed a workout. These first efforts then, these 
fantasies and fantasies, these prose poems and rambling divagations of all 
sorts, were like a grand tuning-up of the instrument. It satisfied my 
vanity (which was enormous) to set off Roman candles, pinwheels, sputtering
firecrackers. The big cannon crackers I was reserving for the night of the 
Fourth of July. It was morning now, a long, lazy morning of a holiday that 
was to last forever. I had elected to occupy a choice seat in Paradise. It 
was definite and certain. I could therefore afford to take my time, could 
afford to dawdle away the glorious hours ahead of me during which I would 
still be part of the world and its senseless routine. Once I ascended to 
the heavenly seat I would join the chorus of angels, the serphic choir 
which never ceases to give forth hymns of joy.

If I had long been reading the face of the world with the eyes of a 
writer, I now read it anew with even greater intensity. Nothing was too 
petty to escape my attention. If I went for a walk—and I was constantly 
seeking excuses to take a walk, “to explore,” as I put it—it was for the 
deliberate purpose of transforming myself into an enormous eye. Seeing the 
common, everyday things in this new light I was often transfixed. The 
moment one gives close attention to anything, even a blade of grass, it 
becomes a mysterious, awesome, indescribably magnified world in itself. 
Almost an “unrecognizable” world. The writer waits in ambush for these 
unique moments. He pounces on his little grain of nothingness like a beast 
of prey. It is the moment of full awakening, of union and absorption, and 
it can never be forced. Sometimes one makes the mistake or commits the sin,
shall I say, of trying to fix the moment, trying to pin it down in words. 
It took me ages to understand why, after having made exhaustive efforts to 
induce these moments of exaltation and release, I should be so incapable of
recording them. I never dreamed that it was an end in itself, that to 
experience a moment of pure bliss, of pure awareness, was the end all and 
be all.

Many is the mirage I chased. Always I was overreaching myself. The 
oftener I touched reality, the harder I bounced back to the world of 
illusion, which is the name for everyday life. “Experience! More 
experience!” I clamored. In a frantic effort to arrive at some kind of 
order, some tentative working program, I would sit down quietly now and 
then and spend long, long hours mapping out a plan of procedure. Plans, 
such as architects and engineers sweat over, were never my forte. But I 
could always visualize my dreams in a cosmogonic pattern. Though I could 
never formulate a plot,. I could balance and weigh opposing forces, 
characters, situations, events, distribute them in a sort of heavenly 
lay-out, always with plenty of space between, always with the certitude 
that there is no end, only worlds within worlds ad infinitum, and that 
wherever one left off one had created a world, a world finite, total, 
complete.

Like a finely trained athlete, I was easy and uneasy at the same time. 
Sure of the final outcome, but nervous, restless, impatient, fretful. And 
so, after I had set off a few fireworks, I began to think in terms of light
artillery. I began to align my pieces, so to speak. First of all, I 
reasoned, to have any effect my voice must be heard. I would have to find 
some outlet for my work—newspapers, magazines, almanacs or house organs. 
Somewhere, somehow. What was my range, what my firing power? Though I 
wasn’t one to bore my friends with private readings, now and then in 
moments of unbridled enthusiasm I was guilty of such misconduct. Rare as 
they were, these lapses, they had a tonic effect upon me. It was seldom, I 
noticed, that any of my friends grew intoxicated over my efforts. This 
silent criticism which friends often give is, I believe, worth infinitely 
more than the belabored, hostile shafts of the paid critic. The fact that 
my friends failed to laugh uproariously at the right moment, the fact that 
they did not applaud vociferously when I terminated my readings, conveyed 
more than a torrent of words. Sometimes, to be sure, I salved my pride by 
thinking of them as obtuse or too reserved. Not often, however. To Ulric’s 
appraisals I was particularly sensitive. It was foolish of me, perhaps, to 
give such keen attention to his comments, since our tastes (in literature) 
were widely different, but he was so very, very close to me, the one friend
I had whom it was imperative to convince of my ability. He was not easy to 
please, either, my Ulric. What he enjoyed most was the fireworks, that is 
to say, the unusual words, the striking references, the fine brocades, the 
senseless jeremiads. Often he would thank me, in parting, for the string of
new words I had added to his vocabulary. Sometimes we would spend another 
evening, an entire evening, looking up these bizarre words in the 
dictionary. Some we never found—because I had made them up.

But to get back to the grand plan … Since I was convinced that I could 
write about anything under the sun, and excitingly, it seemed the most 
natural thing in the world to make up a list of themes which I thought of 
interest and submit them to editors of magazines in order that they might 
select what appealed to them. This entailed writing dozens and dozens of 
letters. Long, fatuous letters they were, too. It also meant keeping files,
as well as observing the idiotic rules and regulations of a hundred and one
editorial bodies. It involved altercations and disputes, fruitless errands 
to editorial offices, vexation, disgruntlement, rage, despair, ennui. And 
postage stamps! After weeks of turmoil and effervescence there might appear
one day a letter from an editor saying that he would condescend to read my 
article if and if and if and but. Never daunted by the ifs and buts, I 
would regard such a letter as a bona fide pledge, a commission. Good! So I 
was at liberty, let us say, to write something about Coney Island in 
winter. If they liked it, it would appear in print, my name would be signed
to it, and I could show it to my friends, carry it about with me, put it 
under my pillow at night, read it surreptitiously, over and over, because 
the first time you see yourself in print you’re beside yourself, you’ve at 
last proved to the world that you really are a writer, and you must prove 
it to the world, at least once in your life, or you will go mad from 
believing it all by yourself.

And so to Coney Island on a wintry day. Alone, of course. It wouldn’t do 
to have one’s reflections and observations diverted by a trivial-minded 
friend. A new pad in my pocket and a sharp pencil.

It’s a long, dreary ride to Coney Island in mid-winter. Only 
convalescents and invalids, or demented ones, seem to be trekking there. I 
feel as though I were slightly mad myself. Who wants to hear about a Coney 
Island which is all boarded up? I must have put this theme down in a moment
of exaltation, believing that nothing could be more inspiring than a 
picture of desolation.

Desolate is hardly the word for it. As I walk along the boardwalk, the 
icy wind whistling through my breeches, everything closed tight, it dawns 
on me that I couldn’t possibly have chosen a more difficult subject to 
write about. There is absolutely nothing to take note of, unless it be the 
silence. I see it better through Ulric’s eyes than my own. An illustrator 
might have a good time of it here, what with the bleak, crazy, tumbling 
edifices, the snarling piles and planks, the still, empty Ferris wheel, the
noiseless roller coasters, rusting under a feeble sun. Just to assure 
myself that I am on the job, I make a few notes about the crazy look of the
razzle-dazzle, the yawning mouth of George C. Tilyou, and so forth. A hot 
frankfurter and a cup of steaming hot coffee would do me good, I think. I 
find a little booth open on a side street off the boardwalk. There is a 
shooting gallery open a few doors away. Not a customer in sight: the owner 
is shooting at the clay pigeons himself, for practice, no doubt. A drunken 
sailor comes lurching along; a few feet away from me he doubles up and lets
go. (No need to take note of this.)

I go down to the beach and watch the sea gulls. I’m looking at the sea 
gulls and thinking about Russia. A picture of Tolstoy seated at a bench 
mending shoes obsesses me. What was the name of his abode again? Yasna 
Polyana? No, Yasnaya Polyana. Well, anyway, what the hell am I speculating 
on this for? Wake up!

I shake myself and push forward into the icy gale. Driftwood lying all 
about. Fantastic forms. (So many stories about bottles with messages inside
them.)

I wish now I had thought to ask MacGregor to come along. That idiotic, 
pseudo-serious line of his sometimes stimulated me in a perverse way. How 
he would laugh to see me pacing the beach in search of material! “Well, 
you’re working anyhow,” I can hear him chirping. “That’s something. But why
in hell did you have to pick this for a subject? You know damned well 
nobody will be interested in it. You probably just wanted a little outing. 
Now you’ve got a good excuse, haven’t you? Jesus, Henry, you’re just the 
same as ever—nuts, completely nuts.”

As I board the train to go home I realize that I have made just three 
lines of notes. I haven’t the slightest idea what I shall say when I sit 
down to the machine. My mind is a blank. A frozen blank. I sit staring out 
the window and not even the tremor of a thought assails me. The landscape 
itself is a frozen blank. The whole world is locked in snow and ice, mute, 
helpless. I’ve never known such a bleak, dismal, gruesome, lackluster day.

That night I went to bed rather chastened and humbled. Doubly so, because
before retiring I had picked up a volume of Thomas Mann (in which there was
the Tonio Kruger story) and had been overwhelmed by the flawless quality of
the narrative. To my astonishment, however, I awoke the next day full of 
piss and vinegar. Instead of going for my usual morning stroll—“to get my 
blood up”—I sat down at the machine immediately after breakfast. By noon I 
had finished my article on Coney Island. It had come without effort. Why? 
Because instead of forcing it out I had gone to sleep—after due surrender 
of the ego, certes. It was a lesson in the futility of struggle. Do your 
utmost and let providence do the rest! A petty victory, perhaps, but most 
illuminating.

The article, of course, was never accepted. (Nothing was ever accepted.) 
It went the rounds from one editor to. another. Nor did it make the rounds 
alone. Week after week I was turning them out, sending them forth like 
carrier pigeons, and week after week they came back, always with the 
stereotyped rejection slip. Nevertheless, nothing daunted, as they say, 
“always merry and bright,” I adhered rigidly to my program. There it was, 
the program, on a huge sheet of wrapping paper, tacked up on the wall. 
Beside it was another big sheet of paper on which were listed the exotic 
words I was endeavoring to annex to my vocabulary. The problem was how to 
hitch these words to my texts without having them stick out like sore 
thumbs. Often I tried them out beforehand, in letters to my friends, in 
letters to “all and sundry.” The letter writing was for me what 
shadow-boxing is to a pugilist. But imagine a pugilist spending so much 
time fighting his shadow that when he hooks up with a sparring partner he 
has no fight left! I could spend two or three hours writing a story, or 
article, and another six or seven explaining them to my friends by letter. 
The real effort was going into the letter writing, and perhaps it was best 
so, now that I look back on it, because It preserved the speed and 
naturalness of my true voice. I was far too self-conscious, in the early 
days, to use my own voice. I was the literary man through and through. I 
made use of every device I discovered, employed every register, assumed a 
thousand different stances, always confusing the mastery of technique with 
creation. Experience and technique, those were the two goads that drove me 
on. To triumph in the world of experience, as I formulated it, I would have
to live at least a hundred lives. To acquire the right, or shall I say the 
complete, technique, I would have to live to be a hundred, not a day less.

Some of my more honest friends, brutally candid as they often were, would
occasionally remind me that in talking to them I was always myself but that
in writing I was not. “Why don’t you write like you talk?” they would say. 
At first blush the idea struck me as absurd. In the first place I never 
considered myself a remarkable talker, though they insisted I was. In the 
second place the written word seemed so much more eloquent to me than the 
spoken one. When you talk you can’t stop to polish a phrase, to search for 
precisely the right word, nor can you go back and expunge a word, a phrase,
a whole paragraph. It seemed like an insult to have them tell me, who was 
struggling for mastery of the word, that I succeeded better without thought
than with thought. Poisonous as the idea was, though, it bore fruit. Now 
and then, after an exhilarating evening with my friends, after I had 
spouted my head off, had made them drunk with my speeches, I would sneak 
home and silently review the performance. The words had tumbled out of my 
mouth in perfect order and with telling effect; there was not only 
continuity, form, climax and denouement, but rhythm, volume, sonority, aura
and magic in the performance. If I stumbled or faltered I went ahead 
nevertheless, later to double back on my tracks, erase the wrong word, 
expunge the inept phrase, magnify the sense of a swelling cadence through 
repetition, innuendo and Implication, through detour and parenthesis. It 
was like juggling: the words were alive like balls, could be recalled, 
could be made to obey, could be changed for other balls, and so on. Or, it 
was like writing on an invisible slate. One heard the words instead of 
seeing them. They did not disappear because they had never truly appeared. 
Hearing them, one had an even keener sense of appreciation, of 
participation rather, as if viewing a slight of hand performance. The 
memory of the ear was just as reliable as the memory of the eye. One might 
not be able to reproduce a lengthy harangue, even three minutes afterwards,
but one could detect a false note, a wrong emphasis.

Often I have wondered, after reading about evenings with Mallarme, or 
with Joyce, or with Max Jacob, let us say, how these sessions of ours 
compared. To be sure, none of my companions of those days ever dreamed of 
becoming a figure in the world of art. They loved to’ discuss art, all the 
arts, but they themselves had no thought of becoming artists. Most of them 
were engineers, architects, physicians, chemists, teachers, lawyers. But 
they had intellect and they had enthusiasm, and they were all so sincere, 
so avid, that sometimes I wonder if the music we made might not have 
rivaled the chamber music which issued from the sacred quarters of the 
masters. Certainly there was never anything pompous or ordained about these
sessions. One spoke as he pleased, was criticized freely, and never 
bothered his head to wonder if what he had said would please “the master.”

There was no master among us: we were equals and we could be sublime or 
idiotic, as we pleased. What brought us together was a mutual hunger for 
the things we felt deprived of. We had no burning desire to reform the 
world. We were seeking to enrich ourselves, that was all. In Europe such 
gatherings often have a political, cultural, or aesthetic background. The 
members of the group perform their exercises, so to speak, in order later 
to spread the leaven among the masses. We never thought of the masses—we 
were too much a part of them. We talked of music, painting, literature 
because, if one is at all intelligent and sensitive, one naturally ends up 
in the world of art. We did not come together expressly to talk about such 
matters, it simply happened thus.

I was probably the only one in the group who took himself seriously. That
is why I became such a cantankerous idiot of a pest at times. Secretly I 
did hope to reform the world. Secretly I was an agitator. It was just this 
little difference between myself and the rest which made our evenings so 
lively. In every sentence I uttered there was always an extra ounce of 
sincerity, an extra grain of truth. It wasn’t playing cricket. I would stir
them up—expressly, it seemed—to draw heaps of coal on my head. No one ever 
fully agreed with me. No matter how I worded my thought, what I said always
struck them as far-fetched. They would confess, at moments, that they just 
loved to hear me talk. “Yes,” I would say, “but you never listen.” This 
would provoke a titter. Then some one would say: “You mean we don’t always 
agree with you.” More titters. “Shit!” I would answer, “I don’t expect you 
to agree with me always … ! want you to think … to think for yourselves.” 
Hear! Hear! “Look,” I would say, making ready to deliver another long 
tirade, “look … “

“Go on,” some one would pipe up, “go on, give it to us! Blow your top!” 
Here I would sit down, sullen, silent, apparently squelched. “Come on now, 
don’t take it to heart, Henry. Here’s a fresh drink. Come on, get it off 
your chest!” Knowing what they wanted of me, yet hoping that by some 
extraordinary effort I might alter their attitude, I would give in, melt, 
then deliver a veritable fusillade. The more desperate and sincere I grew 
the more they enjoyed themselves. Realizing that the game was up I would 
slide off into a burlesque performance. I’d say any bloody thing that came 
into my head, the more absurd and fantastic, the better. I’d insult them 
royally—but no one took offense. It was like fighting phantoms. 
Shadow-boxing again …

(I doubt, of course, that anything like this ever went on in the rue de 
Rome or the rue Ravignan.)

Following out the plan I had laid down for myself I was busier than the 
busiest executive in the industrial world. Some of the articles I had 
elected to write demanded considerable research work, which was never an 
ordeal for me because I loved going to the library and having them dig up 
books that were hard to find. How many wonderful days and nights I spent at
the 42nd Street Library, seated at a long table, one among thousands, it 
seemed, in that main reading room. The tables themselves excited me. It was
always my desire to own a table of extraordinary dimensions, a table so 
large that I could not only sleep on it but dance on it, even skate on it. 
(There was a writer, once, who worked at such a table, which he had placed 
in the center of a huge, barren room—my ideal as a work place. His name was
Andreyev, and needless to add, he was one of my favorites.)

Yes, it gave one a good feeling to be working amidst so many other 
industrious students in a room the size of a cathedral, under a lofty 
ceiling which was an imitation of heaven itself. One left the library 
slightly dazed, often with a holy feeling. It was always a shock to plunge 
into the crowd at Fifth Avenue and 42nd Street; there was no connection 
between that busy thoroughfare and the peaceful world of books. Often, 
while waiting for the books to come up from the mysterious depths of the 
library, I would stroll along the outer isles glancing at the titles of the
amazing reference books which lined the walls. Thumbing those books was 
enough to set my mind racing for days. Sometimes I sat and meditated, 
wondering what question I could put to the genius which presided over the 
spirit of this vast institution that it could not answer. There was no 
subject under the sun, I suppose, which had not been written about and 
filed in those archives. My omnivorous appetite pulled me one way, my fear 
of becoming a book-worm the other way.

It was also enjoyable to make a trip to Long Island City, that most 
woebegone hole, to see at first hand how chewing gum was manufactured. Here
was a world of sheer lunacy—efficiency, it is usually called. In a room 
filled with a choking powder of sickenly sweet stench hundreds of moronic 
girls working like butterflies packing the slabs of gum in wrappers; their 
nimble fingers, I was told, worked more accurately and skilfully than any 
machine yet invented. I went through the plant, a huge one, under an 
escort, each wing as it opened up to view presenting the aspect of another 
section of hell. It was only when I threw out a random query about the 
chicle, which is the base of chewing gum, that I stumbled on to the really 
interesting phase of my research. The chicleros, as they are called, the 
men who toil in the depths of the jungle of Yucatan, are a fascinating 
breed of men. I spent weeks at the library reading about their customs and 
habits. I got so interested in them, indeed, that I almost forgot about 
chewing gum. And, of course, from a study of the chicleros I was drawn into
the world of the Mayans, thence to those fascinating books about Atlantis 
and the lost continent of Mu, the canals which ran from one side of South 
America to another, the cities which were lifted a mile high when the Andes
came into being, the sea traffic between Easter Island and the western 
slope of South America, the analogies and affinities between the Amerindian
culture and the culture of the Near East, the mysteries of the Aztec 
alphabet, and so on and so forth until, by some strange detour, I came upon
Paul Gauguin in the center of the Polynesian archipelago and went home 
reeling with Noa Noa under my arm. And from the life and letters of 
Gauguin, which I had to read at once, to the life and letters of Vincent 
Van Gogh was but a step.

No doubt it is important to read the classics; it is perhaps even more 
important to first read the literature of one’s own time, which is enormous
in itself. But more valuable than either of these, to a writer at least, is
to read whatever comes to hand, to follow his nose, as it were. In the 
musty tomes of every great library there are buried articles by obscure or 
unknown individuals on subjects ostensibly of no importance, but saturated 
with data, ideas, fancies, moods, whims, portents of such a calibre that 
they can only be likened, in their effect, to rare drugs. The most exciting
days often began with the search for the definition of a new word. One 
little word, which the ordinary reader is content to pass over unperturbed,
may prove (for a writer) to be a veritable gold mine. From the dictionary I
usually went to the encyclopedia, not just one encyclopedia but several; 
from the encyclopedia, to all manners of reference books; from reference 
books to handbooks, and thence to a nine-day debauch. A debauch of digging 
and ferreting, digging and ferreting. In addition to the reams of notes I 
made I copied out pages and pages of excerpts. Sometimes I simply tore out 
the pages I needed most. Between times I would make forays on the museums. 
The officials with whom I dealt never doubted for a moment that I was 
engaged in writing a book which would be a contribution to the subject. I 
talked as if I knew vastly more than I cared to reveal. I would make 
casual, oblique references to books I had never read or hint of encounters 
with eminent authorities I had never met. It was nothing, in such moods, to
give myself scholastic degrees which I had not even dreamed of acquiring. I
spoke of distinguished leaders in such fields as anthropology, sociology, 
physics, astronomy, as though I had been intimately associated with them. 
When I saw that I was getting in too deep I had always the wit to excuse 
myself and pretend to go to the toilet, which was my word for “exit.” Once,
deeply interested in genealogy, I thought it a good idea to take a job for 
a space in the genealogy division of the public library. It so happened 
that they were short a man in this division the day I called to make 
application for the job. They needed a man so badly that they put me to 
work immediately, which was more than I had bargained for. The application 
blank which I had left with the director of the library was a marvel of 
falsification. I wondered, as I listened to the poor devil who was breaking
me in, how long it would take for them to get on to me. Meanwhile my 
supervisor was climbing ladders with me, pointing out this and that, 
bending over in dark corners to extract documents, files, and such like, 
calling in other employees to introduce me, explaining hurriedly as best he
could (whilst messengers came and went as in a Shakespearean play) the most
salient features of my supposed routine. Realizing in a short time that I 
was not in the least interested in all this jabberwocky, and thinking of 
Mona waiting for me to lunch with her, I suddenly interrupted him in the 
midst of a lengthy exposition of something or other to ask where the toilet
was. He looked at me rather strangely, wondering, no doubt, why I hadn’t 
the decency to hear him out before running to the lavatory, but with the 
aid of a few grimaces and gestures, which conveyed most patently that I had
been caught short, might do it right there on the floor or in the waste 
basket, I managed to get out of his clutches, grab my hat and coat which 
fortunately were still lying on a chair near the door, and run as fast as I
could out of the building.

The dominant passion was the acquisition of knowledge, skill, mastery of 
technique, inexhaustible experience, but like a sub-dominant chord there 
existed steadily in the back of my head a vibration which meant order, 
beauty, simplification, enjoyment, appreciation. Reading Van Gogh’s letters
I identify myself with him in the struggle to lead a simple life, a life in
which art is all. How glowingly he writes about this dedication to art in 
his letters from Arles, a place I am destined to visit later through 
reading about it now I don’t even dream of ever seeing it. To give a more 
musical expression to one’s life—that is how he puts it. Over and over 
again he makes reference to the austere beauty and dignity of the life of 
the Japanese artist, dwelling on their simplicity, their certitude, their 
naturalness. It is this Japanese quality which I find in our love-nest; it 
is this bare, simple beauty, this stark elegance, which sustain and comfort
me. I find myself drawn to Japan more than China. I read of Whistler’s 
experience and fall in love with his etchings. I read Lafcadio Hearn, 
everything he has written about Japan, especially what he gives of their 
fairy tales, which tales impress me to this day more than those of any 
other people. Japanese prints adorn the walls; they hang in the bathroom as
well. They are even under the glass on my writing table. I know nothing 
about Zen yet, but I am in love with the art of Jujitsu, which is the 
supreme art of self defense. I love the miniature gardens, the bridges and 
lanterns, the temples, the beauty of their landscapes. For weeks, after 
reading Loti’s Madame Chrysanthemum, I really feel as if I were living in 
Japan. With Loti I travel from Japan to Turkey, thence to Jerusalem, I 
become so infatuated with his Jerusalem that I finally persuade the editor 
of a Jewish magazine to let me write something about Solomon’s Temple. More
research! Somewhere, somehow, I succeeded in finding a model of the temple,
showing it’s evolution, its changes—until the final destruction. I remember
reading this article I wrote on the Temple to my father one evening; I 
recall his amazement that I should posses such a profound knowledge of the 
subject … What an industrious worm I must have been!

My hunger and curiosity drive me forward in all directions at once. At 
one and the same time I am interested and absorbed in Hindu music (having 
become acquainted with a Hindu composer I met in an Indian restaurant), in 
the Ballet Russe, in the German expressionist movements, in Scriabin’s 
piano compositions, in the art of the insane (thanks to Prinzhom), in 
Chinese chess, in boxing and wrestling bouts, in hockey matches, in 
medieval architecture, in the mysteries connected with the Egyptian and 
Greek underworlds, in the cave drawings of the Cro-Magnon man, in the trade
guilds of former times, in everything pertaining to the new Russia, and so 
on and so forth, from one thing to another, sliding from one level to 
another as naturally and easily as if I were using an escalator. But was it
not in this fashion that the artists of the Renaissance acquired the 
knowledge and material for their amazing creations? Were they not reaching 
out into all avenues of life at once? Were they not insatiable and 
devouring? Were they not journeymen, tramps, criminals, warriors, 
adventurers, scientists, explorers, poets, painters, musicians, sculptors, 
architects, fanatics and devotees all in the same stride? Naturally I had 
read Cellini, Vasari’s Lives, the history of the Inquisition, the lives of 
the Popes, the story of the Medici family, the Italian, German and English 
dramas of incest, the writings of John Addington Symonds, Jacob Buckhardt, 
Funck-Brentano, all on the Renaissance, but never did I read that curious 
little book by Balzac, called Sur Catherine de Medici. There was one book I
was constantly dipping into, in moments of peace and quiet: Walter Pater’s 
book on the Renaissance. Much of it I read aloud to Ulric, marveling over 
Pater’s sensitive use of the language. Glorious evenings these, especially 
when having finished a long passage I would close the book and listen to 
Ulric expatiate lovingly on the painters he adored. The mere sound of their
names put me in ecstasy: Taddeo Gaddi, Signorelli, Fra Lippo Lippi, Piero 
della Francesca, Mantegna, Uccello, Cimabue, Piranesi, Fra Angelico, and 
such like. The names of towns and cities were of equal fascination: 
Ravenna, Mantua, Siena, Pisa, Bologna, Tiepolo, Firenze, Milano, Torino. 
Thus one evening, continuing our festal bouts on the splendors of Italy at 
the French-Italian grocery, Ulric and I, joined later by Hymie and Steve 
Romero, got into such a state of exaltation that two Italians who were 
seated at the end of the table stopped conversing with each other and 
listened in open-mouthed admiration as we moved rapidly from one figure to 
another, one town to another. Hymie and Romero, equally intoxicated by a 
language which was as foreign to them as it was to the two Italians, 
remained silent, contending themselves with replenishing the drinks. 
Exhausted finally, and about to pay up, the two Italians suddenly began to 
clap their hands. “Bravo! Bravo!” they exclaimed. “So beautiful!” We were 
embarrassed. The situation demanded another round of drinks. Joe and Louis 
joined us, offering us a choice liqueur. Then we began to sing. Fat Louis, 
moved to the guts, began to weep joyously. He begged us to stay a little 
longer, promising to fix us a beautiful rum omelette with some caviar on 
the side. In the midst of it who should walk in but that extraordinary 
Senegalese, Battling Siki, who was also a client of the establishment. He 
was a bit high and playful in a dangerous way. He amused us by doing little
tricks with matches, cards, saucers, cane, napkins. He was jolly and 
disgruntled at the same time. Something was irking him. It took the 
greatest finesse on the part of the proprietors to prevent him, in his 
playfulness, from wrecking the place. They had to ply him with drinks, 
stroke his back, salve him with compliments. He sang and danced, all by 
himself, applauding himself, slapping his thighs, patting us on the 
shoulder—playful little pats that jolted our vertebrae and made our heads 
spin. Then, for no reason at all, he suddenly scooted off, knocking over a 
few cases of beer in his boyish enthusiasm. With his departure every one 
breathed more easily. Came the omelette and the caviar. Some whitefish too,
washed down with a golden white wine, followed by some excellent black 
coffee and another rare liqueur. Louis was in ecstasy. “Have some more!” he
kept saying. “Nothing too good for you, Mr. Miller.” And Joe: “When you go 
to Europe, Mr. Miller? You no stay here long, I see it. Ah, Fiesole! By 
God, one day I go back too!”

I rolled home in a cab, singing like a man under anesthesia. Unable to 
navigate the stoop, I sat on the bottom steps laughing to myself, 
hiccoughing, mumbling and muttering crazily, orating to the birds, the 
alley cats, the telephone poles. Finally I made my way up the steps, 
slowly, painfully, sliding back a step or two and starting up again, 
reeling from one side to the other. A veritable Sisyphian ordeal. Mona 
hadn’t come home yet. I fell on the bed fully dressed and went sound 
asleep. Toward dawn I felt Mona tugging away at me. I awoke to find myself 
in a pool of vomit. Phew! What a stench! The bed had to be remade, the 
floor scrubbed, my clothes removed. Still groggy, I staggered and reeled 
about. I was still laughing to myself, disgusted yet happy, remorseful but 
gay. To stand under the shower was a feat requiring the most extraordinary 
skill. What amazed me throughout was Mona’s gentle acceptance. Not a word 
of complaint from her. She moved about like a ministering angel. The one 
pleasurable thought which kept recurring to mind, as I made ready to go to 
bed again, was that I would not have to go to work when I got up. No more 
excuses. No remorse. No guilt. I was a free-wheeler. I could sleep as long 
as I pleased. There would be a good breakfast awaiting me and, if I were 
still groggy, I could go back to bed and sleep the rest of the day. As I 
closed my eyes I had a vision of Fat Louis standing at the blazing stove, 
his eyes wet with tears, his heart pouring out into that omelette. Capri, 
Sorrento, Amalfi, Fiesole, Paestum, Taormina … Funiculi, funicula … And 
Ghirlandaio … And the Campo Santo … What a country! What a people! You bet 
I’d go there one day. Why not? Long live the Pope! (But I’ll be damned if I
kiss his ass!)

Week ends took a different tenor. The usual visit to Maude, a stroll in 
the park with her and the child, perhaps a round on the carousel, or 
rigging up a kite, or a row in the lake. Chit-chat, gossip, trivialities, 
recriminations. She was growing a bit daffy, it seemed to me. The alimony 
which we raked up with such effort was being pissed away on trifles. 
Worthless knick-knacks everywhere. Drivel about sending the child to a 
private school, the public school being unfit for our little princess. 
Piano lessons, dancing lessons, painting lessons. The price of butter, 
turkey, sardines, apricots. Melanie’s varicose veins. No parrot any more, I
noticed. No pet poodle, no dog biscuits, no Edison phonograph. More and 
more furniture piling up, more empty candy boxes lying on the floor of the 
closet. Leaving her, it was the same old tug of war. Frightful scenes. The 
child screaming and clinging to me, begging me to stay and sleep with 
mamma. Once, in the park, seated on a beautiful knoll with the child, 
watching her fly the kite I had bought her, Maude meanwhile meandering 
about on her own in the offing, the child suddenly came up to me and put 
her arms around my neck, began kissing me tenderly, calling me daddy, dear 
daddy, and so on. In spite of all my efforts, a sob broke loose, then 
another and another, and with it a flood of tears fit to drown a horse. I 
staggered to my feet, the child clinging to me for dear life, and looked 
blindly about for Maude. People stared at me in horror and walked on. 
Grief, grief, unbearable grief. The more so because all about me there was 
nothing but beauty, order, tranquility. Other children were playing with 
their parents. They were happy, radiant, bursting with joy. Only we were 
miserable, alienated, forever alienated. Every week the child was growing 
older, more comprehending, more sensitive, more reproachful in her own 
silent way. It was criminal to live thus. Under another system we might 
have continued to live together, all of us, Mona, Maude, the child, 
Melanie, the dogs, cats, umbrellas, everything. At least so I thought in 
moments of desperation. Any situation was better than these heartrending 
reunions. We were all being wounded, lacerated, Mona as much as Maude. The 
more difficult it got to raise the weekly alimony, the more guilty I felt 
toward Mona who was bearing the brunt of it all. What good was it to lead 
the life of a writer if it entailed such sacrifices? What good was it to 
live a life of bliss with Mona if my own flesh and blood had to suffer? At 
night, awake or in dream, I could feel the child’s little arms about my 
neck, pulling me toward her, pulling me homeward. Often I wept in my sleep,
groaned and whimpered, reliving these scenes of anguish. “You were weeping 
in your sleep last night,” Mona would say. And I would say: “Was I? I don’t
remember.” She knew I was lying. It made her miserable to think that her 
presence alone was not sufficient to make me happy. Often I would protest, 
though she hadn’t said a word. “I am happy, can’t you see? I don’t want a 
blessed thing.” She would be silent. Awkward pauses. “You don’t think I’m 
worried about the child, do you?” I would blurt out. And she would answer: 
“You haven’t been there for several weeks now, do you know that?” It was 
true. I had taken to staving off the regular weekly visits, would send the 
money by mail or messenger boy. “I think you ought to go this week Val. 
After all, she’s your own child.”

“I know, I know,” I would say. “Yes, I’ll go.” And then I would give a 
groan. And still another groan when I’d hear her say: “I bought something 
for the little one for you to take this time.” Why did I not buy anything 
myself? Often I stood looking into shop windows, choosing in my mind all 
the things I would like to buy, not just for the child, but for Mona, for 
Melaine, even for Maude. But I didn’t think it was right for me to buy 
things when I wasn’t earning anything myself. The money Mona earned at the 
theater was not enough for our needs, not nearly enough. She was constantly
gold-digging, week in and week out.

Sometimes she came home with staggering gilts for me, alter an unusual 
touch, I suppose. I begged her not to get me things. “I have everything,” I
said. And it was true. (Except for the bicycle and the piano. Somehow I had
forgotten all about these items.) Things piled up so fast that even if I 
had received them, I doubt that I would have used them. It would have been 
more sensible to give me a mouth organ and a pair of roller skates.

*

Sometimes strange nostalgic fits assailed me. I might wake up with 
hang-over of a dream and decide that it was most imperative to revive 
certain strong recollections, as of that lat tub I called “Uncle Charlie,” 
who used to sit me on his lap and regale me with stories of his exploits 
during the Spanish-American war. It meant a long ride, by elevated line and
trolley, to a little place called Glendale, where Joey and Tony had once 
lived. (Uncle Charlie was their uncle, not mine.) After all the years which
had passed, the sleepy little hamlet still wore a quaint air to me. The 
houses where my little friends had lived were still standing, hardly 
altered, fortunately. The tavern with its stables, where friends and 
relatives used to gather of a summer’s evening, was also there. I could 
recall running from table to table as a tiny tot, sipping the dregs from 
the beer mugs, or collecting pennies and dimes from the tipsy revelers. 
Even the maudlin German songs, which they sang with iron lungs, ran in my 
ears: “Lauderbach, lauderbach, hab’ ich mein Strumpf verlor’n.” I see them 
suddenly sobered, dead serious now, gathered in hollow square, like the 
last remnants of a gallant regiment, men, women and children, shoulder to 
shoulder, all members of the Kunst Verein (a nucleus of the great ancestral
Saengerbund), waiting solemnly for the leader to sound the tuning fork. 
Like faithful warriors standing at the border of a foreign land, their 
chests heaving, their eyes bright and liquid, they raise their powerful 
voices in a heavenly choir, intoning some deeply moving Lied which stirs 
them to the depths of their souls … Moving along. Now the little Catholic 
church where Mr. Imhof, the father of Tony and Joey (the first artist I was
to meet in the flesh), had made the stained glass windows, the frescoes on 
the walls and ceiling, and the carved pulpit. Though his children were 
fearful of him, though he was stem, tyrannical, aloof, I was always 
strongly drawn to this somber man. At bed-time we were always led to his 
study in the garret to bid him good night. Invariably he was sitting at his
table, painting water colors. A student’s lamp threw a soft light on the 
table, leaving the rest of the room in chiaroscuro. He looked so earnest 
and tender then, distraught, and ever remote. I used to wonder what 
impelled him to remain long hours of the night glued to his work table. But
what registered most of all was that he was different: he was of another 
breed … Still strolling about. At the railroad tracks now, where we used to
play in the ravine: a sort of no man’s land between the edge of the village
and the cemeteries on the other side of the tracks. Somewhere hereabouts 
there had lived a distant relative whom I called Tante Grussy, a youngish 
woman of great beauty, with large gray eyes and black hair, who even then, 
even though I was but a child, I sensed to be an unusual person. No one had
ever known her to raise her voice in anger; no one had ever heard her speak
ill of another; no one had ever asked her for help in vain. She had a 
contralto voice, and when she sang she accompanied herself on the guitar; 
sometimes she dressed in masquerade and danced to the tambourine, 
fluttering a long Japanese fan. Her husband became a drunkard; he used to 
beat her up, it was said. But Tante Grussy only became sweeter, gentler, 
more compassionate, more charming and gracious. And then, after a time, it 
began to be rumored about that she had become religious—this was always 
said in whispers, as if to imply that she had gone mad. I wanted so much to
see her again. I searched and searched for the house but no one seemed to 
have any knowledge of her. It was hinted that she may have been committed 
to the asylum … Strange thoughts, strange remembrances, walking about in 
the sleepy village of Glendale. This adorable, this saintly Tante Grussy, 
and the jovial sensual tub of flesh whom I called Uncle Charlie—I loved 
them both. The one spoke of nothing but torturing and killing the Igorotes,
of tracking down Aguinaldo in the swamps and mountain fastnesses of the 
Philippines; the other hardly spoke at all, she was a presence, a goddess 
in earthly guise who had elected to stay with us and illumine our lives 
through the divine radiance which she shed.

When he left for the Philippines as a lance corporal, this Charlie boy 
was a normal-sized individual. Some eight years later, when he returned as 
commissary sergeant, he weighed almost four hundred pounds and was 
constantly perspiring. I remember vividly a gift he made me one day—six 
dumdum bullets for which he had had a blue linen case made. These, he 
maintained, had been taken from one of Aguinaldo’s men; for being guilty of
using these bullets (which the Germans had furnished the Filipinos) they 
had executed the rebel and stuck his head on a pole. Stories such as this, 
together with horripilating tales about the “water-cure” which our soldiers
administered to the Filipinos, made me sympathize with Aguinaldo. I used to
pray every night that the Americans would never capture him. Unwittingly, 
Uncle Charlie had made him my hero.

Thinking of Aguinaldo, I suddenly recalled a banner day on which I was 
dressed in my best Lord Fauntleroy outfit and taken early in the morning to
a beautiful brownstone house on Bedford Avenue, where, from a balcony, we 
were to watch “the parade.” The first contingent of our heroes had just 
returned from the Philippines. Teddy Roosevelt was there—“up front”—leading
his Rough Riders. There was tremendous excitement over this event; people 
wept and cheered, flags and bunting everywhere, flowers showered from the 
windows. People kissed one another and shouted Alleluias. I had a grand 
time, but it was a bit confusing to me. I couldn’t grasp the reason for 
such extravagant emotions. That evening a cavalry officer and an artillery 
man came to our home for dinner. This was the beginning of a romance for my
two aunts. Nipped in the bud, however, because my grandfather, who hated 
the military, wouldn’t hear of having them for sons-in-law. I can still 
remember his scorn and contempt for the whole Philippine campaign. To him 
it was just a skirmish. “It should have been over in thirty days,” he 
snorted. And then he talked of Bismark and Von Moltke, of the battle of 
Waterloo and the seige of Austerlitz. He had come to America during the 
days of our Civil War. That was a war, he kept asserting. To lick helpless 
savages, anybody could do that. Just the same, he was obliged to give a 
toast to Admiral Dewey, the hero of Manila Bay. “You’re an American now,” 
said some one. “And I’m a good American,” I can hear my grandfather saying.
“But that doesn’t mean that I like to kill. Put away the uniforms, get back
to work!”

This grandfather, Valentin Nieting, was a man whom everybody respected 
and admired. He had spent ten years in London as a master tailor, had 
acquired a beautiful English accent there, and always spoke affectionately 
of the English. He said they were a civilized people. All his life he 
retained many English mannerisms. His crony, whom he met on Saturday nights
at a saloon on Second Avenue, run by my Uncle Paul, was a skinny, fiery 
sort of man named Mr. Crow, an Englishman from Birmingham. No one in our 
family liked Mr. Crow, except grandfather. The reason was that Mr. Crow was
a Socialist. He was always making speeches too, and full of vitriol. My 
grandfather, whose memory extended back to the days of ‘48, relished and 
applauded these speeches. He too was against the “bosses.” And of course 
against the military. It’s strange, when I think back, what an unholy fear 
the word Socialism inspired in those days. None of our family would have 
anything to do with a man calling himself a Socialist; he was worse than a 
Catholic or a Jew. America was a free country, the land of opportunity, and
it was one’s duty to become successful and rich. My father, who hated his 
own boss—“a bloody, blimey Englishman,” he always called him—was soon to 
become a boss tailor himself. My grandfather had to accept work from my 
father. But he never lost that dignity, that assurance and integrity which 
always made him a trifle superior to my father. Before long all the “boss 
tailors” were to become woefully impoverished, forced to band together to 
share expenses, to keep in steady employment a small crew of workmen. The 
wages of the workmen—cutter, bushelman, coat maker, pants maker—would 
continue to rise, would represent more per week than the boss’s own share. 
Eventually—last act in the drama—these little workmen, all foreigners, 
usually despised, but envied too sometimes, would be lending the bosses 
money in order to keep their businesses going. Maybe all this was the 
result of those pernicious Socialist doctrines which agitators like Mr. 
Crow had sponsored. Maybe not. Maybe there was something inherently 
disastrous in that “Get-Rich-Quick” Wallingford doctrine with which the 
young men of my generation had been inoculated.

My grandfather died before the first World War broke out. He left a 
sizeable estate, as did the other emigres in that old neighborhood, all of 
whom had come to America at the same time and from all parts of Europe. 
They did far, far better in this glorious land of the free than did their 
sons and daughters. They had started from scratch, like that butcher boy 
from Germany, my namesake—Henry Miller “the cattle king”—who ended by 
owning an enormous slice of California. It’s true, there may have been more
opportunity in those days, but there was also the fact that these men were 
made of sterner stuff, that they were more industrious, more persevering, 
more resourceful, more disciplined. They began in some humble 
trade—butcher, carpenter, tailor, shoemaker—and the money they saved they 
earned by the sweat of their brow. They lived modestly always, and quite 
comfortably, despite the absence of all the comforts, all the labor-saving 
devices now deemed indispensable. I remember the toilet in my grandfather’s
home. First it was just an outhouse in the yard; later he had a cubbyhole 
built in upstairs. But even after gas had been introduced there was no 
illumination in that toilet except for a little taper floating in sweet 
oil. My grandfather would never have considered it of importance to have a 
gas light in the toilet. His children ate well and were clothed; they were 
taken to the theater occasionally, they went with him to outings and 
picnics—glorious affairs!—and they sang with him when he attended the 
reunions of the Saengerbund. A simple, wholesome life, and far from dull. 
In winter, when the snow and ice came, he would sometimes take them for a 
ride in an open sleigh drawn by horse. He himself would go iceboating 
occasionally. And in summer there would be those unforgettable trips, by 
excursion boat, to places like Glen Island, for example, or New Rochelle. I
can think of nothing offered the child today which can rival those outings.
Nor can I think of anything to rival the magical festival grounds of Glen 
Island. The only thing approaching it is the atmosphere of certain 
paintings of Renoir and Seurat. Here again we have that golden ambiance, 
that gayety and ripeness, that plushy, carnal opulence so characteristic of
the somnolescent, yawning, indolent period between the end of the 
Franco-Prussian war and the outbreak of the first World War. Undoubtedly it
was a bourgeois efflorescence, infected with the taint of a rotting odor, 
but the men Who epitomized it, the men who glorified it in word and 
pigment, were not tainted. I can never think of my grandfather as being 
tainted, nor can I think of Renoir and Seurat in that way. I think that my 
grandfather, in his way of life, had more affinities with Seurat and Renoir
than with the new American way of life which was then germinating. I think 
he would have understood these men and their art, had he been permitted. My
parents. never. Nor the boys I grew up with in the street.

I ramble on, touched by memories of old. It was thus my mind wandered as 
I made the rounds of the old haunts. No wonder the days were so full, so 
savory. Starting out for Glendale I would finish up in “the old 
neighborhood.” Couldn’t resist walking by the old ancestral house again. 
Wouldn’t dream, however, of calling on my relatives, who still lived there.
On the other side of the street I would take a stand—look up to the third 
floor where we once lived, try to recreate the image of the world I had 
known as a boy of five or six. That front window, where I used to sit, will
go with me into the beyond, will frame the memories which I shall relive 
while waiting to be born into a new body. I recall the panic and terror 
that invaded me when my mother first forced me to wash the windows for her;
sitting on the sill, my body hanging outside, three stories from the 
pavement—an immense height to a child of seven or eight—my knees gripping 
the sill for dear life. The window rested on my legs like a leaden weight. 
Fear of raising the window, fear of losing my grip. My mother insisting 
that there were still some specks of dirt to be washed off. (Later, when 
quite grown up, my mother would tell me how I loved to wash the windows for
her. Or how I loved to hang the awnings. How I loved this, how I loved that
… All bloody lies!)

Standing there in a deep reverie, I wonder to myself if perhaps I hadn’t 
been a bit of a sissy in those days. No boy in the neighborhood was better 
dressed than I. No one had better manners. No one was more alert and 
intelligent. I won all the prizes, got all the applause. So certain were 
they that I knew how to take care of myself, it never dawned on my parents 
that my playmates were already steeped in sin and vice. Even the fondest 
mother should have been able to detect in little Johnnie Ludlow the makings
of a criminal. Even the most negligent parent should have been able to 
discern that little Alfie Betcha was already a gangster and a hoodlum. The 
pride of the Sunday School, such as I was, always chose for his boon 
companions the worst urchins in the neighborhood. Wasn’t my darling mother 
aware of this? Able to recite the catechism backwards, intelligent little 
monkey that I was, I had also, when with my comrades, a tongue that could 
reel off such filth, abuse and malediction as would do honor to a gallows 
bird. It was the older boys who instructed us, to be sure. Not overtly or 
deliberately either. We were always hanging about, listening in on their 
arguments and disputes. They were not so much older than us, either, when I
think of it. Twelve years of age at the most, they were. But words like 
whore, bitch, cocksucker, bastard, shit-ass, fuck, prick, and so forth were
constantly on their lips. When we younger ones employed these words they 
would laugh hilariously. I remember one day, elated by some new vocable I 
had acquired, going up to a girl of fifteen or so, and calling her vile 
names. When she got hold of me to spank me I swore at her like a trooper. I
probably bit her hand too, and kicked her in the shanks. At any rate, I 
remember that she was boiling with rage and mortification. “I’ll teach you,
you little brat,” she said, and with that she took me by the ear and 
dragged me to the police station around the corner. Led me right up the big
steps, opened the door, and shoved me into the center of the room. There I 
was, a tiny urchin, facing the desk sergeant seated high above me, only his
head visible above the desk top.

“What’s the meaning of this?” His stem, thundering voice scared the wits 
out of me.

“Tell him,” commanded the girl. “Tell him what you called me!”

I was too terrified to open my mouth. I just gasped.

“I see,” said the sergeant, raising his bushy black eyebrows and glaring 
at me threateningly. “He’s been using dirty language, has he?”

“Yes, your honor,” said the girl.

“Well, we’ll see about that.” He rose from his throne and made as if to 
descend.

I began to whimper, then to bellow.

“He’s really a good boy,” said the girl, coming over to me and patting my
head affectionately. “His name is Henry Miller.”

“Henry Miller t” said the sergeant. “Why, I know his father and 
grandfather. You don’t mean to tell me this little shaver is using bad 
language?”

With this he came down from his high place and, stooping over me, he took
me by the hand. “Henry Miller,” he said, “I’m surprised at you. Why … ” 
(The mention of my name in this public place, in the police station of all 
places, had a tremendous effect upon me. I already regarded myself as a 
criminal, saw my name being heralded all over the street, printed in 
headlines five feet tall. I trembled to think what my parents would say 
when I got home, for I surmised that the news would have traveled ahead of 
me. Perhaps the sergeant had already detailed a man to inform my mother of 
the predicament. Perhaps she would have to come to bail me out. Together 
with such fears and forebodings there was a certain pride, too, in hearing 
my name ring out in that empty police station. I had a status now. No one 
had ever called me by both names at once. I was always just Henry. Now I 
had become Henry Miller, a full-fledged personage. The man would write my 
name and address down in the big book. They would have a record of me … I 
grew ten years older in that fearful moment.)

A few minutes later, safe on my own street, the girl having released me 
with a promise never to use such words again, I felt heroic. I sensed that 
it was all a game, that no one had any intention of prosecuting me, or even
of telling my parents. I was ashamed of myself for bawling like a sissy in 
front of the sergeant. The fact that he was such a good friend of my father
and grandfather meant that he would never do me harm. Instead of thinking 
of him as some one to be feared, I began to look upon him as my protector 
and confidential ally. It had impressed me enormously that my family was in
good standing with the police, perhaps on intimate terms with them. Then 
and there I developed a contempt for the powers that be …

Before tearing myself away from the old haunts I just had to sneak 
through the hall and out into the back yard where the outhouse had once 
stood. On the side where the old smoke house used to be was a 
figure—painted on the fence—of a woman leading a little dog. It had been 
done in black paint and tar. It was almost obliterated now. This crude 
piece of art haunted me as a child. It was, so to speak, my private 
Egyptian tomb painting. (Curiously, later on, when I myself took up 
painting, I often made figures which reminded me of this stark delineation.
Instinctively my hand traced the same stiff outline; for years, it seemed, 
I could never do anything full on, but always In this same archaic profile.
My heads always had a hawk or witchlike expression; people thought I was 
deliberately trying to be nightmarish but I wasn’t—it was the only way I 
could represent the human figure.

Returning to the street I involuntarily raised my eyes, as if to greet 
Mrs. O’Melio, who used to harbor all the stray cats of the neighborhood on 
her flat roof.

There were over a hundred which she fed twice daily. She lived alone, and
my mother always hinted that she must be cracked Such Gargantuan solicitude
was beyond my mother’s comprehension.

I walk slowly toward the south side where I will catch the crosstown 
trolley for home. Every store front is rich with memories. After 
twenty-five years, despite all the changes, all the work of demolition, the
old dwellings are still there. Faded, ill-kept, crumbling, like sturdy old 
teeth they still “do their work.” The light that once animated them, the 
radiance they once shed, are gone. It was in summer that they were 
especially redolent: they actually perspired, like human beings. The owners
felt a pride in keeping their homes neat and trim; the glow of fresh paint,
the deep shadows thrown by the awnings, were the reflections of their own 
humble spirits. The homes of the physicians were always a little better 
than the others, a little more pretentious. In the summer one entered the 
doctor’s office through beaded curtains which tinkled as one swished 
through. The doctor always seemed to be a connoisseur of art; on the walls 
there were usually somber oil paintings framed in heavy gilt. The subject 
matter of these paintings was thoroughly alien to me. We had nothing like 
these on our walls; our pictures were given us by tradesmen at holiday 
times, bright, vile chromos which we looked at every day and forgot 
instantly. (Whenever my mother felt obliged to give something away to some 
poor neighbor she always chose a picture from the wall. “Thank God we’re 
rid of that,” she would murmur. Sometimes I would run to her with an 
offering of my own, a bright new toy, a pair of boots, a drum, because I 
too was surfeited with possessions. “Oh no, Henry, not that’.” I can hear 
her say. “That’s too new!”

“But I don’t want it any more,” I would insist. “Don’t talk that way,” 
she would answer, “or God will punish you.”)

Passing the old Presbyterian Church. At two o’clock the Sunday School 
class used to meet. How delightfully cool it was down there in the basement
where we congregated! Outside the heat danced from the pavement. Big flies 
buzzed away, darting in and out of the shadows. When I think of what summer
then meant to me, the tangible, earth-born summer which shimmered and 
vibrated throughout the long, festive days, I think of Debussy’s music. Was
he a lion of the Midi, I wonder? Did he have an African strain in his 
blood? Or were those plangent melodies studded with clustered chords an 
expression of yearning for a sun he had never known?

Every joyous period I have known seems to be connected with the sun. 
Thinking of Mr. Roberts, our Sunday School superintendent, I think not only
of that blazing orb in the sky but of the celestial warmth which this queer
old Englishman radiated. His long flowing moustache, the color of corn, his
cheery, ruddy face, what health and confidence they imparted! He always 
appeared in the same cutaway suit with gray spats and an ascot under his 
chin. Like the minister and the deacons of the church, he was a wealthy 
man. They ought to have moved to better quarters long ago, but they were 
attached to the old neighborhood and, besides, they enjoyed patronizing the
poor and humble. At Christmas time they were truly bountiful with their 
gifts. My mother was frightfully impressed by this largesse; it was 
probably on this account that I grew up a Presbyterian instead of a 
Lutheran.

That evening, rehearsing my boyhood days with Mona, it suddenly occurred 
to me that it would be a good touch to send the old minister, who was still
alive, a sample of my work. I thought it might make him feel good to know 
that one of his “little boys” was now a writer. God knows what it was I 
sent him but it had anything but the desired effect. Almost by return mail 
I received my manuscript back, together with a letter couched in impeccable
English telling me of his sorrow and bewilderment. That I, who had been 
nurtured in the shelter of the fold, should descend to such crude, 
realistic means of expression, pained him. There was something in his 
letter about the garbage can, I remember. That riled me. Without wasting 
time, I sat down and replied in the most abusive terms, informing him that 
he was a fool and a dotard, that my one aim in life was to live down the 
stupid nonsense he had tried to implant. I added something about our Lord 
and Saviour which, though apt, was intended to upset him still more. As a 
crowning insult, I advised him to clear out of the old neighborhood, which 
he did not and never had belonged to. I added that I hoped to see the star 
of David supplanting the Cross next time I passed the venerable old 
edifice. (My wish, incidentally, was soon thereafter gratified. The place 
did become a synagogue! And the rectory, where our dear minister once 
lived, was taken over by an aged rabbi with a flowing white beard.)

After I sent the letter I was of course repentant. What a silly thing to 
do! Still playing “the bad boy.” It was just like me, though, to revere the
past and to spit on it. I was doing the same thing with friends—and with 
authors. I accepted and cherished out of the past only what I could convert
to creative ends.

*

Did I mention Van Gogh, whose “Letters” I was then reading and recently 
reread after a lapse of twenty years? What excited me was Vincent’s flaming
desire to live the life of an artist, to be nothing but the artist, come 
what may.. With men of his stripe art becomes a religion. Christ long dead 
to the Church is born again. The passionate Vincent redeems the world 
through the miraculous use of pigment. The despised and forsaken dreamer 
re-enacts the drama of crucifixion. He rises from his grave to triumph over
the unbelievers.

Over and over again Van Gogh speaks of desiring nothing more than to lead
the simple life. He is extravagant only in the use of his materials. 
Everything goes into his art. It is such a thorough sacrifice that, by 
comparison, the lives of most painters seem pale and worthless. Van Gogh 
knows that he will never be recognized in his lifetime; he knows that he 
will never reap the harvest of his toil. But the artists to come—perhaps 
his renunciation will make it easier for them! That is his most profound 
wish. In a thousand different ways he says: “For myself I expect nothing. 
We are doomed. We live outside our time.”

How he sweats and struggles to get another fifty good canvases which his 
brother is to exhibit to a scornful, contemptuous world! The last few years
of his life he is truly a madman. But a madman in the proper sense of the 
word. All flame and spirit, he overflows with creative energy. He is the 
cup which runneth over. And he is alone.

It is difficult to get women to pose, at Arles. His paintings are 
atrocious, people say. “They are just full of paint!” I laugh and weep when
I read this. Full of paint’.” How terrifyingly true! How ironic that this 
wonderful thing which had come to pass (the saturation of canvas with 
color, with pure riotous color), that this dream of all the great painters 
(at last realized) should be used against him! Poor Van Gogh! Rich Van 
Gogh! Almighty Van Gogh! What a cruel, blasphemous jest! As if to say of a 
man of God—“But he is too full of God!”

I should like to paint in such a way, says Van Gogh, that every one who 
has eyes may see clearly what is there. It was in this way that Jesus spoke
and lived. But the blind and the deaf are with us always. Only they see, 
only they hear, only they act who are filled with the precious holy spirit.

We know that for a long time Van Gogh abstained from using color, that he
forced himself to work with pencil, charcoal, ink. We know too that he 
began by studying the human figure, that he sought to learn from Nature. 
Yes, he was training himself to read what was hidden beneath the shell. He 
consorted with the poor and humble, with down-trodden workers, with 
outcasts. He adored the peasant, extolling him rather than the man of 
culture. He studied the shapes of things, the feel of objects. He 
familiarized himself with all that was common and everyday so that later, 
when he would have acquired the necessary skill and technique, he could 
render this world of the ordinary, the commonplace, the everyday in the 
light of a reality divine. What Van Gogh desired was to make this all too 
familiar world familiar in a new sense—in an everlasting sense, so to 
speak. He wanted to show that it was not clothed in evil and ugliness, that
it was never dull or boring, that we have only to look at it with loving 
eyes to recognize its splendor and magnificence. And when he had 
accomplished this, when he had given us a new earth, he found that he was 
no longer able to cope with the world: he voluntarily sought out an asylum.

It took almost fifty years for the man in the street to realize that a 
Christ, manifesting himself as a painter, had lately been in our midst. 
Suddenly, due to the immense popularity of a sensational book, thousands 
upon thousands take to visiting the museums and galleries; they converge 
like a Niagara upon the intoxicating masterpieces of that despised and 
forlorn genius, Vincent Van Gogh. Reproductions of his work are to be seen 
everywhere; they sprout in the most unexpected places. Van Gogh at last 
arrives. At last “the great failure” comes into his own. His faith was 
justified, apparently. His sacrifice was not in vain. For, not only does he
reach the masses, what is more important, he influences the painters.

In one of the letters—back in 1888!—he writes: “Painting promises to 
become more subtle—more musical and less sculptural—enfinelle promet la 
couleur.”

He underlines the word color. How prophetic his insight! What is modem 
painting if not a hymn to color? Tantamount to revelation, the free, 
audacious use of color precipitated a liberation undreamed of. j Centuries 
of painting are annihilated overnight. Unbelievable vistas open up.

In those wonderful letters in which Van Gogh relates his discoveries 
about the laws of color (most of which were formulated by Delacroix), he 
dwells at some length on the use of black and white. One should not t 
eschew the use of black, he writes. There is black and there is black. Did 
not Rembrandt and Franz Hals employ black? he asks. And Velasquez too? Not 
just t black either, but twenty-seven different kinds of black.

It all depends what kind of black, and how one employs it. The same for 
white. (Soon Utrillo used it to demonstrate the validity of Van Gogh’s 
apperceptions. Is not his white period still the best?)

I speak of black and white because it was inevitable that this 
revolutionary in the world of color should dwell on first and last things. 
In this he reminds us of those true sons of God who fear not evil or 
ugliness but embrace and incorporate them in their world of goodness and 
beauty.

When the nineteenth century crumbled on the field of Armageddon the old 
barriers were burst asunder. The demonic artists who dominated that century
contributed as much to the undermining of the past as did the statesmen and
militarists, the financiers and industrialists, the revolutionaries and the
propagandists who had paved the way for the debacle. The war of 1914 seemed
like the end of something long overdue. Actually, it opened up vast new 
horizons. Through its work of demolition it afforded outlet to vast new 
fields of energy. The period between the first and second World Wars is 
rich in artistic production. It is in this period, when the world is about 
to be shaken to its foundations a second time, that I was taking form. It 
was a difficult period primarily because one had to rely so exclusively 
upon himself, upon his own unique powers. Society, tom by all manner of 
dissension, offered the artist even less support and encouragement than in 
Van Gogh’s time. The very existence of the artist was challenged. But was 
not every one’s existence menaced? Emerging from the second World War, 
there is a vague feeling that the earth itself is threatened with 
extinction. We have entered into another Apocalyptic era. The spirit of man
is being convulsed as was the earth itself in ancient geologic periods. It 
is death we are shaking off—the rigidity of death. We deplore the spirit of
violence which is prevalent, but to burst the bonds of death the spirit of 
man must be riven. The most dazzling possibilities enfold us. We are 
infused and invested with powers and energies heretofore undreamed of. We 
are about to live again as human beings, in the full majesty which the word
human implies. The heroic work of our forerunners seems now like the work 
of sacrificial victims. It is not necessary for us to repeat their 
sacrifices. It is for us to enjoy the fruits. The past lies in ruins, the 
future yawns invitingly. Take this everyday world and embrace it! That is 
what the spirit urges. What better world can there be than this in which we
have full responsibility, each and every one of us? Labor not for the men 
to come! Cease laboring altogether, and create! For creation is play, and 
play is divine.

That is the message I get whenever I read the life of Van Gogh. His final
despair, ending in madness and suicide, could be interpreted as divine 
impatience. “The Kingdom of Heaven is here,” he was shouting. “Why do ye 
not enter?”

We weep crocodile tears over his lamentable end, forgetting the burst of 
splendor which preceded it. Do we weep when the sun sinks into the ocean? 
The full magnificence of the sun is revealed to us only in the few moments 
preceding and following its disappearance. It will appear again at dawn, 
another magnificence, another sun perhaps. All during the day it nourishes 
and sustains us, but we scarcely give heed to it. We know it is there, we 
count on it, but we offer no thanks, no devotion. The great luminaries, 
like Nietzsche, like Rimbaud, like Van Gogh, are human suns which suffer 
the same fate as the celestial orb. It is only when they are sinking, or 
have sunk from sight, that we become aware of the glory that was theirs. In
mourning their passing we blind our eyes to the existence of other new 
suns. We look backward and forward but never does our gaze pierce direct to
the heart of reality. If we do occasionally worship the solar body which 
gives us warmth and light we reflect not on the suns which have been 
blazing since eternity. We accept unthinkingly the fact that all space is 
studded with suns.

Verily, the universe swims in light. Everything is alive and alight. Man 
too is the recipient of inexhaustible radiant energy. Strange, only in the 
mind of man is there darkness and paralysis.

A little too much light, a little too much energy (here on earth), and 
one is rendered unfit for human society. The reward of the visionary is the
madhouse or the cross. A gray, neutral world is our natural habitat, it 
would seem. It has been so for a long time now. But that world, that 
condition of things, is passing. Like it or not, with blinkers-and-blinders
or without, we stand on the threshold of a new world. We shall be forced to
understand and accept—because the great luminaries whom we cast out of our 
midst have convulsed our vision. We shall be witness to splendors and 
horrors, alternately and simultaneously. We shall see with a thousand eyes,
like the goddess Indra. The stars are moving in on us, even the most 
distant ones.

With our instruments we now detect worlds of whose existence ancient man 
had not the slightest inkling. We are able to plot realms of worlds beyond 
our present ken, because our minds are already receptive to the light which
emanates from them. At the same time we are also able to visualize our own 
wholesale destruction. But are we frozen in our tracks? No. Our faith is 
greater than we dare admit. We sense the magnificence of that life eternal 
which is man’s and which we have ever denied. Despite all our pride and 
vanity, we behave as if we knew nothing of our true heritage. We protest 
that we are only human, all-too-human. But if we were truly human we would 
be capable of all things, be ready for all exigencies, know all conditions 
of being. We ought to remind ourselves daily, repeat it like a litany, that
in our being lies concealed the whole gamut of existence. We should cease 
worshiping and inspire worship. Above all, we should cease postponing the 
act of becoming what in fact and essence we are.

“I prefer,” wrote Van Gogh, “to paint men’s eyes than to paint 
cathedrals, because there is something in men’s eyes which is not in 
cathedrals, however majestic and imposing the latter may be … “

CHAPTER THREE

It is only for a few brief months that this heavenly period lasts. Soon 
it will be nothing but trouble, nothing but want, nothing but frustration. 
Until I get to Paris only three short scripts will ever be published—the 
first in a magazine dedicated to the advancement of the colored people, the
second in a magazine sponsored by a friend and which has but one issue, and
the third in a magazine revived by good old Frank Harris.

Thereafter everything I submit for publication will bear my wife’s 
signature. (Only one freakish exception, of which more later.) It is agreed
that I can do nothing on my own. I am simply to write and leave the rest to
Mona. Her job at the theater has already petered out. The rent has been 
long overdue. My visits to Maude have become less and less regular and the 
alimony is paid only now and then, when we make a haul. Soon Mona’s 
wardrobe gives out, and I, like a dolt, make vain efforts to beg a dress or
a suit of my old sweethearts. When it gets bitter cold she wears my 
overcoat.

Mona is for taking a job in a cabaret, but I refuse to hear of it. With 
each mail I look forward to a letter of acceptance accompanied by a check. 
I must have between twenty and thirty manuscripts floating about; they come
and go like trained carrier pigeons. It is getting to be a problem to raise
the money for the postage. Everything is becoming a problem.

In the midst of this first set-back we are rescued for a brief spell by 
the arrival of my old friend O’Mara who, after quitting the Cosmodemonic 
Telegraph Company, had gone on a long cruse with some fishermen in the 
Caribbean. The adventure had earned him some money.

We had hardly embraced one another when, in characteristic fashion, 
O’Mara emptied his pockets, placing the money in a heap on the table. “The 
kitty,” he called it. It’ was to be for our common use. A few hundred 
dollars in all, enough either to pay our debts or to live on for a month or
two.

“Have you anything to drink around here? No? Let me run out and get 
something.”

He came back with a few bottles and a bag full of food. “Where’s the 
kitchen here? I don’t seem to see it.”

“There is no kitchen; we’re not supposed to cook.”

“What?” he yelled. “No kitchen? What do you pay for this joint?”

When we told him he said we were crazy, plumb crazy. Mona didn’t relish 
that in the least.

“How the hell do you manage, then?” he asked, scratching his head.

“To be frank,” I said, “we don’t.”

Mona was almost in tears now.

“Neither of you working?” he continued.

“Val’s working,” was Mona’s prompt reply.

“You mean writing, I suppose,” said O’Mara, implying that that was just a
pastime.

“Certainly,” said Mona with asperity, “what would you want him to do?”

“I? I don’t want him to do anything. I was just wondering how you lived …
you know, where you got the dough?”

He was silent a moment, then he said: “By the way, that chap who let me 
in, was he the landlord? Looked like a swell guy.”

“He is, too,” I said. “He’s a Virginian. Never pesters us for the rent. A
real gentleman, I’ll say.”

“You ought to treat him right,” said O’Mara. “Listen, why don’t we let 
him have something on account?”

“No,” said Mona quickly, “don’t do that, please. He won’t mind waiting a 
little longer. Besides, I expect to have some money soon.”

“You do?” said I, ever suspicious of these rash statements.

“Well, the hell with that,” said O’Mara, pouring out the sherry “Let’s 
sit down and have a drink. I brought some ham and eggs, and some good 
cheese. Too bad we have to throw it away.”

“What do you mean, throw it away?” said Mona. ‘We have a little 
two-burner gas stove in the bathroom.”

“Is that where you cook? Christ!”

“No, we just keep it there, out of sight.”

“But they must smell the cooking upstairs, don’t they?” By they O’Mara 
meant the landlord and his wife.

“Of course they do,” I said, “but they’re discreet. They pretend that 
they smell nothing.”

“Wonderful people,” said O’Mara. He meant by this that only Southerners 
could display such tact.

The next moment he was suggesting that we look for a cheaper place, with 
conveniences. “That money’s going to vanish is no time the way you people 
live. I’ll look around for a job, of course, but you know me. Anyway, I’d 
like to take it easy for a while.” I smiled “Don’t worry,” I said, 
“everything will be hunky dory. Just having you around will make things 
easier.”

“But where will he sleep?” asked Mona, not too pleased with this idea.

‘We can buy a cot, can’t we?” I pointed to the money lying on the table.

“But the landlord?”

“We won’t tell him right away. Besides, we’re privileged to have a guest,
aren’t we? He doesn’t need to know that Ted is a boarder.”

“I can sleep just as well on the floor,” said O’Mara.

“I wouldn’t dream of it! We’ll go out after lunch and get a second-hand 
cot. We’ll sneak it in after dark, eh?”

I saw that it was time to say something to Mona. She hadn’t taken so well
to O’Mara, that was obvious. He was a little too blunt and forthright.

“Listen, Mona,” I began, “you’re going to like Ted when you get to know 
him. We’ve known each other since we were kids, isn’t that right, Ted?”

“But I have nothing against him,” said Mona. “I don’t want him telling us
what we should do, that’s all.”

“She’s right, Ted,” I said, “you are a bit forward, you know that A lot 
of things have happened since I last saw you. We’re in a different world 
now. It’s been wonderful until just recently. All due to Mona. Listen, if 
you two don’t get to like one another it’s going to be too bad.”

“I’ll clear out any time you give the sign,” said O’Mara.

“I’m sorry,” said Mona, “if I gave the wrong impression. If Val says 
you’re a friend there must be something to you … “

“What’s this Val business?” said O’Mara, interrupting her.

“Oh, she prefers Val to Henry, that’s all. You’ll get used to it.”

“The hell I will. You’re Henry to me.”

“I can see we’re going to get along swell,” I chuckled. I got up to 
inspect the food. “Do you suppose we could have lunch soon?” I asked.

“It’s only eleven o’clock,” said Mona.

“I know, but I’m getting hungry. Ham-and-eggs sounds enticing. Besides, 
we haven’t had too much to eat lately. Let’s make up for lost time.”

O’Mara couldn’t restrain himself. “As long as I’m around you’re going to 
eat well. If we only had a regular kitchen! I could dish up some swell 
meals.”

“Mona knows how to cook,” I said. “We have wonderful meals—when we eat.”

“You mean to say you don’t eat every day?”

“He exaggerates,” said Mona. “If he misses one meal he thinks he’s 
starving.”

“That’s true,” I said, pouring out another glass of sherry. “I’m thinking
of the future all the time. Something tells me it’s going to be a long, 
hard grind.”

“Haven’t you sold anything yet?” asked O’Mara.

I shook my head.

That’s really tough,” he said. “Listen, (an afterthought) let me look at 
your stuff later, will you? Maybe I can peddle it for you—if it’s any 
good.”

“If it’s any good?” Mona blazed. ‘What do you mean?”

O’Mara burst out laughing. “Oh, I know he’s a genius. That’s what’s 
wrong, perhaps. You can’t give it to ‘em straight, you know. It’s got to be
watered down. I know Henry.”

With every crack he made O’Mara put his foot in deeper. I had a 
presentiment things were not going to work out at all. However, as long as 
the money held out we would enjoy a respite. After that he’d probably get a
job and fend for himself.

Ever since I knew O’Mara he had been making these sorties and coming back
with a little jack which he always divvied up with me. There never had been
a period when he had found me in good straits. Our friendship dated from 
the time we were seventeen or eighteen. We met for the first time in the 
dark at a railway station in New Jersey. Bill Woodruff and I were spending 
a vacation on the shores of a beautiful lake. Alec Walker, their boss, who 
had come to visit us, had brought O’Mara along as a surprise. It was a long
drive from the station to the farm house where we were boarding. (We were 
traveling by horse and carriage.)

About midnight we got back to the farm house. No one felt like going to 
bed immediately. O’Mara wanted to see the lake we had talked so much about.
We got into a rowboat and headed toward the center of the lake, which was 
about three miles across. It was black as pitch. On an impulse O’Mara 
peeled off his clothes. Said he wanted to have a swim. In a jiffy he had 
dived overboard. It seemed an endless time before he came up to the 
surface; we couldn’t see him, we could only hear his voice. He was panting 
and puffing like a walrus. “What happened?” we asked. “I got stuck in the 
bulrushes,” he said. He turned over on his back and floated a while to get 
his breath. Then he started swimming, with strong, vigorous strokes. We 
followed in his wake, calling to him from time to time, begging him to get 
back in the boat before he got cold and exhausted.

That was how we met. His performance made a deep impression on me. His 
manliness and fearlessness won my admiration. During the week we spent 
together at the farm house we got to know one another inside out. Woodruff 
seemed more than ever a sissy to me now. He was not only full of qualms and
misgivings but he was mercenary too. O’Mara, on the other hand, always gave
recklessly. He was a born adventurer. At ten he had run away from the 
orphan asylum. Somewhere in the South, while working in a carnival, he had 
run across Alec Walker, who immediately too a fancy to him and brought him 
North to work for him. Later Woodruff was also taken into the office. We 
were to see and hear a lot of Alec Walker soon. He was to become the 
sponsor of our club, our patron saint, virtually. But I am getting ahead of
myself … What I wanted to say was that it was impossible for me to ever 
refuse O’Mara anything. He gave all and he expected all. Among friends this
was the natural, spontaneous way to behave, he believed. As for morals, he 
had no moral sense whatever. If he were hard up for a woman he would ask 
you if he couldn’t sleep with your wife—that is, until he found himself “a 
piece of tail.” If he lacked the money to help you out in a pinch he would 
do a little thieving on the side or he would forge a check. He had no 
scruples, no compunctions whatever. He liked to eat well and sleep long. He
hated work but when he undertook something he went at it whole-heartedly. 
He always wanted to make money quickly. “Make a haul and clear out,” that’ 
was the way he put it. He was fond of all the sports and loved to hunt and 
fish. When it came to cards he was a shark: he played a mean game, entirely
out of keeping with his character. His excuse was that he never played for 
the fun of it. He played to win, to make a killing. He was not above 
cheating, either, if he felt he could get away with it. He had formed a 
romantic notion of himself as a clever gambler.

Best of all was his talk. To me, at least. Most of my friends found him 
tiresome. But I could listen to O’Mara without ever desiring to open my own
trap. All I did was to ply him with questions. I suppose the reason his 
talk was so stimulating to me was because it dealt with worlds I had never 
entered. He had been over a good part of the globe, had lived a number of 
years in the Orient, particularly China, Japan and the Philippines. I liked
the picture he drew of Oriental women. He always spoke of them with 
tenderness and reverence. I liked too the way he spoke about fish, big 
fish, the monsters of the deep. Or about snakes, which he handled like 
pets. Trees and flowers also figured heavily in his talks: he knew every 
variety, it seemed to me, and he could dwell on their particularities 
endlessly. Then too he had been a soldier, even before the war broke out. A
top sergeant, no less. He could talk about the qualities of a top sergeant 
in a way that would make one believe this little tyrant to be far more 
important than a colonel or a general. Officers he always spoke of with 
contempt and derision, or else with bitter hatred. “They tried to push me 
up the ladder,” he said once, “but I wouldn’t hear of it. As top sergeant I
was king, and I knew it. Any horse’s ass can become a lieutenant. You have 
to be good to be top sergeant.”

He gave himself plenty of elbow room when talking. Never in a hurry to 
finish. Not O’Mara. Talked just as well when sober as when drunk. Of course
he had a wonderful listener in me. An ideal listener. All anyone had to do 
in those days was merely to mention China, Java or Borneo, and I was all 
ears. Mention anything foreign and remote and I was a willing victim.

The surprising thing about a guy like O’Mara was that he also read a 
great deal. Almost the first thing he would do, on looking me up, would be 
to survey the books on hand. One by one he would go through them, savoring 
them slowly and delectably. The books also entered into our talks. Somehow 
I preferred O’Mara’s impressions of a book to those of my other friends who
were more widely read or more critical. Like myself, O’Mara was all 
appreciation, all enthusiasm. He had no critical sense. If the book held 
his interest it was a god book, or a great book, or a marvelous book. We 
would live as vividly in the books we devoured together as in our imaginary
peregrinations through China, India, Africa. It was at the dinner table 
these jags often began. Over the coffee O’Mara would suddenly recall some 
incident out of his checkered past. We would egg him on. At two or three in
the morning we would still be sitting there at table. By that time we would
be ready for a little snack—to revive ourselves. Then a bit of a walk to 
get some clean fresh air into our lungs, as he always phrased it. Of course
the next day was always shot. None of us thought of stirring out of bed 
before noon. Breakfast and lunch combined was always a leisurely affair. 
None of us was geared to start going first thing out of bed. And, since the
day was already shot, we would immediately begin thinking about the theater
or a movie.

As long as the money lasted it was wonderful.

I suppose it was O’Mara’s practical turn of mind which gave me the idea 
one day of getting my little prose poems printed and selling them myself. 
After looking through my “stuff,” O’Mara was of the opinion that I would 
never get an editor to take them. I knew he was right. I began to turn it 
over in my mind. T had loads of friends and acquaintances, and they were 
all eager to help me, so they said. Why not sell my work direct to them, to
begin with? I broached the idea to O’Mara. He thought it excellent. I would
sell by mail and he would go around on foot, from one office building to 
another. Besides, he had lots of friends. Well, we found a little printer 
who gave us a very reasonable estimate; he had a good quantity of stiff 
colored paper which he would use for the purpose. I was to bring out one a 
week, printing five hundred at a time. “Mezzotints” we called them, owing 
to the influence of Whistler. Signed: Henry V. Miller.

The most amazing thing, when I look back on it now, is that the first 
prose poem I wrote for this project was inspired by the Bowery Savings 
Bank. It was the architecture of their new building, not the gold in the 
vaults, which kindled my enthusiasm. “The Bowery Phoenix,” I called it. My 
friends weren’t very enthusiastic but they coughed up. After all, it was 
only the price of a meal I was charging for these dithyrambs. Had we sold 
the five hundred we would have made a tidy little sum.

Among other things, we tried to get yearly subscriptions, at a reduced 
rate. A half dozen subscriptions per week and our problem would have been 
solved. But even my best friends were dubious that I could keep it up for a
year. They knew me well. In a month or two I would be broaching another 
scheme. At best I was able to persuade them to take a month’s 
subscription—mere chicken feed. O’Mara was incensed with my friends, said 
he could do better with utter strangers. Every morning he got up early and 
began plugging for me. He went all over town—Brooklyn, Manhattan, the 
Bronx, Staten Island—wherever he had a hunch that he would be welcome. He 
was trying to bag subscriptions.

After I had turned out two or three Mezzotints Mona came forward with 
another plan. She would sign her name to them and peddle them from place to
place in the Village. The night spots, she meant. People who were 
half-drunk weren’t very critical, she thought. Besides, it would be hard to
resist a beautiful looking woman. O’Mara didn’t take to her scheme—it was 
too unbusinesslike for him—but Mona insisted that there was no harm in 
trying. We had an assortment of back issues, all in different colors; my 
name had to be blacked out and hers printed below it. No one would know the
difference.

The first week she did famously. They went like hot cakes. Some bought 
the whole series, others paid her triple and quintuple for a single 
Mezzotint. It seemed as though she had hit on the right idea. Now and then 
we got orders in the mail. Now and then O’Mara got a subscription, for six 
months or for a year. I had all sorts of ideas for the coming issues. The 
hell with editors—we could do better on our own.

While Mona made the rounds of the Village nightly, O’Mara and I went in 
search of material. We couldn’t have gone about our task more energetically
had we been hired by a big syndicate. We went everywhere, looked into 
everything. One night we would be sitting in the press box at the Six Day 
Bike Race, the next night we would have ringside seats at a wrestling bout.
Some nights we would start out on foot, to explore Chinatown more 
thoroughly, or the Bowery, or we would go to Hoboken or some other God 
forsaken town in New Jersey, “just for a change … ” One afternoon, while 
O’Mara was plugging away for me in the Bronx, I called up Ned and induced 
him to go with me to the Burlesk on Houston Street, to write it up. I 
wanted Ned as my illustrator. We invented a yarn, of course, about the 
magazine which had requested the article. Cleo was no longer there, 
unfortunately, but there was a young, racy-looking blonde, who had replaced
her, who was a seething mass of sex from head to foot. After a little chat 
with her in the wings we persuaded her to have a drink with us after the 
show. She was one of those witless-shitless bitches who grow up in places 
like Newark or Sandusky. Had the laugh of a hyena. She had promised to 
introduce me to the comedian, who was her boy friend, but he never turned 
up. A few of the girls from the chorus straggled in, looking even more 
horrible with their clothes on, poor wretches. I got into conversation with
one of them at the bar. Discovered that she was studying to be a violinist,
of all things. She was as homely as sin, hadn’t an ounce of sex in her, but
was intelligent and sympathetic. Ned went to work on the blonde, hoping 
against hope to get her to go to the studio with him for a quick one …

To make a Mezzotint of an afternoon like that was like working out a 
jig-saw puzzle. It would take me days to whittle my prose-poem down to the 
required length. Two hundred and fifty words was the maximum that could be 
printed. I used to write two or three thousand, then reach for the axe.

Mona, of course, never got home till about two in the morning. It was a 
bit wearing on her, I thought. Not the hours, but the atmosphere of the 
night clubs. Now and then, to be sure, she ran into an interesting person. 
Like Alan Cromwell, for example, who claimed to be a banker from 
Washington, D.C. A man of this calibre always Invited her to sit down and 
talk to him. In Mona’s opinion this Cromwell was a cultured individual.

He had begun by buying everything she had with her. Seventy-live or 
eighty dollars he had handed over for a pile of Mezzotints, and in leaving 
he had forgotten to take them with him, purposely no doubt. A gentleman, 
what! He had to come to New York on business once every ten days or so. Was
always to be found at the Golden Eagle or at Tomtit’s Nest. Though he drank
heavily he was ever “the perfect gentleman.” Never parted from her without 
leaving a fifty dollar bill in her palm. “Just for keeping him company.” 
There were lots of lonely souls like Alan Cromwell floating about, Mona 
maintained. All these lonely souls were well-heeled, what’s more. Soon I 
would hear of the others, like that lumber king who kept a suite of rooms 
the year round at the Waldorf; like Moreau, the professor from the 
Sorbonne, who took her to the most exotic places whenever they happened to 
meet; like Neuberger, the oil man from Texas, who had so little conception 
of the value of money that, whether it was a long haul or a short haul, he 
always tipped the taxi driver a five spot. Then there was the retired 
brewer from Milwaukee, who was passionate about music. He always notified 
Mona in advance of his coming so that she might accompany him to the 
concert which he came expressly from Milwaukee to hear. The little tributes
which Mona extracted from these types represented so much more than 
anything we might have hoped to earn legitimately that O’Mara and I stopped
thinking about subscriptions altogether. Any Mezzotints which were left 
over at the end of the week we sent out gratis to people we thought would 
like to read them. Sometimes we sent them to editors of newspapers and 
magazines, or to the members of the Senate at Washington. Sometimes we sent
them to the heads of large industrial organizations—just for the fun of it,
just to see what might happen. Sometimes, and this was even more fun, we 
would go through the telephone book and pick out names at random. Once we 
telegraphed the contents of a Mezzotint to the director of an insane asylum
on Long Island. We signed a fishy name, of course. A crazy name, like 
Aloysius Pentacost Omega. Just to throw him off the track .

An idea like this last would come to us after an evening with Osiecki, 
who had now become a frequent visitor. He was an architect who lived in the
neighborhood; we had met him at a bar one evening just as it was closing. 
In the beginning his talk was fairly rational—the usual humdrum stuff about
life in a big architect’s office. Fond of music, he had bought himself a 
beautiful player piano and, after getting quietly soused all by himself, he
would start playing his records—until the neighbors pounded at the door.

Nothing unusual about such behavior. We used to visit him now and then 
and help him listen to his bloody records. He always had a good supply of 
liquor in the house. Little by little, however, we observed a strange note 
creeping into his conversation. It was his hatred for his boss. Or rather, 
his suspicions about the boss.

It required a little coaxing at first to draw him out. He was coy about 
revealing the full extent of his misgivings. But when he saw that we 
swallowed his remarks without a murmur of surprise or disapproval, he 
unlimbered remarkably fast.

Apparently the boss wanted to get rid of him. But since he had nothing on
Osiecki, he was at a loss how to do it.

“So that’s why he puts the lice in your desk every night, eh?” piped 
O’Mara, slipping me the horse wink.

“I don’t say that he does it. All I know is that they’re there every 
morning,” and with this our friend would begin scratching himself.

“He doesn’t have to do it himself, of course,” said I. “Maybe he pays the
janitor to do it for him.”

“I’m not saying who does it. I’m not making any accusations, not publicly
anyway. All I know is that it’s a dirty trick. If he were a man he would 
hand me my walking papers and be rid of me.”

“Why don’t you turn the tables on him?” said O’Mara maliciously.

“How do you mean?”

“Why, just this … put the lice in his desk, see!”

“I’m in enough trouble,” said poor Osiecki.

“But you’re going to lose your job anyway.”

“Don’t be too sure of that. I’ve got a good lawyer who’s promised to 
defend me.”

“You’re certain you’re not imagining all this?” I asked quite innocently.

“Imagining it? Listen, see those glass cups under your chairs? He’s got 
them running around in here now.”

I looked casually around. Even the piano legs were standing in glass cups
filled with kerosene.

“Jesus,” said O’Mara, “I’m getting itchy myself. You’ll go cuckoo if you 
don’t quit that job soon.”

“All right,” said Osiecki smoothly and tonelessly, “all right, I’ll go 
cuckoo then. But I won’t give him the satisfaction of handing in my 
resignation. Never.”

“Man,” I said, “you must be a bit nuts already to talk like that.”

“I am,” said Osiecki. “Who wouldn’t be? Can you lie awake all night 
scratching yourself and act normal the next day?”

There was no answer to make to that. On the way home O’Mara and I began 
to discuss ways and means of helping the poor devil. “Let’s talk to his 
girl,” said O’Mara. “That might help.” We agreed that we would get Osiecki 
to introduce us to his girl friend. We’d invite them both for dinner one 
evening.

“Maybe she’s nuts too,” I thought to myself.

It was by accident we made the acquaintance shortly thereafter of 
Osiecki’s bosom friends, Andrews and O’Shaughnessy, also architects. 
Andrews, a Canadian, was a short, cocky little fellow, well mannered, 
highly intelligent, and a loyal friend, as we soon discovered. He had known
Osiecki since boyhood. O’Shaughnessy was quite another type, big, brawny, 
full of health and vitality, reckless, carefree, happy-go-lucky. Always 
looking for a good time. Always ready to go on a drinking bout. He had a 
mind, too, but he suppressed it. He liked to talk about food, women, 
horses, suspension bridges. The three of them at a bar were quite a 
sight—like something out of Du Maurier or Alexandre Dumas. Inseparable 
companions. Always took good care of one another. The reason we hadn’t met 
them before was because Andrews and O’Shaughnessy had been away on a 
business trip.

They were quite pleased, it turned out, to learn that Osiecki had made 
friends with us. They were worried about him, .but had been unable to 
decide what to do about the situation. The boss was a fine chap, they said.
Couldn’t understand what had got into their friend to change him so—unless 
it was his girl.

“What’s the matter with her?” we asked.

Andrews, who was doing the talking, was reluctant to say much about her. 
“I know her only a short time,” he said. “There’s something fishy about 
her, that’s all I can say. She gives me the creeps.” And with that he shut 
up. O’Shaughnessy simply laughed heartily over the whole affair. “He’ll 
come out of it,” he said. “He’s drinking too much, that’s all. After you’ve
seen snakes and cobras climbing into your bed the itch is nothing. I’ll 
admit, though, I’d almost rather go to bed with a cobra than with that gal 
of his! There’s something inhuman about her. I think she’s a succubus, if 
you know what I mean.” Here he gave a hearty guffaw. “In plain English—a 
blood sucker. Do you get it?”

*

While it lasted it was wonderful. I mean the walks, the talks, the books 
we read, the food we ate, the excursions and explorations, the characters 
we bumped into, the plans we made. Everything was fizzing, or else purring 
like a smooth-running machine. Nights when nobody showed up, nights when it
was mean outdoors or we were a little short of dough, O’Mara and I would 
get into one of those conversations which would last the whole night. 
Sometimes it began over a book we had just read, such as The Imperial 
Purple or The Eternal Husband. Or that wonderful story about a carrier 
pigeon—Gay Neck.

Around midnight O’Mara always got a bit nervous and fidgety. He was 
concerned about Mona, what she was doing, where she was, could she take 
care of herself.

“Don’t worry,” I would say, “she knows how to take care of herself. She’s
had lots of experience.”

“I know,” he would say, “but Jesus … “

“Listen, Ted, if I were to start worrying about such things I’d go nuts.”

“You sure have a lot of confidence in her.”

“Why shouldn’t I?”

O’Mara would hem and haw. “Well, all I can say is, if she were my wife … 
“

“You’ll never have a wife, so what the hell’s the use of talking? She’ll 
be home at ten after one sharp, wait till you see. Come on, forget about 
it.”

Sometimes I couldn’t refrain from smiling to myself. You would think, 
b’Jesus that it was his wife and not mine, the way he took it to heart. My 
friends were always behaving in this fashion with me. They always did the 
worrying.

The way to get him off the subject was to get him reminiscing. O’Mara was
the greatest “reminiscer” ever. He went to it like a cow chewing its cud. 
Whatever lay in the past was fodder.

The person he loved most to talk about was Alec Walker, the man who had 
picked him up during a carnival at Madison Square Garden and put him to 
work in his office. Alec Walker always remained a mystery to O’Mara. He 
spoke of him affectionately, with admiration and with gratitude, but there 
was something in Alec Walker’s make-up which baffled him. Apparently, what 
bothered O’Mara most was that Alec Walker seemed to have no use for women. 
And he was such a handsome man! He could have had any woman he laid eyes 
on.

“You said you didn’t think he was queer. If he’s not queer, then he’s a 
celibate, that’s all there is to it. The way I see it, he’s a saint who’s 
missed his calling.” O’Mara wasn’t at all satisfied with this cut-and-dried
explanation.

“The only thing that bothers me,” I added, “is the way he allowed 
Woodruff to twist him about his fingers. If you ask me, there’s something 
fishy there.”

“Oh, that’s nothing,” said O’Mara quickly, “Alec’s a softy. Anybody can 
twist him about his little finger. He’s got too big a heart.”

“Listen,” I said, determined to have done with the subject once and for 
all, “I want you to tell me the truth … did he ever make a pass at you?”

O’Mara gave a loud guffaw. “A pass at met You don’t know Alec at all or 
you’d never ask a question like that. Why, even if he were a queer, Alec 
would never do a thing like that, don’t you realize that?”

“No, I don’t. Unless you mean he’s too much of a gentleman—Is that it?”

“No, no, not at all,” said O’Mara vehemently. “I mean that if Alec Walker
were starving to death he would never ask you for a crust of bread.”

“Then it’s pride,” I said.

“It’s not pride either. It’s a martyr complex. He enjoys suffering.”

“It’s lucky for him he’s not poor.”

“He’ll never be poor,” said O’Mara. “He’d steal first.”

“That’s quite a statement. What gives you that idea?” O’Mara hesitated a 
few moments. “I’ll tell you something,” he blurted out, “but don’t ever 
tell it to a soul. Alec Walker once stole a big sum of money from his 
brother; his brother, who’s a real son-of-a-bitch, was going to send him up
the river. But Sister what’s-her-name paid it back. Where she got it I have
no idea. It was a considerable sum.”

I said not a word to this. I was floored.

“And you know who got him into that scrape, don’t you?” O’Mara continued.

I looked at him blankly.

“That little rat, Woodruff.”

“You don’t say!”

“I always told you that Woodruff was no good, didn’t I?”

“Yeah, but I don’t get it. You mean to tell me that Alec Walker 
squandered all that money on our little friend Bill Woodruff?”

“That’s exactly what I mean. Look, you remember that little tart Woodruff
was so crazy about? He married her later, didn’t he?”

“You mean Ida Verlaine?”

“That’s it, Ida. Christ, it was Ida this and Ida that all day long. I 
remember because we were working together at the time. You haven’t 
forgotten that trip to Europe Alec and Woodruff took?”

“You mean Alec was jealous of the girl?”

“Christ no! How could Alec be jealous of a little slut like that? He was 
trying to save Woodruff from himself, that’s all. He saw that she was a 
no-good bitch and he tried to break it up. And Woodruff, the bastard, never
satisfied with anything—I don’t have to tell you what he’s like!—had Alec 
running all over Europe. Just to keep his dirty little heart from 
breaking.”

“Go on,” I said, “it’s getting interesting.”

“The long and the short of it is that when they got to Monte Carlo, 
Woodruff began to gamble—with Alec’s money, of course. Alec never said a 
word. It went on for weeks, Woodruff losing steadily. That little bout cost
Alec a fortune. He was cleaned out. But Woodruff wasn’t ready to go home. 
He wanted to see the Queen of Roumania’s winter palace; he wanted to visit 
the pyramids; he wanted to go skiing at Chamonix. I tell you, Henry, when I
talk about that guy my blood boils. You think women are gold-diggers. 
Listen, that guy Woodruff is worse than any whore I ever met. He’d take the
pennies off a dead man’s eyes.”

“In spite of it all he went back to his Ida—that’s the best part of it,” 
I commented.

“Yeah and she fucked him good and proper, I hear.”

I laughed. Suddenly I stopped laughing. A thought struck me.

“You know what just occurred to me, Ted? I think Woodruff was queer.”

“You think he was! I know he was. I can forgive him that, but not his 
meanness, not his miserliness.”

“I’ll be damned,” I muttered. “That explains why he made such a mess of 
it with his Ida. Well, well! To think I’ve known him all these years and 
never suspected it … And you still don’t think that there’s anything queer 
about Alec?”

“I know there isn’t,” said O’Mara. “He’s crazy about women. He trembles 
when they come within reach of him.”

“Beats me.”

“I told you before that he’s ascetic. He once studied for the priesthood.
Then he fell in love with a girl who jilted him. He never got over it … 
I’ll tell you something else about him you never suspected. Get this! You 
never saw him angry, did you? You wouldn’t think he could get angry, eh? So
soft, so suave, so gentle, so considerate. He’s made of steel, that guy. 
Always in trim, always in fighting condition. I saw him clean up a whole 
bar one night, single-handed. He was magnificent. Of course we had to run 
for it, but once we got out of reach he was as cool and collected as he 
could be. Asked me to brush him off while he fixed his tie. There wasn’t a 
scratch on him. We went to a hotel where he smoothed his hair and washed 
his hands. Then he suggested having a bite to eat—at Reisenweber’s, I think
it was. He looked immaculate, as always, and talked in a calm, steady voice
as though we had just come from the theater. It wasn’t pose either: he was 
really calm, really quiet inside.

“I remember the meal too—just the sort of spread that Alec knew how to 
order. We dawdled over that meal for hours, it seems to me. Alec was in a 
mood to talk. He was trying to make me understand what a truly Christ-like 
figure St. Francis was. He hinted that he had once aspired to be a sort of 
St. Francis himself. I used to make fun of Alec, you know, for being so 
damned pious. I used to call him a dirty Catholic—to his face, I mean. No 
matter what I said, though, I could never rile him. He would give me that 
sort of wistful, comprehending smile—you know what I mean—and I would grow 
ashamed of myself.”

“I never could dope out that smile,” I interrupted. “It always made me 
uncomfortable. I never knew whether he was being superior or playing the 
innocent one.”

“Righto!” said O’Mara. “In a way he knew he was superior—not just to us 
kids, but to most people. In another way he felt himself to be less than 
any one. His humility was tinged with arrogance. Or was it elegance? You 
remember how he wore his clothes. And then the way he spoke—that soft Irish
tongue of his, the impeccable English he used … no slouch, that guy! But 
when he grew silent, that was something. If anything could make me 
uncomfortable it was the way he could shut up like a clam. It used to give 
me the creeps. He was always silent, if you noticed, when other people were
ready to explode. He’d shut up at the critical moment and leave you 
suspended in mid-air. It was a way of letting you blow yourself up, know 
what I mean? Then’s when I spotted the monk in him.”

“Listen, Ted,” I said, cutting him short, “I still can’t figure out what 
made him take to a guy like Woodruff.”

“That’s easy,” was O’Mara’s airy rejoinder. “He wanted to redeem the poor
sap. It gave him pleasure to work on a worthless little prick like 
Woodruff. It was a test of his powers. Don’t think he didn’t know Woodruff.
He had him figured out to a hair. What appealed to him most about Woodruff,
strangely enough, was the mercenary streak. Like the martyr he was, he just
kept shelling out and shelling out, until there was nothing left. Woodruff 
never knew that Alec had stolen for him. He wouldn’t believe it if you told
him, the little rat.”

“Did I tell you I ran into Woodruff lately? Yeah, going down Broadway.”

“What’s he doing now?”

“I never asked him.”

“Probably a pimp,” said O’Mara.

“But I do know what happened to Ida. She’s an actress now. Saw the 
billboards with her name plastered all over them. We ought to go and see 
her some time, what?”

“Not me,” said O’Mara. “I’ll see her in hell first … Listen, the hell 
with her and the hell with Woodruff! I don’t know what set me to talking 
about such shits. Tell me, have you seen anything of O’Rourke lately?”

“O’Rourke? No, I haven’t. Strange you should think of him. No, to tell 
the truth, I haven’t even thought of him since I quit the job … “

“Henry, you ought to be ashamed of yourself. O’Rourke is a prince. I 
don’t see how you could possibly forget a man like that. Why shit, he was a
real father to you—and to me too. I’d certainly like to know what’s become 
of him.”

“We could look him up some night, that wouldn’t be hard.”

“I’d like nothing better,” said O’Mara. “It would give me a clean feeling
just to be in his presence again.”

“You’re a funny guy,” I said. “Toward some people you’re almost 
worshipful. It’s like you’re looking for your father all the time.”

“That’s just what I am doing—you hit it on the head. That son of a bitch 
who calls himself my father, you know what I think of him! Know what he’s 
afraid of, that crud? That I’m going to rape my own sister one day. We’re 
too close, he says. And that’s the bastard who had me sent to the orphan 
asylum. He’s another guy, talking of no-good pricks like Woodruff, whose 
balls I could bite off with relish. Except I’ll bet he hasn’t got any! 
Tries to palm himself off as a Russian. He’s just a kike from Galicia. 
Sure, if I had had a father like O’Rourke I’d have made something of myself
by this time. As it is, I don’t know what I’m cut out for. I’m just 
drifting. Fighting the Church all the time … By the way, I almost did put 
the boots to my sister, that’s a fact. It was the old man who put the idea 
in my head. What the hell, it was only natural; I hadn’t seen her for 
twelve years. She wasn’t a sister any more, she was just a good-looking 
dame, very lovable and very lonely. I don’t know what the hell held me 
back. I must look her up some time. She got married not long ago, I hear. 
Maybe it wouldn’t be so bad now—I mean to have a whack at it … Jesus, Alec 
would be horrified if he heard me talking this way.”

We went on in this fashion, from one reminiscence to another, until 
one-ten sharp when, just as I had predicted, Mona walked in. She had a 
bundle of good things to eat in one arm and a bottle of Benedictine in the 
other. It was one of those kindly souls again who had bestowed his favors 
upon her. This time a retired baker from Weehawken, of all places. A man of
culture too. Somehow, all her admirers had a tinge of culture, whether they
were lumbermen, ex-pugilists, tanners or retired bakers from Weehawken. 
Immediately Mona entered our talk became dispersed. O’Mara had a way of 
grinning at her, when she began her yams, which irritated her. In the 
beginning he used to interrupt her frequently. He could ask the most 
insultingly straightforward questions. “You mean he didn’t even try to put 
his arms around you?” Things like that, which were strictly taboo with 
Mona. But by now he had learned to hold his tongue and listen. Only 
occasionally would he come out with some sly remark, some subtle innuendo, 
which Mona took no notice of whatever. Now and then her exaggerations were 
so absurd that the two of us would burst into a fit of uncontrollable 
laughter. The curious thing was that Mona would also laugh her head off. 
Even stranger than her laughter, though, was her way of picking up again 
right where she had left off, as though nothing unusual had occurred.

Sometimes she would ask me to corroborate one of her outlandish 
statements, which I would do with a straight face, to O’Mara’s 
astonishment. I would even embellish her statement with some fanciful facts
of my own. To this she would nod her head gravely, as if it were God’s 
truth I were recounting, as if we had spoken of it time and again—or as 
though we had rehearsed it together.

In the realm of make-believe she was thoroughly at home. She not only 
believed her own stories, she acted as if the fact that she had related 
them were proof of their veracity. Whereas, of course, everybody assumed 
quite the opposite. Everybody, I say. Which only made her more secure in 
her ways. Hers was distinctly a non-Euclidian logic.

I spoke of laughter. There was only one sort of laughter she ever 
indulged in—an hysterical laughter. Actually, she was almost devoid of 
humor. Those who aroused her sense of humor were usually people who were 
themselves devoid of humor. With Nahoum Yood, who was truly a humorist, she
smiled. It was a good-natured smile, indulgent, affectionate, the sort one 
gives to a wayward child. Her smile, as a matter of fact, was quite a 
different thing from her laugh. Her smile was genuine and warming. It 
sprang from her sympathetic nervous system. Her laugh, on the other hand, 
was off-key, raucous, disconcerting. The effect was harsh. I had known her 
for a long time before I ever heard her laugh. Between her laughter and her
weeping there was scarcely any difference. At the theater she had learned 
how to laugh artificially. A terrifying thing to hear! It used to send 
shudders up my spine.

“You know what you two remind me of sometimes?” said O’Mara snickering. 
“You remind me of a pair of confederates. All that’s lacking is the old 
shell game.”

“It’s nice and toasty here though, eh what?” I answered.

“Listen,” said O’Mara, his face utterly serious, “if we could stick it 
out here for a year or two I’d say it was worth while. We’re in clover now,
and don’t I know it! I haven’t relaxed this way for years. The funny thing 
is, I feel as if I were hiding away, as if I had committed a crime which I 
can’t remember. It wouldn’t surprise me at all if one day the police 
knocked on the door.”

Here we all laughed uproariously. The police! Too funny for words.

“Once I was rooming with a guy,” said O’Mara, beginning one of its 
never-ending stories, “and he was plain cuckoo. I didn’t know it until some
one from the asylum called for him. I swear to God he was the most 
normal-looking person you ever saw, and he talked normal, and acted normal.
In fact, that’s what was the matter with him—he was too goddamned normal. I
was on my uppers at the time, too disheartened to even look for work. He 
had a job as a motorman—on the Reid Avenue carline. On his swings he’d come
back to the room and rest up. He’d always bring a bag of doughnuts along 
and soon as he took off his things he’d make coffee. He never said much. 
Mostly he’d sit by the window and manicure his nails. Sometimes he’d take a
shower and a rub-down. If he was in high spirits he’d suggest playing a 
game of pinochle. We’d always play for small stakes and he’d always let me 
win, though he knew I was cheating him. I never asked him any questions 
about his past and he never volunteered anything on his own. Every day was 
a new day. If it was cold he talked about the weather, how cold it was; if 
it was warm, he talked about how warm it was. He never complained about a 
thing, not even when his pay was reduced. That in itself ought to have made
me suspicious, but it didn’t. He was so kind and considerate, so 
unobtrusive and delicate, that the worst I could think of him was to call 
him dull. Yet I couldn’t very well complain about that, seeing as how he 
was taking care of me. Never once did he suggest that I ought to be up and 
stirring. All he ever wanted to know was if I were comfortable or not. I 
understood that he needed me, that he couldn’t live alone—but that didn’t 
make me suspicious either. Lots of people hate to live alone. Anyway, and 
why the hell I’m telling you all this I don’t know, anyway, as I was saying
before, one day there came a knock at the door and there stood the man from
the asylum. Not a bad sort either, I must say. He moseyed in quiet-like, 
sat down, and started talking to my friend. In that quiet, easy way he 
says—‘Are you ready to go back with me?’ Eakins, that was the guy’s name, 
says ‘Yes, of course,’ in the same easy, quiet way. After a few minutes 
Eakins excused himself to go to the bathroom and pack his things. The 
officer, or whatever the hell he was, didn’t seem at all uneasy about 
letting the fellow out of his sight. He started talking to me. (It was the 
first time he had addressed a word to me.)

It took me a few minutes to realize that he took me for a nut too. I got 
wise when he began asking me all sorts of funny, queasy questions—‘Do you 
like it here? Does he feed you well? Are you sure you’re comfortable?’ And 
so on. I was taken so unawares that I fell into the part as if it were made
for me. Eakins had been in the bathroom a good fifteen minutes. I was 
getting fidgety, wondering how I would prove myself sane should the officer
decide to take me along too. Suddenly the bathroom door opens softly. I 
look up and there’s Eakins stark naked, his hair completely shaved off and 
a douche bag hanging from his neck. He had a grin on his face that I had 
never seen before. I got a cold chill instantly.

‘“Ready, sir,’ he says, just as smooth as butter.

” ‘Come now, Eakins,’ said the officer, ‘you know better than to dress 
that way.’ ” ‘But I’m not dressed,’ says Eakins blandly.

” ‘That’s what I mean,’ said the officer. ‘Now go back and put your 
clothes on. That’s a good fellow.’ ” Eakins didn’t budge, didn’t move a 
muscle.

” ‘What suit would you like me to wear?’ he asks.

” ‘The one you had on,’ said the officer tartly.

” ‘But it’s all tom,’ says Eakins, and with that he steps inside the 
bathroom. In a jiffy he’s back in the doorway, holding the suit in his 
hands. It’s in shreds.

” ‘That’s all right,’ said the officer, trying not to appear disturbed, 
‘your friend here will loan you a suit, I’m sure.’ ” He turns to me. I 
explain that the only suit I’ve got is the one I’m wearing.

” ‘That will do nicely,’ he chirps.

“‘What?’ I yelled. ‘What am I goin’ to wear?’ ” ‘A fig leaf,’ he says, 
‘and see that it don’t shrink!’ ” Just at this point there came a tapping 
on the window pane.

“The police, I bet!” shouted O’Mara.

I went to the window and drew up the shade. It was Osiecki, grinning that
sheepish grin of his and gesticulating with his fingers.

“It’s Osiecki,” I said, going to the door. “He’s probably lit up.”

“Where are your companions?” I asked as I shook his hand.

“They deserted me,” he said. “Too many lice, I guess …

Is it O. K. to come in?” He hesitated at the doorway, not certain if he 
were welcome.

“Come in!” shouted O’Mara.

“Am I busting in on something?” He looked at Mona, not knowing who she 
was.

“This is my wife, Mona. Mona, this is a new friend of ours, Osiecki. He’s
had a little trouble lately. You don’t mind if he stays a few minutes, do 
you?”

Mona immediately poured out a glass of Benedictine and offered him a 
piece of cake.

“What’s this?” he asked, sniffing the liqueur. “How do you get it?” He 
looked from one to the other of us as if we were in possession of some dark
secret.

“How are you feeling?” I asked.

“Right now, fine!” he answered. “A little too good maybe. Can you smell 
it?” He blew his breath in our faces, grinning even more widely this time, 
like a rhododendron in full bloom.

“How are the lice coming along?” asked O’Mara in a casual tone.

At this Mona began to titter, then laughed outright.

“That’s his trouble … ” I started to explain.

“You can tell everything,” said Osiecki. “It’s no secret any more. We’ll 
get to the bottom of it soon.” He raised himself up. “Excuse me, but I 
can’t drink this stuff. Too much turpentine in it. Have you any coffee?”

“Of course,” said Mona. “Would you like a sandwich, perhaps?”

“No, just some black coffee … ” He hung his head blushingly. “I’ve just 
had a tiff with my pals. They’re getting fed up with me, I guess. I don’t 
blame them either. They’ve taken a lot these last few months. You know, 
sometimes I think I am a bit screwy.” He paused to note the effect this 
might have on us.

“That’s all right,” I said, “we’re all a bit screwy. O’Mara here was just
telling us a yam about a nut he used to live with. You can be as whacky as 
you like, so long as you don’t start breaking up the furniture.”

“You’d get queer yourself,” said Osiecki, “if you had those things 
sucking your blood all night—and all day too.” He rolled up his trousers to
show us the marks they had left. His legs were a mass of scratches and 
blood clots. I felt damned sorry for him, sorry I had twitted him.

“Perhaps if you moved to another apartment … ” I ventured to suggest.

“No use,” he said, looking ruefully at the floor. “They’ll keep after me 
till I quit—or until I catch them red-handed.”

“I thought you were going to bring your girl around for dinner some 
evening?” said O’Mara.

“Sure I am,” said Osiecki. “Right now, though, she’s busy.”

“Busy doing what?” asked O’Mara.

“I don’t know. I’ve learned not to ask unnecessary questions.” He gave us
another big grin. This time his teeth wobbled a little. I noticed that his 
mouth was full of braces.

“I dropped in,” he continued, “because I saw the lights burning. I hate 
to go home, you know. (Grin: meaning more lice.) You don’t mind my staying 
a few minutes, do you? I like this place—it’s cheerful.”

“It should be,” said O’Mara, “we’re living on velvet.”

“I wish I could say the same,” droned Osiecki. “Drawing plans all day and
playing the pianola at night is no fun.”

“But you’ve got a girl,” said O’Mara. “That ought to give you a little 
fun.” He chortled.

Osiecki’s ferret-like eyes grew small as pin points. He looked at O’Mara 
sharply, almost hostilely. “You’re not trying to pump me, are you?” he 
asked.

O’Mara smiled good-naturedly and shook his head. He was just about to 
open his mouth when Osiecki spoke up again.

“She’s another tribulation,” he began.

“Please,” said Mona, “don’t feel that you have to tell us everything. I 
think we’ve been asking altogether too many questions.”

“Oh, that’s all right, I don’t mind being grilled. I just wondered how he
knew about my girl.”

“I don’t know a thing,” said O’Mara. “I just made a simple remark. Skip 
it!”

“I don’t want to skip it,” said Osiecki. “It’s better to get it off one’s
chest.” He paused with head down, not forgetting however to munch his 
sandwich. After a few moments he looked up, smiling like a cherub, finished
eating his sandwich, stood up and reached for his hat and coat. “I’ll tell 
you some other time,” he said. “It’s getting late.”

At the door, as we were shaking hands, he grinned again and said: “By the
way, any time you’re hard pressed, just let me know—I can always lend you a
little something to tide you over.”

“I’ll walk you home, if you like,” said O’Mara, not knowing how to 
express appreciation of this unexpected kindness.

“Thanks, but I’d rather be alone now. You never can tell … ” and with 
that Osiecki took off at a trot.

“What about that guy Eakins you were telling us about?” I said, soon as 
the door had closed behind Osiecki.

“I’ll tell you some other time,” said O’Mara, giving us one of Osiecki’s 
grins.

“There wasn’t a word of truth in it,” said Mona, tripping to the 
bathroom.

“You’re right,” said O’Mara. “I just imagined it.”

“Come on,” I said, “you can tell me.”

“All right,” he said, “since you want the truth, I’ll give it to you. To 
begin with, there was no guy Eakins—it was my brother. He was hiding away 
for a while. You remember I told you once how we ran away from the orphan 
asylum together? Well, it was ten years—maybe more—before we met again. He 
had gone to Texas where he became a cow-puncher. A good guy, if ever there 
was one. Then he got into a brawl with someone—he must have been drunk—and 
he killed the guy.”

He took a sip of Benedictine, then continued: “It was all like I told 
you, except of course he wasn’t batty. The man who came for him was a 
Ranger. He scared the shit out of me, I can tell you. Anyway, I undressed 
like he told me to, and I handed the clothes to my brother. He was taller 
and bigger than me in every way, and I knew he’d never get into that suit. 
But I handed it to him and he went back into the bathroom to get dressed. I
hoped he’d have sense enough to climb out by the bathroom window. I 
couldn’t understand why the Ranger was giving him such leeway, but then I 
figured being from Texas he had his own way of doing things. Anyway, 
suddenly I got the bright idea to dash out into the street naked and yell 
‘Murder! Murder!’ at the top of my lungs. I got as far as the stairs and 
there I tripped on the rug. The big guy was right on top of me. He held one
hand over my mouth and dragged me back to the room. ‘Pretty cute, mister, 
ain’t you?’ he said, giving me a gentle cuff in the jaw. ‘Now if that 
brother of yours gets out the window he won’t get very far. My men are 
waiting for him right outside.’ “At that moment my brother walked into the 
room just as quiet and easy as ever. He looked like a circus freak in that 
suit—and his hair all shaved off.

” ‘No use, Ted,’ he said, ‘they’ve got me.”

“What am I going to do for clothes?’ I bawled. ” ‘I’ll mail the suit back
to you when we get to Texas,’ he said. Then he put his hand in his pocket 
and pulled out some crumpled bills. ‘Maybe this will hold you a while,’ he 
said. ‘It was good to see you again. Take care of yourself.’ And with that 
they left.”

“And what happened after that?”

“They sent him up for life.”

“No!”

“Yep! And you can lay that to that son of a bitch of a step-father too. 
If he hadn’t sent us to the orphan asylum it never would have happened.”

“Jesus, man, you can’t lay everything to that orphan asylum.”

“The hell I can’t! Everything bad that happens to me dates from the 
orphan asylum.”

“But you haven’t had it so bad, goddamn it! I really can’t see why you’re
griping all the time. Shit, many people get worse deals and come out 
tip-top. You’ve got to stop blaming your step-father for all your ills and 
failings. What’ll you do when he croaks?”

“I’ll go on blaming him and cursing him just the same. I’ll make him 
miserable even in the grave.”

“But listen, man, what about your mother? She had a hand in it too, don’t
forget. You don’t seem to be sore at her.”

“She’s a half-wit,” said Omara bitterly. “I can only feel sorry for her. 
She did as she was told, probably. No, I don’t hate her. She was a 
good-natured slob, in a way.

“Listen, Henry,” he said suddenly changing front, “you’ll never 
understand the situation. You were born with a silver spoon in your mouth. 
You’ve had it easy all your life. You’ve been lucky, too. And you’ve got 
talents. Me, I’m nobody A misfit. I’ve got a grudge against the world … 
Maybe I could have been a writer too, if I had had a chance. As it is, I 
don’t even know how to spell.”

“But you sure know how to figure.”

“Naw,” he said, “don’t try to sweeten it. I’m all wronged up. No matter 
what I do I end up by hurting people. You’re the only guy I ever treated 
decently, do you know that?”

“Come off it,” I said, “you’re getting maudlin. Have another drink!”

“I’m going to bed,” he said, “I’m going to dream it off.”

“Dream it off?”

“Sure, don’t you ever do that—dream it off? You close your eyes and then 
you fix it like you want it to be. You fall asleep and you dream it true. 
When morning comes there’s no bad taste in your mouth … I’ve done it 
thousands of times. Learned it in the orphan asylum.”

“The orphan asylum! Man, will you ever forget it? It’s finished, done 
with … it happened centuries ago. Can’t you get that through your nut?”

“It’s never stopped happening, you mean.”

For a few minutes neither of us spoke. O’Mara undressed quietly and 
slipped into bed. I switched out the lights and lit a candle. As I was 
standing there at the table, reflecting on all that had passed between us, 
I heard him softly say: “Listen … “

“What is it?” I said. I thought for a moment he was going to sob.

“You don’t know the half of it, Henry. The worst part was waiting for my 
mother to come and see me. Weeks went by, then months, then years. No sign 
of her. Once in a blue moon I got a letter or a little package. Always 
promises. She was going to come at Christmas or Thanksgiving, or some other
holiday. But she never came. I was only three years old when we were packed
off, remember that. I needed affection. The nuns weren’t too bad. Some of 
them were adorable, as a matter of fact. But it wasn’t the same kissing 
them as kissing one’s mother. I used to beat my brains out trying to figure
a way to escape. All I thought of was to run home and fling my arms around 
my mother. She was a good sort, you know, but weak. Weak in an Irish way, 
like me. Easy come, easy go. Nothing bothered her. But I loved her. I loved
her more and more as time went on. When I got the chance to make a getaway 
I was like a wild colt. My instinct was to rush home, but then I 
thought—maybe they’ll send me back to the asylum! So I just kept 
traveling—until I got to Virginia and met up with Dr. McKinney … you know, 
the ornithologist.”

“Listen, Ted,” I said, “you’d better get to sleep and dream it off. I’m 
sorry if I seemed a bit insensitive. I guess I’d feel the same way if I had
been in your boots. Shit, tomorrow’s another day. Think of what Osiecki’s 
up against!”

“That’s exactly what I was doing. He’s a lonely bastard too. And wanting 
to lend us money! Jesus, he must be in a bad way!”

. I went to sleep that night with the determination to knock the bloody 
orphan asylum out of O’Mara’s head. All during the night, however, I was 
riding my old Chemnitz bicycle like mad, or else playing the piano. In 
fact, I would sometimes dismount and play a tune right in the street. In 
dreams it’s not difficult to have a piano with you while riding a 
bicycle—it’s only in waking life that you have difficulty managing such 
things. It was at a place called Bedford Rest, which I conveniently 
transposed in the dream, that I experienced the most delicious moments. 
This spot, the halfway mark to Coney Island along the famous cycle path 
which began at one end of Prospect Park, was where all the cyclists halted 
to take a brief rest either coming from or going to the island. Here, under
arbors and trellises, with a fountain playing in the center of the 
clearance, we lounged about, examining one another’s wheels, feeling one 
another’s muscles, rubbing one another down. The wheels were stacked up 
against the trees and fences, all in excellent condition, all gleaming, all
well oiled. Pop Brown, as we called him, was the grand arbiter. He was the 
oldest among us—double the age of most of us—but he could keep up with the 
best of us. He always wore a heavy black sweater and tight-fitting black 
stocking cap; his face was gaunt, lined, and so wind-burned as to be almost
black. I always thought of him as “The Night Rider.” He was a machinist by 
trade and his passion was bike-riding.

A simple man, a man of few words, but loved by all. It was he who had 
induced me to join the militia in order to be able to race on the flat 
floor of the armory. Saturdays and Sundays I was always sure to meet Pop 
somewhere along the cycle path. He was my racing father, so to speak.

I suppose that the delicious aspect of these reunions resided in the fact
that we all shared the same passion. I don’t remember ever discussing 
anything but cycling with these fellows. We could eat, drink and sleep on 
the bike. Many a time, at unexpected hours of the day or night, I would 
encounter a solitary cyclist who, like myself, had stolen an hour or two in
order to fly along that smooth gravel path. Now and then we passed a man on
horseback. (There was another path for equestrians running parallel to the 
bicycle path.) These apparitions from another world were completely removed
from us, as were the fools who rode in automobiles. As for motorcyclists, 
they were simply non compos mentis.

As I say, I was reliving it all again in dream. Even down to those 
equally delicious moments at the end of the ride when, as a good wheelman, 
I would turn the bike upside down and clean and oil it. Every spoke had to 
be wiped clean and made to shine; the chain had to be greased and the oil 
cups filled. If the wheels were out of line they were trued. That way, she 
was always in condition to ride at a moment’s notice. This cleaning and 
polishing always took place in the yard, right by the front window. I had 
to lay newspapers on the ground in order to appease my mother who 
disapproved of grease spots on our stone flagging.

In the dream I’m riding sort of nice and easy by the side of Pop Brown. 
It was customary for us to fall into a slow pace for a mile or two, in 
order to chat and also to get our wind up for the terrific spurt to follow.
Pop is telling me about the job he is going to get me, as a mechanic. He 
promises to teach me all I need to know. I am amused at this because the 
only tool I know how to handle is the bicycle wrench. Pop says he’s been 
observing me lately and has come to the conclusion that I’m an intelligent 
guy. He’s disturbed because I always seem to be out of work. I try to tell 
him that I’m glad to be out of work because then I can ride the wheel more 
often, but he brushes this aside as irrelevant. He’s determined to make me 
a first-class machinist. It’s better than being a boiler-maker, he assures 
me. I haven’t the slightest idea what it is to be a boiler-maker. “You 
ought to get in trim for that road race next month,” he then cautions. 
“Drink lots of water, all you can hold.” His heart, I learn, is giving him 
trouble lately. The doctor thinks he ought to give up the bike for a while.
“I’d rather die than do that,” says Pop. We flit from one thing to another,
homely little topics, just right for a rolling conversation. There’s a 
teasing breeze stirring and the leaves are beginning to fall; brown, gold, 
red leaves, dry as tinder, which makes a most soothing crackle as we roll 
lightly over them. We’re just getting nicely warmed up, nicely unlimbered.

Suddenly Pop shoots forward on the tail of another bike going at a fast 
clip. Turning his head he shouts: “It’s Joe Folger!” I’m off like a bat out
of hell. Joe Folger! Why, that’s one of the old six-day riders. I wonder 
what sort of pace he’ll set us. Soon, to my astonishment, Pop shoots 
forward, dragging me along, and Joe Folger is tailing me. My heart is 
beating wildly. Three great riders: Henry Val Miller, Pop Brown, and Joe 
Folger. Where is Eddie Root, I wonder, and Frank Kramer? Where’s Oscar Egg,
that valiant Swiss champion? My head is tucked down like a ball between my 
shoulders; my legs have no feeling. I’m all pulse and beat. Everything is 
coordinated, moving smoothly, harmoniously, like an intricate clock.

Suddenly we’ve come to the ocean front. A dead heat. We’re panting like 
dogs, but fresh as daisies just the same. Three great veterans of the 
track. I dismount and Pop introduces me to the great Joe Folger. “Quite a 
lad,” says Joe-Folger, sizing me up and down. “Is he training for the big 
grind?” Suddenly he feels my thighs and calves, grabs my forearms, squeezes
my biceps. “He’ll make the grade all right—good stuff.” I’m so thrilled 
that I’m blushing like a schoolboy. All I need now is to meet up some 
morning with Frank Kramer; I’ll give him the surprise of his life.

We saunter about a bit, pushing our wheels along with one hand. How 
steady a wheel when directed by a skilled hand! We sit down to have a beer.
Of a sudden I’m playing the piano, just to please Joe Folger. He’s a 
sentimental cuss, I discover; I have to scratch my bean to think what will 
suit his fancy. While tickling the ivories we’re transported, as happens 
only in dreams, to the training grounds somewhere in New Jersey. The circus
folk are here for the winter. Before we know it, Joe Folger is practicing 
the loop-the-loop. A terrifying spectacle, especially when one is sitting 
up so close to the big incline. Clowns are walking around in full regalia, 
some playing the harmonica, others skipping rope or practicing falls.

Soon a group has collected around us, taking our bicycles apart and 
performing tricks, a la Joe Jackson. All in pantomime, to be sure. I’m 
almost weeping because I’ll never be able to put my bike together again, 
it’s in so many pieces. “Never mind, kid,” says the great Joe Folger, “I’ll
give you my wheel. You’ll win many a race with that!”

How Hymie comes into it I don’t remember, but he’s there of a sudden and 
looking terribly downcast. There’s a strike on, he wants me to know. I 
ought to get back to the office as quickly as possible. They’re going to 
marshall all the taxicabs in New York City to deliver the telegrams and 
cables. I apologize to Pop Brown and Joe Folger for quitting them so 
unceremoniously and dive into a car which is waiting. Going through the 
Holland Tunnel I doze off, only to find myself on the cycle path once more.
Hymie beside me riding a miniature bike. He looks like the fat man of the 
Michelin tires. He can hardly push the thing, he’s so winded. Nothing 
easier than for me to lift him by the scruff of the neck, bike and all, and
carry him along. Now he’s pedaling in the air. He seems happy as a dog. 
Wants a hamburger and a malted milk shake. No sooner said than done. As we 
ride along the boardwalk I grab off a hamburger and a milk shake, flipping 
the man a coin with my other hand. At Steeplechase we ride straight up the 
shoot-the-shoots, as easy as soaring into the blue. Hymic looks a bit 
bewildered now, but not frightened. Just bewildered.

“Don’t forget to send some waybills to AX office in the morning,” I 
remind him.

‘Watch it, Mr. M.,” he begs, “you almost went into the ocean that time.”

And now, by God, whom should we run into, drunk as a pope, but my old 
friend Stasu. He’s just gotten out of the army, and his legs are still 
bowlegged from the cavalry drills.

“Who’s that little runt with you?” he demands surlily.

Just like Stasu to begin with fiery words. Always had to be mollified 
before you could begin talking to him.

“I’m leaving for Chattanooga tonight,” he says. “Must get back to the 
barracks.” And with that he waves good-bye.

“Is he a friend of yours, Mr. M.?” asks Hymie innocently.

“HIM? He’s just a crazy Pole,” I answer.

“I don’t like Polaks, Mr. M. I’m scared of them.”

“What do you mean? We’re in the U.S.A., remember that!”

“Makes no difference,” says Hymie. “A Polak is a Polak anywhere. You 
can’t trust ‘em.” His teeth are actually beginning to rattle.

“I ought to be getting home now,” he adds disconsolately. “The wife’ll be
wondering where I am. Have you got the time on you?”

“O.K. let’s take the subway then. It’ll be a little faster.”

“Not for you, Mr. M.!” says Hymie, giving me a wild flattering smirk.

“You said it, kid. I’m a champ, I am. Watch me do a spurt … ” And with 
that I shoot forward like a rocket, leaving Hymie standing there with arms 
up yelling for me to return.

The next thing I know, I’m directing taxicabs, a whole fleet of them, 
from the saddle. I’ve got on a loud striped sweater, and with megaphone in 
hand I’m directing traffic. The whole city seems to give way, no matter in 
which direction I press. It’s like riding through vapor. From the top of 
the American Tel. & Tel. Building the president and the vice-president are 
sending out messages; streams of ticker tape float through the air. It’s 
like Lindbergh coming home again. The ease with which I circle around the 
cabs, darting in and out and always a leap ahead of them, is due to the 
fact that I’m riding Joe Folger’s old bike. That guy sure knew how to 
handle a wheel. Training ? What better training than this? Frank Kramer 
himself couldn’t do better.

The best part of the dream was the return to Bedfort Rest. There they 
were again, the boys, all in different accoutre, the wheels bright and 
gleaming, the saddles just right, all with noses upturned, as if sniffing 
the breeze. It was good to be with them again, feel their muscles, examine 
their equipment. The leaves had grown thicker, the air was cooler now. Pop 
was rounding them up, promising them a good workout this time …

When I got home that night—it was always the same night no matter how 
much time had elapsed—my mother was waiting up for me. “You’ve been a good 
boy today,” she said. “I’m going to let you take your bicycle to bed with 
you.”

“Really?’ I exclaimed, hardly able to believe my ears. “Yes, Henry,” she 
said, “Joe Folger was here a few minutes ago. He told me you would be the 
next world’s champion.”

“He said that, mamma? No, really?”

“Yes, Henry, every word of it. He said I should fatten you up a little 
first. You’re underweight.”

.“Mamma,” I said, “I’m the happiest man alive. I want to give you a big 
kiss.”

“Don’t be silly,” she said, “you know I don’t like that.”

“I don’t care, mamma, I’m going to kiss you just the same.” And with that
I gave her a hug and squeeze that nearly split her. in two.

“You’re sure you meant it, mamma—about taking the bike to bed with me?”

“Yes, Henry. But don’t get any grease on the sheets.”

“Don’t worry, mamma,” I yelled. I was beside myself with joy. “I’ll 
spread some old newspapers in between. How’s that?”

I woke up feeling around for the bicycle. “What are you trying to do?” 
cried Mona. “You’ve been clawing me for the last half hour.”

“I was looking for my wheel.”

‘Tour wheel? What wheel? You must be dreaming.”

I smiled. “I teas dreaming, a delicious dream, too. All about my bike.”

She began to titter.

“I know, it sounds foolish, but it was a grand dream.

I had a wonderful time.”

“Hey, Ted,” I yelled, “are you there?”

No answer. I called again.

“He must have left,” I mumbled. “What time is it?” It was high noon.

“I wanted to tell him something. Too bad he’s left already.” I turned 
over on my back and stared up at the ceiling. Wisps of dream floated 
through my brain. I felt mildly seraphic. And somewhat hungry.

“You, know what?” I mumbled, still dream-logged, “I think I ought to go 
see that cousin of mine. Maybe he’ll lend me the wheel for a space. What do
you think?”

“I think you’re just a little goofy.”

“Maybe, but I sure would love to ride that bike again. It used to belong 
to a six-day rider; he sold it to me at the track, you remember?”

“You’ve told me that several times.”

“What’s the matter, aren’t you interested? You never rode a wheel, I 
guess, did you?”

“No, but I’ve ridden horseback.”

“That’s nothing. Unless you’re a jockey. Well shit, I guess it’s silly to
be thinking about that bike. Them days are done for.”

Suddenly I sat up and stared at her. “What’s the matter with you this 
morning? What’s got you?”

“Nothing, Val, nothing.” She gave me a feeble smile. “There is too,” I 
insisted. “You’re not yourself.”

She sprang out of bed. “Get dressed,” she said, “or it’ll be dark before 
long. I’ll fix breakfast.”

“Fine. Can we have bacon and eggs?”

“Anything you like. Only hurry!”

I couldn’t see what there was to be hurrying about, but I did as she 
said. I felt marvelous—and hungry as a wolf. Between times I wondered what 
was eating her. Maybe her period coming on.

Too bad O’Mara had skipped off so early. There was something I wanted to 
tell him, something that had leaped to mind as I was coming out of the 
dream. Well, no doubt it would keep.

I threw back the curtains and let the sun stream in. The place was more 
beautiful than ever this morning, it seemed to me. Across the street a 
limousine was standing at the curb, waiting to take milady on her shopping 
tour. Two big greyhounds were seated in the rear, quiet and dignified, as 
always. The florist was just delivering a huge bouquet. What a life! I 
preferred my own, however. If only I had that wheel again everything would 
be tops. Somehow the dream clung to me tenaciously. The champ! What a 
quaint idea!

We had hardly finished breakfast when Mona announced that she had to go 
somewhere for the afternoon. She would be back in time for dinner, she 
assured me.

. “That’s all right,” I said, “take your time. I can’t help it, but I 
feel too wonderful for words. It wouldn’t matter what happened today, I’d 
still feel fine.”

“Stop it!” she begged.

“Sorry, girlie, but you’ll feel better too once you step outdoors. Why 
it’s like spring.”

In a few minutes she was gone. I felt so full of energy I couldn’t decide
what to do. Finally I decided not to do anything—just hop into the subway 
and get out at Times Square. I’d stroll about and let what happened happen.

By mistake I got out at Grand Central. Walking along Madison Avenue the 
notion seized me to look up my friend Ned. Ages it was since I last saw 
him. (He was back again in the advertising and promotion racket.) I’d drop 
in and say hello, then scram.

“Henry!” he blurts out, “it’s as if God himself sent you. Am I in a mess!
There’s a big campaign on and everybody’s home ill. This damned thing (he 
flourished some copy) has got to be finished by tonight. It’s life and 
death. Don’t laugh! I’m serious. Wait, let me explain … ” I sat down and 
listened. The long and short of it was that he was trying to write a piece 
of copy about the new magazine they were putting on the market. He had just
the bone of an idea, nothing more.

“You can do it, I’m sure,” he implored. “Write anything, so long as it 
makes sense. I’m in a fix, I tell you. Old man McFarland—you know who I 
mean, don’t you?—is behind this business. He’s pacing up and down in there.
Threatens to give us all the sack if something doesn’t happen soon.”

The only thing to do was to say yes. I got what little dope he had to 
offer and sat down to the machine. Soon I was pounding away. I must have 
written three or four pages when he tiptoed in to see how I was doing. He 
began reading the copy over my shoulder. Soon he was clapping his hands and
shouting Bravo! Bravo!

“Is it that good?’ I asked, looking up at him with twisted neck.

“Yes, it’s good! It’s superb! Listen, you’re better than the guy who does
this stuff. McFarland will go nuts when he sees this … ” He stopped 
abruptly, rubbing his hands and giving little grunts. “You know what? I’ve 
an idea. I’m going to introduce you to McFarland as the new man I’ve hired.
I’m going to tell him that I persuaded you to take the job … “

“But I don’t want a job!”

“You don’t have to take it. Of course not. I want to quiet him, that’s 
all. Besides, the main purpose is to have you talk to him. You know who he 
is and all he’s done. Can’t you give him a little salve? Flatter the pants 
off him! Then go into a little spiel—you know what I mean. Give him some 
pointers on how to launch the magazine, how to appeal to the reader, and 
all that shit. Lay it on thick! He’s in the mood to swallow anything.”

“But I hardly know anything about the damned thing,” I remonstrated. 
“Listen, you’d better do it yourself. I’ll stand behind you, if you like.”

“No you don’t,” said Ned. “You’re going to do the talking. Just talk a 
blue streak … anything that comes into your head. I’m telling you, Henry, 
when he sees what you’ve written he’ll listen to anything you say. I 
haven’t been in this racket for nothing. I know a good thing when I see 
it.”

There was only one thing to do. I said O.K. “But don’t blame me if I ball
things up,” I whispered, as we tiptoed toward the sanctum santorum.

“Mr. McFarland,” said Ned in his best manner, “this is an old friend of 
mine whom I wired the other day. He’s been down in North Carolina working 
on a book. I begged him to come up and give us a hand. Mr. Miller, Mr. 
McFarland.”

As we shook hands I unconsciously made obeisance to the great figure of 
the magazine world. For a moment or two no one spoke. McFarland was sizing 
me up. I must say I took to him immediately. Man of action, there was in 
McFarland a brooding poetic streak which dyed all his gestures. “He’s no 
slouch, that’s certain,” I thought to myself, wondering at the same time 
how it was that he could permit himself to be surrounded by nitwits and 
half-wits.

Ned quickly explained that I had arrived only a few minutes ago and in 
that brief space of time, with scarcely any knowledge of the project, had 
written the pages which he now proceeded to hand over.

“You’re a writer, are you?” asked McFarland, glancing up at me and trying
to read at the same time.

“You’re the best judge of that,” I replied, employing the diplomatic 
style.

Silence for a good few minutes as McFarland carefully perused the copy. I
was on pins and needles. To hoodwink a bird like McFarland wasn’t simple. I
forgot, incidentally, what I had written. Couldn’t remember a single line.

Suddenly McFarland looked up, smiled warmly, and remarked that what I had
written looked promising. I felt that a great deal more was implied. It was
almost affection which he now inspired in me. The last thing in my mind was
to deceive him. He was a man I would have enjoyed working for—if I were 
going to work for any one. Out of the corner of my eye I observed Ned 
giving me the high sign.

For a fleeting moment, whilst gathering myself for the fling, I wondered 
what Mona would say if she were witness to the show. (“And don’t forget to 
tell O’Mara about the fathers!” I whispered to myself.)

McFarland was speaking. He had begun so quietly and smoothly that I was 
hardly aware of it. Right from the start I had again the conviction that he
was no man’s dupe. People had said of him that he was finished, that his 
ideas were outdated. Seventy-five he was, and still going strong. A man of 
his stamp could never be licked. I listened to him attentively, nodding now
and then, and beaming with admiration. He was a man after my own heart. Big
ideas. A gambler and a daredevil … I wondered if I shouldn’t seriously 
consider working for him.

It was quite a long speech the old boy was making. Despite all the 
signaling from Ned; I couldn’t determine where to bust in. McFarland had 
obviously welcomed our intrusion; seething with ideas, he had been pacing 
back and forth, champing at the bit. Our entrance upon the scene enabled 
him to let off steam. I was all for letting him go on. Now and then I 
nodded my head more vigorously or made some little exclamation of surprise 
or approval. Besides, the more he talked the better prepared I would be 
when it came my turn.

He was on his feet now, shifting restlessly about, pointing to the 
charts, the maps, and what not which ranged the walls. He was a man at home
in the world, a man who had traveled the globe many times and could speak 
from first-hand knowledge of it As I understood it, he was trying to 
impress me with the fact that he wanted to reach all the peoples of the 
world, the poor as well as the rich, the ignorant as well as the educated. 
The periodical was to come out in many languages, many formats. It was to 
produce a revolution in the magazine world.

Suddenly he stopped, out of weariness. He sat down at the big desk and 
poured himself a glass of water from the beautiful silver pitcher.

Instead of trying to show him how smart I was, I took the occasion, after
a respectful silence, to tell him how much I had always admired him and the
ideas he had championed. I said it sincerely, and it was the right thing to
say at the moment, I was sure of it. I could feel Ned growing more and more
fidgety. All he could think of was the big spiel I was to pull off. Finally
he couldn’t hold back any longer.

“Mr. Miller would like to tell you of a few things he thought of in 
connection with … “

“Not at all,” said I, jumping to my feet. Ned looked bewildered. “I mean,
Mr. McFarland, that it would be silly of me to advance my half-baked ideas.
It seems to me you’ve covered the ground quite thoroughly.

McFarland was visibly pleased. Suddenly recalling the reason for my 
presence, he picked up the copy lying before him and pretended to study it 
again.

“How long have you been writing?” he asked, giving me a long, penetrating
look. “Have you done this kind of work before?”

I confessed that I hadn’t.

“I thought so,” he said. “Maybe that’s why I like this. You’ve got a 
fresh view of things. And an excellent command of language. What are you 
working on now, if I may ask?”

He had me in a corner. Since he was so frank and direct there was nothing
to do but return the fire point-blank.

“The truth is,” I stammered, “I’ve only just begun to write. I try my 
hand at most everything, but nothing takes shape yet. I did write a book a 
few years ago, but I guess it was a pretty poor one.”

“It’s better that way,” said McFarland. “I don’t care for brilliant young
writers. A man needs something under his belt before he can express 
himself. Before he really has anything to say, I mean.” He drummed on the 
desk top, ruminating. Then he resumed: “I’d like to see one of your yarns 
some time. Are they realistic or imaginative?”

“Imaginative, I hope.” I said it timidly.

“Good!” he said. “All the better. Maybe we can use something of yours 
soon.”

I didn’t know quite what to say to this. Fortunately Ned came to my 
rescue.

“Mr. Miller is being modest, Mr. McFarland. I’ve read almost everything 
he’s written. He’s got real talent. In fact, I might even say I think he 
has genius.”

“Genius, hum! That’s even more interesting,” said McFarland.

“Don’t you think I had better finish that copy?” I put in, addressing the
old man.

“Take it easy,” he said, “we have lots of time … Tell me, what did you do
before you began writing?”

I gave him a brief account of my youthful adventures. When I began 
relating my experiences in the cosmococcic realm he sat up. From here on it
was one interruption after another. He kept forcing me to go into more and 
more detail. Presently he was on his feet again, moving about with tigerish
strides. “Go on, go on!” he urged, “I’m listening.” He swallowed avidly 
every word. He demanded more and more. “Bully, bully!” he kept exclaiming.

Suddenly he stopped dead in front of me. “Have you written about this 
yet?”

I shook my head.

“Good! Now, suppose you were to write a serial for me … Do you think you 
could write it the way you were telling it a moment ago?”

“I don’t know, sir. I could try.”

“Try! Shucks! Do it, man. Do it right away … Here!” and he handed Ned the
pages I had written. “Don’t let this man waste his time on this nonsense. 
Get somebody else to do it.”

“But there’s nobody to do it,” said Ned, delighted and crestfallen at the
same time.

“Go out and find someone, then,” bellowed McFarland. “Copywriters aren’t 
hard to find.”

“Yes sir,” said Ned.

Once again McFarland drew close to me, this time pointing his finger 
right in my face. “As for you, young man,” he said, almost snorting now, “I
want you to go home and start that serial tonight. We’ll start you off in 
the first issue. But don’t get literary on me, do you understand? I want 
you to tell your story just as you related it to me a minute ago. Can you 
dictate to a stenographer? I suppose not. Too bad. That would be the best 
way to get it out of you. Now listen to me … I’m not a spring chicken any 
more. I’ve had lots of experience and I’ve met lots of men who thought 
themselves geniuses. Don’t worry about whether you’re a genius or not. 
Don’t even think of yourself as a writer. Just pour it out—easy and 
natural—as if you were telling it to a friend. You’ll be telling it to me, 
see? I’m your friend. I don’t know if you’re a great writer or not. You’ve 
got a story to tell, that’s what interests me … If you do this chore 
satisfactorily, I’ll have something more exciting for you to tackle. I can 
send you to China, India, Africa, South America—wherever you please. The 
world is big and there’s room in it for a lad like you. By the time I was 
twenty-one I had been around the world three times. By the time I was 
twenty-five I knew eight languages. By the time I was thirty I owned a 
string of magazines. I’ve been a millionaire twice over. Doesn’t mean a 
thing. Don’t let money occupy your thoughts! I’ve been broke too—five 
times. I’m broke now.” He tapped his bean. “If you have courage and 
imagination there’ll always be people to lend you money … ” He looked at 
Ned sharply. “I’m getting hungry,” he said. “Could you send someone for 
sandwiches? I forgot all about lunch.”

“I’ll go myself,” said Ned, starting for the door.

“Bring enough for all of us,” shouted McFarland. “You know what I like. 
And bring some coffee too—strong coffee.”

When Ned returned he found us carrying on like old pals. A glow of 
delight swept his features.

“I’ve just been telling Mr. McFarland that I wasn’t in North Carolina at 
all,” I said. Ned’s face fell. “Besides, he knows the very house I’m living
in. The judge who used to own the apartment—well, they’re old friends.”

“I think,” said McFarland, “I’m going to send this young man to Africa, 
after he writes that serial for us. To Timbuctoo! He says he’s always had a
hankering to go there.”

“That sounds wonderful,” said Ned, spreading the food on the big desk and
serving the coffee.

“The time to travel is when you’re young,” McFarland continued. “And with
little money. I remember my first trip to China … ” Here he began munching 
a sandwich. “When you forget to eat you know you’re alive.”

It was an hour or so later when I left the office. My head was spinning. 
Ned had made me promise to finish the copy at home, on the q.t. He said the
old man had sure fallen for me. In the hall, as I was waiting for the 
elevator, he caught up with me. “You won’t let me down, will you? Mail it 
to me tonight special delivery. Stay up all night if you have to. Thanks!” 
He squeezed my hand.

The place was in darkness when I arrived home. I was so drunk with 
excitement that I had to swallow a few tumblers of sherry to calm myself. I
wondered what Mona would say on hearing about my splurge. I forgot all 
about the copy in my coat pocket—all I could think of was Timbuctoo, China,
India, Persia, Siam, Borneo, Burma, the great wheel, the dusty caravan 
routes, the odors and sights of the Far East, boats, trains, steamers, 
camels, the green waters of the Nile, the Mosque of Omar, the souks of Fez,
outlandish tongues, the jungle, the veldt, the bled, beggars and monks, 
jugglers, mountebanks, temples, pagodas, pyramids. My brain was in such a 
whirl that if some one didn’t appear soon I would go mad.

There I sat, in the big chair at the front window. The light of a candle 
flickered unsteadily. Suddenly the door opened softly. It was Mona. She 
came over to me, put her arms around me and kissed me tenderly. I felt a 
tear run down her cheek.

“You’re still sad? What on earth’s the matter?”

For answer she threw herself in my lap. In a moment her arms were about 
me. She was sobbing. I let her weep for a while, comforting her silently.

“Is it so very terrible?” I asked after a time. “Can’t you even tell me?”

“No, Val, I can’t. It’s too ugly.”

Little by little I succeeded in worming it out of her. Her family again. 
She had been to see her mother. Things were more desperate than ever. 
Something about a mortgage—had to be paid at once or they would lose the 
house.

“But it isn’t that,” she said, still sniffling, “it’s the way she treats 
me. As though I were dirt. She doesn’t believe I’m married. She called me a
whore.”

“Then for Christ’s sake let’s stop worrying about her,” I said angrily. 
“A mother who talks like that is no goddamned good. Anyway, it’s fantastic.
Where would we get three thousand dollars in a hurry? She must be out of 
her mind.”

“Please don’t talk that way, Val. You only make it worse.”

‘T despise her,” I said. “I can’t help it if she’s your mother. To me 
she’s just a leech. Let her go drown herself, the stupid old bitch!”

“Val! Val! Please … ” She began to weep again, more violently than 
before.

“All right, I won’t say another word. I’m sorry I let my tongue run away 
with me.”

Just then the bell rang, followed by a few quick taps on the window pane.
I jumped up and ran to the door. Mona was still weeping.

“Well, I’ll be damned,” I exclaimed, when I saw who stood there.

“You ought to be damned, hiding away from a bosom friend all this time. 
Here I am living around the corner and neither hide nor sight of you. Same 
old bastard, aren’t you? Well, how are you anyway? Can I come in?”

He was the last person I wanted to see at that moment—MacGregor.

“What’s up … some one die?” he exclaimed, seeing the candle and Mona 
huddled in the big chair, the tears streaming down her face. “Been having a
tiff, is that it?” He went up to Mona and held out his hand, thought better
of it, and stroked her head. “Don’t let him get you down,” he mumbled, 
trying to display a little sympathy. “A nice thing to be doing at this time
of day. Have you folks had dinner yet? I thought I’d stop by and invite you
out. I didn’t dream I was going to enter a house of mourning.”

“For God’s sake, can it!” I begged. “Why don’t you wait till I explain 
things.”

“Please don’t say anything, Val,” said Mona. “I’ll be all right in a 
moment.”

“That’s the way to talk,” said MacGregor, sitting down beside her and 
putting on a professional air. “Nothing is ever as bad as you imagine it to
be.”

“For Christ’s sake, must we listen to that crap? Can’t you see she’s in 
trouble?”

At once his manner altered. Rising to his feet he said solemnly: “What is
it, Hen, is it something serious? I’m sorry if I put my foot in it.”

“It’s all right, just don’t say anything for a while. I’m glad you came. 
Maybe it would be a good idea to go out for dinner.”

“You two go; I’d rather stay here,” pleaded Mona.

“If there’s anything I can do … ” MacGregor began.

I burst out laughing. “Sure there’s something you can do,” I said. “Raise
three thousand dollars for us by tomorrow morning!”

“Jesus, man, is that what’s worrying you?” He pulled a big cigar from his
breast pocket and bit the end off. “I thought it was something tragic.”

“I was kidding you,” I said. “No, it’s got nothing to do with money.”

“I can always lend you ten bucks,” said MacGregor cheerily. When it comes
to thousands, you’re talking a foreign language. Nobody has three thousand 
dollars to hand out right off the bat, don’t you know that yet?”

“But we don’t want three thousand dollars,” I said.

“Then what’s she crying for—the moon?”

“Please go and leave me alone, won’t you?” said Mona.

“We couldn’t do that,” said MacGregor, “it wouldn’t be sporting. Listen, 
girlie, whatever it is, I swear it isn’t as bad as you think. There’s 
always a loophole, remember that. Come on, wash your face and put your duds
on, eh? I’ll take you to a good restaurant this time.”

The door suddenly swung open. There stood O’Mara, slightly boiled. He 
looked as though he were delivering manna from above.

“How did you get in?” was MacGregor’s greeting. “The last time I laid 
eyes on you was at a poker game. You swindled me out of nine bucks. How are
you?” He stuck out a paw.

“O’Mara’s living with us,” I hastened to explain.

“That settles it,” said MacGregor. “Now you’ve really got something to 
worry about. I wouldn’t trust this guy even in a straitjacket.”

“What’s up?” said O’Mara, suddenly aware of Mona all hunched up in the 
big chair, her face streaked with tears. “What’s wrong?”

“Nothing serious,” I said. “I’ll tell you later. Have you had dinner?”

Before he could say yes or no, MacGregor piped up: “I didn’t invite him. 
He can come if he pays his own way, sure. But not as my guest.”

O’Mara simply grinned at this. He was in too good a mood to be upset by a
little plain talk.

“Listen, Henry,” he said, making a bee-line for the sherry, “I’ve got 
lots to tell you. Wonderful things. I had a great day today.”

“So did I,” said I.

“Do you mind if I help myself to a drink too?” said MacGregor. “Seeing as
how it was such a good day for you guys, maybe a drink will do me good.”

“Are we going out for dinner?” asked O’Mara. “I don’t want to spill the 
beans till we get set somewhere. There’s too much to tell; I don’t want to 
spoil it going off half-cocked.”

I went over to Mona. “You’re sure you don’t want to come with us?”

“Yes, Val, I’m sure,” she said weakly.

“Oh come on,” said O’Mara. “I’ve got grand news for you.”

“Sure, pull yourself together,” said MacGregor. “It’s not every day I 
invite people to eat with me—especially in a good restaurant.”

The upshot was that Mona finally consented to go. We sat down to wait for
her while she tidied up. We drank some more sherry.

“You know, Hen,” said MacGregor, “I have a hunch I may be able to do 
something for you. What are you doing these days? Writing, I suppose. And 
broke, eh? Listen, we need a typist in our office. It doesn’t pay much, but
it may tide you over. Until you’re recognized, I mean.” He finished this 
off with a leer and a chuckle.

O’Mara laughed in his face. “A typist! Haw! Haw!”

“That’s mighty white of you, Mac,” I said, “but right now I don’t need a 
job. I just landed a big one today.”

“What?” yelled O’Mara. “Cripes, don’t tell me that! I just fixed one up 
for you myself—a beauty, too. That’s what I wanted to tell you about.”

“It isn’t really a job,” I explained, “it’s a commission. I’m to write a 
serial for a new magazine. After that I may be going to Africa, China, 
India … ” MacGregor couldn’t restrain himself. “Forget it, Henry,” he burst
out, “somebody’s been taking you for a ride. The job I’m talking about pays
twenty a week. Real money. Write your serial on the side. If it turns out 
O.K. nothing’s lost. Right? But honest, Henry, aren’t you old enough to 
know that you can’t count on such things? When are you going to grow up?” 
Mona now joined in. “What’s this I hear about a job? Val doesn’t want a 
job. You’re talking nonsense, all of you.”

“Come on, let’s go,” urged MacGregor. “The place I’m taking you to is in 
Flatbush. I’ve got a car outside.”

We piled in and drove to the restaurant. The proprietor seemed to know 
MacGregor well. Probably a client of his.

I was astounded to hear MacGregor say: “Order anything you like. And how 
about a cocktail first?”

“Has he any good wine?” I asked.

“Who’s talking about wine?” said MacGregor. “I asked you if you’d like a 
cocktail first.”

“Sure I would. I’d like to see the wine card too.”

“Just like you. Always making it difficult for me. Sure, go ahead, order 
wine if you must. I never touch it. Makes my stomach sour.”

They served us a good soup first and then came a luscious roast duckling.
“I told you it was a good place, didn’t I?” crowed MacGregor. “When did I 
ever let you down, tell me, you bastard … So a typist’s job isn’t good 
enough for you, is that it?”

“Val’s a writer, not a typist,” said Mona sharply.

“I know he’s a writer,” said MacGregor, “but a writer has to eat once in 
a while, doesn’t he?”

“Does he look as though he were starving?” she retorted. “What are you 
trying to do, bribe us with your good meal?”

“I wouldn’t talk that way to a good friend,” said MacGregor, his dander 
rising. “I merely wanted to make sure he was O.K. I’ve known Henry when he 
wasn’t sitting so comfortably.”

“Those days are past,” said Mona. “As long as I’m with him he’ll never 
starve.”

“Fine!” snapped MacGregor. “Nothing better I’d like to hear. But are you 
sure you’ll always be able to provide for him? Suppose something were to 
happen to you? Suppose you become an invalid?”

“You’re talking nonsense. I couldn’t possibly be an invalid.”

“Lots of people have thought that way, but it happened just the same.”

“Stop croaking,” I begged. “Listen, give us the truth. Why are you so 
eager for me to take that job?”

He broke into a broad grin. “Waiter!” he shouted, “some more wine!” Then 
he chuckled. “Can’t put anything over on you, can I, Henry? The truth, you 
say. The truth is I wanted you to take the job just to have you around. I 
miss you. Fact is, the job pays only fifteen a week; I was going to add the
other five out of my own pocket. Just for the pleasure of having you near 
me, just to listen to you rave. You can’t imagine how dull these bastards 
are in the law business. I don’t know what they’re talking about half the 
time. As for work, there’s not much to do. You could write all the stories 
you like—or whatever the hell it is you’re doing. I mean it. You know, it’s
over a year since I last saw you. At first I was sore. Then I figured, 
hell, he’s just got married, I know how it is … So you’re serious about 
this writing business, eh? Well, you must know your own mind. It’s a tough 
game, but maybe you can beat ‘em at it. I toy with the idea myself 
sometimes. Of course I never considered myself a genius. When I see the 
crap that’s peddled around I figure nobody’s looking for genius anyway. 
It’s as bad as the law game, believe it or not. Don’t think I’ve got a 
cinch of it! The old man had more sense than either of us. He became an 
iron molder. He’ll outlive all of us, that old buzzard.”

. “I say, you guys,” O’Mara broke in, “can I get a word in edgewise? 
Henry, I’ve been trying to tell you something for the last hour or more. I 
met a chap today who’s nuts about your work. He coughed up a year’s 
subscription for the Mezzotints … ” Mezzotints f What’s he talking about?” 
MacGregor exclaimed.

“We’ll tell you later … Go on, Ted!”

It was a long story, as usual. Apparently, O’Mara hadn’t been able to 
fall asleep after our talk about the orphan asylum. He had got to thinking 
about the past, and then about everything under the sun. Despite the lack 
of sleep he arose early, filled with a desire to do something. Packing my 
scripts—the whole caboodle—in his brief case, he set out with the intention
of tackling the first man he should bump into. To change his luck he had 
decided to go to jersey City. The first place he stumbled into was a lumber
yard. The boss had just arrived and was in a good mood. “I fell on him like
a ton of bricks, just swept him off his feet,” said O’Mara. “I don’t know 
what I was saying, to tell you the truth. I knew only that I had to sell 
him.” The lumber man turned out to be a good egg. He didn’t know what it 
was all about either, but he was disposed to help. Somehow O’Mara had 
managed to transpose the whole thing to a very personal level. He was 
selling the man his good friend Henry Miller, whom he believed in. The man 
wasn’t much for books and that sort of thing but the prospect of aiding a 
budding genius, oddly enough, appealed to him. “He was writing out a check 
for the subscription,” said O’Mara, “when the idea came to me to make him 
do something more. I pocketed the check first, of course, and then I dug 
out your manuscripts. I put the whole pile on his desk, right in front of 
him. He wanted to know immediately how long it had taken you to write such 
a slew of words. I told him six months. He nearly fell off the chair. 
Naturally, I kept talking fast so that he wouldn’t start reading the bloody
things. After a while he leaned back in his swivel chair and pressed a 
button. His secretary appeared. ‘Get out the files on that publicity 
campaign we had last year,’ he ordered.”

“I know what’s coming,” I couldn’t help remarking. “Wait a minute, Henry,
let me finish. Now comes the good news.”

I let him ramble on. As I anticipated, it was a job. Only I wouldn’t be 
obliged to go to the office every day; I could do the work at home.

“Of course you’ll have to spend a little time with him occasionally,” 
said O’Mara. “He’s dying to meet you. And what’s more, he’s going to pay 
you handsomely. You can have seventy-five a week on account, to begin with.
How’s that? You stand to make between five and ten thousand before you’re 
through with the job. It’s a cinch. I could do it myself, if I knew how to 
write. I brought some of the crap he wants you to look over. You can write 
that stuff with your left hand.”

“It sounds fine,” I said, “but I just had another offer today. Better 
than that.”

O’Mara wasn’t too pleased to hear this.

“Seems to me,” said MacGregor, “that you guys are doing pretty well 
without my help.”

“It’s all foolishness,” Mona put in.

“Listen,” said O’Mara, “why don’t you let him earn some money honestly? 
It’s only for a few months. After that you can do as you please.”

The word honestly rung in MacGregor’s ears. “What’s he doing now?” he 
asked. He turned to me. “I thought you were writing. What is it, Hen, what 
are you up to now?”

I gave him a brief resume of the situation, making it as delicate as I 
could for Mona’s sake.

“For once I think O’Mara’s right,” he said. “You’ll never get anywhere 
this way.”

“I wish you people would mind your own business,” blurted Mona.

“Come, come,” said MacGregor, “don’t stand on your high horse with us. 
We’re old friends of Henry’s. We wouldn’t be giving him bad advice, would 
we now?”

“He doesn’t need advice,” she replied. “He knows what he’s doing.”

“O.K., sister, have it your way then!” With this he turned abruptly to me
again. “What was that other proposition you started to tell about? You 
know—China, India, Africa … “

“Oh that,” I said, and I began to smile.

“What are you shying off for? Listen, maybe you’ll need me for a 
secretary. I’d give up the law in a minute if there was anything to grab 
hold of. I mean it, Henry.”

Mona excused herself to make a telephone call. That meant she was too 
disgusted to hear a word about the “proposition.”

“What’s griping her?” said O’Mara. “What was she weeping for when I came 
home?”

“It’s nothing,” I said. “Family troubles. Money, I guess.”

“She’s a queer girl,” said MacGregor. “Don’t mind my saying that, do you?
I know she’s devoted to you and all that, but her ideas are all wet. She’ll
be getting you into a jam if you don’t watch out.”

O’Mara’s eyes were glistening. “You don’t know the half of it,” he 
chirped. “That’s why I was so keen to do something this morning.”

“Listen, you guys, stop worrying about me. I know what I’m doing.”

“The hell you do!” said MacGregor. “You’ve been telling me that as long 
as I know you—and where are you f Every time we meet you’re in a new 
predicament. One of these days you’ll be asking me to bail you out of 
jail.”

“All right, all right, but let’s talk about it some other time. Here she 
comes—let’s change the subject. I don’t want to rile her more than 
necessary—she’s had a hard day of it.”

“And so you’ve really got many fathers,” I continued without a pause, 
looking straight at O’Mara. Mona was lowering herself into her seat. “It’s 
like I was saying a moment ago … “

“What is this—double talk?” said MacGregor.

“Not for him,” I said, never moving a muscle. “I should have explained 
the talk we had the night before, but it’s too long. Anyway, as I was 
saying, when I came out of the dream I knew exactly what I had to tell 
you.” (Looking steadfastly at O’Mara all the while.) “It had nothing to do 
with the dream.”

“What dream?” said MacGregor, slightly exasperated now.

“The one I just explained to you,” I said. “Listen, let me finish talking
to him, will you?”

“Waiter!” called MacGregor, “Ask these gentlemen what they would like to 
drink, will you?” To us—“I’m going to take a leak.”

“It’s like this,” I said, addressing O’Mara, “you’re lucky you lost your 
father when you were a kid. Now you can find your real father—and your real
mother. It’s more important to find your real father than your real mother.
You’ve found several fathers already, but you don’t know it. You’re rich, 
man. Why resurrect the dead? Look to the living! Why, shit, there are 
fathers everywhere, all around you, better fathers by far than the one who 
gave you his name or the one who sent you to the asylum. To find your real 
father you first have to be a good son.”

O’Mara’s eyes were twinkling. “Go on,” he urged, “it sounds good even 
though I don’t know what the hell it all means.”

“But it’s simple,” I said. “Now look—take me, for instance. Did you ever 
think how lucky you were to find me? I’m not your father, but I’m a damned 
good brother to you. Do I ever ask you any embarrassing questions when you 
hand me money? Do I urge you to look for a job? Do I say anything if you 
lie in bed all day?”

“What’s the meaning of all this?” demanded Mona, amused in spite of 
herself.

“You know very well what I’m talking about,” I replied. “He needs 
affection.”

“We all do,” said Mona.

“We don’t need a thing,” said I. “Not really. We’re lucky, all three of 
us. We eat every day, we sleep well, we read the books we want to read, we 
go to a show now and then … and we have one another. A father? What do we 
need a father for? Listen, that dream I had settled everything—for me. I 
don’t even need a bike. If I can have a dream ride now and then, O.K.! It’s
better than the real thing. In dreams you never puncture a tire; if you do,
it doesn’t matter a straw. You can ride all day and all night without 
getting exhausted. Ted was right. One has to learn to dream it off … If I 
hadn’t had that dream I wouldn’t have met that guy McFarland today. Oh, I 
haven’t told you about that, have I? Well, never mind, some other time. The
point is I was offered a chance to write—for a new magazine. A chance to 
travel, too … “

“You never told me a thing about it,” said Mona, all ears now. “I want to
hear … “

“Oh, it sounded good,” said I, “but the chances are it would turn out to 
be another flop.”

“I don’t understand,” she persisted. “What were you to write for him?”

“The story of my life, no less.”

“Well … ?”

“I don’t think I can do it. Not like he wanted me to, at any rate.”

“You’re crazy,” said O’Mara.

“You’re going to turn it down?” said ‘Mona, completely mystified by my 
attitude.

“I’ll think it over first.”

“I don’t understand you at all.” said O’Mara. “Here you’ve got the chance
of a lifetime and you … why, a man like McFarland could make you famous 
overnight.”

“I know,” I said, “but that’s just what I’m afraid of. I’m not ready for 
success yet. Or rather I don’t want that kind of success. Between you and 
me—I’m going to be damned honest with you—I don’t know how to write. Not 
yet! I realized that immediately he made me the offer to write the damned 
serial. It’s going to take a long time before I know how to say what I want
to say. Maybe I’ll never learn. And let me tell you another thing while I’m
at it … I don’t want any jobs between times … neither publicity jobs nor 
newspaper jobs nor any kind of job. All I ask is to dawdle along in my own 
way. I keep telling you people I know what I’m doing. I mean it. Maybe it 
doesn’t make sense, but it’s my way. I can’t navigate any other way, do you
understand?”

O’Mara said nothing, but I sensed he was sympathetic. Mona, of course, 
was overjoyed. She thought I had underrated myself but she was terribly 
pleased that I wasn’t going to take a job. Once again she repeated what she
had always been telling me: “I want you to do as you please, Val. I don’t 
want you to think about anything but your work. I don’t care if it takes 
ten years or twenty years. I don’t care if you never succeed. Just write!”

“If what takes ten years?” asked MacGregor, returning just in time to 
catch the tail end.

“To become a writer,” I said, giving him a good-natured grin.

“You’re still talking about that? Forget it! You’re a writer now, Henry, 
only nobody knows it but you. Have you finished eating? I’ve got to go 
somewhere. Let’s get out of here. I’ll drop you off at the house.” We 
cleared out in a hurry. He was always in a hurry, MacGregor, even to attend
a poker game, as it turned out. “A bad habit,” he said, half to himself. “I
never win either. If I really had something to do I suppose I’d get over 
such nonsense. It’s just a way of killing time.” . “Why do you have to kill
time?” I asked. “Couldn’t you hang on with us? You could kill time just as 
well by chewing the fat. If you must kill time, I mean.”

“That’s true,” he answered soberly. “I never thought of that. I don’t 
know, I’ve got to be on the go all the time. It’s a weakness.”

“Do you ever read a book any more?”

He laughed. “I guess not, Henry. I’m waiting for you to write some. Maybe
then I’ll read again.” He lit a cigarette. “Oh, now and then I do pick up a
book,” he confessed rather sheepishly, “but it’s never a good one. I’ve 
lost all sense of taste. I read a few lines to send myself to sleep, that’s
the truth of it, Henry. I can no more read Dostoievsky now, or Thomas Mann,
or Hardy, than I can cook a meal. I haven’t the patience … nor the 
interest. You get stale grinding away in an office. Remember, Hen, how I 
used to study when we were kids? Jesus, I had ambition then. I was going to
bum up the world, wasn’t I? Now … aw well … it doesn’t matter a damn. In 
our racket nobody gives a shit whether you’ve read Dostoievsky or not. The 
important thing is—can you win the case? You don’t require much 
intelligence to win a case, let me tell you that. If you’re really clever, 
you manage to stay out of court. You let somebody else do the dirty work. 
Yeah, it’s the old story, Henry. I get sick of harping on it. Nobody should
take up law who wants to keep his hands clean. If he does he’ll starve. You
know, I’m always twitting you about being a lazy son-of-a-bitch. I guess I 
envy you. You always seem to be having a good time. You have a good time 
even when you’re starving to death. I never have a good time. Not any more.
Why I ever got married I don’t know. To make some one else miserable, I 
suppose. It’s amazing the way I gripe. No matter what she does for me it’s 
wrong. I do nothing but bawl the shit out of her.”

“Oh come,” I said, to egg him on, “you’re not as bad as all that.”

“Ain’t I, though? You should live with me for a few days. Listen, I’m so 
goddamned ornery I can’t even live with myself—how do you like that?”

“Why don’t you cut your throat?” I said, giving him a broad smile. 
“Really, when things get that bad, there’s no alternative.”

“You’re telling me?” he cried. “I have it out with myself every day. Yes 
sir—” and he banged the wheel emphatically “—every day of my life I ask 
myself whether I should go on living or not.”

“The trouble is you’re not serious,” I said. “You only have to ask 
yourself that question once and you know.”

“You’re wrong, Henry! It’s not as easy as all that,” he remonstrated. “I 
wish it were. I wish I could toss a coin and have done with it.”

“That’s no way to settle it,” I said.

“I know, Henry, I know. But you know me! Remember the old days? Christ, I
couldn’t even decide whether to take a crap or not.” He laughed in spite of
himself. “Have you noticed, as you get older things seem to take care of 
themselves. You don’t debate what to do every step of the way. You just 
grouse.”

We were pulling up to the door. He lingered over the farewell. “Remember,
Henry,” he said, feathering the gas pedal, “if you get stuck there’s always
a job for you at Randall, Randall and Randall’s. Twenty a week regular … 
Why don’t you look me up once in a while? Don’t make me run after you all 
the time!”

CHAPTER FOUR

I feel in myself a life so luminous,” says Louis Lambert, “that I might 
enlighten a world, and yet I am shut up in a sort of mineral.” This 
statement, which Balzac voices through his double, expresses perfectly the 
secret anguish of which I was then a victim. At one and the same time I was
leading two thoroughly divergent lives. One could be described as “the 
merry whirl,” the other as the contemplative life. In the role of active 
being everybody took me for what I was, or what I appeared to be; in the 
other role no one recognized me, least of all myself. No matter with what 
celerity and confusion events succeeded one another, there were always 
intervals, self-created, in which through contemplation I lost myself. It 
needed only a few moments, seemingly, of shutting out the world for me to 
be restored. But it required much longer stretches—of being alone with 
myself—to write. As I have frequently pointed out, the business of writing 
never ceased. But from this interior process to the process of translation 
is always, and was then very definitely, a big step. Today it is often hard
for me to remember when or where I made this or that utterance, to remember
whether I actually said it somewhere or whether I intended to say it some 
time or other. There is an ordinary kind of forgetting and a special kind; 
the latter is due, more than likely, to the vice of living in two worlds at
once. One of the consequences of this tendency is that you live everything 
out innumerable times. Worse, whatever you succeed in transmitting to paper
seems but an infinitesimal fraction of what you’ve already written in your 
head. That delicious experience with which every one is familiar, and which
occurs with haunting impressiveness in dreams—I mean of falling into a 
familiar groove: meeting the same person over and over, going down the same
street, confronting the identically same situation—this experience often 
happens to me in waking moments. How often I rack my brains to think where 
it was I made use of a certain thought, a certain situation, a certain 
character! Frantically I wonder if “it” occurred in some manuscript 
thoughtlessly destroyed. And then, when I’ve forgotten all about it, 
suddenly It dawns on me that “it” is one of the perpetual themes which I 
carry about inside me, which I am writing in the air, which I have written 
hundreds of times already, but never set down on paper. I make a note to 
write it out at the first opportunity, so as to be done with it, so as to 
bury it once and for all. I make the note—and I forget it with alacrity … 
It’s as though there were two melodies going on simultaneously: one for 
private exploitation and the other for the public ear. The whole struggle 
is to squeeze into that public record some tiny essence of the perpetual 
inner melody.

It was this inner turmoil which my friends detected in my comportment. 
And it was the lack of it, in my writings, which they deplored. I almost 
felt sorry for them. But there was a streak in me, a perverse one, which 
prevented me from giving the essential self. This “perversity” always 
voiced itself thus: “Reveal your true self and they will mutilate you.”

“They” meant not my friends alone but the world.

Once in a great while I came across a being whom I felt I could give 
myself to completely. Alas, these beings existed only In books. They were 
worse than dead to me—they had never existed except in imagination. Ah, 
what dialogues I conducted with kindred, ghostly spirits! Soul-searching 
colloquies, of which not a line has ever been recorded. Indeed, these 
“excriminations,” as I chose to style them, defied recording. They were 
carried on in a language that does not exist, a language so simple, so 
direct, so transparent, that words were useless. It was not a silent 
language either, as is often used in communication with “higher beings.” It
was a language of clamor and tumult—the heart’s clamor, the heart’s tumult.
But noiseless. If it were Dostoievsky whom I summoned, it was “the complete
Dostoievsky,” that is to say, the man who wrote the novels, diaries and 
letters we know, plus the man we also know by what he left unsaid, 
unwritten. It was type and archetype speaking, so to say. Always full, 
resonant, veridic; always the unimpeachable sort of music which one credits
him with, whether audible or inaudible, whether recorded or unrecorded. A 
language which could emanate only from Dostoievsky.

After such indescribably tumultuous communions I often sat down to the 
machine thinking that the moment had at last arrived. “Now I can say it!” I
would tell myself. And I would sit there, mute, motionless, drifting with 
the stellar flux. I might sit that way for hours, completely rapt, 
completely oblivious to everything about me. And then, startled out of the 
trance by some unexpected sound or intrusion, I would wake with a start, 
look at the blank paper, and slowly, painfully tap out a sentence, or 
perhaps only a phrase. Whereupon I would sit and stare at these words as if
they had been written by some unknown hand. Usually somebody arrived to 
break the spell. If it were Mona, she would of course burst in 
enthusiastically (seeing me sitting there at the machine) and beg me to let
her glance at what I had written. Sometimes, still half-drugged, I would 
sit there like an automaton while she stared at the sentence, or the little
phrase. To her bewildered queries I would answer in a hollow, empty voice, 
as if I were far away, speaking through a microphone. Other times I would 
spring out of it like a Jack-in-the-box, hand her a whopping lie (that I 
had concealed “the other pages,” for instance,) and begin raving like a 
lunatic. Then I could really talk a blue streak! It was as if I were 
reading from a book. All to convince her—and even more myself!—that I had 
been deep in work, deep in thought, deep in creation. Dismayed, she would 
apologize profusely for having interrupted me at the wrong moment. And I 
would accept her apology lightly, airily, as though to say—“What matter? 
There’s more where that came from … I have only to turn it on or off … I’m 
a prestidigitator, I am.” And from the lie I would make truth. I’d spool it
off (my unfinished opus) like a man possessed—themes, sub-themes, 
variations, detours, parentheses—as if the only thing I thought about the 
livelong day was creation. With this of course went considerable clowning. 
I not only invented the characters and events, I acted them out. And poor 
Mona exclaiming: “Are you really putting all that into the story? or the 
book?” (Neither of us, in such moments, ever specified what book.)

When the word book sprang up it was always assumed that it was the book, 
that is to say, the one I would soon get started on—or else it was the one 
I was writing secretly, which I would show her only when finished. (She 
always acted as if she were certain that secret travail was going on. She 
even pretended that she had searched everywhere for the script during my 
periods of absence.)

In this sort of atmosphere it was not at all unusual, therefore, that 
reference be made occasionally to certain chapters, or certain passages, 
chapters and passages which never existed, to be sure, but which were 
“taken for granted” and which, no doubt, had a greater reality (for us) 
than if they were in black and white. Mona would sometimes indulge in this 
kind of talk in the presence of a third person, which led, of course, to 
fantastic and often most embarrassing situations. If it were Uric who 
happened to be listening in, there was nothing to worry about. He had a way
of entering into the game which was not only gallant but stimulating. He 
knew how to rectify a bad slip in a humorous and fortifying way. For 
example, he might have forgotten for a moment that we were employing the 
present tense and begun using the future tense. (“I know you will write a 
book like that some day!”)

A moment later, realizing his error he would add: “I didn’t mean will 
write—I meant the book you are writing—and very obviously writing, too, 
because nobody on God’s earth could talk the way you do about something in 
which he wasn’t deeply engrossed. Perhaps I’m being too explicit—forgive 
me, won’t you?” At such junctures we all enjoyed the relief of letting go. 
We would indeed laugh uproariously. Ulric’s laughter was always the 
heartiest—and the dirtiest, if I may put it that way. “Ho! Ho!” he seemed 
to laugh, “but aren’t we all wonderful liars! I’m not doing so bad myself, 
by golly. If I stay with you people long enough I won’t even know I’m 
living any more. Ho Ho Ho! Haw Haw! Ha Ha! Hee Hee!” And he would slap his 
thighs and roll his eyes like a darkie, ending with a smacking of the lips 
and a mute request for a wee bit of schnapps … With other friends it didn’t
go so well. They were too inclined to ask “impertinent” questions, as Mona 
put it. Or else they grew fidgety and uncomfortable, made frantic efforts 
to get back to terra firma. Kronski, like Ulric, was one who knew how to 
play the game. He did it somewhat differently from Ulric, but it seemed to 
satisfy Mona. She could trust him. That’s how she put it to herself, I 
felt. The trouble with Kronski was that he played the game too well. He was
not content to be a mere accomplice, he wanted to improvise as well. This 
zeal of his, which was not altogether diabolical, led to some weird 
discussions—discussions about the progress of the mythical book, to be 
sure. The critical moment always announced itself by a salvo of hysterical 
laughter—from Mona.

It meant that she didn’t know where she was any more. As for myself, I 
made little or no effort to keep up with the others, it being no concern of
mine what went on in this realm of make believe. All I felt called upon to 
do was to keep a straight face and pretend that everything was kosher. I 
would laugh when I felt like it, or make criticism and correction, but 
under no circumstances, neither by word, gesture nor implication did I let 
on that it was just a game …

*

Strange little episodes were constantly occurring to prevent our life 
from becoming monotonously smooth. Sometimes they happened one, two, three,
like firecrackers going off.

To begin with, there was the sudden and mysterious disappearance of our 
love letters, which had been hidden away in a paper shopping bag at the 
bottom of the wardrobe. It took us a week or more to discover that the 
woman who cleaned house for us occasionally had thrown the bag in the 
rubbish. Mona almost collapsed when she heard the news. “We’ve simply got 
to find them!” she insisted. But how? The rubbish man had already made the 
rounds. Even supposing we could find the place where he had dumped them, 
they would by now be buried under a mountain of refuse. However, to satisfy
her, I inquired where the disposal dump was located. O’Mara offered to 
accompany me to the place. It was way the hell and gone, somewhere in the 
Flatlands, I believe, or else near Canarsie—a God-forsaken spot over which 
hung a thick pall of smoke. We endeavored to find precisely the spot where 
the man had dumped the day’s rubbish. An insane task, to be sure. But I had
explained the whole situation to the driver and by sheer force of will 
aroused in his brute conscience a spark of interest. He did his damnedest 
to remember, but it was hopeless. We got busy, O’Mara and I, and with 
rather elegant looking canes began poking things around. We uncovered 
everything under the sun but the missing love letters. O’Mara had all he 
could do to dissuade me from bringing home a sackful of odds and ends. For 
himself he had found a handsome pipe-case, though what he intended to do 
with it I don’t know, as he never smoked a pipe I had to content myself 
with a bone-handled pocket knife the blades of which were so rusty they 
wouldn’t open. I also pocketed a bill for a tombstone, from the directors 
of Woodlawn Cemetery.

Mona took the loss of letters tragically. She looked upon the incident as
a bad omen. (Years later, when I read what happened to Balzac in connection
with the beloved Madame Hanska’s letters, I relived this episode vividly.)

The day after our visit to the dump I received a most unexpected call 
from a police lieutenant in our precinct. He had come in search of Mona who
fortunately was not home. After a few politenesses I asked what the trouble
might be. No trouble, he assured me. Merely wanted to ask a few questions. 
Being the husband, I wondered aloud if I couldn’t answer them for her. He 
seemed reluctant to comply with this polite suggestion. “When do you expect
her back?” he asked. I told him I couldn’t say. Was she at work? he 
ventured to ask. “You mean does she have a job?” said I. He ignored this. 
“And you don’t know where she went?” He was boring in, obviously. I replied
that I hadn’t the slightest idea. The more questions he asked the more 
tight-lipped I became. I still had no inkling of what was on his mind.

Finally, however, I caught a clue. It was when he asked if she were an 
artist, perchance, that I began to get the drift. “In a way,” I said, 
waiting for the next question. ‘Well,” said he, extracting a Mezzotint from
his pocket and laying it before me, “maybe you can tell me something about 
this.”

Vastly relieved, I said, “Certainly! What would you like to know?”

“Well,” he began, settling back to enjoy a lengthy palaver, “just what is
this? What’s the racket, I mean?”

I smiled. “There’s no racket. We sell them.”

“To whom?”

“Anybody. Everybody. Anything wrong with that?”

He paused to scratch his poll.

“Have you read this one yourself?” he asked, as if firing point-blank.

“Of course I have. I wrote it.”

“What’s that? You wrote it? I thought she was the writer?”

“We’re both writers.”

“But her name’s signed to it.”

“That’s true. We have our own reason for that.”

“So that’s it?” He twiddled his thumbs, trying to think hard.

I waited for him to spring the big surprise.

“And you make a living selling these … uh, these pieces of paper?”

“We try to … ” At this point who should burst in but Mona. I introduced 
her to the lieutenant who, by the way, was not in uniform.

To my amazement she exclaimed: “How do I know he’s Lieutenant Morgan?” 
Not a very tactful way to start off.

The lieutenant, however, was not at all put out; in fact, he behaved as 
if he thought it smart of her to question his authenticity, and he 
proceeded to explain the nature of his call. He did it with tact and 
civility.

“Now, young lady,” he said, ignoring what I had volunteered, “would you 
mind telling me just why you wrote this little article?”

Here we both spoke up at once. “I told you I wrote it!” I exclaimed. And 
Mona, paying no heed to my words: “I see no reason why I should explain 
that to the police.”

“Did you write this, Miss … or rather Mrs. Miller?”

“I did.”

“She did not,” said I.

“Now which is it?” said the lieutenant in a fatherly way. “Or did you 
write it together?”

“He had nothing to do with it,” said Mona.

“She’s trying to protect me,” I protested. “Don’t believe a word she 
tells you.”

“Maybe you’re trying to protect her!” said the lieutenant.

Mona couldn’t contain herself. “Protect?” she cried “What are you getting
at? What’s wrong with this–this … ?” She was stumped what to call the 
incriminating piece of evidence.

“I didn’t say that you had committed a crime. I’m merely trying to find 
out what impelled you to write it.”

I looked at Mona and then at Lieutenant Morgan. “Let me explain, won’t 
you? I’m the one who wrote it. I wrote it because I was angry, because I 
hate to see an injustice done. I want people to know about it. Does that 
answer the question?”

“So, then you didn’t write this?” said Lieutenant Morgan, addressing 
Mona. “I’m glad to know that. I couldn’t imagine a fine-looking young lady 
like you saying such things.”

Again Mona was stumped. She had expected quite another response.

“Mr. Miller,” he continued, with a slight change of tone, “we’ve been 
having complaints about this diatribe of yours, if I may call it that. 
People don’t like the tone of it. It’s inflammatory. You sound like a 
radical. I know you’re not, of course, or you wouldn’t be living in a place
like this. I know this apartment very well. I used to play cards here with 
the Judge and his friends.”

I began to relax. I knew now that it would end with a pleasant little 
piece of advice about not becoming an agitator.

“Why don’t you offer the lieutenant a drink?” I said to Mona. “You don’t 
mind having a drink with us, do you, Lieutenant? I take it you’re off 
duty.”

“I wouldn’t mind at all,” he responded, “now that I know the sort of 
people you are. We have to look into these things, you know. Routine. This 
is a sedate old neighborhood.”

I smiled as though to say I understood perfectly. Then, like a flash, I 
thought of that officer of the law before whom I had been hauled when I was
a mere shaver. The recollection of this incident gave me an inspiration. 
Downing a glass of sherry, I took a good look at Lieutenant Morgan and was 
off like a mudlark “I’m from the old 14th Ward,” I began, beaming at him in
mellow fashion. “Perhaps you know Captain Short and Lieutenant Oakley? Or 
Jimmy Dunne? Surely you remember Pat McCarren?”

Bull’s-eyes! “I came from Greenpoint,” he said putting out his hand.

“Well, well, what do you know!” We were in the clear.

“By the way,” I said, “would you have rather had whiskey? I never thought
to ask you.” (We had no whiskey but I knew he would refuse.)“Mona, where’s 
that Scotch we had around here?”

“No, no!” he protested. “I wouldn’t think of it. This is just fine.”

“So you’re from the old 14th ward … and you’re a writer? Tell me, what do
you write besides these … uh … these … ? Any books?”

“A few,” I said. “I’ll send you the latest one as soon as it’s off the 
press.”

“That would be kind of you. And send me something of your wife’s too, 
won’t you? You picked a clever little lady, I must say that. She certainly 
knows how to defend you.”

We chatted a while about the old days and then Lieutenant Morgan decided 
he had better go.

“We’ll just file this under … what did you say you call these things?”

“Mezzotints,” said Mona.

“Good. Under M, then. Good-bye, and good luck with the writing! If you’re
ever in trouble you know where to find me.”

We shook hands on that and gently closed the door after him.

‘ “Whew!” I said, flopping into a chair.

“The next time any one asks for me,” said Mona, “remember that I write 
the Mezzotints. It’s lucky I came when I did. You don’t know how to deal 
with such people.”

“I thought I did pretty well,” I said.

“You should never be truthful with the police,” she said.

“It all depends,” I said. “You’ve got to use discrimination.”

“They’re not to be trusted,” she retorted. “You can’t afford to be decent
with them … I’m glad O’Mara wasn’t here. He’s a worse fool than you in such
matters.”

“I’m damned if I can see what you’re complaining about.”

“He wasted our time. You shouldn’t have offered him a drink, either.”

“Listen, you’re going off on a tangent. The police are human too, aren’t 
they? They’re not all brutes.”

“If they had any intelligence they wouldn’t be on the police force. 
They’re none of them any good.”

“O.K. Let’s drop it.”

“You think it’s ended—because he was nice to you. That’s their way of 
taking you in. We’re on the books now. The next thing you know we’ll be 
asked to move.”

“Oh, come, come!”

“All right, you’ll see … The pig, he almost finished the bottle!”

The next disturbing incident took place a few days later. I had been 
going to the dentist the last few weeks, to a friend named Doc Zabriskie 
whom I had met through Arthur Raymond. One could spend years sitting in his
waiting room. Zabriskie believed in doing only a little work at a time. The
truth was, he loved to talk. You’d sit with mouth open and jaws aching 
while he chewed your ear off. His brother Boris occupied an adjoining niche
where he made bridges and sets of false teeth. They were great chess 
players, the two of them, and often I had to sit down and play a bit of 
chess before I could get any work done on my teeth.

Among other things Doc Zabriskie was crazy about boxing and wrestling. He
attended all the bouts of any importance. Like so many Jews in the 
professional world, he was also fond of music and literature. But the best 
thing about him was that he never pressed you to pay. He was especially 
lenient with artists, for whom he had a weakness.

One day I brought him a manuscript I had just written. It was a 
glorification, in the most extravagant prose, of that little Hercules, Jim 
Londos.(The Greek Wrestler). Zabriskie read it through while I sat in the 
chair, mouth wide open and jaws aching like mad. He went into ecstasies 
over the script: had to show it immediately to brother Boris, then 
telephone Arthur Raymond about it. “I didn’t know you could write like 
that,” he said. He then intimated that we ought to get better acquainted. 
Wondered if we couldn’t meet somewhere of an evening and go into things 
more thoroughly.

*

We fixed a date and agreed to meet at the Cafe Royal after dinner. Arthur
Raymond came, and Kronski and O’Mara. We were soon joined by friends of 
Zabriskie. We were just about to adjourn to the Roumanian Restaurant, down 
the street, when a bearded old man came up to our table peddling matches 
and shoe-laces. I don’t know what possessed me, but before I could check 
myself I was making sport of the poor devil, baiting him with questions 
which he couldn’t answer, examining the shoe-laces minutely, stuffing a 
cigar in his mouth, and in general behaving like a cad and an idiot. Every 
one looked at me in amazement, and finally with stem disapproval. The old 
man was in tears. I tried to laugh it off, saying that he probably had a 
fortune hidden away in an old valise. A dead and stony silence ensued. 
Suddenly O’Mara grabbed me by the arm. “Let’s get out of here,” he mumbled,
“you’re making a fool of yourself.” He turned to the others and explained 
that I must be drunk, said he’d walk me around the block. On the way out he
stuffed some money in the old man’s hand. The latter raised his fist and 
cursed me.

We had hardly reached the corner when we ran full tilt into Sheldon, 
Crazy Sheldon.

“Mister Miller!” he cried, holding out both hands and smiling with a full
set of gold teeth. “Mister O’Mara!” You would think we were his long lost 
brothers.

We got on either side of him, locked arms, and started walking toward the
river. Sheldon was bubbling over with joy. He had been searching all over 
town for me, he confided. Was doing well now. Had an office not far from 
his home.

“And what are you doing, Mister Miller?” I told him I was writing a book.

With this he disengaged himself and took up a position in front of us, 
his arms folded over his chest, his expression ludicrously serious. His 
eyes were almost shut, his mouth pursed. Any moment now I expected that 
peanut whistle of his to issue like steam through the tight lips.

“Mister Miller,” he began slowly and sententiously, as if he were 
summoning the whole world to listen in. “I always wanted you to write a 
book. Sheldon understands. Yes indeed.” He said this raspingly, his lower 
lip thrust out, his head jerking back and forth in violent approval.

“He’s writing about the Klondike,” said O’Mara, always ready to work 
Sheldon up to a lather.

“No, No!” said Sheldon, fixing us with a cunning smile, at the same time 
waving his index finger back and forth under our noses. “Mister Miller is 
writing a great book. Sheldon knows.” Suddenly he grasped us by the 
forearm, relaxed his grip and put his index finger to his lips. “Sh—h—h!” 
He looked around as if to make sure we were out of earshot. Then he started
walking backward, his finger still raised. He moved it back and forth, like
a metronome. “Wait,” he whispered, “I know a place … Sh—h—h!”

‘We want to walk,” said O’Mara brusquely, shoving him aside as he pulled 
me along. “He’s drunk, can’t you see that?”

Sheldon looked positively horrified. “Oh no!” he cried, “No, not Mr. 
Miller!” He bent over to look up into my face. “No,” he repeated, “Mr. 
Miller would never get drunk.” He was forced to trot now, his legs still 
crooked, his index finger still wagging. O’Mara walked faster and faster. 
Finally Sheldon stood stock still, allowing us to get quite a distance 
ahead of him. He stood there with arms folded over his chest, immobile. 
Then, all of a sudden, he broke into a run.

“Be careful,” he whispered, as he caught up with us. “Polaks around here.
Shhhhh!”

O’Mara laughed in his face.

“Don’t laugh!” begged Sheldon.

“You’re crazy!” sneered O’Mara.

Sheldon marched beside us, briskly and gingerly, as if walking with bare 
feet on broken glass. He was silent for a few moments. Suddenly he stopped,
opened his overcoat and sack coat, and quickly, furtively buttoned his 
inside pockets, then the outer buttons of his sack coat, then his overcoat.
He thrust his lower lip forward, narrowed his gimlet-like eyes to two 
slits, pulled his hat well down over his eyes, and pushed onward. All this 
rigmarole to the tune of absolute silence. Still silent, he put forth one 
hand and significantly gave his gleaming rings a half turn. Then he pushed 
both hands deep down into his overcoat pockets. “Quiet!” he whispered, 
treading even more gingerly now.

“He’s gaga,” said O’Mara.

“Sh—h—h—h—h!”

I laughed quietly.

Now he began to talk in muffled tones, almost inaudibly, his lips 
scarcely moving. I could only get fragments of it.

“Open you mouth,” said O’Mara.

“Sh-h-h-h-h!”

More muffled flim-flam. Broken by an occasional Coooooooo or Eeeeeeeee. 
All punctuated by stifled shrieks and that infernal peanut whistle. It was 
getting eerie. We were now approaching the gas tanks and the dismal lumber 
yards. The empty streets were sinister and lugubrious. Suddenly I felt 
Sheldon’s fingers clawing my arm. A sound like Ughhh escaped from his thin 
cracked lips. He was tugging at me and nodding his head. He did it like a 
horse tossing his mane.

I looked sharply about. There on the other side of the street was a drunk
zigzagging homeward. A huge hulk of a man, with his jacket wide open, no 
tie on, no hat. Now and then he stopped to let out a bloody oath.

“Hurry, hurry!” muttered Sheldon, gripping me tighter.

“Shhh! It’s all right,” I murmured.

“A Polak!” he whispered. I could feel him quivering all over.

“Let’s get back to the Avenue,” I said to O’Mara. “He’s in torment.”

“Yes, yes,” whimpered Sheldon. “This way is better,” and with elbow glued
to his body he stuck a hand out cautiously and jerkily, like the movement 
of a semaphore. Once we had turned the corner his pace livened. Half 
running, half walking, he kept swinging his head from side to side, fearful
that some one would catch us unaware. When we got to the subway station we 
took leave of him. Not before giving him my address, however. I had to 
write it out for him on the inside of a match box. His hands were still 
trembling, his teeth chattering.

“Sheldon will see you soon,” he said, as he waved good-bye. At the foot 
of the stairs he stopped, turned round, and put his finger to his lips.

“SHHHHHHHH! ” went O’Mara as loud as he could.

Sheldon grinned solemnly. Then, without uttering a sound, he frantically 
moved his lips. It seemed to me he was trying to say POLAKS. He probably 
thought he was screaming.

“You should never have given him our address,” said O’Mara. “That guy 
will haunt us. He’s a pest. He gives me the creeps.” He shook himself like 
a dog.

“He’s all right,” I said. “I’ll handle him, if he ever does show up. 
Besides, I rather like Sheldon.”

“You would,” said O’Mara.

“Did you notice the rocks on his fingers?”

“Rhinestones probably.”

“Diamonds, you mean! You don’t know Sheldon. Listen, if we ever need help
that guy will pawn his shirt for us.”

“I’d rather starve than have to listen to him.”

“All right, have it your way. Something tells me we may have need of Mr. 
Sheldon one day. Jesus, how he trembled when he saw that drunken Polak!”

O’Mara was silent.

“You don’t give a shit, do you?” I gibed. “You don’t know what a pogrom 
is like … “

“Neither do you,” said O’Mara tartly.

“When I look at Sheldon I do. Yes sir, to me that poor bastard is nothing
but a walking pogrom. If that Polak had started for us he would have shit 
in his pants.”

*

A few nights later Osiecki turned up with his girl. Louella was her name.
Her downright homeliness almost made her beautiful. She had on a Nile-green
gown and brocaded slippers of banana yellow and orange. She was quiet, 
self-contained, and totally humorless. Her manner was that of a nurse 
rather than a fiancee.

Osiecki wore the fixed grin of a death’s head. His attitude was—“I 
promised to bring her, here she is.” The implication was that we were to 
get what we could out of her without his assistance. He had come to “set” 
and drink what was provided. As for conversation, he listened to all that 
went on as if we were putting on records for him.

It was a strange conversation because all one could extract from Louella 
was a Yes or a No or I think so or Perhaps. Osiecki’s grin widened more and
more, as if to say: “I told you so!” The more he drank the more wobbly his 
teeth became. His mouth was beginning to resemble a contraption of 
intricate wires and braces. Whatever he chewed he chewed slowly and 
painfully. In fact, he seemed to masticate rather than chew. Since his last
visit his whole face had broken out in an eruption which did little to 
enhance his forlorn appearance.

Asked if things were going any better, he turned to Louella. “She’ll tell
you,” he mumbled.

Louella said No.

“Still the same old trouble?”

Again he looked to Louella.

This time she said Yes.

Then, to our surprise, he said: “Ask her how she feels.” With this he 
lowered his head; a few drops of saliva fell into his glass. He pulled out 
a handkerchief and with obvious effort wiped his mouth.

All eyes focused on Louella. No reaction except to look straight through 
us, one after the other. Her eyes, which were pale green, became stony and 
fixed. We were growing highly uncomfortable, but no one knew how to break 
the spell. Suddenly, of her own accord, she began to speak. She employed a 
low monotone, as if hypnotized. Her gaze, which never altered throughout, 
was riveted to the edge of the mantelpiece, which was just above our heads.
In that theatrical Nile-green gown, with those glassy green eyes, she gave 
the discomfiting impression of impersonating a medium. Her hair, a striking
dissonance, was magnificent: a luxuriant, voluptuous auburn which fell like
a cataract over her bare shoulders. For a full moment, completely 
bewitched, I had the old sensation of gazing upon a corpse, an electrically
warmed corpse.

What she was talking about in that dull, hollow monotone I didn’t quite 
catch at first. It was like listening to distant surf beating against a 
cliff. She had mentioned no names, no places, no time. Gradually I surmised
that the “him” she was talking about was her fiance, Osiecki. Now and then 
I glanced at him to observe his reactions, but there were none. He was 
still grinning like and asbestos grill. One would hardly have suspected 
that she was talking about him.

The gist of her monologue was to the effect that she had known him for 
over a year now and, despite all his friends might say, she was convinced 
that he was really no different than he had ever been. She implied very 
definitely that he was cuckoo. Without the slightest modulation she added 
that she was certain she was also going cuckoo. No insinuation that it was 
his fault. No, merely as if it were an unfortunate, or perhaps fortunate, 
coincidence. It was his misfortune which had attracted her. She supposed 
she loved him, but she had no way of knowing, since both their reactions 
were abnormal. His friends, whom she had nothing against, regarded her as a
bad influence. Perhaps she was. She had no ulterior motive in attaching 
herself to him. She earned her own living and, if need be, could take care 
of both. She was neither happy nor unhappy. The days passed as in a dream, 
and the nights were the continuation of some other dream. Sometimes she 
thought it would be better if they left the city, other times she thought 
it made no difference one way or the other. She was getting less and less 
able to make decisions. A sort of twilight had settled over them which, to 
believe her, was not at all unbearable. They were going to marry shortly; 
she hoped his friends wouldn’t mind too much. As for the lice, she had felt
them herself; it could be imaginary bites and real ones, especially if they
left marks on one’s skin. His eczema, which we had probably noticed, was 
only a passing thing—he had been drinking heavily. But she preferred to see
him drunk than worried to death. He had his good points and his bad points,
like any one else. She was sorry she didn’t care much for music but she did
her best to listen. She had never had any feeling for art, neither music, 
painting, nor literature. She had no enthusiasm for anything, really, not 
even as a child. Her life had always been easy and comfortable, as well as 
dull and monotonous. The monotony of life didn’t affect her as it did 
others, she thought. She felt the same whether she was alone or with people
…

On and on she went, none of us having the heart or the wits to interrupt 
her. She seemed to have cast a spell over us. If a corpse could talk she 
was a perfect talking corpse. Except for the fact that her lips moved and 
emitted sounds, she was inanimate.

It was O’Mara who broke the spell. He thought he heard some one at the 
door. He sprang to his feet and yanked the door open. There was no one, 
nothing but the darkness. I noticed Louella’s head jerk when he swung the 
door open. In a few moments her features relaxed, her eyes melted.

“Wouldn’t you like another drink?” asked Mona.

“Yes,” she said, “I would.”

O’Mara had hardly seated himself, was just about to pour himself another 
drink, in fact, when there was a timid knock at the door. He jumped. Mona 
dropped the glass she was proffering Louella. Only Osiecki remained 
impassive.

I went to the door and opened it quietly. There stood Sheldon, hat in 
hand.

“Were you here just a minute ago?” I asked.

“No,” he said, “I just came.”

“Are you sure?” asked O’Mara.

Sheldon disregarded this and walked in. “Sheldon!” he said, glancing from
one to another, and to each one making a slight bow. The ceremony consisted
in closing the eyes and opening them quiveringly each time he returned to 
an erect posture.

We put him at ease as best we could and proffered him a drink.

“Sheldon never refuses,” he said solemnly, his eyes glittering. Throwing 
his head back, he polished off the glass of sherry at one gulp. Then he 
loudly smacked his lips, fluttered his eyelids some more, and inquired if 
we were all enjoying good health. For answer we all laughed, except 
Louella, who smiled gravely. Sheldon tried to laugh too, but the best he 
could do was to make a weird grimace, something like a wolf about to lick 
its chops.

Osiecki grinned hard, right in Sheldon’s face. He seemed to sense a 
kindred spirit.

“What did he say his name was?” he asked, looking at O’Mara.

Sheldon repeated his name gravely, dropping his eyes as he did so.

“Haven’t you got a first name?” he asked, this time direct.

“Just Sheldon,” said Sheldon.

“But you’re Polish, aren’t you?” said Osiecki, becoming more and more 
animated.

“I was born in Poland,” said Sheldon. Here he drew his words out so that 
there could be no possibility of misunderstanding. “But I am proud to say I
am not Polish.”

“Well, I’m half Polish,” said Osiecki amiably, “but I’m damned if I know 
whether I’m proud of it or not.”

Sheldon immediately looked away, closing his mouth tightly as if he 
feared to utter an ill-timed malediction. Catching my eye he gave me a 
painful smile. It meant—“I’m doing my best to behave myself in the company 
of your friends, even though I smell Polish blood.”

“He won’t harm you,” I said reassuringly.

“What’s the matter … ?” cried Osiecki. “What did I do?”

Sheldon promptly rose to his feet, threw out his chest, frowned, then 
assumed his most striking histrionic pose.

“Sheldon is not afraid,” he said, sucking in air with each word he 
hissed. “Sheldon does not wish to speak to a Polak.” Here he paused and 
without moving the rest of his body turned his head around as far as it 
would go, then back again, exactly like a mechanical doll. In doing this he
half closed his eyelids, thrust forward his under lip, and, coming to Eyes 
Front! slowly raised his hand, the forefinger extended—like Dr. Munyon 
about to prate of liver pills.

“Shhhhhh!” from O’Mara.

“SHHHHHHH!” And Sheldon lowered his hand to place the forefinger over his
lips.

“What is this?” cried Osiecki, thoroughly elated by the performance.

“Sheldon will speak. Afterward the Polaks may speak. This is not the 
place for hooligans. Am I right, Mr. Miller? Quiet, please!” Again he 
twisted his head around, like a mechanical doll. “There has happened once a
very terrible thing. Excuse me if I must mention such things in the 
presence of ladies and gentlemen. But this man”—he glowered fiercely at 
Osiecki—“has asked me if I am a Pole. Pfui! (He spat on the floor.) That I 
should be a Pole—pfui! (He spat again.) Excuse me, Madame Mrs. Miller,” (he
made an ironic little bow) “—but when I hear the word Pole I must spit. 
Pfui!” (And he spat a third time.)

He paused, taking a deep breath in order to inflate his chest to the 
proper degree. Also to gather up the venom which his glands were secreting.
His lower jaw trembled, his eyes darted black rays of hate. As if made of 
compression rings, his body began to tighten: he had only to uncoil himself
to spring to the other side of the street.

“He’s going to throw a fit,” said Osiecki in genuine alarm.

O’Mara jumped to his feet to offer Sheldon a glass of sherry. Sheldon 
knocked it out of his hand, as if brushing away a fly. The sherry spilled 
over Louella’s beautiful Nile-green gown. She took no notice of it 
whatever. Osiecki was getting more and more agitated. In distress he turned
to me imploringly.

“Tell him I didn’t mean anything by what I said,” he begged.

“A Pole never apologizes,” said Sheldon, looking straight ahead. “He 
murders, he tortures, he rapes, he bums women and children—but he never 
says ‘I am sorry.’ He drinks blood, human blood—and he prays on his knees, 
like an animal. Every word from his mouth is a lie or a curse. He eats like
a dog, he makes caca in his pants, he washes with filthy rags, he vomits in
your face. Sheldon prays every night that God should punish them. As long 
as there is one Pole alive there will be tears and misery. Sheldon has no 
mercy on them. They must all die, like pigs … men, women and children. 
Sheldon says it … because he knows them.”

His eyes, which were half closed when he began, were now shut tight. The 
words escaped his lips, each one pressed forth as if by a bellows. At the 
corners of his mouth the saliva had collected, giving him the appearance of
an epileptic.

“Stop him, Henry, please,” begged Osiecki.

“Yes, Val, please do something,” cried Mona. “This has gone far enough.”

“Sheldon!” I yelled, thinking to startle him.

He remained impassive, Eyes Front! as if he had heard nothing.

I got up, took him by the arms, and shook him gently. “Come, Sheldon,” I 
said quietly, “snap out of it!” I shook him again, more vigorously.

Sheldon’s eyes opened slowly, flutteringly; he looked around as if he had
just come out of a trance.

A sickly smile now spread over his face, as though he had succeeded in 
sticking his finger down his throat and vomiting up a poisonous dose.

“You’re all right now, aren’t you?” I asked, giving him a sound thwack on
the back.

“Excuse me,” he said, blinking and coughing, “it’s those Polaks. They 
always make me sick.”

“There are no Polaks here, Sheldon. This man—” pointing to Osiecki “—is a
Kanuck. He wants to shake hands with you.

Sheldon stuck out his hand as if he had never seen Osiecki before, and 
making a low bow, he said: “Sheldon!”

“Glad to know you,” said Osiecki, also making a slight bow. “Here, have a
drink, won’t you?” and he reached for a glass.

Sheldon held the glass to his lips and sipped slowly, cautiously, as if 
not quite convinced it was harmless.

“Good?” beamed Osiecki.

“Ausgezeichnet!” Sheldon smacked his lips. He smacked them not from 
genuine relish but to show his good manners.

“Are you an ‘old friend of Henry’s?” asked Osiecki, trying lamely to worm
his way into Sheldon’s good graces.

“Mister Miller is everybody’s friend,” was the answer.

“He used to work for me,” I explained.

“Oh, I see! Now I get it,” said Osiecki. He seemed inordinately relieved.

“He’s got a business of his own now,” I added.

Sheldon beamed and began twiddling the jeweled rings on his fingers.

“A legitimate business,” said Sheldon, rubbing his hands together like a 
pawnbroker. Hereupon he slipped one of his rings off and held it under 
Osiecki’s nose. It held a large ruby. Osiecki examined it appraisingly and 
passed it over to Louella. Meanwhile Sheldon had slipped another ring off 
and handed it to Mona to examine. This time it was a huge emerald. Sheldon 
waited a few moments to observe the effects of this procedure. Then he 
ceremoniously took two rings off the hand, both diamonds. These he placed 
in my hand. Then he put his fingers to his lips and went Shhhhh!

While we were examining how wonderful the stones were Sheldon reached 
into his vest pocket and brought out a little package wrapped in tissue 
paper. He undid this over the table, opening it out flat in the palm of his
hand. Five or six cut stones gleamed forth, all small ones but of 
extraordinary brilliance. He laid them carefully on the table and reached 
into his other vest pocket. This time he brought forth a string of tiny 
pearls, exquisite pearls, the like of which I had never seen.

When we had feasted our eyes on all these treasures, he again assumed one
of his mystifying poses, held it for an impressive length of time, then 
dove into his inside coat pocket and extracted a long wallet of Moroccan 
make. He unfolded this in mid-air, like a prestidigitator, then, one by 
one, he drew forth bills of all denominations in about a dozen different 
currencies. If it was real money, as I had good reason to believe it was, 
it must have represented several thousand dollars.

“Aren’t you afraid to walk around with all this stuff in your pockets?” 
some one inquired.

Fluttering his fingers in the air, as if touching little bells, he 
replied sententiously: “Sheldon knows how to manage.”

“I told you he was nuts,” cackled O’Mara.

Oblivious of the remark, Sheldon continued: “In this country no one 
bothers Sheldon. This is a civilized country. Sheldon always minds his own 
business … Isn’t that so Mister Miller t” He paused to inflate his chest. 
Then he added: “Sheldon is always polite, even to niggers.”

“But Sheldon … “

“Wait!” he cried. “Quiet, please!” And then, with a mysterious twinkle in
his gimlet eyes, he unbuttoned his shirt, rapidly retreated a few steps 
until his back touched the window, dangled a piece of black tape which was 
slung around his neck, and before we could say Boo! gave a terrific blast 
from a police whistle attached to the tape. The noise pierced our ear 
drums. It was hallucinating.

“Grab it!” I yelled, as Sheldon raised it to his lips again.

O’Mara clutched the whistle tightly. “Quick! hide everything!” he yelled.
“If the cops come we’ll have a hell of a time explaining this loot.”

Osiecki at once gathered the rings, the bills, the wallet and the jewels 
together, calmly slipped them in his coat pocket, and sat down with arms 
folded, waiting for the police to arrive.

Sheldon looked on scornfully and contemptuously. “Let them come.” he 
said, his nose in the air, his nostrils quivering. “Sheldon is not afraid 
of the police.”

O’Mara busied himself stuffing the whistle back in Sheldon’s bosom, 
buttoning his shirt, then his vest and coat. Sheldon permitted him to do 
all this quite as if he were a mannequin being dressed for the show window.
He never once took his eyes off Osiecki however.

Sure enough, in a few moments the bell rang. Mona rushed to the door. It 
was the police all right.

“Talk!” muttered O’Mara. He raised his voice as though continuing a 
heated argument. I responded in the same key, not caring what I said. At 
the same time I signaled Osiecki to join in. All I could get from him was a
grin. With arms folded he placidly watched and waited. Between snatches of 
the mock dispute Mona could be heard protesting that we knew nothing about 
a police whistle. Hadn’t heard a thing, I could hear her say. O’Mara was 
chattering away like a magpie, assuming other voices, other imitations now.
In deaf-and-dumb code he was frantically urging me to follow suit. Had the 
police brushed their way in at that moment they would have witnessed a 
droll piece of business. In the midst of it I broke out laughing, forcing 
O’Mara to redouble his efforts. Louella, of course, sat like a stone. 
Osiecki looked down upon the performance as if from a stall in the circus. 
He was completely at ease; in fact he was radiant. As for Sheldon, he never
budged from his position. His back was still against the window. He 
remained there all buttoned up, as if waiting for the window-dresser to 
arrange his arms and legs. Repeatedly I waved to him to speak, but he 
remained impervious, aloof, altogether disdainful, in fact.

Finally we heard the door close and Mona scurrying back.

“The stupid fools,” she said.

“They always come when I blow the whistle,” said Sheldon in a 
matter-of-fact tone.

“I only hope the landlord doesn’t come down,” I remarked.

“They’re away for the week end,” said Mona.

“Are you sure those cops are not standing outside?” said O’Mara.

“They’ve gone,” said Mona, “I’m sure of it. God, there’s nothing worse 
than a thick mick, unless it’s two thick micks. I thought I’d never 
convince them.”

“Why didn’t you invite them in?” asked Osiecki. “That’s always the best 
way.”

“Yes,” said Louella, “we always do that.”

“It was a good stunt,” grinned Osiecki. “Do you always play games like 
that? He’s fun, this Sheldon.” He got up leisurely and dumped the loot on 
the table. He went over to Sheldon and said: “Could I have a look at that 
whistle?”

O’Mara was instantly on his feet, ready to fling both arms around 
Sheldon. “Cripes! Don’t start that again!” he begged.

Sheldon put his two hands out, palms forward, as if to ward us off. 
“Quiet!” he whispered, reaching with his right hand for the back pocket of 
his trousers. With one hand thus extended and the other on his hip, but 
concealed by his coat, he said quietly and grimly: “If I lose the whistle I
always have this.” So saying, he whipped out a revolver and leveled it at 
us. He pointed it at each of us in turn, no one daring to make a move or 
utter a sound for fear his hand would automatically press the trigger. 
Convinced that we were properly impressed, Sheldon slowly returned the 
revolver to his hip pocket.

Mona made a bee-line for the bathroom. In a moment she was calling me to 
join her. I excused myself to see what she wanted. She almost dragged me 
in, then closed and locked the door. “Please,” she whispered, “get them out
of here, all of them, I’m afraid something will happen.”

“Is that what you wanted? All right,” I said, but halfheartedly.

“No, please,” she begged, “do it right away.

I left her locked in the bathroom and returned to the group. Sheldon was 
now showing Osiecki a murderous-looking pocket knife which he also carried 
with him. Osiecki was testing the blade with his thumb.

I explained that Mona was feeling ill, thought it best we break up.

Sheldon was for running out and telephoning a doctor. Finally we 
succeeded in ousting them, Osiecki promising to take good care of Sheldon, 
and Sheldon protesting that he could take care of himself. I expected to 
hear the whistle blow in a few minutes. I wondered what the cops would say 
when they emptied Sheldon’s pockets. But no sound broke the silence.

*

As I undressed for bed my eye fell on the little brass ash tray, from 
India supposedly, which I was especially fond of. It was one of the little 
objects which I had selected the day I bought the furniture; it was 
something I hoped to keep forever. As I held it in my hand, examining it 
anew, I suddenly realized that not a thing in the place belonged to the 
past, my own past. Everything was brand new. It was then I thought of the 
little Chinese nut which I had kept since childhood in a little iron bank 
on the mantelpiece at home. How I had come by this nut I no longer 
remember; it had probably been given me by some relative returning from the
South Seas. At intervals I used to open the little bank, which never had 
more than a few pennies in it, get out the nut and fondle it. It was as 
smooth as suede, the color of light siena, and had a black band running 
lengthwise through the center. I have never seen another nut like it. 
Sometimes I would take it out and carry it about with me for days or weeks,
not for good luck, but because I liked the feel of it. It was a completely 
mysterious object to me, and I was content to leave it a mystery. That it 
had an ancient history, that it had passed through many hands, that it had 
traveled far and wide, I was certain. It was that which endeared it to me. 
One day, after I had been married to Maude for some time, I had such a 
longing for this little fetish that I made a special trip to my parents’ 
home to recover it. To my amazement and disappointment I was informed that 
my mother had given it to some little boy in the neighborhood who had 
expressed a liking for it. What boy? I wanted to know. But she could no 
longer remember. She thought it silly of me to be so concerned about a 
trifle. We talked of this and that, waiting for my father to arrive and 
have dinner together.

“What about my theater,” I suddenly demanded. “Did you get rid of that 
too?”

“Long ago,” said my mother. “You remember little Arthur who lived in the 
flats across the way? He was crazy about it.”

“So you gave it to him?” I had never cared much for little Arthur. He was
a born sissy. But my mother thought he was a grand little fellow, had such 
lovely manners, and so on.

“Do you suppose he still has it?” I asked.

“Oh no, of course not! He’s a big fellow now; he wouldn’t want to play 
with that any more.”

“You can’t tell,” I said. “Maybe I’ll run over there and see.”

“They’ve moved.”

“And you don’t know where to, I suppose?”

She didn’t, of course, or most likely she did but wouldn’t tell me. It 
was so silly for me to want these old things back, she repeated.

“I know it,” I said, “but I would give anything to see them again.”

“Wait till you have children of your own, then you can buy them new ones,
better ones.”

“There couldn’t be a better theater than that one,” I protested 
vehemently. I gave her a long spiel about my Uncle Ed Martini who had spent
months and months making it for me. As I talked I could see it again 
standing under the Christmas tree. I could see my little friends, who 
always dropped in during the holidays, sitting in a circle on the floor, 
watching me manipulate the paraphernalia which went with the theater.

My Uncle had thought of everything, not only changes of scene and variety
of cast but footlights, pulleys, wings, backdrops, everything imaginable. 
Every Christmas I brought out this theater, up until I was sixteen or 
seventeen years of age. I could play with it today even more passionately 
than when I was a child, so beautiful, so perfect, so intricate it was. But
it was gone and I would never see it again. Most certainly I would never 
find another one like it, for this one had been made with love and with a 
patience which no one today seems to possess. It was strange, too, I 
reflected, because Ed Martini had always been regarded as a 
good-for-nothing, a man who wasted his time, who drank too much and talked 
too much. But he knew what would make a child happy!

Nothing from my boyhood had been preserved. The tool chest had been given
to the Good Will Society, my story books to another little urchin whom I 
detested. What he had done with my beautiful books I could well imagine. 
The exasperating part of it all was that my mother would make not the 
slightest effort to help me recover these belongings. About the books, for 
instance, she averred that I had read them over so many times I must know 
the contents by heart. She simply could not, or would not, understand that 
I wanted to possess them physically. Perhaps she was unconsciously 
punishing me for the light-hearted way I used to accept gifts.

(The desire to strengthen the ties which bound me to the past, to my 
wonderful childhood, was becoming ever stronger. The more insipid and 
distasteful the everyday world became, the more I glorified the golden days
of childhood. I could see more and more clearly as time went on that my 
childhood had been one long holiday—a carnival of youth. It wasn’t that I 
felt myself growing old, it was simply that I realized I had lost something
precious.)

This theme became even more poignant when my father, thinking to revive 
pleasant memories, would tell me of the doings of my old playmate, Tony 
Marella. “I just read something about him last week in The Chat,” he would 
begin. First it used to be about Tony Marella’s athletic exploits, how, for
example, he had won the Marathon and almost dropped dead. Then it was about
the club Tony Marella had organized, and how he was going to improve the 
lot of the poor boys in the neighborhood. There was always a photo of him 
accompanying the article. From The Chat, which was just a local weekly, he 
soon began to be talked about in the Brooklyn dailies. He was a figure to 
be reckoned with, he would be heard from one of these days. Yes, it 
wouldn’t be surprising if he were to run for alderman soon. And so on … 
There was no doubt about it, Tony Marella was the new star in the firmament
of the Bushwick Section. He had started from the bottom, had triumphed over
all handicaps, had put himself through law school; he was a shining example
of what the son of a poor immigrant could make of himself in this glorious 
land of opportunity.

Much as I liked Tony Marella, it always sickened me to hear the way my 
folks raved about him. I had known Tony from grammar school; we were always
in the same class and we graduated together at the head of the class. Tony 
had to struggle for everything, whereas for me it was the contrary. He was 
a tough, rebellious kid whose animal spirits drove the teachers crazy. With
the boys he was a born leader. For years I lost track of him completely. 
Never even gave him a thought. One winter’s evening, tramping through the 
snow, I ran into him. He was on his way to a political meeting, and I, I 
was keeping a date with some dizzy blonde. Tony tried to get me to 
accompany him to the meeting, said it would do me good. I laughed in his 
face. A bit peeved, he began talking politics to me, told me he was out to 
reform the Democratic party of our district, our old home district. Again I
laughed, this time almost insultingly. To this Tony cried: “You’ll be 
voting for me in a couple of years, wait and see. They need men like me in 
the party.”

“Tony,” I said, “I’ve never voted yet and I don’t think I ever will. But 
if you’re running for office I may make an exception. I’d like nothing 
better than to see you become President of the United States. You’d be a 
credit to the White House.” He thought I was kidding him, but I was dead 
serious.

In the midst of this talk Tony mentioned the name of his possible rival, 
Martin Malone. “Martin Malone!” I exclaimed. “Not our Martin Malone?” The 
very one, he assured me. Now the coming figure in the Republican party. I 
was that surprised you could have knocked me over with a feather. That 
blockhead! How had he ever come into such prominence? Tony explained that 
it was the father’s influence. I remembered old man Malone well; he was a 
good man and an honest politician, rare thing. But his son! Why, Martin, 
who was four years older than us, was always at the foot of the class. He 
stuttered badly too, or he did as a boy. And this dunce was now a leading 
figure in local politics. “You see why I’m not interested in politics,” I 
said. “There’s where you’re wrong, Henry,” said Tony vehemently. “Would you
want to see Martin Malone become a congressman?”

“Frankly,” said I “I don’t give a damn who becomes congressman of this 
district, or any district. It doesn’t matter in the slightest. It doesn’t 
even matter who’s President. Nothing matters. The country isn’t run by 
these shits,” Tony shook his head in thorough disapproval. “Henry, you’re 
lost,” he said. “You’re an out-and-out anarchist.” And on this we parted, 
not to meet again for a number of years.

The old man never ceased harping on Tony’s virtues. I knew, of course, 
that my father was only trying to put some life in me. I knew that after he
had done talking about Tony Marella he would ask how the writing business 
was coming along, had I sold anything yet, and so on. And if I said that 
nothing of importance had happened yet, my mother would then give me one of
those sad, sidelong looks, as if to pity me for the ignorance of my ways, 
perhaps adding aloud that I had always been the brightest boy in class, 
that I had had every opportunity, yet here I was trying to become a foolish
thing like a writer. “If you could only write something for the Saturday 
Evening Post!” she would say. Or, to make my position even more ludicrous, 
this: “Maybe The Chat would take one of your stories!” (Everything I wrote,
incidentally, she called a story, though I had explained to her a dozen or 
more times that I didn’t write “stories.”

“Well, whatever they are, then,” was always her final word.) In parting I
would always say to her: “You’re sure, now, there are none of my old things
left?” The answer always was, “Forget it!” In the street, as she stood at 
the fence to wave good-bye, there’d be this Parthian shot from her: “Don’t 
you think you’d better give up that writing and find a job? You’re not 
getting any younger, you know. You may be an old man before you’re famous.”

I would leave filled with remorse that I hadn’t made their evening more 
entertaining. On the way to the elevated station I had to pass Tony 
Marella’s old home. His father still ran a cobbler’s shop on the street 
front. Tony had blossomed right out of that hovel in which he was raised. 
The edifice itself had undergone no changes in the generation which had 
passed. Only Tony had changed, had evolved, in keeping with the times. I 
felt certain he still spoke Italian to his parents, still kissed his father
affectionately when greeting him, was still providing for the family out of
his meager salary. What a different atmosphere reigned in that household! 
What a joy it must have been to his parents to see Tony making his way in 
the world! When he made his grand speeches they were unable to understand a
word he said. But they knew he was saying the right thing. Everything he 
did was right in their eyes. He was indeed a good son. And, if he ever made
the grade, he would be a damned good President.

As I rehearsed all this I recalled how my mother used to speak to my 
father, of the pride and joy he was to his parents. I was the thorn in 
their side. I brought nothing but problems. Who could say, though? One day 
it might all turn out different. One day, by a single stroke, perhaps I 
might alter the whole set-up. I might yet prove that I was not completely 
hopeless. But when? And how?

CHAPTER FIVE

It was a sunny day in the first rush of spring that we found ourselves on
Second Avenue. The Mezzotint racket was on its last legs and there was 
nothing new on the horizon. We had come to the East Side to make a touch 
but nothing had come of it. Weary and thirsty from tramping about in the 
blazing sun, we were wondering how to get a cool drink on no money. Passing
a candy store with an inviting soda fountain we decided, on a mutual 
impulse, to go in, have our drink, and then pretend we had lost our money.

The owner, a homely, friendly sort of Jew, waited on us himself. His 
manner indicated that we obviously hailed from another world. We dawdled 
over the drink, drawing him into conversation in order to prepare him for 
the sad news. He seemed flattered that we took such notice of him. When it 
came time I fumbled around for change and, not finding any, asked Mona in a
loud voice to look through her bag, saying that I must have left my money 
at home. She of course couldn’t dig up a red cent. I suggested to the man, 
who was calmly observing this performance, that, if he didn’t mind, we 
would pay the next time we were in the neighborhood. Quite affably he said 
we could forget about it if we liked. Then he politely inquired what part 
of the city we came from. To our surprise we discovered that he knew 
intimately the very street we were living on. At this point he invited us 
to have another drink and with the drink he offered us some delicious 
cakes. It was plain he was curious to know more about us. Since we had 
nothing to lose, I decided to make a clean breast of it.

So we were broke? He had suspected that we were but he was dumbfounded, 
nevertheless, that two people so intelligent, speaking such beautiful 
English, born Americans to boot, should find it difficult to make a living 
in a city like New York. I of course pretended that I would welcome a job 
if I could find one. I hinted that it wasn’t easy for me to find work 
because I was really incapable of doing anything but pushing the pen, 
adding that I was probably not very good at this either. He was of a 
different mind. Had he been able to read and write English, he informed us,
he would now be living on Park Avenue. His story, a fairly common one, was 
that some eight years ago he had come to America with just a few dollars in
his pocket. He had immediately accepted a job in a marble quarry, in 
Vermont. Brutal work. But it had enabled him to save up a few hundred 
dollars. With this money he had bought some odds and ends, put them in a 
sack, and set out on the road as a peddler. In less than no time (it almost
sounded like an Horatio Alger story) he had acquired a pushcart, then a 
horse and wagon. His mind had always been set on coming to New York, where 
he longed to open a shop of some sort. By chance he had found out that one 
could make a good living selling imported candies. At this juncture he 
reached up behind him and got down an assortment of foreign candies, all in
beautiful boxes. He explained rather minutely how he had peddled these 
candies from door to door, beginning in Columbia Heights where we now 
lived. He had done it successfully, speaking only a broken English. In less
than a year he had put aside enough to set up shop. The Americans, he said,
“loved” imported candies. They didn’t mind the price. Here he began to real
off the prices of the various brands. Then he told us how much profit there
was in each box. Finally he said: “If I could do it, why can’t you?” And in
the next breath he offered to supply us with a full valise of imported 
candies, on credit, if we would only try it out.

The fellow was so kind, so obviously trying to put us back on our feet, 
that we didn’t have the heart to refuse. We permitted him to fill a big 
valise, accepted the money he offered us for a taxi home, and said 
good-bye. On the way home I grew thoroughly excited over the prospect. 
Nothing for it but to start out fresh, the next morning, right in our own 
neighborhood. Mona, I observed, wasn’t nearly as elated as I, but she was 
game to try it. During the night, I confess, my ardor cooled off a bit.

(Fortunately O’Mara was away for a few days, visiting an old friend. He 
would have ridiculed the idea mercilessly.)

The next day, at noon, we met to compare notes. Mona was already home 
when I arrived. She didn’t appear very enthusiastic about her morning. She 
had sold a few boxes, yes, but it had been hard work. Our neighbors, 
according to her, weren’t a very hospitable sort. (I, of course, hadn’t 
sold a single box. I was already through, in my mind, with door to door 
canvassing. In fact, I was almost ready to take a job.)

There was a better way, Mona thought, to go about the business. Tomorrow 
she would tackle the office buildings, where she would have to do with men,
not housewives and servants. That failing, she would try the night clubs in
the Village, and possibly the cafes along Second Avenue. (The cafes 
appealed to me; I thought I might tackle them myself, on my own.)

The office buildings proved somewhat better than residences, but not much
better. It was hard to get to the man behind the desk, particularly when it
was candies you had to offer. And then there were all kinds of filthy 
propositions to put up with. One or two individuals, the better sort, had 
bought a half-dozen boxes at once. Out of pity, clearly. One of these was a
very fine chap indeed. She was going to see him again soon. Apparently he 
had done his best to persuade her to abandon the racket. ‘Til tell you more
about him later,” she said.

I’ll never forget my first night as a peddler. I had chosen the Cafe 
Royal as my starting point because it was a familiar haunt. (It was my hope
that I would run into some one that I knew who would start me off on the 
right foot.)

People were still loitering over dinner when I sailed in with my little 
suitcase filled with candy boxes. I took a quick glace about but saw no one
I knew. Presently I caught sight of a group of merry-makers seated at a 
long table. I decided they were the ones to tackle first.

Unfortunately they were a little too gay. “Imported candies, no less!” 
jeered one jolly fellow. “Why not imported silks?” The man next to him 
wanted to inspect the candies, wanted to make sure they were imported and 
not domestic. He took a few boxes and passed them around. Seeing the women 
nibbling away I assumed everything was in order. I circulated round the 
table, coming finally to the man who appeared to be the master of 
ceremonies. He was full of talk, a wise-cracker. “Candies, hum! A new 
racket. Well dressed and speaks a good English. Probably working his way 
through college … ” Et patati et patata. He bit into a few, then passed the
box around in the other direction, still making running comments, a 
monologue which kept the others in stitches. I was left to stand there like
a stick. No one had as yet asked me the price of a box. Neither had anyone 
said he would take a box. Like a game of parchesi, it was. Then, after they
had all sampled the candy to their heart’s content, after they had nibbled 
and joked at my expense, they began talking of other matters, about all 
sorts of things but not a word about candy, not a word about the young man,
yours truly, who was standing there waiting for someone to speak up.

I stood there quite a time, wondering just how far these covivial souls 
intended to push their little joke. I made no effort to collect the boxes 
which were scattered about. Nor did I open my mouth to say a word. I just 
stood there and looked from one to the other questioningly, my gaze 
gradually changing to a glare. I could feel a wave of embarrassment pass 
from one to the other. Finally the man who was the jolly host, and at whose
elbow I was standing mutely, sensed that . something untoward was taking 
place. He turned halfway around, looked up at me for the first time, then, 
as if to brush me away, remarked: “What, you still here? We don’t want any 
candy. Away with it!” Still I said nothing, just scowled. My fingers were 
twitching nervously: I was itching to grab him by the throat. I still 
couldn’t believe he intended to play that sort of trick on me—not me, a 
born white American, an artist to boot, and all the other grand things I 
credited myself with in a moment of wounded pride. Suddenly I recalled the 
scene I had put on for the amusement of my friends in this same cafe, when 
I had made such abominable sport of the poor old Jew. Suddenly I realized 
the irony of my situation. Now I was the poor helpless individual. The butt
of the evening. It was grand sport. Grand indeed, if you happened to be 
seated at the table and not standing on your hind legs like a dog begging 
for a few crumbs. I went hot and cold. I was so ashamed of myself, so 
damned sorry for myself at the time, that I was ready to murder the man who
was baiting me. Far better to land in jail than tolerate further 
humiliation. Better to start a rumpus and break the deadlock.

Fortunately the man must have sensed what was passing through my head. 
However, he didn’t quite know how to pass it off, his little joke. I heard 
him, in a rather conciliatory voice, say, “What’s the matter?” Then for a 
few minutes I heard nothing, nothing but the sound of my own voice. What I 
was yelling I don’t know. I know only that I was ranting like a madman. I 
might have continued indefinitely had not the waiters rushed up to bundle 
me off. Their arms about me, they were just about to throw me out bodily, 
when the man who had been baiting me begged them to let me go. Springing to
his feet, he put his hand on my shoulder. “I’m so sorry,” he said, “I had 
no idea I was causing you such anguish. Sit down a moment, won’t you?” He 
reached for a bottle and poured out a glass of wine. I was flushed and 
still glowering. My hands were trembling violently. The whole company now 
stared at me; it seemed as if they formed one huge animal with many pairs 
of eyes. People at the other tables were also staring at me. I felt the 
man’s warm hand resting on mine; he was urging me in a soothing voice to 
take a drink. I raised the glass and swallowed it down. He refilled it and 
raised his own to his lips. “To your health!” he said, and the other 
members of the party followed suit. Then he said: “My name is Spielberg. 
What is yours, if I may ask?” I gave him my right name, which sounded 
intensely strange to my ears, and we clinked glasses. In a moment they were
all talking at once, all trying desperately to prove to me how sorry they 
were for their rude behavior. “Won’t you have some chicken?” begged a sweet
young woman opposite me. She raised the platter and handed it to me. I 
couldn’t very well refuse. The waiter was summoned. Wouldn’t I like 
something else? Coffee, surely, and perhaps a little schnapps? I consented.
I hadn’t yet said a word, other than to give my name. (“What is Henry 
Miller doing here?” I kept repeating to myself. “Henry Miller … Henry 
Miller.”)

Out of the jumble of words which assaulted my ears I finally made out the
following: “What on earth are you doing here? Is this an experiment?” By 
this time I was able to draw a smile. “Yes,” I said feebly, “in a way.”

It was my would-be tormentor who was now endeavoring to talk to me in 
earnest. What are you really?” he said. “I mean, what do you do 
ordinarily?”

I told him in a few words.

Well, well! Now we were getting somewhere. He had suspected something of 
the sort all along. Could he help me, perhaps? He knew a number of editors 
intimately, he confided. Had once hoped to be a writer himself. And so on …

I remained with them an hour or two, eating and drinking, and feeling 
thoroughly at home with them. Every one present bought a box of candy. One 
or two went over to the other tables and induced their friends to buy too, 
somewhat to my embarrassment. Their manner of doing it suggested that this 
was the least they could do for a man who was obviously destined to be one 
of America’s great writers. It was astonishing to me what sincerity and 
genuine sympathy they now displayed. And only a little while ago I had been
the butt of their crude jokes. They were all Jews, it turned out. 
Middle-class Jews who took a lively interest in the arts. I suspected that 
they took me for a Jew too. No matter. It was the first time I had met any 
Americans for whom the word artist suggested magic. That I happened to be 
an artist and a peddler made me doubly interesting to them. Their ancestors
had all been peddlers and, if not artists, scholars. I was in the 
tradition.

I was in the tradition all right. Shuffling about from joint to joint I 
wondered what Ulric would say if he were to run into me. Or Ned, who was 
still slaving for that grand old man McFarland. Musing thus, I suddenly 
noticed a Jewish friend of mine, an ear doctor, approaching. (I owed him 
quite a bill.)

Before he could catch my eyes I ran into the street and hopped a bus 
going uptown. I waved to him from the platform. After I had ridden a few 
blocks I got off, walked wearily back to the bright lights, and began all 
over again, selling a box now and then, always, it seemed, to a 
middle-class Jew, a Jew who felt sorry, and perhaps a little ashamed, for 
me. It was strange to be receiving the commiseration of a down trodden 
people. The reversal of roles yielded a mysterious assuagement. I shuddered
to think what would happen to me should I have the misfortune to run into a
gang of rowdy Irishers.

Around midnight I ducked home. Mona was already back and in a good mood. 
She had sold a whole valiseful of candies. And all in one spot. Had been 
wined and dined as well. Where? At Papa Moskowitz’s. (I had skipped 
Moskowitz’s because I had seen the ear doctor heading for it.) “I thought 
you were going to start with the Village tonight?”

“I did,” she exclaimed, then hurriedly explained how she had run into 
that banker, Alan Cromwell, who was looking for a quiet place to chat. She 
had dragged him to Moskowitz’s where they had listened to the cymbalon and 
so on and so on. Anyway, Moskowitz had bought a box of candy, then 
introduced her to his friends, all of whom insisted on buying candy. And 
then who should happen along but that man she had met in an office building
the first morning. Mathias was his name. He and Moskowitz were friends from
the old country. This Mathias of course also bought a half-dozen boxes.

Here she switched off about the real estate business. Mathias, it seems, 
was eager to have her learn the business. He was certain she could sell 
houses as easily as imported candies. First, of course, she would have to 
learn how to drive a car. He would teach her himself, she said. She thought
it a good idea to learn, even if she never sold real estate. We could use 
the car to go for a spin occasionally. Wouldn’t that be wonderful? And so 
on …

“And how did he and Cromwell get along?” I finally managed to put in.

“Just fine.”

“No, really?”

“Why not? They’re both intelligent and sensitive. Because Cromwell’s a 
drunkard you needn’t think he’s a sap.”

“O.K. But what did Cromwell have to tell you that was so important?”

“Oh that! We never got to that. There were so many people at our table … 
“

“O.K. I must say, though, you certainly did handsomely.” Pause. “I sold a
few myself.”

“I’ve been thinking, Val,” she began, as if she hadn’t heard me.

I knew what was coming. I made a wry grimace.

“Seriously, Val, you shouldn’t be selling candy. Let me do it! You see 
how easy it is for me. You stay home and write.”

“But I can’t write night and day.”

“Well read then, or go to the theater, or see your friends. You never go 
to see your friends any more.”

I said I would think about it. Meanwhile she had emptied her purse on the
table. Quite a haul, it was.

“Our patron will certainly be surprised,” said I.

“Oh, did I tell you? I saw him tonight. I had to go back for more candy. 
He said if it keeps up this way we’ll soon be able to open a shop of our 
own”

“Won’t that be swell!”

*

Things rolled along merrily for a couple of weeks. I had made a 
compromise with Mona: I carried the two valises and waited outside while 
she cleaned up. I always took a book along and read. Sometimes Sheldon 
accompanied us. He not only insisted on carrying the valises but he also 
insisted on paying for the midnight repast which we always ate in a Jewish 
delicatessen on Second Avenue. A wonderful meal it was each night. Plenty 
of sour cream, radishes, onions, strudels, pastrami, smoked fish, all kinds
of dark bread, creamy sweet butter, Russian tea, caviar, egg noodles—and 
seltzer water. Then home in a taxi, always over the Brooklyn Bridge. 
Alighting in front of our stately brownstone house, I often wondered what 
the landlord would think were he to notice us coming home at that hour of 
the morning with our two valises.

There were always new admirers cropping up. She had a difficult time, 
Mona, to shake them off. The latest one as a Jewish artist—Manuel 
Siegfried. He hadn’t much money but he had a wonderful collection of art 
books. We borrowed them freely, especially the erotic ones. We liked best 
the Japanese artists. Ulric came several times with a magnifying glass, so 
as not to miss a stroke.

O’Mara was for selling them and have Mona pretend they had been stolen. 
He thought we were overly scrupulous.

One night, when Sheldon called to accompany us, I opened one of the most 
sensational albums and asked him to look at it. He took one glance and 
turned his back to me. He held his two hands over his eyes until I had 
closed the book.

“What’s the matter with you?” I asked.

He put his finger to his lips and looked away.

“They won’t bite you,” I said.

Sheldon wouldn’t answer, just kept edging toward the door. Suddenly he 
put his two hands to his mouth and made a bee-line for the toilet. I heard 
him retching. When he returned he came up to me, and, putting his two hands
in mine, looked into my eyes imploringly. “Never let Mrs. Miller see them!”
he begged in a hushed voice. I put my two fingers to my lips and said: “All
right Sheldon, on my word of honor!”

He was on hand now almost every night. When I didn’t feel like talking I 
would let him stand beside me, like a post, while I read. After a time it 
struck me as foolish to be making the rounds with this blinking idiot. 
Mona, when she learned that I intended to stay home, was delighted. She 
would be able to operate more freely, she said. We would all be better off.

And so, one night while chewing the fat with O’Mara, who was also 
delighted that I was staying home, the idea came to me to start a mail 
order candy business. O’Mara, always ready for a new proposition, fairly 
jumped to the bait. “Put it over in a big way,” that was his idea. We began
at once to make plans: the right kind of letterhead, circular letters, 
follow-up letters, lists of names, and so on. Thinking of names, I began to
count up all the clerks, telegraphers and managers I knew in the telegraph 
company. They couldn’t possibly refuse to buy a box of candy once a week. 
That was all we intended to ask of our potential clients—a box a week. It 
never occurred to us that one might grow tired of eating a box of candy, 
even imported candy, once a week every week for fifty-two weeks of the 
year.

We decided that it was better not to let Mona know about our scheme for a
while. “You know how she is,” said O’Mara.

Of course nothing of any consequence developed. The stationery was 
beautiful, the letters perfect, but the sales were virtually nil. In the 
midst of our campaign Mona discovered what we were up to. She didn’t 
approve of it at all. Said we were wasting time. Besides, she was about 
sick of the game. Mathias, her real estate friend, was ready to launch her 
any day. She already knew how to drive, she said. (Neither of us believed 
this.) few good sales and we would have a house of our own. And so on … And
then there was Alan Cromwell. She hadn’t told me of his proposition. She 
had been waiting for a propitious moment.

“Well, what is it?” I asked.

“He wants me to write a column—for the Hearst papers. One a day without 
fail.”

I jumped. “What! A column a day? Whoever heard of the Hearst papers 
offering a column to an unknown writer.”

“That’s his affair, Val. He knows what he’s doing.”

“But will they print the stuff?” I thought I smelled a rat.

“No,” she replied, “not right away. We’re to do it for a few months, and 
if they like it … Anyway, that’s not important! The thing is that Cromwell 
will pay us a hundred dollars a week out of his own pocket. He’s dead sure 
he can sell the man who runs the syndicate. They’re close friends.”

“And what am I—or you, excuse me!—supposed to write about every day?”

“Anything under the sun.”

“You don’t mean it!”

“I certainly do. Otherwise I wouldn’t have given it a moment’s thought.”

I had to admit it sounded good. So … she’d sell real estate and I would 
write a daily column. Not bad. “A hundred a week, you say? That’s damned 
decent of him.-Cromwell, I mean. He must think a lot of you.” (This with a 
straight face.) It’s a mere bagatelle to him, Val. He’s simply trying to be
of help.”

“Does he know about me I? I mean, has he no suspicion?”

“Of course not. Are you mad?”

“Well, I just wondered. Sometimes a guy like that … you know … Sometimes 
you can tell them most anything. I’d like to meet him some time. I’m 
curious.”

“That would be easy,” said Mona, smiling.

“What do you mean?”

“Why, just meet me at Moskowitz’s some evening. I’ll introduce you as a 
friend.”

“That’s an idea. I’ll do that some evening. It’ll be fun. You can 
introduce me as a Jewish physician. How’s that?”

“But before we give up this candy racket,” I added, “I’d like to try out 
something. I have a hunch that if we were to send a couple of messenger 
boys to the various telegraph offices we would clean up. We might sell a 
couple of hundred at one stroke.”

“Oh, that reminds me,” said Mona. “The candy store man has invited us to 
go to dinner with him next Saturday. He wants to give us a treat to show 
his appreciation. I think he’ll offer to set us up in business. I wouldn’t 
turn it down cold, if I were you—you might hurt his feelings.”

“Of course. He’s a prince. He’s done more for us than any. of our friends
ever have.”

The next days were absorbed in writing personal notes to all my old pals 
in the telegraph company. I even included messages to some of the men in 
the vice-president’s office. In routing the itinerary, I realized that 
instead of a couple of messengers I would require a half-dozen—if the coup 
was to be accomplished at one stroke.

I totaled up the possible sales—came to something over $500.00. Not a bad
way to retire from the candy business, I thought to myself, rubbing my 
hands in expectation.

The day came. I picked six bright boys, gave them explicit instructions, 
and sent them on their way.

Toward evening they came filing back, each one with a full valise. Not a 
box had been sold. Not one. I couldn’t believe my eyes. I paid the boys 
off—a considerable sum!—and sat down on the floor with the valises all 
about me.

The letters, which I had attached to the candy boxes with rubber bands, 
were intact. I picked them up one by one and shook my head over each one. 
“Incredible, incredible!” I kept repeating. Finally I came to the two 
addressed to Hymie Laubscher and Steve Romero. I held the envelopes in my 
two hands for a while, unable to comprehend the situation. If I couldn’t 
depend on two old pals like Hymie and Steve, who then could I depend on?

Unwittingly I had opened the envelope addressed to Steve Romero. 
Something was written across the top of the letterhead. Before reading a 
word I already felt relieved. At least he had given an explanation.

“Spivak intercepted your boy in the vice-president’s office. Notified all
hands to refuse the candy. Sorry. Steve.”

I opened Hymie’s envelope. Same message. I opened Cotigan’s envelope. 
Ditto. By this time I was raging. “That bastard Spivak! So that was his way
of getting back at me!” I swore I would strangle him, right on the street, 
next time I ran into him.

I sat there with Cotigan’s note in my hand. Cotigan the knuckle-duster. 
It was ages since I had seen or heard from him. What a treat it would be 
for him to teach Spivak a little lesson! All he needed to do was to lure 
the latter uptown some evening, trap him in a dark street near the river 
and give him the works. The trouble that stinker had gone to! Telephoning 
each and every office in Brooklyn, Manhattan and the Bronx! I was surprised
that Hymie hadn’t dispatched a messenger to tip me off; it would have saved
me a lot of jack. But he had probably been short-handed, as usual.

I got to thinking of all the goofy guys I knew who were always ready to 
do me a good turn. There was the night clerk in the 14th Street office who 
gambled incessantly; his boss was a eunuch who had been trying for years to
induce the president to use carrier pigeons to deliver the telegrams. Never
was there a more heartless, soulless individual than this hombre from 
Greenpoint; he would do anything for a few more dollars to place on the 
horses. There was the hunchback over in the fish market. An out-and-out 
fiend, a sort of Jack-the-Ripper in mufti. And that night messenger, Arthur
Wilmington. Once a minister of the gospel, he was now a filthy human wreck 
who made caca in his pants. There was sly little Jimmy Falzone, with the 
face of an angel and the instincts of a thug. There was the rat-faced lad 
from Harlem who peddled dope and falsified checks. There was the drunken 
giant from Cuba, Lopez, who could crack a man’s ribs with one gentle hug. 
There was Kovalski, the demented Pole, who had three wives and fourteen 
children: he would do anything short of murder—for a dollar.

For that matter I didn’t even have to think of such riff-raff. There was 
Gus, the policeman, who escorted Mona from place to place in the Village 
whenever she was in the mood for it. Gus was one of those faithful dogs who
would club a man to death if a woman merely hinted that she had been 
insulted by a strange man. And what about our good Catholic friend Buckley,
the detective, who when drunk would take out his black crucifix and ask us 
to kiss it? Hadn’t we done him a good turn one night by hiding his revolver
when he was on a rampage?

When Mona arrived I was still seated on the floor, still in a reverie. 
The news didn’t upset her greatly. She had expected something of the sort 
to happen. She was actually glad it had turned out so; perhaps it would 
cure me once and for all of my impracticable schemes. She was the only one 
who knew how to raise money and she did it without creating a fuss. When 
would I begin to put complete confidence in her?

“Let’s quit all this,” I said. “If Cromwell comes across with that 
hundred bucks a week we ought to be able to manage, don’t you think?”

She wasn’t sure. The hundred-a-week would take care of us, but what about
the alimony, what about her mother and brothers, what about this and that?

“Did you ever raise that mortgage money your mother was asking for?” I 
inquired.

Yes, she had—weeks ago. She didn’t want to go into that just now, it was 
too painful. She merely remarked that no matter how much money came in, it 
just flew. There was only one solution, and that was to make a big haul. 
The real estate game appealed to her more and more.

“Let’s stop the candy business, anyway,” I urged. “We’ll go to dinner 
with our patron and we’ll break the news to him gently. I’m sick of selling
things … and I don’t want you to be selling things either. It’s 
disgusting.”

She appeared to agree with me. Suddenly, while creaming her face, she 
said: “Why don’t we call Ulric up and go out to dinner together? You 
haven’t seen him for ages, you know.”

I thought it a good idea. It was rather late but I decided to phone and 
see. I put my things on and dashed out.

An hour or so later the three of us were sitting in a restaurant down 
near the city hall. An Italian place. Ulric was delighted to see us again. 
Had been wondering what we were up to all this time. While waiting for the 
minestrone we had a couple of drinks. Ulric had been working like a dog on 
some soap campaign and was glad of the opportunity to relax. He was in a 
mellow mood.

Mona was giving him an earful about the candy business—just the 
highlights. Ulric always listened to her tales with a sort of bemused 
wonder. He waited to hear my side of it before passing any comments. If I 
seemed in a corroborative mood he would then listen with both ears, quite 
as if he were hearing It all for the first time.

“What a life!” he chuckled. “I wish I had the guts to venture out a 
little more. But then those things never happen to me. So you peddled 
candies in the Cafe Royal? I’ll be damned.” He wagged his head and chuckled
some more.

“And is O’Mara still with you?” he asked.

“Yes, but he’s leaving soon now. He wants to go South. Has a hunch he can
clean up down there.”

“I suppose you won’t miss him too much, what?”

“But I will,” I said. “I like O’Mara, despite his faults.”

To this Ulric nodded his head, as if to say that I was over-indulgent but
it was a good trait.

“And that Osiecki fella … what’s happened to him?”

“In Canada now. His two friends—you remember them—are looking after his 
girl.”

“I see,” said Ulric, rubbing his tongue back and forth over his ripe red 
lips. “Chivalrous lads, what?” and he chuckled some more.

“By the way,” he said, turning to Mona, “doesn’t it seem to you that the 
Village is getting rather seedy these days? I made the mistake of taking 
some of my Virginia friends down there the other night. We got out in a 
hurry, I can tell you. All I could see were dives and joints. Maybe we 
didn’t have enough under our belts … There was one spot, a restaurant, I 
think, over on Sheridan Square. Quite a place, I don’t mind saying.”

Mona laughed. “You mean Minnie Douchebag’s hangout?”

“Minnie Douchebag?”

“Yes, that crazy fairy who sings and plays the piano … and wears women’s 
clothes. Wasn’t he there?”

“Of course!” said Ulric. “I didn’t know that was his name. I must say it 
fits him. A real zany, by God. I thought at one point he’d climb the 
chandeliers. What a vile, stinking tongue he has too!” He turned to me. 
“Henry, things have changed some since our time. Try to picture me sitting 
there with two staid, conservative Virginians. To tell the truth, they 
hardly understood a word he said.”

The dives and joints, as Ulric called them, were of course the places we 
had been haunting. Though I pretended to make fun of Ulric’s squeamishness,
I shared his opinion of these places. The Village had indeed deteriorated. 
There were nothing but dives and joints, nothing but pederasts, Lesbians, 
pimps, tarts, fakes and phonies of all descriptions. I didn’t see the point
of telling Ulric about it, but the last time we were at Paul and Joe’s the 
place was entirely dominated by homos in sailors’ uniforms. Some lascivious
little bitch had tried to bite off a piece of Mona’s right breast—right in 
the dining room. Coming away from the place we had stumbled over two 
“sailors” writhing on the floor of the balcony, their pants down and 
grunting and squealing like stuck pigs. Even for Greenwich Village that was
going pretty far, it seemed to me. As I say, I saw no point in relaying 
these incidents to Ulric—they were too incredible for him to swallow. What 
he liked to hear were Mona’s tales about the clients she shook down, those 
queer birds, as he called them, from Weehawken, Milwaukee, Washington, 
Puerto Rico, the Sorbonne, and so on. It was plausible but mystifying to 
him that men of good standing should prove so vulnerable. He could 
understand shaking them down once, but not again and again.

“How does she ever manage to hold them off?” he blurted out, then made as
if he were biting his tongue.

Suddenly he switched. “You know, Henry that man McFarland has been asking
for you repeatedly. Ned, of course, doesn’t understand how you could turn 
down a good offer like that. He keeps telling McFarland you will turn up 
one day. You must have made a tremendous impression on the old boy. I 
suppose you have other plans, but—If you ever change your mind I think you 
could get most anything you want of McFarland. He told Ned confidentially 
that he would sack the whole office in order to keep a man like you. 
Thought I ought to tell you this. You never know … ” Mona quickly diverted 
the talk to another trend. Soon we had drifted to the subject of burlesque.
Ulric had a diabolical memory for names. He could not only recall the names
of the comedians, the soubrettes, the hoochie-koochie dancers of the last 
twenty years, he could also give the names of the theaters where he has 
seen them, the songs they sang, whether it was winter or spring, and who 
had accompanied him on each occasion. From burlesque he drifted to musical 
comedies and thence to the various Quartz Arts Balls.

These pow-wows, when the three of us got together, were always rambling, 
hectic, diffuse. Mona, who was never able td concentrate on anything for 
long, had a way of listening which would drive any man crazy. Always, just 
when you had reached the most interesting part of your story, she was 
suddenly reminded of something, and it had to be communicated at once. It 
made no difference whether we were talking of Cimabue, Sigmund Freud or the
Fratellini brothers: the things she thought so important to tell us were as
remote as the asteroids. Only a woman could make such outlandish 
connections. Nor was she one of those who could have her say and then let 
you have yours. To get back to the point was like trying to reach the shore
directly opposite by fording a swift stream. One always had to allow for 
drift.

Ulric had grown somewhat accustomed to this form of conversation, much 
against the grain. It was a pity to subject him to it, though, for when 
given free play he could rival the Irish harp. That photographic eye of 
his, those soft palps with which he touched things, particularly the things
he loved, his nostalgic memory which was inexhaustible, his mania for 
detail, certitude, exactitude (time, place, rhythm, ambiance, magnitude, 
temperature) gave to his talk a quality such as the old masters achieved in
pigment. Indeed, often when listening to him I had the impression that I 
was actually in the company of an old master. Many of my friends referred 
to him as quaint—“charming and quaint.” Which meant, “old-fashioned.” Yet 
he was not a scholar, not a recluse, not a crank. He was simply of another 
time. When he spoke of the men he loved—the painters—he was one with them. 
Not only had he the gift of surrendering himself, he had also the art of 
identifying himself with those whom he revered.

He used to say that my talk could send him home drunk. He pretended that 
in my presence he could never say things the way he wanted to, the way he 
meant. He seemed to think it only natural that I should be a better story 
teller than he, because I was a writer. The truth is, it was just the other
way round. Except for rare moments when I was touched off, when I went 
haywire, when I blew my top, I was a stuttering gawk by comparison.

What really roused Ulric’s admiration and devotion was the raw content of
my life, its underlying chaos. He could never reconcile himself to’ the 
fact that, though we had sprung from the same milieu, had been reared in 
the same stupid German-American atmosphere, we had developed into such 
different beings, had gone in such totally opposite directions. He 
exaggerated this divergence, of course. And I did little to correct it, 
knowing the pleasure it gave him to magnify my eccentricities. One has to 
be generous sometimes, even if it makes one blush.

“Sometimes,” said Ulric, “when I talk about you to my friends it sounds 
fabulous, even to me. In the short time since we’ve known each other again 
it seems to me you’ve already led a dozen lives. I hardly know anything 
about that period in between—when you were living with the widow and her 
son, for example. When you had those rich sessions with Lou Jacobs—wasn’t 
that his name? That must have been a rewarding period, even if a trying 
one. No wonder that man McFarland sensed something different in you. I know
I’m treading on dangerous ground in opening that subject again”—he gave a 
quick, appealing glance at Mona—“but really, Henry, this life of adventure 
and movement which you crave … excuse me, I don’t mean to put it crudely … 
I know you’re a man of contemplation too … ” Here he sort of gave up, 
chuckled, snorted, rolled his tongue over his lips, swallowed a few drops 
of cognac, slapped his thighs, looked from one to the other of us, and let 
out a good long belly laugh. “Damn it, you know what I mean!” he blurted 
out. “I’m stuttering like a schoolboy. I think what I intended to say is 
just this—you need a larger scope to your life. You need to meet men who 
are more near your own stature. You should be able to travel, have money in
your pocket, explore, investigate. In short—bigger adventures, bigger 
exploits.”

I nodded my head smilingly, urging him to continue.

“Of course I realize also that this life which you’re now leading is rich
in ways that are beyond me … rich to you as a writer, I mean. I know that a
man doesn’t choose the material of life which is to make his art. That’s 
given, or ordained, by the cast of his temperament. These queer characters 
who seem attracted to you as if by a magnet, no doubt there are vast worlds
to be plumbed there. But at what a cost! It would exhaust me to spend an 
evening with most of them. I enjoy listening to you telling about them, but
I don’t think I could cope with all that myself. What I mean, Henry, is 
that they don’t seem to give anything in return for the attention you 
bestow on them. But there I go again. I’m wrong, of course. You must know 
instinctively what’s good for you and what’s bad.”

Here I had to Interrupt him. “About that you are wrong, I think. I never 
think of such a thing—what’s good or what’s bad for me. I take what comes 
my way and I make the best of it. I don’t cultivate these people 
deliberately. You’re right, they’re attracted to me—but so am I to them. 
Sometimes I think I have more in common with them than with you or with 
O’Mara or any of my real friends. By the way, have I got any real friends, 
do you think? I know one thing, I never can count on you in a pinch, not 
any of you.”

“That’s very true, Henry,” he said, his lower jaw dropping to a queer 
angle. “I don’t think any of us are capable of being quite the friend you 
should have.

You deserve much better.”

Shit,” I said, “I don’t mean to harp on that. Forgive me, that was just a
random thought.”

“What’s become of that doctor friend of yours … Kronski? I haven’t heard 
you speak of him lately.”

“I haven’t the slightest idea,” I said. “He’s probably hibernating. He’ll
show up again, don’t worry.”

“Val treats him abominably,” said Mona. “I don’t understand it. If you 
ask me, he’s a real friend. Val never seems to appreciate his real friends.
Except you, Ulric. But sometimes I have to remind him to get in touch with 
you. He forgets easily.”

“I don’t think he’ll ever forget you easily,” said Ulric. With this he 
gave his thighs a thumping wallop and broke into a sheepish grin. “That 
wasn’t a very tactful remark, was it? But I’m sure you know what I mean,” 
and he put his hand over Mona’s and squeezed it gently.

“I’ll take care that he doesn’t forget me,” said Mona lightly. “I suppose
you never thought we would last this long, did you?”

“To tell the truth, I didn’t,” said Ulric. “But now that I know you, know
how much you mean to each other, I understand.”

“Why don’t we get out of here?” I said. “Why not come over to our place? 
We could put you up for the night, if you like. O’Mara won’t be home 
tonight.”

“All right,” said Ulric, “I’ll take you up. I can afford to take a day or
two off. I’ll ask the patron to give us a bottle or two … What would you 
like?”

When we threw on the lights in the apartment Ulric stood a moment at the 
threshold taking it in appraisingly. “It sure looks beautiful,” he said, 
almost wistfully. “I hope you can keep it for a long time.” He walked over 
to my work table and studied the disarray. “It’s always interesting to see 
how a writer arranges his things,” he said musingly. “You can feel the 
ideas bubbling from the papers. It all seems so intense. You know”—and then
he put an arm around my shoulder—“I often think of you when I’m working. I 
see you huddled over the machine, your fingers racing like mad. There’s 
always a marvelous look of concentration on your face. You had that even as
a boy—I suppose you don’t remember that. Yeah, yeah! Golly, it’s funny how 
things turn out. I have a job, sometimes, to make myself believe that this 
writer I know is also my friend, and a very old friend. There’s something 
about you, Henry—and that’s what I was trying to get at in the 
restaurant—something legendary, I might say, if that doesn’t seem too big a
word. You understand me, don’t you?” His voice was a pitch lower now, 
extremely suave and mellow, honeyed, in fact. But sincere. Devastatingly 
sincere. His eyes were moist with affection; he was drooling at the mouth. 
I had to shut off the current or we would all be in tears.

When I came back from the bathroom he and Mona were talking earnestly. He
still had his hat and coat on. In his hands was a long sheet of paper with 
fantastic words which I kept by my side in case of need. Evidently he had 
been pumping Mona about my work habits. Writing was an art which intrigued 
him enormously. He was amazed, apparently, to see how much I had written 
since we last met. Lovingly he fingered the books which were stacked up on 
the writing table. “You don’t mind?” he said, glancing at a few notes lying
beside the books. I didn’t mind in the least, of course. I would have 
opened my skin to let him peer inside, were I able to. It tickled me to see
how much he made of each little thing. At the same time I couldn’t help 
thinking that here was the only friend I had who displayed a genuine 
interest in what I was doing. It was reverence for writing itself which he 
evinced—and for the man, whoever it might be, who had the guts to struggle 
with the medium. We might have stood there the whole night talking about 
those queer words I had listed, or about that little note I had made anent 
“The Diary of a Futurist,” which I was then laboring on.

So this was the man of another epoch whom my friends dubbed “old fashioned!” Yes, it had indeed become old-fashioned to show such naive 
mystification over mere words. The men of the Middle Ages were another 
breed entirely. They spent hours, days, weeks, months discussing minutiae 
which have no reality for us. They were capable of absorption, 
concentration, digestion to a degree which seems to us phenomenal if not 
pathological. They were artists through and through. Their lives were 
steeped in art, as well as in blood. It was one life through and through. 
It was this kind of life which Ulric craved, though he despaired of ever 
realizing it. What he secretly hoped was that perhaps I would recapture and
bequeath to others this unitive life in which everything was woven into a 
significant whole.

He was walking around now with glass in hand, gesticulating, making 
guttural sounds, smacking his lips, as if he had suddenly found himself in 
Paradise. What an idiot he had been to talk that way in the restaurant! Now
he could see that other side of me which he had touched on so lightly 
before. What richness the place exuded! The very annotations in the margins
of my books spoke eloquently of an activity which was foreign to him. Here 
was a mind seething with ideas. Here was a man who knew how to work. And he
had been accusing me of wasting time!

“This cognac isn’t too bad, is it?” he said, allowing himself time to 
pause. “A little less cognac and a little more reflection—that would be the
path of wisdom, for me.” He made one of those typical grimaces which only 
he knew how to combine into a compound of abjection, adulation, flattery, 
vilification and triumph.

“Man, how do you find time to do it all, will you tell me that?” he 
groaned, sinking into an easy chair without spilling a drop of the precious
liquid. “One thing is evident,” he added quickly, “and that’s this: you 
love what you’re doing. I don’t! I ought to take the hint and change my 
ways … That sounds rather fatuous, I guess, doesn’t it? Go ahead, laugh; I 
know how ridiculous I sound at times … ” I explained that I wasn’t laughing
at him but with him.

“It doesn’t matter one way or the other,” he said. “I don’t mind if you 
laugh at me. You’re the one person I can count on too register real 
reactions. You’re not cruel, you’re honest. And I find damned little of 
that commodity among the fellows I associate with. But I’m not going to 
bore you with that old song-and-dance.” Here he leaned forward to ooze 
forth a warm, genial smile. “Perhaps this is inapropos, but I don’t mind 
telling you, Henry, that the only time I work with vim and vigor, with 
anything approaching love, is when that darkie, Lucy, poses for me. The 
hell of it is I can never get my end in. You know Lucy—how she lets me 
manipulate her and all that. She poses in the nude for me now, you know. 
Yeah! A wonderful piece of ass.” He chortled again. It was almost a whinny.
“Golly, those poses that critter strikes sometimes! I wish you were there 
to see it. You’d die laughing. But in the end she leaves me dangling. I 
have to douse the old boy in cold water. It gets me down. Oh well … ” He 
looked up at Mona, who was standing behind him, to see how she was 
reacting.

To his utter amazement she came out with this: “Why don’t you let me pose
for you sometime?”

His eyes began to roll wildly. He looked from her to me and back again at
her.

“By Jove!” he said, “how is it I never thought of that before? I suppose 
this bird doesn’t mind?”

The night wore on with reminiscence, talks of the future, plans for 
explorations into the night life, and ended as always with the names of the
great painters ringing in our ears. Ulric’s last remark before dropping off
to sleep was: “I must read Freud’s essay on da Vinci soon … Or would you 
say it wasn’t so important after all?”

“The important thing now is to sleep well and wake up refreshed,” I 
replied.

He signified his assent by giving a loud fart—quite unintentionally, of 
course.

*

A few nights later we went to dinner with the man from the candy store. 
We sat in a cellar on Allen Street, that dreariest of all streets, where 
the elevated trains thunder overhead. An Arabian friend of his ran the 
restaurant. The food was excellent and our host was most generous. It was a
genuine pleasure to talk to the man, he was so sincere, upright, 
plain-spoken. He talked at length about his youth, which had been one long 
nightmare relieved only by intermittent dreams of being able one day to get
to America. He described in simple, moving language his vision of America, 
conceived in the ghetto of Cracow. It was the same paradise which millions 
of souls have fabricated in the darkness of despair. To be sure, the East 
Side wasn’t exactly as he had imagined it, but life was good nevertheless. 
He had hopes now of moving to the country some day, perhaps to the Catskill
Mountains, where he would open a resort. He mentioned a town where I had 
spent my vacation as a boy: a little community long since taken over by the
Chosen Tribe, bearing no resemblance to the charming little village I once 
had known. But I could easily imagine what a haven it would be for him.

We had been talking thus for some time when he suddenly thought of 
something. He got up and searched his overcoat pockets. Beaming like a 
schoolboy, he handed Mona and myself two little packets wrapped in tissue 
paper. They were little gifts, he explained, in appreciation of the way we 
had worked to make the candy business a success. We opened them at once. 
For Mona there was a beautiful wrist watch, for myself a fountain pen of 
the finest make. He thought they would be useful.

Then he proceeded to tell us of his plans for our future. We were to 
continue working just as we had been for a while and, if we trusted him 
sufficiently, we were to leave with him each week a portion of our 
earnings, so that he could lay something aside for us. He knew that we were
incapable of saving a penny. He wanted very much to set us up in business, 
rent a little office somewhere and have people work for us. He was certain 
we would make a go of it. One should always start from the bottom, he 
thought, and use cash instead of borrowing, as Americans do. He took out 
his bank book and showed us his deposits. There was over twelve thousand 
dollars to his credit. After selling the store there would be another five 
to ten thousand dollars. If we did well, perhaps he would sell his store to
us.

Again we were at a loss how to disillusion him. I intimated gently, very 
gently, that we might have other plans for the future, but seeing the look 
on his face I quickly dropped the subject. Yes, we could carry on. We would
become the candy kings of Second Avenue. Maybe we would move to the country
too, help him run his resort in Livingston Manor. Yes, we would probably 
soon have children, too. It was time to be getting serious. As for the 
writing, after we had built up a good business it would be time enough to 
think of that. Hadn’t Tolstoy retired to write only late in life? I nodded 
agreement rather than disappoint him. Then, in dead earnest, he asked if I 
didn’t think it would be a good idea to write up his life—how he rose from 
a worker in the marble quarries to the owner of a big resort. I said I 
thought it an excellent theme; we would talk it over when the time was 
ripe.

Anyway, we were hooked. For the life of me I couldn’t run out on the man.
He was just too damned decent. Besides, Cromwell had yet to give the final 
word about that column. (He wouldn’t be in town again for a few weeks.) Why
not stagger along in the candy business until then? As for Mona, she 
thought it would do no harm to try out the real estate business in the day 
time. Mathias was only too eager to advance her money on account until she 
made her first sale.

Despite all our good intentions the candy business was doomed. Mona could
scarcely sell a box or two of an evening. I had taken to accompanying her 
again, waiting outside the joints with the two valises and myself with Elie
Faure. (By now my blood was so saturated with the History of Art that I 
could close my eyes at will any time and recite whole passages, 
embroidering them with fantastic elaborations of my own.)

Sheldon had mysteriously vanished, O’Mara had left for the South, and 
Osiecki was still in Canada. A dreary stretch. Tired of the Village and the
East Side, we tried our luck uptown. It wasn’t the same old Broadway that 
George M. Cohan sang of. It was a noisy, rowdy, hostile atmosphere breeding
nasty encounters, threats, insults, scorn, contempt and humiliation. All 
during this period I had a frightful case of the piles. I can see myself 
now all over again as I hung by the arms from a high picket railing 
opposite the Lido, thinking to ease the pain by lifting the weight off my 
feet. The last visit to the Lido ended with an attempt by the manager, an 
ex-pugilist, to lock Mona in his office and rape her. Good old Broadway!

It was high time to quite the racket. Instead of accumulating a little 
nest-egg we now owed our patron money. In addition I owed Maude a good sum 
for the home-made candy I had induced her to make for us. Poor Maude had 
entered into it with a will, thinking it would help us to meet the alimony 
bill.

In fact, everything was going screwy. Instead of getting up at noon we 
would lie abed till four or five in the afternoon. Mathias couldn’t 
understand what had come over Mona. Everything was set for her to make a 
killing, but she was letting it all drift through her hands.

Sometimes amusing things happened, such as a sudden attack of hiccoughs 
which lasted three days and finally forced us to summon a doctor. The 
moment I lifted up my shirt and felt the man’s cold finger on my abdomen I 
stopped hiccoughing. I felt a little ashamed of myself for having made him 
come all the way from the Bronx. He pretended to be delighted, probably 
because he discovered that we could play chess. He made no bones about the 
fact that when he wasn’t busy performing abortions he was playing chess. A 
strange individual, and highly sensitive. Wouldn’t think of taking money 
from us. Insisted on lending us some. We were to call on him whenever we 
were in a jam, whether for money or for an abortion. He promised that the 
next time he called he would bring me one of Sholem Aleichem’s books. (At 
this period I hadn’t heard of Moishe Nadir, else I would have asked him to 
lend me My Life as an Echo.) I couldn’t help remarking, after he left, how 
typical it was of Jewish physicians to behave thus. Never had a Jewish 
doctor pressed me to pay my bill. Never had I met one who was not 
interested in the arts and sciences. Nearly all of them were musicians, 
painters or writers on the side. What’s more, they all held out the hand of
friendship. How different from the run of Gentile physicians! For the life 
of me I couldn’t think of one Gentile doctor of my acquaintance who had the
least interest in art, not one who was anything but the medico.

“How do you explain it?” I demanded.

“The Jews are always human,” said Mona.

“You said it. They make you feel good even if you’re dying.”

A week or so later, in urgent need of fifty dollars, I suddenly thought 
of my dentist, also of the Chosen Tribe. In my usual roundabout way, I 
decided to go to the 23rd Street office, where old man Creighton was 
working as a night messenger, and dispatch him to my friend with a note. I 
explained to Mona, on the way to the telegraph office, the peculiar tie 
which existed between this night messenger and myself. I reminded her of 
how he had come to our rescue that night at Jimmy Kelly’s place.

At the office we had to wait a while—Creighton was out on a route. I 
chinned a bit with the night manager, one of those reformed crooks whom 
O’Rourke had in hand. Finally Creighton appeared. He was surprised to see 
me with my wife. In his tactful way he behaved as if he had never met her 
before.

I told the night clerk I would be keeping Creighton for an hour or two. 
Outside I called a cab, intending to ride over to Brooklyn with him and 
wait at the corner until he had made the touch for me. We started rolling. 
Leisurely I explained the nature of our errand.

“But it isn’t necessary to do that!” he exclaimed. “I have a little money
put aside. It would be a pleasure, Mr. Miller, to lend you a hundred, or 
even two hundred, if that will help you out.”

I demurred at first but finally gave in.

“I’ll bring it to you the first thing in the morning,” said Creighton. He
drove all the way home with us, chatted a while at the door, then headed 
for the subway. We had compromised on a hundred and fifty dollars.

The next morning, bright and early, Creighton showed up. “You needn’t be 
in a hurry to pay it back,” he said. I thanked him warmly and urged him to 
have dinner with us some evening. He promised to come on his next night 
off.

The following day there was a headline in the newspaper to the effect 
that our friend Creighton had set fire to the house he lived in and had 
been burned to death. No explanation for his gruesome behavior was offered.

Well, that was one little sum we would never have to return. It was my 
custom to keep a little notebook in which I recorded the sums we had 
borrowed. That is, those I knew about. To ascertain what Mona owed her 
“cavaliers” was practically impossible. However, I had firm intentions of 
paying the debts I had contracted. Compared to hers, mine were trifling. 
Even so, it made a staggering list. Many of the items were for five dollars
or less. These little sums, however, were the important ones in my eyes. 
They had been given me by people who could ill afford to part with a dime. 
For example, that measly three and a half which had been lent me by 
Savardekar, one of my ex-night messengers. Such a frail, delicate creature.
Used to live on a handful of rice per day. He was undoubtedly back in India
now, preparing for sainthood. Most likely he no longer had need of that 
three-fifty. Just the same, it would have done me good, infinite good, to 
be able to send it to him. Even a saint has need of money occasionally.

As I sat there ruminating, it occurred to me that at one time or another 
almost every Hindu I had known had lent me money. Always touching little 
sums extracted from battered-looking purses. There was one item, I noticed,
for four dollars and seventy-five cents. Due Ali Kahn, a Parsee, who had 
the habit of writing me extraordinary letters, giving his observations of 
conditions in the telegraph business as well as his impressions of the 
municipality in general. He had a beautiful hand and used a pompous 
language. If it was not Christ’s teachings, or the sayings of the Buddha, 
which he quoted (for my edification), it was a matter-of-fact suggestion 
that I write the Mayor and order him to have the street numbers on all 
houses illuminated at night. It would make it easier for night messengers 
to find street addresses he thought.

To the credit of one, “Al Jolson,” as we called him, there was a total of
sixteen dollars. I had fallen into the bad habit of touching him for a buck
every time I ran into him on the street. I did it primarily because it made
him so intensely happy to accommodate me with this little offering each 
time we met. The penalty I had to pay was to stand and listen to him while 
he hummed a new tune he had composed. Over a hundred of his ditties were 
floating around among the publishers of Tin Pan Alley. Now and then, on 
amateur nights, he appeared before the footlights in some neighborhood 
theater. His favorite song was “Avalon,” which he would sing straight or in
falsetto, as you wished. Once, when I was entertaining a friend of mine—in 
“Little Hungary”—I had to call for a messenger to bring me some cash. It 
was “Al Jolson” who brought it. Thoughtlessly I invited him to sit down and
have a drink with us. After a few words he asked if he might try out one of
his songs. I thought he meant that he would hum it to us, but no, before I 
could stop him he was on his feet in the center of the floor, his cap in 
one hand and a glass in the other, singing at the top of his lungs. The 
patrons of course were highly amused. The song over, he went from table to 
table with cap in hand soliciting coins. Then he sat down and offered to 
buy us drinks. Finding this impossible, he slyly slipped me a couple of 
bills under the table. “Your percentage,” he whispered. The man I already 
owed a considerable sum to was my Uncle Dave. Several hundred dollars it 
was, to be augmented as time went on. This Dave Leonard had married my 
father’s sister. He had been a baker for years and then, after losing two 
fingers, had decided to try something else. Though a born American, a 
Yankee to boot, he had had no education whatever. He couldn’t even write 
his own name. But what a man! What a heart! I used to lie in wait for Dave 
outside the Ziegfeld Follies Theatre. He had become a ticket speculator, a 
racket that netted him several hundred a week—and without much fuss or 
bother. If he wasn’t at the Follies he was at the Hippodrome or at the Met.
As I say, I used to hang around outside these places, waiting to catch him 
during a lull. Dave had only to see me coming and his hand would be in his 
pocket, ready to flash the roll. It was an enormous wad he carried on him. 
He’d peel off fifty for me just as easily as ten. Never batted an eye, 
never asked me what I needed the money for. “See me any time,” he’d say, 
“you know where to find me.” Or else: “Stick around a while and we’ll have 
a bite to eat.” Or—“Would you like to see the show tonight? I’ll have a 
ticket up front for you; it’s an off night.”

A real guy, Dave. I used to bless his soul every time I parted from him …
When I told him one day that I was writing he became thoroughly excited. To
Dave it was like saying—“I’m going to become a magician!” His reverence for
language was typical of the illiterate man. But there was more than this 
behind his enthusiasm. Dave understood me, understood that I was different 
from the rest of the family, and he approved of it. He reminded me 
touchingly of how I used to play the piano, what an artist I was. His 
daughter, whom I had given lessons to, was now an accomplished pianist. He 
was stunned to learn that I no longer played. If I wanted a piano he would 
get me one—he knew where to pick one up cheap. “Just say the word, Henry!” 
And then he would cross-examine me about the art of writing. Did one have 
to think it all out beforehand or did one just make it up as one went 
along? Of course, one had to be a good speller, he supposed. And one had to
keep up with newspapers, eh? It was his idea that a writer had to be 
thoroughly informed—about everything under the sun. But the thought he 
loved to dwell on most was that one day he would see my name in print, 
either in a newspaper, a magazine, or on a book cover. “I suppose it’s hard
to write a book,” he would muse. “It must be hard to remember what you 
wrote a week ago, no? And all those characters! What do you do, keep a list
of them in front of you?” And then he would ask my opinion of certain 
writers he had heard about. Or of some famous columnist who was rolling in 
money. “That’s the thing, Henry … if you could only be a columnist, or a 
correspondent.” Anyway, he was wishing me well. He was sure I’d make the 
grade. I had a lot on the ball, and so forth. “You’re sure now that that’s 
enough?” (Referring to the bill he had handed me.) “Well, if you run short 
come back tomorrow. I’m not worrying about it, you know.” And then, as an 
afterthought—“Listen, can you spare a moment? I want you to meet one of my 
pals. He’s dying to shake hands with you. He used to work on a newspaper 
once.”

*

Thinking about Dave and his utter goodness it came to me that I hadn’t 
seen my cousin Gene for a long time. All I knew about him was that he had 
moved from Yorkville some years ago and was now living on Long Island with 
his two sons who were growing up.

I wrote him a post card, saying I’d like to see him again, and asked 
where we might meet. He wrote back immediately, suggesting an elevated 
station near the end of the line.

I had fully intended to take with me a good package of groceries and some
wine, but the best I could do on setting out to meet him was to rake up a 
little change, just about enough to get there and back. If he’s working, 
thought I to myself, he can’t be so terribly hard up. At the last minute I 
tried to borrow a dollar from the blind newspaperman at Borough Hall, but 
in vain.

It was something of a shock I experienced when I saw Gene standing on the
platform with his little lunch box in hand. His hair had already turned 
gray. He wore a pair of patched trousers, a thick sweater, and a peak cap. 
His smile, however, was radiant, his handclasp warm. In greeting me his 
voice trembled. It was still that deep, warm voice which he had even as a 
boy.

We stood there gazing into each other’s eyes for a minute or two. Then he
said, in that old Yorkville accent: “You look fine, Henry.”

“You look good yourself,” said I, “only a little thinner.”

“I’m getting old,” said Gene, and he removed his cap to show me how bald 
he was getting.

“Nonsense,” I said, “you’re only in your thirties. Why, you’re still a 
youngster.”

“No,” he replied, “I’ve lost my pep. I’ve had a hard time of it, Henry.”

That’s how it began. I realized at once that he was telling me the truth.
He was always candid, frank, sincere.

We marched down the elevated stairs into the middle of nowhere. Such a 
God-forsaken spot it was; something told me it would become more so as we 
journeyed onward.

I got it slowly, piecemeal, more and more heartrending as the story 
progressed. To begin with, he was only working two or three days a week. 
Nobody wanted beautiful pipe cases any more. It was his father who had 
found a place for him in the factory. (Ages ago, it seemed.) is father 
hadn’t believed in wasting time getting an education. I didn’t need to be 
reminded of what a boor his father was: always sitting around in his red 
flannel undershirt, winter or summer, with a can of beer in front of him. 
One of those thick Germans who would never change.

Gene had married, two children had been born, and then, while the kids 
were still little tots, his wife had died of cancer, a painful, lingering 
death. He had used up all his savings and gone deep into debt. They had 
only been in the country, as he called it, a few months when his wife died.
It was just at this time that they laid him off at the factory. He had 
tried raising tropical fish but it was no go. The trouble was that he had 
to find work he could do at home because there was no one to look after the
kids. He did the cooking, the washing, the mending, the ironing, 
everything. He was alone, terribly alone. He never got over the loss of his
wile, whom he had loved dearly.

All this as we wended our way to his house. He hadn’t yet asked me a 
thing about myself, so absorbed was he in the narration of his miseries. 
When we got off the bus, finally, there was a long walk through dingy 
suburban streets to what looked like a vacant lot, at the very end of which
stood his little shack, shabby, woebegone, exactly like the dwellings of 
the poor whites in the deep South. A few flowers were struggling 
desperately to maintain life outside the front door. They looked pathetic. 
We walked in and were greeted by his sons, two good-looking youngsters who 
seemed somewhat undernourished. Quiet, grave lads, strangely somber and 
reserved. I had never seen them before. I felt more than ever ashamed of 
myself for not bringing something.

I felt I had to say something to clear myself.

“You don’t have to tell me,” said Gene. “I know what it’s like.”

“But we’re not always broke” I said. “Listen, I’m going to come soon 
again, very soon, I promise you. And I’ll bring my wife along next time.”

“Don’t talk about it,” said Gene. “I’m so glad you came. We have some 
lentil soup on the stove, and we have some bread. We won’t go hungry.”

He began again—about the days when they didn’t have a crumb to eat, when 
he had grown so desperate that he had gone to his neighbors and begged for 
a little food—just for the children.

“But Dave would have helped you, I’m sure,” I said. “Why didn’t you ask 
him for money?”

He looked pained. “You know how it is. You don’t like to borrow from your
relatives.”

“But Dave isn’t a relative.”

“I know, Henry, but I don’t like to ask for help. I’d rather starve. If 
it weren’t for the kids I guess I would have starved.”

While we were talking the kids had slipped out, to return in a few 
minutes with some cabbage leaves, celery and radishes.

“You shouldn’t have done that,” said Gene, admonishing them gently.

“What did they do?” I asked.

“Oh, they filched those things from a neighbor of ours who’s away.”

“Good for them!” I said. “Damn it, Gene, they’ve got the right idea. 
Listen, you’re too modest, or too proud, I don’t know which.” I apologized 
at once. How could I berate him for his simple virtues? He was the essence 
of kindness, gentleness, true humanity. Every word he uttered had a golden 
ring. He never blamed anybody, nor life either. He spoke as if it were all 
an accident, part of his private destiny, and not to be questioned.

“Maybe they could dig up a little wine too,” I said, half in joke, half 
in earnest.

“I forgot all about that,” said Gene blushingly. “We’ve got a little wine
in the cellar. It’s home-made wine … elderberry … can you drink it? I’ve 
been saving it for just such an occasion.”

The boys had already slipped downstairs. They were becoming more 
expansive with each sally. ‘They’re fine boys, Gene,” I said. “What are 
they going to do when they grow up?”

“They won’t go into the factory, that’s one thing I know. I’m going to 
try to send them to college. I think it’s important to have a good 
education. Little Arthur, the youngest one, he wants to become a doctor. 
The big fellow is a wild one; he wants to go West and become a cowboy. But 
he’ll get over that soon, I guess. They read these silly Westerns, you 
know.”

Suddenly it occurred to him to ask if I didn’t have a child.

“That was by my other wife,” I said. “A girl.”

He was amazed to learn that I had re-married. Divorce, apparently, was 
something which never entered his head.

“Does your wife work too?” he asked.

“In a way,” I said. I didn’t know quite how to explain the complexities 
of our life in a few words.

“I suppose,” he said next, “you’re still in the cement company.”

The cement company! I nearly fell off the chair.

“Why no, Gene,” I said, “I’m a writer now. Didn’t you know that?”

“A writer?” It was his turn to be astonished. His face lit up with 
pleasure. “It doesn’t really surprise me, though,” he said. “I remember how
you used to read to us kids in the old days. We always fell asleep on you, 
remember?” He paused to reflect, his head bowed, then looked up and 
remarked: “Of course you had a good education too, didn’t you?” He said it 
as if he had been an immigrant boy who had been denied the usual privileges
of an American.

I tried to explain that I hadn’t gone very far in school, that we were 
practically in the same boat. In the middle of it I suddenly asked if he 
ever read any more.

“Oh yes,” he answered brightly. “I read quite a little. Nothing much else
to do, you know.” He pointed to the shelf in back of me where his books 
were lodged. I turned around to glance at the titles: Dickens, Scott, 
Thackeray, the Bronte sisters, George Eliot, Balzac, Zola …

“I don’t read any of the modern trash,” he said, answering my unvoiced 
question.

We sat down to eat. The boys were ravenously hungry. Again I felt a pang 
of remorse. I realized that had I not been there they would have eaten 
twice as much. As soon as the soup was finished we tackled the greens. They
had no oil, no dressing of any kind, not even mustard. The bread had given 
out too. I fished in my pocket and dug up a dime, all I had besides the 
carfare home. “Let them go and get a loaf of bread,” I said.

“It’s not necessary,” said Gene. “They can go without. They’re used to it
by now.”

“Come on! I could stand a bit more myself, couldn’t you?”

“But there’s no butter or jam!”

“What’s the difference? We’ll eat it plain. I’ve done that before.”

The kids ducked out to get the bread.

“Jesus,” I said, “you really are down to nothing, aren’t you?”

“This isn’t bad, Henry,” he said. “For a time, you know, we lived on 
weeds.”

“No, don’t tell me that! It’s preposterous.” I was almost angry with him.
“Don’t you know,” I said, “that you don’t have to starve? This country is 
lousy with food. Gene, I’d go out and beg before I’d eat weeds. Damn it, I 
never head of such a thing.”

“It’s different with you,” said Gene. “You’ve knocked around. You’ve been
out in the world. I haven’t. I’ve lived like a squirrel in a cage … Except 
for that time I worked on the garbage scow.”

“What? The garbage scow? What do you mean by that?”

“I mean just that,” said Gene calmly. “Hauling garbage to Barren Island. 
It was when my kids were living with my wife’s parents for a time. I had 
the chance to do something different for a change … You remember Mr. 
Kiesling, the alderman, don’t you? He got me the job. I enjoyed it 
too—while it lasted. Of course the smell was frightful, but you can get 
used to anything after a while. It paid eighty dollars a month, about twice
what I earned in the pipe factory. It was fun too, sailing out into the 
bay, around the harbor, up and down the rivers. It was the first and only 
chance I ever had to get Out into the world. Once we got lost at sea, 
during a storm. We drifted around for days. The worst of it was that we ran
out of food. Yeah, we were forced to eat garbage. It was quite a wonderful 
experience. I must say I enjoyed it. Far better than being in a pipe 
factory. Even if there was a terrible stench … ” He paused a moment to 
savor it anew. His best days! Then suddenly he asked me if I had ever read 
Conrad, Joseph Conrad, who wrote about the sea.

I nodded my head.

“There’s a writer I admire, Henry. If you could ever write a story like 
him, well … ” He didn’t know what to add to this. “My favorite is The 
Nigger of the Narcissus. I must have read it ten times. Each time it seems 
better to me.”

“Yes, I know. I’ve read nearly all of Conrad. I agree with you, a 
wonderful writer. How about Dostoievsky; have you ever read him?”

No, he hadn’t. Never heard the name before. What was he, a novelist? 
Sounded like a Polish name to him.

“I’ll send you one of his books,” I said. “It’s called The House of the 
Dead. By the way,” I added, “I have loads of books. I could send you 
anything you like, as many as you like. Just tell me what you’d enjoy.”

He said not to bother, he liked reading the same books over and over.

“But wouldn’t you care to know something about other writers too?”

He didn’t think he had the energy to get interested in new writers. But 
his son, the big lad, he liked to read. Maybe I could send him something.

“What sort of books does he read?”

“He likes the modems.”

“Like whom?”

“Oh, Hall Caine, Rider Haggard, Henty … “

“I see. Sure,” I said, “I can send him something interesting.”

“Now the little fellow,” said Gene, ” he hardly reads at all. He’s up on 
science. All he looks at are the scientific magazines. I think he’s cut out
to be a doctor. You should see the laboratory he’s rigged up for himself. 
He’s got everything in there, all cut up and bottled. It stinks in there. 
But if it makes him happy … “

“Exactly, Gene. If it makes him happy.”

I stayed on until the last bus. Walking down the dark, mangy street we 
hardly exchanged a word. As I shook hands with them all I repeated that I 
would be back soon. “We’ll have a feast next time, eh kids?”

“Don’t think of that, Henry,” said Gene. “Just come … and bring your wife
along too.”

The ride home seemed interminable. I not only felt sad, I felt morose, 
despondent, licked. I couldn’t wait to get home and switch on the lights. 
Once inside the love-nest I would feel secure again. Never had it seemed 
more like a cozy womb, our wonderful little apartment. Truly, we lacked for
nothing. If now and then we were hungry we knew it wouldn’t last forever. 
We had friends—and we had the gift of speech. We knew how to forage. As for
the world, the real world was right inside our four walls. Everything we 
wanted of the world we managed to drag to our lair. It’s true, now and then
I grew sensitive, or shy, when it came to making a touch of some one, but 
these moments were rare. In a pinch I could muster the courage to tackle 
and utter stranger. Certainly it was necessary to swallow one’s pride. But 
I preferred to swallow my pride rather than my own spittle.

Borough Hall never looked better to me than when I stepped out of the 
subway. I was already home. The passers-by wore a familiar air. They were 
not lost. Between the world I had just left and this one the difference was
unthinkable. It was only the outskirts of the city, really, where Gene 
lived—but it was the wilderness to me. I shuddered to think that I might 
ever be condemned to such an existence.

An imperative desire to roam the streets for a while led me instinctively
to Sackett Street. Filled with memories of my old friend, Al Burger, I 
walked past his house. It looked sadly dilapidated. The entire street, 
houses and all, seemed to have diminished since my last visit. Everything 
was shrunk and shriveled. Despite all, it was still a wonderful street to 
me. The Via Nostalgia.

As for the suburbs, so sinister and forlorn—every one I knew who had gone
to live in the suburbs had given up the ghost. The current of life never 
bathed these purlieus. There could be only one purpose in retiring to these
living catacombs: to breed and wither away. If it were an act of 
renunciation it would be comprehensible, but it was never that. It was 
always an admission of defeat. Life became routine, the dullest sort of 
routine. A humdrum job, a family with a big bosom to slink into, the 
barnyard pets and their diseases, the slick magazines, the comic sheet, the
farmer’s almanac. Endless time in which to study oneself in the mirror. One
after another, regular as the noonday sun, the brats fell out of the womb. 
The rent came due regularly, too, or the interest on the mortgage. How 
pleasant to watch the new sewer pipes being laid! How thrilling to see new 
streets opening up and finally covered with asphalt! Everything was new. 
New and shoddy. New and desolate. New and meaningless. With the new came 
added comforts. Everything was planned for the coming generation. One was 
mortgaged to the shining future. A trip to the city and one longed to be 
back in the neat little bungalow with the lawn-mower and the washing 
machine. The city was disturbing, confusing, oppressive. One acquired a 
different rhythm living in the suburbs. What matter if one was not ou 
courant? There were compensations—such as warm house-slippers, the radio, 
the ironing board which sprang out of the wall. Even the plumbing was 
attractive.

Poor Gene, of course, had no such compensations. He had fresh air, and 
that was about all. True, his was not quite the suburbs. He was marooned in
that in-between area, that no man’s land where one kept body and soul 
together in some hapless way which defied all logic. The ever-expanding 
city was always threatening to gobble him up, land and all. Or, the tide 
might recede for some quixotic reason and leave him high and dry. Sometimes
a city starts to move outward in a certain direction, then suddenly changes
its mind. Any improvements begun are left unfinished. The little community 
begins slowly to die, for lack of oxygen. Everything deteriorates and 
depreciates. In this atmosphere one may just as well read the same books—or
the same book—over and over again. Or play the same phonograph record. In a
vacuum one has no need of new things, nor of excitement, nor of foreign 
stimuli. One has only to maintain a bare survival, to vegetate, like a 
foetus in a jar.

I couldn’t sleep that night for thinking of Gene. His plight was all the 
more disturbing to me for the reason that I had always regarded him as my 
twin brother. In him I always saw myself. We looked alike and we spoke 
alike. We had been born almost in the same house. His mother could well 
have been my mother: certainly I preferred her to my own. When he winced 
with pain, I winced. When he expressed a longing to do something, I felt 
the same longing. We were like a team in harness. I don’t remember ever 
disputing with him, ever crossing him, ever insisting on doing something he
did not want to do. What he owned was mine, and vice versa. Between us 
there was never the least jealousy or rivalry. We were one, body and soul. 
I saw in him now not the caricature of myself but rather a premonition of 
what was to come. If fate could treat him so unkindly—my own brother who 
had never done any one any harm—what might it not have in store for me? The
good that was in me was the overflow of his own bottomless well of 
goodness; the bad was my very own. The bad had accumulated as the result of
our separation. When we parted ways I had lest that echo which I depended 
on for self-orientation. I had lost my touchstone.

All this was slowly dawning on me as I lay awake in bed. Never before had
I entertained such thoughts about our relationship. But how clear it seemed
to me now! I had lost my true brother. I had gone astray. I had willed 
myself to be other than him. And why? Because I would not go down before 
the world. I had pride. I simply would not admit defeat. But what did I 
want to give? I doubt if I ever thought of that, that there was something 
to give the world as well as to take from it. Boasting to every one that I 
was now a writer, as if that were the end-all and the be-all of existence. 
What a farce! I regretted that I had not lied to Gene. I should have told 
him I was a clerk in an office, a bank teller, anything but that I was a 
writer. It was like giving him a slap in the face.

How strange that years later his son—“the wild one,” as he called 
him—should come to me with his manuscripts and ask my advice. Had I set off
a spark that night which inflamed the son? As the father had predicted, the
boy had gone West, had led the life of an adventurer, had become a hobo, in
fact, and then, like the prodigal son, he had returned, had taken up this 
weird business of writing in order to earn a living. I had given him what 
help I could, had urged him to stop writing for the magazines and do 
something serious. And then I never heard from him again. Now and then, 
when I pick up a magazine, I look for his name. Why don’t I write him a 
letter? I might at least inquire if his father is still alive. Perhaps I 
don’t want to know what became of my cousin Gene. Perhaps it would frighten
me, even today, to know the truth.

CHAPTER SIX

I decided that I would start writing the daily column without waiting for
Alan Cromwell’s O.K. To write something new and interesting each day, and 
keep it within the spatial limits allotted, demanded a bit of practice. I 
thought it well to be a few columns ahead; if Cromwell kept his word I 
would already be in the groove. In order to determine which had the most 
appeal, I tried out a variety of styles. I knew there would be days when I 
would be incapable of writing a word. I wasn’t going to be caught napping.

Meanwhile Mona had taken a temporary job as hostess in one of the Village
night clubs—Remo’s. Mathias, the real estate operator, wasn’t quite ready 
to launch her. Why, I couldn’t discover. It might be, of course, that she 
had first to cool him off a bit. Sometimes these admirers of hers became 
too impetuous, wanted to marry her without delay. So she maintained.

Anyway, the job was rather in line with her temperament and previous 
experience. She danced as little as possible. The important thing was to 
make the victims drink as much as possible. The hostesses always got a 
percentage of the drink-money, if nothing more.

It wasn’t long before young Corsi, who had a celebrated establishment of 
his own in the Village—one of the landmarks—fell violently in love with 
her. He would drop in toward closing time and escort her to his place. 
There they drank nothing but champagne. Toward daybreak he would have his 
chauffeur drive her home in his beautiful limousine.

Corsi was one of the impetuous ones who was set on marrying her. He had 
dreams of spiriting her away to Capri or Sorrento, where they would adopt a
new mode of life. Evidently he was doing his utmost to persuade Mona to 
quit Remo’s. So was I, as a matter of fact. I sometimes whiled away an idle
hour wondering how it would look to see his reasoning and mine side by 
side. And her replies.

Well, Cromwell was due in town any day. With his arrival perhaps she’d 
take a different view of , things. At any rate, she had intimated in an off
moment that she might.

More disquieting to me, however, than young Corsi’s violent attempts to 
woo her were the annoyances she was subject to at the hands of certain 
notorious Lesbians in the Village. Apparently they came to Remo’s expressly
to work on her, buying drinks just as liberally as the men. Corsi too was 
incensed, I learned. In desperation he begged her—if she must work—to work 
for him. This failing, he tried another tack. He tried to make her drunk 
each night, assuming that that would make her grow disgusted with her job. 
But this too failed to work.

The reason nothing would budge her, I finally learned, was because she 
had taken a fancy to one of the dancers, a Cherokee girl who was in bad 
straits—and pregnant to boot. Too decent, too frank and outspoken, the girl
would have been fired, long ago had she not been the main attraction. Every
night, it seems, people dropped in just to see her do her number. The 
number always ended with the split. How long she could continue to do the 
split, without dropping the child, was a grave question.

A few nights after Mona had confided the situation to me the girl fainted
on the floor. They carried her from the dance floor to the hospital, where 
she had a premature birth, the child being born dead. Her condition was so 
critical that she was obliged to remain in the hospital several weeks. Then
an unexpected event occurred. The day she was to be released she was taken 
with such a fit of despondency that she jumped from the window and killed 
herself.

After this tragic incident Mona couldn’t look at Remo’s. For a while she 
made no attempt to do anything. To make her feel easier, also to prove to 
her that I could do a little gold-digging myself when I had a mind to, I 
sallied forth each day to make a few touches here and there. It wasn’t that
we were desperate; I did it to get my hand in, and—to convince her that if 
we really had to carry on like sharks I was almost as good at it as she. 
Naturally, I tackled the sure-fire ones first. My cousin, the one who owned
my beautiful racing wheel, was number one on my list. I got a ten-spot from
him. He handed it to me grudgingly, not because he was a tightwad but 
because he disapproved of borrowing and lending. When I inquired about the 
bike he informed me that he had never ridden it, that he had sold it to a 
chum of his, a Syrian. I went immediately to the Syrian’s home—it was only 
a few blocks away—and made such an impression on him, talking about bike 
races, prize fights, football and so on, that when we parted he slipped me 
a ten dollar bill. He even urged me to bring my wife some night and have 
dinner with the family.

From Zabrowskie, my old friend the ticker-tapper at the telegraph office 
near Times Square, I got another ten-spot and a new hat. An excellent lunch
too. The usual conversation, of course. All about the horses, about working
too hard, about looking out for a rainy day. Eager to have me promise that 
I would accompany him some night when there was a good fight on. When I 
finally let out that I expected to write a column for the Hearst papers he 
looked at me goggle-eyed. As I say, he had already given me the ten-spot. 
Now he began talking in earnest. I was to remember, if I needed any more 
between now and then—then meaning when I was in full swing as a columnist—I
was to call on him. “Maybe you’d better take twenty instead of ten,” he 
said. I handed him back the bill and received a twenty. At the corner we 
had to stop at a cigar store where he filled my breast pocket with fat 
cigars. It was then he noticed that the last hat he had bought for me 
looked rather seedy. We stopped at a haberdasher’s, on the way back to the 
telegraph office, where he bought me another hat, a Borsalino no less. “One
has to look right,” he counseled. “Never let them know you’re poor.” He 
looked so happy when we parted you would have thought I was the one who had
done the favors. “Don’t forget!” was his last shot, and he rattled the keys
in his trousers pocket.

I felt pretty good with forty dollars in my pocket. It was a Saturday and
I thought I might just as well keep up the good work. Maybe I’d bump into 
an old friend and shake down some more jack—just like that. Running my 
hands through my pockets, I realized I didn’t have any small change on me. 
I didn’t want to break a bill—a clean forty bucks or nothing.

I said I had nothing in change; I was mistaken, for in my vest pocket I 
found two ancient-looking pennies, white pennies. Had probably kept them 
for good luck.

Up on Park Avenue I came upon the showrooms of the Minerva Motor Company.
A handsome car, the Minerva. Almost as good as the Rolls-Royce. I wondered 
if by chance my old friend Otto Kunst, who had once been a bookkeeper for 
them, was still there. Hadn’t seen Otto for years—almost since the 
dissolution of our old club.

I stepped inside the swanky showroom and there was Otto, as somber and 
sedate as an undertaker. He was sales manager now. Smoking Murads, as of 
yore. Had a couple of good-looking rocks on his fingers too.

He was glad to see me again, but in that restrained way which always 
irritated me.

“You’re sitting pretty,” I said.

“And what are you doing?” He flung this at me as if to say—“what is it 
this time?”

I told him I was taking over a column for a newspaper shortly.

“Well!” He arched his eyebrows. Hmmm!

I thought I might just as well try him for a ten-spot—to make it an even 
fifty. After all, sales manager, old friend … Why not?

I got a curt refusal Didn’t even bother to explain why he couldn’t It was
out of the question, that was all. Impossible. I knew it was useless to 
prod him but I did, just to irritate him. Damn it, even though I didn’t 
need it, he had no right to refuse. He should do it for old time’s sake. 
Otto twiddled his watch chain as he listened. Cool as a cucumber, mind you.
No embarrassment whatever. No sympathy either “God, you’re a tightwad!” I 
concluded.

He smiled unperturbedly. “I never ask a favor and I never give any,” he 
responded blandly. Smug as a bug in a rug, he was. As though he’d always be
a sales manager—or something even more important. Didn’t think, did he, 
that only a few years later he’d be trying to sell apples on Fifth Avenue. 
(Even millionaires couldn’t afford Minervas during the depression.) “Well, 
forget about it,” I said. “The truth is, I’ve got a wad on me. I was just 
testing you out.” I hauled out the bills and flashed them before his eyes. 
He looked puzzled, then frowned. Before he could say a word I added, as I 
extracted the two white pennies: “What I really dropped in for was to ask 
you a favor. Could you lend me three cents to make up the nickel for the 
subway? I’ll pay you back the next time I pass this way.”

His face brightened immediately. I could almost feel the sigh of relief 
he let drop.

“Sure I can do that,” he said. And rather solemnly he fished out three 
pennies.

“It’s mighty white of you,” I said, and shook his hand with extra fervor,
as if I were indeed grateful.

“It’s nothing,” he said, quite seriously, “and you don’t need to give it 
back.”

“You’re sure f” I said. At last he began to realize I was rubbing it in.

“I can always lend you a few pennies,” he said sourly, “but not ten 
bucks. Money doesn’t grow on trees, you know. When I sell a man a car I 
sweat for it. Besides, I haven’t sold a car now for over two months.”

“That’s really tough, isn’t it? You know, you almost make me feel sorry 
for you. Well, remember me to the wife and kids.”

He ushered me to the door the way he would a customer. “Drop in again 
some time,” he said, as we parted.

“Next time I’ll buy a car—just the chassis.”

He gave me a mirthless grin. As I walked toward the subway I cursed him 
up and down for a mean, stingy, heartless son-of-a-bitch And to think we 
had been bosom pals when we were boys! I couldn’t get over it. The strange 
thing was, I couldn’t help but reflect, that he had grown to be like his 
old man, whom he had always detested. “A mean, stingy, hardhearted, 
pig-headed old Dutchman!” he used to call him.

Well, that was one friend I could wipe off my list. I did then and there,
and with such a will that years later, when we encountered one another on 
Fifth Avenue, I was unable to recall who he was. I took him for a 
detective, no less! I can hear him now repeating asininely: “What, you 
don’t remember met”

“No, I don’t,” I said. “Really, I don’t. Who are you?” The poor bugger 
had to give his name before I could place him.

Otto Kunst had been my closest chum in that street of early sorrows. 
After I left America the only boys I ever thought of were the ones I had 
had the least to do with. For example—the group that lived in the old farm 
house up the street. This was the only house in the whole wide neighborhood
which had seen other days, days when our street had been a country lane 
named after a Dutch settler, Van Voorhees. Anyway, in this ramshackle, 
tumble-down habitation lived three families. The Vosslers, made up 
exclusively of oafs and curmudgeons, dealt in coal, wood, ice and manure; 
the Laskis comprised a father who was a pharmacist, two brothers who were 
pugilists, and a grown-up daughter who was just a chunk of beef; the Newton
family consisted of a mother, and a son whom I seldom spoke to but for whom
I had a singular reverence. Ed Vossler, who was about my own age, strong as
an ox and slightly demented, had a harelip and stuttered woefully. We never
had any prolonged conversations but we were friends, if not chums. Ed 
worked from morning till night; it was hard work, too, and because of this 
he seemed older than the rest of us who did nothing but play after school. 
As a boy I never thought of him except as a walking utility; we had only to
offer him a few cents and he would perform the tasks we despised. We teased
him a good deal, as boys will. It was when I got to Europe, curiously 
enough, that I found myself thinking occasionally about this queer oaf, Ed 
Vossler. I must say I always thought of him with affection. I had learned 
by this time how almost microscopic is that world of mortals of whom one 
can say: “He’s a man you can count on.” Now and then I sent him a picture 
post card but of course I never heard from him. For all I knew he may have 
been dead.

Ed Vossler enjoyed a certain protection from his second cousins, the 
Laskis. Especially from Eddie Laski, who was a little older than us and a 
most unpleasant fellow too. His brother Tom, whom Eddie aped in every way, 
was rather a sweet person and already on the way to becoming a figure in 
the world of fisticuffs. This Tom was about twenty-two or three, quiet, 
well-behaved, neat in appearance, and rather handsome. He wore long 
spitcurls, after the manner of Terry McGovern. One would hardly have 
suspected that he was such a fighter had not Eddie, his brother, boasted so
much about him. Now and then we had the pleasure of watching the two of 
them spar in the back yard where the manure pile stood.

But Eddie Laski—it was difficult to keep out of his range. As soon as he 
saw you coming he would block the path, his mouth spread in a wide, nasty 
grin which bared his big yellow teeth; pretending to shake hands he would 
make a few passes—like lightning!—and give you a tremendous jab in the ribs
or else what he called “a playful poke in the jaw.” The damned fool was 
always practicing the old one-two. It was positive torture to extricate 
oneself from his clutches. We were all agreed that he would never make his 
mark in the ring. “Some day he’ll meet up with the wrong guy!” That was our
unanimous verdict.

Jimmy Newton, who was vaguely related to the Vosslers and the Laskis, was
a complete anomaly in their midst. Nobody could have been more silent than 
he, nor more well-behaved, nor more sincere and genuine. What he worked at 
no one knew. We saw him rarely and spoke to him even more rarely. He was 
the sort of fellow, however, who had only to say “Good morning!” and you 
felt better. His good-morning was like a blessing. What intrigued us about 
him was the undefinable and ineradicable air of melancholy which he wore. 
It suited one who had experienced some deep, unmentionable tragedy. We 
suspected that his sorrow had to do with his mother, whom we never saw. Was
she an invalid perhaps? Was she insane? Or was she a horrible cripple? As 
for his father, we never knew whether he was dead or had deserted them.

To us healthy, carefree youngsters, this Laski menage was enveloped in 
mystery. Punctually every morning at seven-thirty the elder Mr. Laski, who 
was blind, left the house with his dog, tapping the way with a stout cane. 
This in itself had a queer effect upon us. But the house itself looked 
crazy. Certain windows, for example, were never opened, the shades always 
down. At one of the other windows sat Mollie, the Laski daughter, usually 
with a can of beer beside her. She was there, as in a show, from the moment
the curtain rose. Having absolutely nothing to do, having no desire 
moreover to do anything, she simply sat there the whole day long gathering 
up the gossip. She had the low-down on everything that went on in the 
neighborhood. Now and then her figure ripened, as if she were about to have
a child, but there never were any births or deaths. She simply changed with
the seasons. Lazy slut that she was, we liked her. She was too lazy to even
walk to the corner grocer’s; she’d flip us a quarter or half-dollar from 
the window, which was on the street level, and tell us to keep the change. 
Sometimes she forgot what she had sent us for and told us to keep the 
damned stuff.

Old man Vossler, who also ran a trucking business, was a big brute of a 
man who did nothing but curse and swear when you ran into him. He could 
lift enormous weights with ease, whether drunk or sober. Naturally we stood
in awe of him. But it made our blood curl to see the way he booted his son 
around—he could fairly lift him from the ground with his big toe. And the 
way he lashed him with the horse whip! Though we didn’t dare to play any 
tricks on the old man we often held prolonged conferences in the open lot 
at the corner as to how we might retaliate. It was disgraceful to see how 
Ed Vossler put his hand over his head and crouched when he saw his old man 
coming. In desperation once we summoned Ed to confer with us, but the 
moment he got the drift of our talk he ran off with his tail between his 
legs.

Curious how often these figures out of my boyhood reverted to memory. The
ones I speak of belonged more to that old neighborhood, the 14th Ward, 
which I was so fond of. In the street of early sorrows they were anomalies.
As a mere lad–in the old neighborhood—I had been accustomed to mixing with 
half-wits, incipient gangsters, petty crooks, would-be prize fighters, 
epileptics, drunks and sluts. Every one in that dear ancient world was a 
“character.” But in the new neighborhood to which I had been transferred 
every one was normal, matter-of-fact, non-spectacular. There was only one 
exception, apart from the members of the weird tribe inhabiting the farm 
house. I can no longer remember the name of this chap, but his personality 
is engraved in my memory. He was a newcomer to the neighborhood, somewhat 
older than the rest of us, and distinctly “different.” One day, as we were 
shooting marbles, I dropped an expression which made him look up in 
astonishment. “Where do you hail from?” he asked. “From Driggs Avenue 
originally,” I said. At once he was off his knees and literally hugging me.
“Why didn’t you tell me that before?” he cried. “I’m from Wythe Avenue, 
corner of North Seventh.”

It was like two Masonic brothers exchanging passwords. At once a bond was
established between us. Whatever game we played he was always on my side. 
If one of the older boys threatened to go for me he interposed himself. If 
he had anything important to confide he’d employ the jargon of the 14th 
Ward.

One day he introduced me to his sister, who was a trifle younger than I. 
It was almost love at first sight. She wasn’t so beautiful, even to my 
youthful eyes, but she had a way about her which I associated with the 
behavior of the girls I had admired in the old neighborhood.

One night a surprise party was given me. Every youngster in the 
neighborhood was there—except this new-found friend of mine and his little 
sister. I was heart-broken. When I asked why they hadn’t been invited I was
told that they didn’t belong. That settled it for me. At once I sneaked out
of the house and went in search of them. I quickly explained to their 
mother that there had been a mistake, that it was a pure oversight, and 
that every one was waiting for her son and daughter to appear. She patted 
me on the head with a knowing smile and told me what a good boy I was. She 
thanked me so profusely, indeed, that I blushed.

I escorted my two friends to the party in triumph, only to perceive, 
however, that I had made a grave blunder. On all sides they were given the 
cold shoulder. I did my best to dissipate the atmosphere of hostility, but 
in vain. Finally I could bear it no longer. “Either you make friends with 
my friends,” I announced boldly, holding the latter by the arms, “or you 
can all go home. This is my party and I want my own friends here.”

For this piece of bravado I got a sound slap in the face from my mother. 
I winced but stood my ground.

“It isn’t fair! I bellowed, almost on the point of tears now.

All at once they gave way. It was almost a miracle the way the ice broke 
up. In no time we were all laughing, shouting, singing. I couldn’t 
understand why it had happened so suddenly.

During the course of the evening the girl, whose name was Sadie, got me 
in a corner to express her thanks for what I had done. “It was wonderful of
you, Henry,” she said, to which I blushed deeply. “It was nothing at all,” 
I mumbled, feeling silly and heroic at the same time. Sadie looked around 
to see if any one were observing us, then boldly kissed me on the lips. 
This time I blushed even more deeply.

“My mother would like you to come for dinner some evening,” she 
whispered. “Will you come?”

I squeezed her little hand and said “Sure.”

It was in the flats across the street where Sadie and her brother lived. 
I had never been inside a house on that side of the street. I wondered what
their home was like. In calling for them I was too flustered to notice a 
thing. All I could recall was that it had a distinctly Catholic odor. 
Nearly all the people, incidentally, who lived in the flats—railroad flats 
they were—were members of the Roman Church. This was enough in itself to 
alienate them from the other people in the street.

The first discovery I made, on visiting my two friends, was that they 
were very very poor. The father, who had been a locomotive engineer, was 
dead; the mother, who was suffering from some grave malady, was unable to 
leave the house. They were Catholics all right. Devout ones. That was 
obvious at once. In every room, it seemed to me, there were rosaries and 
crucifixes, votive candles, chromos of the Madonna and Child or of Jesus on
the Cross. Though I had seen these evidences of the faith in other homes, 
nevertheless each time it happened I got the creeps. My dislike of these 
sacred relics—if one could call them that—was purely and simply because of 
their morbidity. True, I didn’t know the word morbid then, but the feeling 
was definitely that. When I had first glimpsed these “relics” in the homes 
of my other little friends I remember that I had mocked and jeered. It was 
my mother, oddly enough, my mother who despised Catholics almost as much as
drunkards and criminals, who had cured me of this attitude. To make me more
“tolerant” she would force me to go to mass occasionally with my Catholic 
friends.

Now, however, when I described in detail the conditions in the home of my
two friends, she showed little sympathy. She repeated that she didn’t think
it was good for me to see so much of them. Why? I wanted to know. She 
refused to answer me directly. When I suggested that she permit me to bring
them fruit and candy from our sideboard, which was always overflowing with 
good things, she frowned. Sensing that there was no good reason behind her 
refusals, I decided to pinch the edibles and smuggle them over to my 
friends. Now and then I stole a few pennies from her pocketbook and handed 
them to Sadie or her brother. Always as if my mother had requested me to do
so.

“Your mother must be a very kind woman,” said Sadie’s mother one day.

I smiled, rather lamely.

“You’re sure, Henry, it’s your mother who sends us these gifts?”

“Certainly,” I said, smiling ever so brightly now. “We have much more 
than we need. I can bring you other things too, if you like.”

“Henry, come here,” said Sadie’s mother. She was seated in an 
old-fashioned rocker. “Now listen to me carefully, Henry.” She patted my 
head affectionately and held me close to her. “You’re a very, very good boy
and we love you. But you mustn’t steal to make others happy. That’s a sin. 
I know you mean well, but … “

“It isn’t stealing,” I protested. “They would only go to waste.”

“You have a big heart,” she said. “A big heart for such a little boy. 
Wait a while. Wait till you grow older and earn your own living. Then you 
can give to your heart’s content.”

The next day Sadie’s brother took me aside and begged me not to be angry 
with his mother for refusing my gifts. “She likes you very much, Henry,” he
said.

“But you don’t have enough to eat,” said I.

“Certainly we do,” he said.

“You don’t! I know because I know how much we eat.”

“I’ll be getting a job soon,” he said. “We’ll have plenty then.”

“In fact,” he added, “I may get a job next week.”

“What sort of job?”

“I’m going to work part time for the undertaker.”

“That’s terrible,” said I.

“Not really,” he replied. “I won’t have to handle the stiffs.”

“You’re sure?”

“Positive. He’s got men for that. I’m going to run errands, that’s all.”

“And how much will you get?”

“Three dollars a week.”

I left him, wondering if I couldn’t find a job too. Perhaps I could find 
something to do on the sly. My thought was, of course, to turn over my 
earnings to them. Three dollars a week was nothing, even in those days. I 
lay awake the whole night thinking it over. I was certain in advance that I
would never receive my mother’s permission to take a job. Whatever was to 
be done had to be done secretly and with cunning and foresight.

Now it happened that a few doors from us lived a family in which the 
eldest son ran a coffee business on the side. That is to say, he had 
drummed up a small clientele for a blend which he mixed himself; on 
Saturdays he used to deliver the packages himself. It was quite a route he 
covered and I wasn’t too confident that I could manage it alone, but I 
decided to ask him to give me a chance. To my surprise I found that he was 
only too happy to have me take over; he had been on the verge of abandoning
his little enterprise.

The following Saturday I set forth with two valises filled with small 
packages of coffee. I was to get fifty cents as salary and a small 
commission on new business. Should I be able to collect on any of the bad 
debts I was to get a bonus. I carried a linen bag with a draw string in 
which I was to put the money I collected.

After coaching me as to how to approach the debtors he had warned me 
specifically to beware of the dogs in certain regions. I checked these 
spots with a red pencil on the itinerary where everything was plainly 
indicated—brooks and culverts, viaducts, reservoirs, fence lines, 
government property, and so on.

That first Saturday was a huge success. My boss literally rolled his eyes
when I dumped the money on the table. Immediately he volunteered to raise 
my salary to seventy-five cents. I had gotten him five new customers and 
collected a third of the bad debts. He hugged me as if he had found a 
jewel.

“You’ll promise you won’t tell my folks I’m working for you?” I begged.

“Of course not,” he said.

“No, ‘promise! Promise on your word of honor!”

He looked at me strangely. Then slowly he repeated—“I promise on my word 
of honor.”

The next morning, Sunday, I waited outside the door of my friends’ home 
to catch them on their way to church. I had no trouble persuading them to 
let me go to mass with them. They were delighted, in fact.

When we left the church of St. Francis de Sales—a horrible place of 
worship—I explained to them what I had accomplished. I fished out the 
money—it amounted to almost three dollars—and handed it to Sadie’s brother.
To my utter amazement he refused to accept it.

“But I only took the job for your sake,” I expostulated.

“I know, Henry, but my mother would never hear of such a thing.”

“But you don’t need to tell her it’s from me. Tell her you got a raise.”

“She wouldn’t believe that,” he said.

“Then tell her you found it in the street. Look, I’ll dig up an old 
purse. Put it in the purse and say you found it in the gutter just outside 
the church. She’ll have to believe that.”

Still he was reluctant to take the money.

I was at my wits’ end. If he was not going to accept the money all my 
efforts were in vain. I left him with the promise that he would think it 
over.

It was Sadie who came to my rescue. She was closer to her mother and she 
understood the situation in a more practical way. At any rate she thought 
her mother ought to know what I meant to do for them—in order to express 
her appreciation.

Before the week was up we had a talk together, Sadie and I. She was 
waiting for me outside the school gate one afternoon.

“It’s settled, Henry,” she said, all out of breath, “my mother agrees to 
take the money, but only for a little while—until my brother gets a 
full-time job. Then we’ll pay you back.”

I protested that I didn’t want to be paid back, but that if her mother 
insisted on such an arrangement I would have to give in. I handed over the 
money, which was wrapped in a piece of butcher’s paper.

“Mother says the Virgin Mary will protect you and bless you for your 
kindness,” said Sadie.

I didn’t know what to say to this. No one had ever used such language 
with me. Besides, the Virgin Mary meant absolutely nothing to me. I didn’t 
believe in that nonsense.

“Do you really believe in all that … that Virgin Mary stuff?” I asked.

Sadie looked shocked—or perhaps grieved. She nodded her head gravely.

“Just what is the Virgin Mary?” I asked.

“You know as well as I do,” she answered.

“No, I don’t. Why do they call her Virgin?”

Sadie thought a moment, then replied most innocently: “Because she’s the 
mother of God.”

“Well, what is a Virgin anyway?”

‘There’s only one Virgin,” answered Sadie, “and that’s the Blessed Virgin
Mary.”

“That’s no answer,” I countered. “I asked you—what is a Virgin?”

“It means a mother who is holy,” said Sadie, none too sure of herself.

Here I had a brilliant thought. “Didn’t God create the world?” I 
demanded.

“Of course.”

“Then there’s no mother. God doesn’t need a mother.”

“That’s blasphemy,” Sadie almost shrieked. “You’d better speak to the 
priest.”

“I don’t believe in priests.”

“Henry, don’t talk that way! God will punish you.”

“Why?”

“Because.”

“All right,” said I, “you ask the priest! You’re a Catholic. I’m not.”

“You shouldn’t say things like that,” said Sadie, deeply offended. 
“You’re not old enough to be asking such questions. We don’t ask such 
questions. We believe. If you don’t believe you can’t be a good Catholic.”

“I’m willing to believe,” I retorted, “if he will answer my questions.”

“That’s not the way,” said Sadie. “First you have to believe. And then 
you must pray. Ask God to forgive your sins … “

“Sins? I don’t have any sins to confess.”

“Henry, Henry, don’t speak that way, it’s wicked. Everybody sins. That’s 
what the priest is for. That’s why we pray to the Blessed Mary.”

“I don’t pray to anybody,” I said defiantly, a little weary of her moony 
talk.

“That’s because you’re a Protestant.”

‘T am not a Protestant. I’m nothing. I don’t believe in anything … 
there!”

“You’d better take that back,” said Sadie, thoroughly alarmed. “God could
strike you dead for talking like that.”

She was so visibly appalled by my utterance that her fear imparted itself
to me.

“I mean,” said I, endeavoring to backwater, “that we don’t pray like you 
do. We only pray in church—when the minister prays.”

“Don’t you pray before you go to sleep?”

“No,” I replied, “I don’t. I guess I don’t know much about praying.”

“We’ll teach you then,” said Sadie. “You must pray every day, three times
a day at least. Otherwise you’ll bum in Hell.”

We parted on these words. I gave her my solemn promise that I would make 
an effort to pray, at least before going to sleep. As I walked away, 
however, I suddenly asked myself what it was I was supposed to pray for. I 
was almost on the point of running back to ask her. The word “sins” stuck 
in my crop. What sins? I kept asking myself. What had I been doing that was
so sinful? I rarely lied, except to my mother. I never stole, except from 
my mother. What had I to confess? It never occurred to me that I had 
committed a sin in lying to my mother or stealing from her. I had to behave
thus because she didn’t know any better. Once she saw things in my light 
she would understand my behavior. That’s how I viewed that situation.

Mulling over my conversation with Sadie, reflecting on the somber gloom 
which pervaded their household, I began to think that perhaps my mother was
right in distrusting Catholics. We didn’t do any praying in our house, yet 
everything went smoothly. Nobody ever mentioned God in our family. Yet God 
hadn’t punished any of us. I came to the conclusion that Catholics were by 
nature superstitious, just like savages. Ignorant idol-worshipers. 
Cautious, timid folk who hadn’t the guts to think for themselves. I decided
I would never again go to mass. What a dungeon their Church was! Suddenly—a
random flash—it dawned on me that maybe they wouldn’t be so poor, Sadie’s 
family, if they didn’t think about God so much. Everything went to the 
Church, to the priests, that is, who were always begging for money. I had 
never liked the sight of a priest. Too oily and smirky for me. No, the hell
with them! And to hell with their candles, their rosaries, their 
crucifixes—and their Virgin Marys!

*

At last I’m face to face with that man of mystery, Alan Cromwell, handing
him another drink, slapping him on the back, having a grand time with him, 
in short. And right in our own little love-nest!

It was Mona who had arranged the meeting—with the connivance of Doc 
Kronski. Kronski is drinking too, and shouting and gesticulating. And so is
his mousey little wife, who is posing for the occasion as my wife. I am no 
longer Henry Miller. I have been given a new moniker for the evening: Dr. 
Harry Marx.

Only Mona Is absent. She is “supposed” to arrive later.

Things have progressed fantastically since that moment earlier in the 
evening when I shook hands with Cromwell. I have to admit to myself, 
speaking of the devil, that he is indeed a handsome chap. And not only 
handsome (in a Southern way) but fair-spoken and gullible as a child. I 
wouldn’t say that he was stupid, no. Trusting, rather. Not cultured either,
but intelligent. Not shrewd but capable. A man with a good heart, an 
outgoing man. Bubbling over with good will.

It seemed a shame to be taking him in, to be making sport of him. I could
see that the idea was Kronski’s, not Mona’s. Feeling guilty because we had 
neglected him, Kronski, so long, she had probably acquiesced without 
thought. That’s how it looked to me.

Anyway, we were all in fine fettle. The confusion was enormous. 
Fortunately, Cromwell had arrived lit up like a Zeppelin. By nature 
unsuspecting, the drinks made him more so. He seemed not to realize that 
Kronski was Jewish, though it was obvious he was, even to a child. Cromwell
took him for a Russian. As for me, with that name Marx, he didn’t know what
to think. (Kronski had conceived the brilliant idea of palming me off as a 
Jew.)

The disclosure of this startling fact—that I was Jewish—made no 
impression whatever on Cromwell: We might as well have told him I was a 
Sioux or an Eskimo. He was curious, however, to know what I did for a 
living. In accordance with our preconceived plan I informed Cromwell that I
was a surgeon, that Dr. Kronski and I shared offices together. He looked at
my hands and nodded his head gravely.

For me the difficult thing was to remember, during the course of an 
endless evening, that Kronski’s wife was my wife. This, of course, was 
another invention of Kronski’s fertile brain—a way of diverting suspicion, 
he thought. Every time I looked at that mouse of his I felt like swatting 
her. We did our best to ply her with drinks; all she would do, however, was
to take a little sip and push the glass aside. But as the evening wore on 
and our horseplay grew bolder and bolder, she livened up. A way of saying 
that she unkinked a bone or two, no more. When on one occasion she broke 
into a fit of hysterical laughter I thought she would be taken seriously 
ill. She was better at weeping.

Cromwell, on the other hand, was a hearty laugher. At times he didn’t 
know what he was laughing about, but our own laughter was so infectious 
that he didn’t give a damn what he was laughing about. Now and then he 
asked a question or two about Mona, whom it was obvious he regarded as a 
very strange individual, though an adorable one. We, of course, pretended 
that we had known her from infancy. We praised her writing outrageously, 
inventing a whole arsenal of poems, essays and stories which she, we were 
certain, was too modest to have mentioned the existence of. Kronski went so
far as to express the opinion that she would be the foremost woman writer 
in America before long. I pretended not to be so certain of this but agreed
that she possessed extraordinary talent, extraordinary possibilities.

Asked if we had seen any of the columns she had turned out, we professed 
to be completely ignorant, astounded in fact, that she was doing such a 
thing.

“We’ll have to put a stop to that,” said Kronski. “She’s too good to be 
wasting her time that way.”

I agreed with him. Cromwell looked baffled. He couldn’t see what was so 
terrible about writing a daily column. Besides, she needed money.

“Money?” shouted Kronski. “Money? Why, what’s the matter with us? I’m 
sure Dr. Marx and I can take care of her needs.” He seemed amazed to hear 
that Mona might be in need of money. A little hurt, in fact.

Poor Cromwell felt that he had made a faux-pas. He assured us that it was
only an impression he had gathered. But, to get back to the subject, he 
would like us to glance at those columns and give him our honest opinion of
them. He said he was no judge himself. If they were really good he was 
certain he could get her the assignment. He mentioned nothing, of course, 
about shelling out a hundred a week.

We had another drink on this and then diverted him to other subjects. It 
was easy enough to sidetrack him. He had only one thought in mind—when 
would she arrive? Every now and then he begged us to let him dash out and 
make a telephone call to Washington. In one way or another we always 
managed to frustrate these attempts. We knew that Mona would not arrive, 
not at least until we had gotten him out of the way. She had given us until
one in the morning to get rid of him. Our only hope therefore was to get 
him so potted that we could put him in a taxi and pack him off.

I had tried several times to find out where he was staying but got 
nowhere. Kronski thought it of slight importance—any old hotel would do. In
the midst of the goings-on I asked myself why this fool business had been 
arranged. It made no sense. Later I was told that Mona had thought it 
important to let Cromwell see that she was really living alone. There was 
another side of it, of course, and that was to find out if Cromwell really 
hoped to sell the column to the syndicate. It was Mona’s belief that he 
would be more frank with us than with her. But we had dropped this subject 
early in the evening, thanks to Kronski. For some queer reason of his own, 
Kronski was obsessed with the notion of filling Cromwell with hair-raising 
stories about the operating ward. I of course had to chime in with him. No 
one in his right senses would have given the least credence to these yams 
he kept inventing. They were so sensational, so utterly fantastic, and so 
gory and gruesome withal, that I wondered that Cromwell, dead drunk though 
he was, didn’t see through them. Of course the more horrible and 
unbelievable the tale, the more we laughed, Kronski and I. Our hilarity 
puzzled Cromwell somewhat, but finally he accepted it as “professional 
callousness.”

To believe Kronski, nine out of ten operations were pure criminal 
experiments. Except for a rare handful, all surgeons were born sadists. Not
content with diabolical fantasies about the mistreatment of human beings, 
he went into long dissertations on the subject of our cruelty to animals. 
One of these, a harrowing story, which he told amidst gales of laughter, 
concerned a poor little rabbit which, after numerous injections, electric 
shocks, and all manner of miraculous resuscitations, was brutally 
butchered. To cap it all, he elaborated on how he, Kronski, had gathered 
the remnants of the poor little creature and made a stew of it, oblivious, 
until after he had swallowed a few portions, that arsenic had been injected
into the poor rabbit. Over this he laughed inordinately. Cromwell, slightly
sobered by the bloody tale, remarked that it was too bad Kronski hadn’t 
died, then laughed so heartily over this thought that absent-mindedly he 
swallowed a full glass of cognac neat. Whereupon he had such a fit of 
coughing that we had to stretch him out on the floor and work over him like
a drowned man.

It was at this point that we found Cromwell becoming unmanageable. To 
give him a working-over we had stripped off his coat, vest, shirt and 
undershirt. Kronski, to be sure, was doing the major work; I merely 
pummeled Cromwell now and then, or slapped his chest. Now that he was 
stretched out comfortably, Cromwell didn’t feel like putting on his things.
He said he felt too good to budge. Wanted to take a snooze, if only for a 
few minutes. He reached out vaguely for the divan, wondering, I suppose, if
he could transfer himself to a still more comfortable position without 
rousing himself.

The thought that he might go to sleep on us was alarming. We began to cut
up like real jackanapes now, standing poor Cromwell on his head, dancing 
around him (to his utter bewilderment, of course), making grimaces, 
scratching ourselves like apes … anything to make him laugh, anything to 
prevent his heavy lids from closing. The harder we worked—and by now we had
become positively frenetic—the more insistent he became about having his 
little snooze. He had reached the point now of crawling on all fours toward
the coveted divan. Once there, God himself would be powerless to wake him 
up.

“Let’s lay him out,” I said, indicating by gestures and grimaces that we 
could then dress him and bundle him out.

It took us almost a half hour to get his things on. Cromwell, drunk and 
sleepy though he was, refused with might and main to permit us to unbutton 
his trousers, which we had to do to tuck his shirt in. We were obliged to 
leave his fly open and his shirt sticking out. When it came time we would 
cover his shirt with the overcoat.

Cromwell passed out immediately. A heavy trance, punctuated by obscene 
snores. Kronski was radiant. Hadn’t had such a good time in ages, he 
assured me. Then, without dropping his voice, he blandly suggested that we 
go through Cornwell’s pockets. “We ought at least to get back what we laid 
out for food and drink,” he insisted. I don’t know why I suddenly became so
scrupulous but I refused to entertain the notion. “He’d never miss the 
money,” said Kronski. “What’s fifty or a hundred bucks to him f” Just to 
reassure himself he extracted Cromwell’s wallet. To his utter amazement 
there wasn’t a bill in it.

“Well I’ll be damned!” he mumbled. “That’s the rich for you. Never carry 
cash. Pfui!”

“We’d better get him out of here soon,” I urged.

“Try and do it!” said Kronski, grinning like a billygoat. “What’s wrong 
with letting him stay here?”

“Are you mad?” I shouted.

He laughed. Then he calmly proceeded to tell us how wonderful he thought 
it would be if we would play the farce out to the end, that is, to wake up,
all five of us (next morning) and continue to enact our respective roles. 
That would give Mona a chance to do some real acting, he thought. Kronski’s
wife wasn’t at all enthusiastic over this suggestion—it was all too 
complicated to suit her.

After much palaver we decided to rouse Cromwell, drag him out by the 
heels, if necessary, and dispatch him to a hotel. We had to tussle with him
for a good quarter of an hour before we succeeded in getting him to a 
semi-standing position. His knees simply refused to straighten out; his hat
was over his eyes and his shirt-tails were sticking out from under the 
overcoat which we were unable to button. He looked for all the world like 
Snuffy the Cabman. We were laughing so hysterically that it was all we 
could do to descend the steps without rolling over one another. Poor 
Cromwell kept protesting that he didn’t want to go yet, that he wanted to 
wait for Mona.

“She’s gone to Washington to meet you,” said Kronski maliciously. “We got
a telegram while you were asleep.”

Cromwell was too stupefied to get the full import of this. Every now and 
then he sagged, threatening to collapse in the street. Our idea was to give
him a bit of air, brace him up a bit, and then bundle him into a cab. To 
find a cab we had to walk several blocks. Our way led toward the river, a 
roundabout way, but we thought the walk would do him good. When we got near
the docks we all sat down on the railroad tracks and took a breather. 
Cromwell simply stretched out between the tracks, laughing and hiccoughing,
quite as if he were a babe in the cradle. At intervals he begged for 
something to eat. He wanted ham-and-eggs. The nearest open restaurant was 
almost a mile away. I suggested that I would run back to the house and get 
some sandwiches. Cromwell said he couldn’t wait that long, wanted his 
ham-and-eggs right away. We yanked him to his feet again, a job which 
demanded our combined strength, and started pushing and dragging him toward
the bright lights of Borough Hall. A night watchman came along and demanded
to know what we were doing there at that hour of the night. Cromwell 
collapsed at our feet. “Whatcha got there?” demanded the watchman, prodding
Cromwell with his feet as if he were a corpse. “It’s nothing, he’s just 
drunk,” I said. The watchman bent over him to smell his breath. “Get him 
out of here,” he said, “or I’ll can the whole bunch of you.”

“Yes sir, yes sir,” we said, dragging Cromwell by the arm-pits, his feet 
scraping the ground. A few seconds later the watchman came running up with 
Cromwell’s hat in his hand. We put it on him but it fell off again. “Here,”
I said, opening my mouth, “put it between my teeth.” We were panting and 
sweating now from the exertion of dragging him. The watchman observed us a 
few moments in disgust, then he said: “Let go of him! Here, sling him over 
my back … you guys are duds.” Like this we reached the end of the street 
where the elevated line swung overhead. “Now on of you guys fetch a cab,” 
said the night watchman. “Don’t pull him around any more, you’ll wrench his
arms out.” Kronski skedaddled up the street in search of a cab. We sat down
on the curb and waited.

The cab arrived in a few minutes and we bundled him in. His shirt-tails 
were still hanging out.

“Where to?” asked the driver.

“The Hotel Astor!” I said.

“The Waldorf-Astoria!” shouted Kronski.

“Well, make up your minds!” said the cabby.

“The Commodore,” shouted Cromwell.

“Are you sure?” said the driver. “This ain’t a wild-goose chase, is it?”

“It’s the Commodore all right, isn’t it?” I said, sticking my head inside
the cab.

“Sure,” said Cromwell thickly, “anywhere suits me.”

“Has he got any money on him?” asked the cabby.

“He’s got loads of money,” said Kronski. “He’s a banker.”

‘I think one of you guys better go along with him,” said the driver.

“O.K.,” said Kronski and promptly hopped in with his wife.

“Hey!” shouted Cromwell, “what about Dr. Marx?”

“He’ll come in the next cab,” said Kronski. “He’s got to make a telephone
call.”

“Hey!” he shouted to me, “what about your wife?”

“She’s all right,” I said, and waved good-bye.

When I got back to the house I discovered Cromwell’s briefcase and some 
small change which had dropped out of his pockets. I opened the briefcase 
and found a mass of papers and some telegrams. The most recent telegram was
from the Treasury Department, urging Cromwell to telephone some one at 
midnight without fail, extremely urgent. I ate a sandwich, while glancing 
over the legal documents, took a glass of wine, and decided to call 
Washington for him. I had a devil of a job getting the man at the other 
end; when I did he answered in a sleepy voice, gruff and irritated. I 
explained that Cromwell had met with a little accident but would telephone 
him in the morning. “But who are you … who is this,” he kept repeating. 
“He’ll telephone you in the morning,” I repeated, ignoring his frantic 
questions. Then I hung up. Outside I ran as quickly as I could. I knew he’d
call back. I was afraid he might get the police after me. I made quite a 
detour to reach the telegraph office; there I sent a message to Cromwell, 
to the Commodore Hotel. I hoped to Christ Kronski had delivered him there. 
As I left the telegraph office I realized that Cromwell might not get the 
message until the next afternoon. The clerk would probably hold it until 
Cromwell woke up. I went to a nearby cafeteria and called the Commodore, 
urging the night clerk to be sure to rouse Cromwell when he got the 
telegram. “Pour a pitcher of cold water over him if necessary,” I said, 
“but be sure he reads my telegram … it’s life and death.”

When I got back to the house Mona was there cleaning up the mess.

“You must have had quite a party,” she said.

“That we did,” I said.

I saw the briefcase lying there. He would need that when telephoning 
Washington. “Look,” I said, “we’d better get a cab and deliver this to him 
right away. I’ve been reading over those papers. They’re dynamite. Better 
not be caught with them in our possession.”

“You go,” said Mona, “I’m exhausted.”

There I was, in the street again, and just as Kronski had predicted, 
following in a cab. When I got to the hotel I found that Cromwell had 
already gone to his room. I insisted that the clerk take me to his room. 
Cromwell was lying fully clothed on the bedspread, flat on his back, his 
hat beside him. I put the briefcase on his chest and tip toed out. Then I 
made the clerk accompany me to the manager’s office, explained the 
situation to that individual, and made the clerk testify that he had seen 
me deposit the briefcase on Cromwell’s chest.

“And may I have your name?” asked the manager, somewhat perturbed by 
these unusual tactics.

“Certainly,” I said, “Dr. Karl Marx of the Polytechnique Institute. You 
can call me in the morning if there is any irregularity. Mr. Cromwell is a 
friend of mine, an F. B. I. agent. He had a little too much to drink. 
You’ll look sifter him, I hope.”

“I certainly will,” said the night manager, looking rather alarmed. “Can 
we reach you at your office any time, Dr. Marx?”

“I’ll be there all day, certainly,” I said. “If I should be out, ask for 
my secretary—Miss Rabinovitch—she’ll know where to reach me. I’ve got to 
get some sleep now … must be in the operating room at nine. Thank you so 
much. Good night!”

The bell-hop escorted me to the revolving door. He was visibly impressed 
by the rigmarole. “Cab, sir?” he said. “Yes,” I said, and gave him the 
change which I had gathered from the floor. “Thank you very very much, 
Doctor,” he said, bowing and scraping, as he showed me to the cab.

I told the cabby to drive to Times Square. There I got out and headed for
the subway. Just as I was reaching the change booth I realized I hadn’t a 
damned cent left over. The cab driver had gotten my last quarter. I climbed
up the steps and stood at the curb, wondering where and how I would raise 
the necessary nickel. As I was standing there a night messenger came along.
I looked twice to see if I knew him. Then I bethought me of the telegraph 
office at Grand Central. I was sure to know some one there. I walked back 
to Grand Central, swung down the ramp and sure enough, there at the desk, 
large as life, was my old friend Driggs. “Driggs, would you lend me a 
nickel?” I said. “A nickel?” said Driggs. “Here, take a dollar!” We chatted
a few moments and then I ducked back to the subway.

A phrase Cromwell had let drop a number of times during the early part of
the evening kept recurring to mind: “my friend William Randolph Hearst.” I 
didn’t doubt in the least that they were good friends, though Cromwell was 
still a pretty young man to be a bosom friend of the newspaper Czar. The 
more I thought of Cromwell the better I liked him. I was determined to see 
him again soon, on my own next time. I prayed that he wouldn’t forget to 
make that telephone call. I wondered what he would think of me when he 
realized I had gone through his briefcase.

*

It was only a few nights later that we met again. This time at Papa 
Moskowitz’s. Just Cromwell, Mona and myself. It was Cromwell who had 
suggested the rendezvous. He was leaving for Washington the next day.

Any uneasiness I might have felt on meeting him the second time was 
quickly dispelled by his warm smile and hearty handshake. At once he 
informed me how grateful he was for what I had done, not specifying what I 
had done, but giving me a look which made it clear he knew everything. “I 
always make an ass of myself when I drink,” he said, blushing slightly. He 
looked more boyish now than he had the first night I met him. He couldn’t 
have been more than thirty, it seemed to me. Now that I knew what his real 
job was I was more than ever amazed by his easy, carefree deportment. He 
acted like a man without any responsibilities. Just a bright young banker 
of good family—that was the impression he created.

Mona and he had been talking literature, it seemed.

He pretended, as before, to be out of touch with literary events. Nothing
but a plain businessman with a slight knowledge of finance. Politics? 
Completely beyond his ken. No, the banking business kept him busy enough. 
Except for an occasional tear, he was a home-loving body. Hardly ever saw 
anything but Washington and New York. Europe? Yes, most eager to see 
Europe. But that would have to wait until he could afford a real vacation.

He pretended to be rather ashamed of the fact that the only language he 
knew was English. But he supposed one could get by if one had the right 
connections.

I enjoyed hearing him hand out this line. Never by word or gesture did I 
betray his confidence. Not even to Mona would I have dared reveal what I 
knew about Cromwell. He seemed to understand that I could be trusted.

And so we talked and talked, listening to Moskowitz now and then, and 
drinking moderately. I gathered that he had already made it clear to Mona 
that the column was no go. Everybody had praised her work, but the big 
boss, whoever that was, had concluded it was not for the Hearst papers.

“What about Hearst himself?” I ventured to ask. “Did he say No to it?”

Cromwell explained that Hearst usually abided by the decisions of his 
underlings. It was all very complicated, he assured me. However, he thought
that something else might turn up, something even more promising. He would 
know after he got back to Washington.

I of course was able to interpret this as a mere politeness, knowing full
well now that Cromwell would not be in Washington for at least two months, 
that in seven or eight days, as a matter of fact, he would be in Bucharest,
conversing in the language of that country with great fluency.

“I may be seeing Hearst when I go to California next month,” he said, 
never batting an eyelash. “I’ve got to go there on a business trip.”

“Oh, by the way,” he added, as if it had just occurred to him at that 
moment, “isn’t your friend Doctor Kronski a rather strange person … I mean,
for a surgeon?”

“What do you mean?” I said.

“Oh, I don’t know … I would have taken him for a pawnbroker, or something
like that. Perhaps he was only putting on to amuse me.”

.“You mean his talk? He’s always that way when he drinks. No, he’s really
a remarkable individual—and an excellent surgeon.”

“I must look him up when I get back here again,” said Cromwell. “My 
little boy has a club foot. Perhaps Dr. Kronski would know what to do for 
him?”

“I’m sure he would,” I said, forgetting that I was supposed to be a 
surgeon too.

As if divining my oversight, and just to be a bit playful, Cromwell 
added: “Perhaps you could tell me something about such matters yourself, 
Dr. Marx. Or isn’t that your field?”

“No, it isn’t really,” I said, “though I can tell you this much, however.
We have cured some cases. It all depends. To explain why would be rather 
complicated … ” Here he smiled broadly. “I understand,” he said. “But it’s 
good to know that you think there is some hope.”

“Indeed there is,” I said warmly. “Now in Bucharest at the present time 
there’s a celebrated surgeon who is reputed to have cured ninety percent of
his cases. He has some special treatment of his own which we over here are 
not yet familiar with. I believe it’s an electrical treatment.”

“In Bucharest, you say? That’s far away.”

“Yes, it is,” I agreed.

“Suppose we have another bottle of Rhine wine?” suggested Cromwell.

“If you insist,” I replied. ‘Til have just a wee drop, then I must be 
going.”

“Do stay,” he begged, “I really enjoy talking with you. You know, 
sometimes you strike me as more of a literary man than a surgeon.”

“I used to write,” I said. “But that was years ago. In our profession one
doesn’t have much time for literature.”

“It’s like the banking business, isn’t it?” said Cromwell.

“Quite.” We smiled good-naturedly at one another. “But there have been 
physicians who wrote books, haven’t there?” said Cromwell. “I mean novels, 
plays, and such like.”

“To be sure,” I said, “plenty of them. Schnitzler, Mann, Somerset Maugham
… “

“Don’t overlook Elie Faure,” said Cromwell. “Mona here has been telling 
me a great deal about him. Wrote a history of art, or something like that …
wasn’t that it?” He looked to Mona for confirmation. “I’ve never seen his 
work, of course. I wouldn’t know a good painting from a bad one.”

“I’m not so sure of that,” said I. “I think you’d know a spurious one if 
you saw it.”

“Why do you say that?”

“Oh, it’s just a hunch. I think you’re quick to detect whatever is 
counterfeit.”

“You’re probably crediting me with too much acumen, Dr. Marx. Of course, 
in our business, one does get accustomed to being on the alert for bad 
money. But that’s really not my department. We have specialists for that 
sort of thing.”

“Naturally,” I said. “But seriously, Mona is right—one day you’ve got to 
read Elie Faure. Imagine a man writing a colossal History of Art in his 
spare time! Used to make notes on his cuff while visiting his patients. Now
and then he would fly to some far off place, like Yucatan or Siam or Easter
Island. I doubt if any of his neighbors knew that he made such flights. Led
a humdrum life, outwardly. He was an excellent physician. But his passion 
was art. I can’t tell you how much I admire the man.”

“You speak about him exactly like Mona,” said Cromwell. “And you tell me 
you have no time for other pursuits!”

Here Mona put in her oar. According to her, I was a man of many facets, a
man who seemed to have time for everything.

Would he have suspected, for instance, that Dr. Marx was also a skilled 
musician, an expert at chess, a stamp collector … ?

Cromwell here averred that he suspected I was capable of many things I 
was too modest to reveal. He was convinced, for one thing, that I was a man
of great imagination. Quite casually he reminded us that he had noticed my 
hands the other night. In his humble opinion they revealed much more than 
the mere ability to wield the scalpel.

Interpreting this remark in her own fashion, Mona at once demanded if he 
could read palms.

“Not really,” said Cromwell, looking as if abashed. “Enough, perhaps, to 
tell a criminal from a butcher, a violinist from a pharmacist. Most any one
can do that much, even without a knowledge of palmistry.”

At this point I had an impulse to leave.

“Do stay!” begged Cromwell.

“No, really, I must be off,” said I, grasping his hand.

“We’ll meet again soon, I hope,” said Cromwell. “Do bring your wife next 
time. A charming little creature. I took quite a fancy to her.”

“That she is,” said I, reddening to the ears. “Well, good-bye! And bon 
voyage!”

To this Cromwell raised his glass, over the brim of which I detected a 
slightly mocking glance of the eyes. At the door I encountered Papa 
Moskowitz.

“Who is that man at your table?” he asked In a low voice.

“Frankly, I don’t know,” I answered. “Better ask Mona.”

“He’s not a friend of yours then?”

“That’s hard to answer too,” I replied. “Well, good-bye!” and I shook 
myself loose.

*

That night I had a very disturbing dream. It started off, as dreams often
do, as a pursuit. I was chasing a small thin man down a dark street, toward
the river. Behind me was a man chasing me. It was important for me to catch
up with the man I was pursuing before the other man got me. The thin little
man was none other than Spivak. I had been trailing him all night from 
place to place, and finally I had him on the run. Who the man behind me was
I had no idea. Whoever he was he had good wind and was fleet of foot. He 
gave me the uneasy feeling that he could catch up with me whenever he had a
mind to. As for Spivak, though I wanted nothing better than to see him 
drown himself, it was most urgent that I collar him first: he had on him 
some papers which were of vital importance to me.

Just as we were nearing the jetty which projected into the river I caught
up with him, collared him firmly, and swung him around. To my utter 
amazement it wasn’t Spivak at all—it was crazy Sheldon. He didn’t seem to 
recognize me, perhaps because of the darkness. He slid to his knees and 
begged me not to cut his throat. “I’m not a Polak!” I said, and yanked him 
to his feet. At that moment my pursuer caught up with us. It was Alan 
Cromwell. He put a gun in my hand and commanded me to shoot Sheldon. “Here,
I’ll show you how,” he said, and giving Sheldon’s arm a vicious twist he 
brought him to his knees. Then he placed the muzzle of the gun against the 
back of Sheldon’s head. Sheldon was now whimpering like a dog. I took the 
gun and placed it against Sheldon’s skull. “Shoot!” commanded Cromwell. I 
pulled the trigger automatically and Sheldon gave a little spring, like a 
Jack-in-the-box, and fell face forward. “Good work!” said Cromwell. “Now, 
let’s hurry. We’re due in Washington tomorrow morning early.”

On the train Cromwell changed personality completely. He now resembled to
a T my old friend and double, George Marshall. He even talked exactly like 
him, although his talk at the moment was rather disconnected. He was 
reminding me of the old days when we used to act the clown for the other 
members—of the celebrated Xerxes Society. Giving me a wink, he flashed the 
button on the underside of his lapel, the very one we all religiously wore,
the one on which was engraved in letters of gold—Fratres Semper. Then he 
gave me the old handclasp, tickling my palm, as we used to do, with his 
forefinger. “Is that enough for you?” he said, giving me another slippery 
horsewink. His eyes, incidentally, had expanded to formidable proportions: 
they were huge goiterous eyes which swam in his round face like bloated 
oysters. This only when he winked, however. When he resumed his other 
identity, alias Cromwell, his eyes were quite normal.

“Who are you?” I begged. “Are you Cromwell or Marshall?”

He put his finger to his lips, in the manner of Sheldon, and went 
SHHHHHHHH!

Then, in the voice of a ventriloquist, and talking out of the side of his
mouth, he informed me rapidly, almost inaudibly, and with more and more 
celerity—it made me dizzy trying to follow him!—that he had been tipped off
in the nick of time, that they were proud of me at headquarters, and that I
was to be given a very special assignment, yes, to go to Tokyo. I was to 
impersonate one of the Mikado’s right-hand men—in order .to track down the 
stolen prints. “You know,” and he lowered his voice still more, training 
those horrible floating oysters on me again, flipping back the lapel of his
coat, clasping my hand, tickling my palm, “you know, the ones we use for 
the thousand dollar bills.” Here he began talking Japanese which, to my 
amazement, I discovered I could follow as easily as English. It was the art
commissioner, he explained in chop-stick language, who had caught on to the
racket. He was an expert, this guy, on pornographic prints. I would be 
meeting him in Yokohama, disguised as a physician. He’d be wearing an 
admiral’s uniform with one of those funny three-cornered hats. Here he gave
me a prodigious nudge with his elbow and tittered—just like a Jap. “I’m 
sorry to say, Hen,” he continued, relapsing into Brooklynese, “that they’ve
got the goods on your wife. Yep, she’s in the ring. Caught her red-handed 
with a big package of coke.” He nudged me again, more viciously this time. 
“Remember that last meeting we staged—at Grimmy’s? You know, the time they 
fell asleep on us? I’ve done that rope-and-ladder trick many times since.” 
Here he grasped my hand and gave me the sign once more. “Now listen, Hen, 
get it straight … When we get off the train you walk leisurely down 
Pennsylvania Avenue, as if you were taking a stroll. You’ll meet up with 
three dogs. The first two, they’ll be fake dogs. The third one will run up 
to you to be patted. That’s the clue. Pat him on the head with one hand and
with the other slip your fingers under his tongue. You’ll find a pellet 
about the size of an oat. Take the dog by the collar and let him lead you. 
Should any one stop you, just say Ohio! You know what that means. They’ve 
got spies posted everywhere, even in the White House. Now get this, 
Hen”—and he began talking like a sewing machine, faster, faster, 
faster—“when you meet the President give him the old handclasp. There’s a 
little surprise in store for you, but I’ll skip that. Just bear this in 
mind, Hen, that he’s the President. Don’t ever forget that! He’ll tell you 
this and that … he doesn’t know his ass from a hole in the ground … but 
never mind, just listen. Don’t let on that you know a thing. 
Obsipresieckswizi will make his appearance at the critical moment. You know
Mm … he’s been with us for years … ” I wanted to ask him to repeat the name
for me but he couldn’t be stopped, not for a moment. “We’ll be pulling in 
in three minutes,” he murmured, “and I haven’t told you half yet. This is 
the most important, Hen, now get this,” and he gave me another painful poke
in the ribs. But there his voice had dropped to such a pitch that I could 
only catch fragments of his speech. I was writhing in agony. How would I 
ever carry on if the most important details were lost? I would remember the
three dogs, of course. The message was in code, but I would be able to 
decipher that on the boat. I was also to brush up on my Japanese during the
boat trip, my accent was a little off, especially for the Court. “You’ve 
got it now?” he was saying, waving his lapel again and clasping my hand. 
“Wait, wait a minute,” I begged. “That last part … ” But he had already 
descended the steps and was lost in the crowd.

As I walked along Pennsylvania Avenue, trying to give the appearance of a
stroller, I realized with a sinking heart that I was really completely 
befuddled. For a moment I wondered if I were dreaming. But no, it was 
Pennsylvania Avenue all right, no mistaking it. And then suddenly there was
a big dog standing at the curb. I knew he was an imitation one because he 
was fastened to a hitching block. That reassured me even more that I was in
possession of my waking mind. I kept my eyes open to spot the second dog. I
didn’t even turn around, though I was certain some one was on my heels, so 
anxious was I not to miss that second dog. Cromwell, or was it George 
Marshall—the two had become inextricably confused—hadn’t mentioned anything
about being followed. Maybe, though, he had said something—when he was 
talking under his breath. I was getting more and more panicky. I tried to 
think back, to recall just how I had gotten involved in this ugly business,
but my brain was too fatigued.

Suddenly I almost jumped out of my skin. At the corner, standing under an
arc light, was Mona. She was holding a bunch of Mezzotints in her hand, 
distributing them to passers-by. When I got abreast of her she handed me 
one, giving me a look which meant—“Be careful!”—I sauntered leisurely 
across the street. For a while I carried the Mezzotint without glancing at 
it, flapping it against my leg as if it were a newspaper. Then, pretending 
that I had to blow my nose, I switched it to the other hand, and as I wiped
my nose I read on the slant these words: “The end is round like the 
beginning. Fratres Semper.” I was sorely baffled. Maybe that was another 
little detail I had missed when he was talking under his breath. Anyway, I 
had the presence of mind to tear the message into tiny little bits. I 
dropped the bits one by one at intervals of a hundred yards or so, 
listening intently each time to make sure my pursuer was not stopping to 
pick them up.

I came to the second dog. It was a little toy dog on wheels. Looked like 
a plaything abandoned by a child. Just to make sure it wasn’t a real dog I 
gave it a little kick with my toe. It crumbled to dust immediately. I 
pretended, of course, that this was most natural, and resumed my leisurely 
pace.

I was only a few yards from the entrance to the White House when I 
perceived the third and real dog. The man shadowing me was no longer 
dogging my steps, unless he had changed to sneakers without my knowing it. 
Anyway, I had reached the last dog. He was a huge Newfoundland, playful as 
a cub. He came running up to me with big bounds and almost knocked me over 
trying to lick my face. I stood a moment or two patting his big warm head; 
then I circumspectly stooped down and inserted a hand under his tongue. 
Sure enough there was the pellet, wrapped in silver leaf. As Marsahll or 
Cromwell had said, it was about the size of an oat.

I was holding the dog by the collar as we ascended the steps to the White
House. All the guards gave the same sign—a big wink and a little flutter of
the lapel. As I wiped my feet on the mat outside I noticed the words 
Fratres Semper in big red letters. The President was coming toward me. He 
had on a cutaway and striped trousers; a carnation was in his buttonhole. 
He was holding out both hands to greet me. “Why, Charlie!” I cried, “how on
earth did you get here? I thought I was to meet … ” Suddenly I remembered 
George Marshall’s words. “Mr. President,” I said, making a low bow, “it is 
indeed a privilege … “

“Come right in, come right in,” said Charlie, grasping my hand and 
tickling the palm with his forefinger. “We’ve been expecting you.”

If he was indeed the President he hadn’t changed an iota since the old 
days.

Charlie was known as the silent member of our club. Because his silence 
lent him an air of wisdom we had mockingly elected him president of the 
club. Charlie was one of the boys from the flats across the way. We adored 
Charlie but could never get very close to him—because of his inscrutable 
silence. One day he disappeared. Months passed but no word from him. The 
months rolled into years. Not one of us had ever received a communication 
from him. He seemed to have dropped off the face of the earth.

And now he was ushering me into his sanctum. The President of these 
United States!

“Sit down,” said Charlie. “Make yourself comfortable.” He proffered a box
of cigars.

I could only stare and stare. He looked exactly as he always had, except,
to be sure, for the cutaway and striped trousers. His thick auburn hair was
parted in the middle, as always. His fingernails were beautifully 
manicured, as always. The same old Charlie. At the bottom of his vest, as 
always, he was wearing the old button of the Xerxes Society. Fratres emper.

“You realize, Hen,” he began, in that soft, modulated voice of his, “why 
I have had to keep my identity secret.” He bent forward and lowered his 
voice. “She’s still on my trail, you know.” (She, I knew, referred to his 
wife whom he couldn’t divorce because he was a Catholic.) “It’s she who’s 
behind all this. You know … ” He gave me one of those big slippery 
horsewinks such as George Marshall had employed.

Here he began to twiddle with his fingers, as if rolling a little ball. 
At first I didn’t catch on, but after he had repeated the gesture a number 
of times I realized what he was hinting at.

“Oh, the pel … ” Here he raised a finger, placed it to his lips, and 
almost inaudibly, went Shhhhhhhhh.

I extracted the pellet from my vest pocket and unrolled it. Charlie kept 
nodding his head gravely, but making not a sound. I handed him the message 
to read; he handed it back to me and I read it attentively. Then I passed 
it back to him and he quickly burned it. The message was in Japanese. 
Translated, it meant: “We are now inexorably united in brotherhood. The end
is the same as the beginning. Observe strict etiquette.”

There was a telephone call which Charlie answered in a low, grave voice. 
At the end he said: “Show him in in a few minutes.”

Obsipresieckswizi will be here shortly. He will go with you as far as 
Yokohama.”

I was just about to ask if he wouldn’t be kind enough to be a little more
explicit when suddenly he swung round in his swivel chair and thrust a 
photograph under my nose.

“You recognize her, of course?” Again he put his finger to his lips.

“The next time you see her she’ll be in Tokyo, probably in the inner 
court.” Here he reached down into the lower drawer of his desk and brought 
forth a candy box labelled Hopjes, the kind that Mona and I had been 
peddling. He opened it gingerly and showed me the contents: a Valentine 
greeting, a strand of what looked like Mona’s hair, a miniature dagger with
an ivory handle, and a wedding ring. I examined them intently, without 
touching them. Charlie closed the box and put it back in the drawer. Then 
he gave me a wink, flipped his vest flap and said “Ohio!” I repeated it 
after him: “Ohio!”

Suddenly he whirled around again and thrust the photograph under my nose.
It was a different face this time. Not Mona, but some one who resembled 
her, some one of indeterminate sex, with long hair which fell over the 
shoulders, like an Indian’s. A striking and mysterious face, reminiscent of
that fallen angel, Rimbaud. I had an uneasy feeling. As I gazed, Charlie 
turned it over; on the other side was a photograph of Mona dressed like a 
Japanese woman, her hair done up in Japanese fashion, her eyes slanted 
upward, the lids heavy, giving the eyes the appearance of two dark slits. 
He turned the photos back and forth several times. In awesome silence. I 
was unable to figure out what significance to give to this performance.

At this point an attendant came in to announce the arrival of 
Obsipresieckswizi. He pronounced the name as if it were Obsequy. A tall, 
gaunt man entered swiftly, went straight up to Charlie, whom he addressed 
as “Mr. President,” and began a voluble speech in Polish. He hadn’t noticed
me at all. It was luck he hadn’t because I might have made a grave slip and
called him by his right name. I was just reflecting how smoothly things 
were going when my old friend Stasu, for it was none other than he, stopped
talking as abruptly as he had begun.

“Who is this?” he demanded in his curt, insolent way, motioning to me.

“Take a good look,” said Charlie. He gave a wink, first at me, then at 
Stasu.

“Oh, it’s you,” said Stasu, extending his hand grudgingly. “How does he 
fit into the picture?” he said, addressing the President.

“That’s for you to determine,” said Charlie blandly.

“Hmm,” mumbled Stasu. “He’s never been good at anything. He’s a failure 
through and through.”

“We know all that,” said Charlie, thoroughly unruffled, “but just the 
same.” He pressed a button and another attendant appeared. “See that these 
men get to the airport safely, Griswold. Use my car.” He rose and shook 
hands with us. His behavior was exactly that of one holding such a high 
office. I felt that he was indeed the President of our great Republic, and 
a very shrewd, capable President to boot. As we reached the threshold he 
shouted: “Fratrea Semper!” We wheeled around, saluted in military fashion, 
and repeated: “Fratrea Semper!”

There were no lights on the plane, not even inside. Neither of us spoke 
for some time. Finally Stasu broke into a torrent of Polish. It sounded 
strangely familiar to me yet I was unable to make out a word except Pan and
Pani.

“Talk English,” I begged. “You know I don’t speak Polish.”

“Make an effort,” he said. “It will come back to you. You spoke it once, 
don’t act dumb. Polish is the easiest language in the world. Here, do this 
… ” and he began making sibilant, hissing sounds like a serpent in rut. 
“Now sneeze! Good. Now gargle! Good. Now roll your tongue back like a 
crapet and swallow! Good. You see … there’s nothing to it. The rudiments 
are the six vowels, twelve consonants and five dipthongs. If you’re 
dubious, spit or whistle. Never open your mouth wide. Suck the air in and 
push your tongue against your closed lips. Like this. Speak fast. The 
faster the better. Raise your voice a little, as if you were going to sing.
That’s it. Now close your palate and gargle. Fine! You’re getting it. Now 
say after me, and don’t stutter: ‘Ochiekiahyi seiecsuhy plaifuejticko 
eicjcyciu!’ Excellent! You know what that means—‘Breakfast is ready!’ ” I 
was overjoyed with my own fluency. We rehearsed a number of stock phrases, 
such as: “Dinner is served,”

“the water is hot,”

“there’s a strong breeze blowing,”

“keep the fire going,” and so on. It was all coming back to me readily. 
Stasu was right. I had only to make a little effort and the words were 
there on the tip of my tongue.

“Where are we headed for now?” I asked in Polish, just to vary the 
rigmarole.

“Izn Yotzxkiueoeumasysi,” he replied.

Even that long word I seemed to remember. A strange language, this 
Polish. It made sense, even if one did have to perform acrobatics with 
one’s tongue. It was good exercise, it limbered up the tongue. After an 
hour or two of Polish I would be more than fit to resume my study of 
Japanese.

“What will you do when we get there?” In Polish, of course.

“Drnzybyisi uttituhy kidjeueycmayl,” said Stasu. Which meant, in our own 
vernacular, “Take it easy.”

Then he added, with a few oaths which I had forgotten, “Keep your mouth 
shut and your eyes open. Wait for orders.”

In all this time he hadn’t said a word about the past, about our boyhood 
days on Driggs Avenue, about his good-natured old aunt who used to feed us 
from the ice-box. She was such a lovable creature, his aunt. Always 
spoke—in Polish, that is—as if she were singing. Stasu hadn’t changed a 
bit. As sullen, defiant, morose and disdainful as ever. I recalled the fear
and dread with which he inspired me as a boy—when he lost his temper. He 
was a veritable demon then. Would grab a knife or a hatchet and make for me
like lightning. The only time he ever seemed sweet and gracious was when 
his aunt sent him to buy sauerkraut. We used to filch a bit on the way 
home. It was good, that raw sauerkraut. The Poles were extraordinarily fond
of it. That and fried bananas. Bananas that were soft and over-sweet.

We were landing now. Must be Yokohama. I couldn’t make out a blessed 
thing; the whole airport was enveloped in darkness.

Suddenly I realized that I was alone in the plane. I felt around in the 
darkness but no Stasu. I called to him softly, but no answer. A mild panic 
seized me. I began to perspire profusely.

Getting off the plane two Japs came running forward to meet me. “Ohio! 
Ohio!” they exclaimed. “Ohio!” I repeated. We tumbled into rickshaws and 
began moving toward the city proper. There was no electricity, 
evidently—nothing but paper lanterns, as if for a festival. The houses were
all made of bamboo, neat and trim, the sidewalks were paved with wooden 
blocks. Now and then we crossed a tiny wooden bridge, such as one sees in 
old prints.

It was just beginning to dawn as we entered the precincts of the Mikado’s
palace.

I should have been trembling now but instead I was serene, perfectly 
composed, prepared for any eventuality.. “The Mikado will turn out to be 
another old friend,” I said to myself, pleased with my sagacity.

We dismounted before a huge portal painted in fiery colors, changed into 
wooden clogs and kimonos, prostrated ourselves a few times, and then waited
for the portal to swing open.

Noiselessly, almost imperceptibly, the big portal finally swung open. We 
were in the midst of a small circular court, the flagging of which was 
inlaid with mother of pearl and precious gems. An enormous statue of the 
Buddha stood in the center of the court. The expression on the Buddha’s 
face was grave and seraphic at once. There emanated from him a feeling of 
tranquility such as I had never known before. I felt drawn into the circle 
of his blessedness. The whole universe seemed to have come to an ecstatic 
hush.

A woman was coming forward from one of the hidden archways. She was 
clothed in ceremonial garb and carrying a sacred vessel. As she approached 
the Buddha everything became transformed. She advanced now with the gait of
a dancer, to the sound of weird cacophonous music, sharp staccato sounds 
made by wood, stone and iron. From every doorway dancers now came forth 
with terrifying banners, their faces concealed by hideous masks. As they 
circled about the statue of the Buddha they blew into huge conch shells 
which gave forth unearthly sounds. Suddenly they fell away and I was alone 
in the court, facing a huge animal which resembled a bull. The animal was 
curled up on an iron altar that looked somewhat like a frying pan. I could 
see now that it was not a bull but the Minotaur. One eye was closed 
peacefully, the other was staring at me, quite friendlily however. Of a 
sudden this enormous eye began to wink at me, coyly, flirtatiously, like a 
woman under a street lamp in some low quarter of the city. And as it winked
it curled itself up more, as if making ready to be roasted. Then it closed 
the enormous eye and pretended to be snoozing. Now and then it fluttered 
the lids of that monstrous orb which had winked so jocosely.

Stealthily, on tiptoes, and with painful slowness, I approached the dread
monster. When I got within a few feet of the altar, which was shaped 
distinctly like a saucepan I now realized, I perceived with horror that 
little flames were licking it from below. The Minotaur seemed to be 
stirring in his own juice, pleasurably. Again he was opening and shutting 
that big eye. The expression was one of sheer drollery.

Approaching more closely I felt the heat given off by those little 
flames. I could also smell the stench of the animal’s scorched hide. I was 
hypnotized with terror. I stood where I was, rooted, the perspiration 
streaming down my face in rivulets.

With one bound the monster suddenly sprang upright, balancing himself on 
his hind legs. I perceived with a retching horror that he had three heads. 
All six eyes were wide open and leering at me. Transfixed, I stared glumly 
as the burnt hide fell away, revealing an underlayer of skin which was pure
white and smooth as ivory. Now the heads began to turn white also, except 
for the three noses and muzzles which were of bright Vermillion. Around the
eyes were circles of blue, the blue of cobalt. In each forehead there was a
black star; they twinkled like real stars.

Still balancing itself on its hind legs the monster now began to sing, 
rearing its heads still higher, tossing its mane, rolling all of its six 
horrible leering eyes.

“Mother of God!” I mumbled in Polish, ready to faint momentarily.

The song, which had sounded at first like some Equatorial chant, was 
becoming more and more recognizable. With a skill which was supernatural, 
the monster subtly and rapidly changed from one register to another, one 
key to another, until finally with a clear and unmistakable voice it was 
hymning the Star Spangled Banner. As the anthem progressed, the beautiful 
white skin of the Minotaur changed from white to red and then to blue. The 
black stars in the foreheads became golden; they flashed like semaphores. 
My mind, unable to follow these bewildering changes, seemed to go blank. Or
perhaps a real blackout had occurred. At any rate, the next thing I knew 
the Minotaur had disappeared, the altar with it. On the beautiful mauve 
flagging, mauve and pale rose really, on which the precious inlaid gems 
sparkled like fiery stars, a nude woman of voluptuous proportions and with 
a mouth like a fresh wound was dancing the belly dance. Her navel, enlarged
to the size of a silver dollar, was painted a vivid carmine; she wore a 
tiara and her wrists and ankles were studded with bracelets. I would have 
recognized her anywhere, nude or swaddled in cotton wool. Her long golden 
hair, her wild eyes of the nymphomaniac, her super-sensual mouth told me 
unmistakably that she was none other than Helen Reilly. If she had not been
so fiercely possessive she would now be sitting in the White House with 
Charlie, who had deserted her. She would have been The First Lady in the 
Land.

I had hardly time to reflect, however. She was being bundled into a plane
with me, stark naked and reeking of sweat and perfume. We were off 
again—back to Washington, no doubt. I offered her my kimono but she waved 
it aside. She felt comfortable just as she was, thank you. There she sat 
opposite me, her knees drawn up almost to her chin, her legs brazenly 
parted, puffing a cigarette. I wondered what the President—Charlie, that 
is—would say when he laid eyes on her. He had always referred to her as a 
lascivious, no-good bitch. Well, anyway, I had made good. I was bringing 
her back, that was the all important thing. No doubt he, Charlie, intended 
to obtain one of those divorces which only the Pope himself could grant.

Throughout the flight she continued to smoke cigarette after cigarette, 
maintaining her brazen posture, leering at me, making goo-goo eyes, heaving
her big boobies, even playing with herself now and then. It was almost too 
much for me: I had to close my eyes.

When I opened them we were ascending the steps of the White House, hemmed
in by a cordon of guards who screened the naked figure of the President’s 
wife. I followed behind her, watching in utter fascination the way she 
joggled her low-slung buttocks. Had I not known who she was I might well 
have taken her for one of Minsky’s belly dancers … for Cleo herself.

As the door of the White House opened I got the surprise of my life. It 
was no longer the room I had been received in by the President of our grand
republic. It was the interior of George Marshall’s home. A table of 
staggering proportions took up almost the entire length of the room. At 
each end stood a massive candelabrum. Eleven men were seated round it, each
one holding a glass in his hand: they reminded me of the wax figures at 
Madame Tussaud’s. Needless to say, they were the eleven other members of 
the original “Deepthinkers,” as we once called ourselves. The vacant chair 
was obviously for me.

At one end of the table sat our old President, Charlie Reilly; at the 
other end sat our real President, George Marshall. At a given signal they 
all rose solemnly, glasses upraised, and broke into a deafening cheer. 
“Bravo, Hen! Bravo!” they shouted. And with this they swooped down on us, 
gathered Helen by the arms and legs, and tossed her on to the Communion 
table. Charlie grasped my hand and repeated warmly, “Well done, Hen! Well 
done!” I now shook hands with each one in turn, and with each gave the old 
sign—tickling the palm with the forefinger. They were all exceedingly well 
preserved—I say “preserved” because, despite the warmth and the cordiality 
of their greeting there was something artificial, something wax-like about 
them. It was good, nevertheless, to see them all. Like old times, I thought
to myself. Becker, with his worn fiddle-case; George Gifford, pinched and 
shrunk, as always, and talking through his nose; Steve Hill, big and 
blustering, trying to make himself look even more important than ever; 
Woodruff, MacGregor, Al Burger, Grimmy, Otto Kunst, and Frank Carroll. I 
was so immensely pleased to see Frank Carroll. He had lavender-colored eyes
with enormous lashes, like a girl’s. He spoke softly and gently, more with 
his eyes than his mouth. A cross between a priest and a gigolo.

It was George Marshall who brought us back to reality. He was rapping the
table with his gavel.

“Meeting called to order!” He rapped again vigorously and we all filed to
our respective places at the table. The circle was complete, the end like 
the beginning. United in brotherhood, inexorably. How clear it all was! 
Every one was wearing his button on which was inscribed in letters of gold 
Fratres Semper. It was all just as it had always been, even to George 
Marshall’s mother who was trotting back and forth from the kitchen, her 
arms laden with tempting viands. Unconsciously I stared intently at her 
broad backside. Had he not said once, George Marshall, that the sun rose 
and set in her ass?

There was only one disturbing note about this gathering, and that was the
presence (in the nude) of Charlie Reilly’s wife. There she stood in the 
middle of the long table, as brazen and impudent as ever, a cigarette 
between her lips, waiting for her cue. However, and this was even more 
strange, more disturbing to me, no one seemed to give her a tumble. I 
looked in Charlie’s direction to see how he was taking it; he seemed 
unperturbed, unruffled, comporting himself in much the same way as he had 
when impersonating the President of these United States.

George Marshall’s voice now made itself heard. “Before we go on with the 
reading of the minutes,” said he, “I want to present to you fellows a new 
member of the club. She’s our first and only female member. A real lady, if
I must lie like a dog. Some of you may recognize her. I’m sure Charlie 
will, anyhow.” He gave us a slippery grimace, intended for a smile, then 
hurried on. “This is an important meeting, I want you fellows to 
understand. Hen here has just been to Tokyo and back—I won’t say what for 
just now. At the conclusion of this session, which is a secret one, by the 
way, I want you guys to present Hen with the little testimonial which we 
prepared for him. His was a dangerous mission and he followed it to the 
letter … And now, before we get on with the business in hand, which is 
about the beer party to be held at Gifford’s home next Saturday night, I’m 
going to ask the little lady (a leer and a smirk here) to do one of her 
specialties. This number, I guess I don’t have to tell you, will be 
well-known hoochie-koochie. She did it for the Mikado—no reason why she 
can’t do it for us. Anyway, you’ll notice she’s got nothing on, not even a 
fig-leaf.” As an uproar threatened to break loose, he rapped sternly with 
his gavel. “Before she begins her number let me say this to you fellows—I 
expect you to observe the performance in strict decorum. We’ve arranged 
this stunt, Hen and I, in order to arouse more interest in the activities 
of the club. The last few meetings were thoroughly disheartening. The real 
club spirit seems to have oozed away. This is a special meeting to bring 
out the old spirit of fellowship.”

Here he gave three quick raps with gavel, whereupon a phonograph in the 
kitchen started playing the St. Louis Blues. “Is everybody happy?” he 
cooed. “O.K. Helen, do your stuff! And remember, shake those ashes clean!”

The candelabra were removed to a sideboard against the wall; all but two 
of the candles had been snuffed out. Helen began writhing and twisting in 
the grand manner of the ancients. On the other wall her shadow repeated her
movements in exaggerated style. It was a Japanese version of the belly 
dance which she was giving. One would have said she had been trained to it 
since childhood. Every muscle of her body was under control. Even her 
facial muscles she used with extraordinary skill, especially when 
simulating the convulsive movements of the orgasm. Not one of us twelve 
members budged from his rigid upright position. We sat there like trained 
seals, our hands motionless, our eyes following every little movement, 
which, as we knew, had a meaning all its own. As the last note died away 
George Gifford fell off his chair in a dead faint. Helen sprang from the 
table and ran into the kitchen. George Marshall rapped savagely with his 
gavel. “Drag him out to the porch,” he ordered, “and douse his head in the 
bucket! Quick! We’ve got to get on with the minutes.” This precipitated 
some grumbling and growling. “Back to your places!” shouted George 
Marshall. “This is just the preliminary. Keep your shirts on and you’ll get
a real treat. By the way, any one who feels like jerking off can excuse 
himself and go to the can.”

All but George Marshall and myself rose in a body and exited.

“You see what we’re up against,” said George Marshall in a tone of utter 
despair. “No matter what we cook up for them it’s hopeless. I’m going to 
make a motion to dissolve the club. I want it read into the minutes in the 
regular way.”

“Jesus,” I begged, “don’t do that! After all, they’re only human.”

“That’s where you’re wrong,” said George Marshall. ‘They’re all picked 
men, they should know better. Last time we didn’t even have a quorum.”

“What do you mean, they should know better,”

“Etiquette demands that you show no emotion. Nine of them are jerking off
out there. The tenth one fainted. What are we coming to?”

“Aren’t you just a bit severe?”

“Have to be, Hen. We can’t coddle them forever.”

“Just the same, I think … “

“Listen, Hen,” and he began to speak more rapidly, lowering his voice 
more and more. “Nobody knows, except Charlie and me, what you went to Tokyo
for. You did a good job. They know all about it up above. This is just a 
little racket I thought up to throw dust in their eyes. After the meeting 
breaks up you, Charlie and me we’re gonna take Helen and go on a little 
bust. I didn’t want them to lose control or they might have pawed her to 
death. She’s fixing herself up in there … ” He gave me a slippery wink … 
“Douching herself … A little alum, some Spanish fly. You know … My mother’s
giving her a massage now.

Look!” He bent down to get something hidden under the table. “See this?” 
It was an enormous rubber penis filled with water. He gave a little squirt.
“Get the idea? That’s for Charlie. Don’t say a word about it, it’s a 
surprise. Being President’s no fun. He hasn’t had his end in for over a 
year now. There’s enough water in this”—he shook the rubber penis 
lewdly—“enough to make her piss from ears, eyes and nose.

“This is gonna be fun, Hen. All on the Q.T., of course. My mother’s in on
it, but she won’t squawk. I told you once, remember, that the sun rises and
sets in her ass.”

Then he added something which completely dumbfounded me, so unlike George
Marshall it was. “Get this, Hen,” he said, “it’s right up your street: The 
man of India loves to see the waist bend under the weight of the breasts 
and the haunches; he likes long tapering forms and the single wave of the 
muscles as a movement surges through the whole body. Heroism and obscenity 
appear no more important in the life of the universe than the fighting or 
mating of a pair of insects in the woods. Everything is on the same plane.”

He gave me again that enormous, slippery horsewink which had so terrified
me. “Do you get it, Hen? As I was saying a moment ago, the old urge is 
spent; we’ve got to find new blood. You and I are getting along in years; 
we can’t do these old tricks with the same verve and gusto. When the war 
comes I’m going to join the artillery.”

“What war, George?”

He replied: “No more of that trapeze business for me.”

The other members were now trooping back from the can. Never in my life 
had I seen such haggard, spent, dilapidated looking buggers. “He’s right,” 
thought I to myself, “we’ve got to look for new blood.”

Quietly they resumed their places at the table, their heads wilting like 
dead flowers. Some of them looked as if they were in a deep trance. Georgie
Gifford was munching a stalk of celery—the very picture, saving the beard, 
of a silly old he-goat. The whole damned bunch were a disgrace for sore 
eyes.

A few raps of the gavel and the meeting was called to order. “Those who 
are awake give heed!” George Marshall began in a stem, peremptory voice. 
‘Once you called yourselves The Deepthinkers. You banded together to form 
an enclave, the famous Xerxes Society. You are no longer worthy of 
membership in this secret society. You have degenerated. Some of you have 
atrophied. In a moment I am going to call for a vote in order to dissolve 
the organization. But first I have something to say to our old President, 
Charlie Reilly.” Here he gave the table a few vicious raps with the gavel. 
“Are you awake, you miserable toad? I’m talking to you. Sit up straight! 
Button your fly! Now listen … In consideration of services rendered, I’m 
sending you back to the White House where you will serve another four 
years, if you’re reelected. As soon as the meeting is over I want you to 
get into your cutaway and striped trousers and beat it. You have just about
enough wits left to meet the demands of the War Office. By holding your 
tongue nobody will be the wiser. You’re demoted, dissolved, discredited.” 
Here he turned his head and fixed my attention. “How was that, Hen? All 
according to Hoyle, what?” He lowered his voice and, speaking with 
terrifying rapidity again, he whispered out of the corner of his mouth: 
“This is for you, a special … Man will change nothing of his final destiny,
which is to return sooner or later to the unconscious and the formless.”

With this he rose and, pulling me along, rushed to the kitchen. A pall of
smoke greeted us. “As I was saying, Hen, we prepared a little surprise for 
you.” With this he blew the smoke away. On either side of the kitchen table
sat Mona and that mysterious creature with the long black hair whom I had 
seen a photograph of.

“What’s this?” I exclaimed.

“Your wife and her friend. A couple of bull-dykers.”

“Where’s Helen?”

“Gone back to Tokyo. We’re using these as substitutes.” He gave me a 
terrific nudge and a slippery wink.

“Cromwell will be here in a minute,” he said. “It’s him you’ve got to 
thank for this.”

Mona and her lover were too busy playing euchre to even glance at us. 
They seemed hilarious. The strange creature with the long hair was 
double-jointed; she had a fine moustache, firm breasts, and wore velvet 
trousers with gold braid down the sides. Exotic to the finger-tips. Every 
now and then they jabbed each other with needles.

“A fine pair,” I remarked. “They belong in the Haymarket.”

“Leave it to Cromwell,” said George Marshall, “he’s got it all arranged.”

He had no more than uttered the name when there was a rap at the door.

“That’s him,” said George Marshall. “Always on the dot.”

The door opened quietly, as if responding to a hidden spring. A man 
entered with a huge gory bandage wrapped around his skull. It was not 
Cromwell at all, it was Crazy Sheldon. I gave a shriek and fainted away.

When I came to, Sheldon was seated at the table dealing out the cards. He
had removed the bandage. From the tiny black hole in the back of his skull 
the blood trickled steadily, running over his white collar and down his 
back.

Again I felt that I would faint. But George Marshall, sensing my 
discomfiture, quickly produced a little glass stopper from his vest pocket,
inserted it in the bullet wound, and the blood stopped running.

Sheldon now began to whistle gaily. It was a Polish lullaby. Now and then
he broke the melody by spitting on the floor, whereupon he would hum a few 
bars, so softly, so tenderly, as though he were a mother with an infant at 
the breast. After he had hummed and whistled, after he had spat in every 
direction, he took to chanting in Hebrew, moving his head back and forth, 
wailing doing the tremolo in a high falsetto, sobbing, moaning, praying. He
sang in a powerful bass voice with a volume that was staggering. This went 
on for quite a time. He was like a man possessed. Suddenly he moved into 
another register, which gave his voice a peculiar metallic timbre, as 
though his lungs were made of sheet metal. He was singing in Yiddish now, a
drunken tune filled with bloody oaths and filthy imprecations. “Die 
Hutzulies, farbrent soln sei wern … Die Merder, geharget soln sei wern … 
Die Gozlonem, unzinden soln sei sich … ” His voice rose to a piercing 
screech. “Fonie-ganef, a miese meshine of sei!” With this, still screaming,
the foam dribbling from his mouth, he rose to his feet and began whirling 
like a dervish. “Cossaken! Cossaken!” he repeated over and over, stamping 
his foot and emitting a stream of blood from his pursed lips. He slowed 
down a little, put his hand to his back trousers pocket and brought out the
miniature knife with the pearl handle. Now he whirled faster and faster, 
and as he shrieked “Cossaken! Hutzulies! Gozlonem! Merder! Fonie-Ganef!” he
stabbed himself over and over, in the arms, in the legs, in the stomach, 
eyes, nose, ears, mouth, until he was nothing but a mass of wounds. 
Suddenly he stopped, grabbed the two women by the throats and knocked their
heads together—again and again, as if they were two coconuts. Then he 
unbuttoned his shirt, raised the police whistle to his lips, and gave a 
blast which made the walls shiver. With this the ten members of the Xerxes 
Society rushed to the door; as they stepped across the threshold Sheldon, 
who had drawn his automatic, shot them down one by one, yelling “A miese 
meshine of sei … Hutzulies, Gozolnem, Merder, CossaJcen!”

Only George Marshall and I were alive and breathing. We were too 
paralyzed to move. We stood with backs to the wall, waiting our turn. 
Walking over the bodies of the dead as if they were so much fallen timber, 
Sheldon slowly approached us with leveled gun, unbuttoning his fly with the
left hand. “Shitty dogs!” he said in Polish, “this is your last chance to 
pray. Pray while I piss on you, and may my bloody piss scald your rotten 
hearts! Call on your Pope now, and your Virgin Mary! Call on that faker, 
Jesus Christ! The assassins will be geschiessen. How you stink, shitty 
Goyim! Fart your last ‘fart!” And he poured over us his steaming red piss 
which ate into our skins like acid. Hardly had he finished when he fired 
point-blank at George Marshall; the body fell to the floor like a sack of 
manure.

I put up my hand to yell Stop! but Sheldon was already firing. As I sank 
to the ground I began to whinny like a horse. I saw him raise his foot and 
then I got it in the face. I rolled over on my side. I knew it was the end.

CHAPTER SEVEN

It was days before I could shake off the after effects of the dream. In 
some mysterious way it had affected Mona too, though I had told her nothing
of it. We were unaccountably listless and dispirited. Having dreamed so 
violently about him, I looked forward to seeing Sheldon pop up, but neither
hide nor hair of him did we lay eyes on. Instead we received a post card 
from O’Mara informing us that he was in the vicinity of Asheville where 
there was a boom on. Said he would notify us to join him as soon as things 
were properly under way.

Out of sheer boredom Mona took another job in the Village, this time at a
shady joint called The Blue Parrot. From Tony Maurer, a new admirer, she 
learned that the Milwaukee millionaire was due in town any day.

“And who is Tony Maurer?” I asked.

“A cartoonist,” she replied. “He was once a German cavalry officer. He’s 
a real wit.”

“Never mind the rest,” I said. I was still in the doldrums. To summon 
even a flickering interest in one of her new admirers was beyond me. I was 
low, and I would stay that way until I hit bottom. Even Elie Faure was too 
much for me. I couldn’t bring myself to concentrate on anything more 
important than a bowel movement.

As for looking up my friends, out of the question. When depressed I 
rarely ever visited any one, even a close friend.

The few attempts I had made to do a little gold digging on my own had 
contributed to lower my morale. Luther Goering, the last man I had tried to
hit up—for a mere five-spot—had taken the wind out of my sails. It wasn’t 
my intention to lay siege to him, seeing how he was almost one of the 
family, but running into him in the subway, as I did, I thought I might as 
well profit by the occasion. The mistake I made was to interrupt him in the
middle of one of his interminable harangues. He had been telling me of the 
huge success he was enjoying (as an insurance salesman) through the 
application of Christ’s teachings. Having always looked upon me as an 
atheist, he was now delighted to be able to overwhelm me with proofs of the
practical aspect of Christian ethics. Bored absolutely stiff, I listened 
for a while in cold silence, sorely tempted at moments to laugh in his 
face. Nearing our station I interrupted the monologue to ask if he would 
lend me five dollars. The request must have struck him as outrageously 
irrelevant for he flew into a tantrum. This time I could no longer control 
myself—I laughed in his face. For a moment I thought he would slap me in 
the face; he was livid with rage, his lips trembling, his fingers twitching
uncontrollably. What was the matter with me? he demanded to know. Had I 
supposed that because he had at last succeeded in earning a good living I 
was at liberty to regard him as a charitable institution? True, the Bible 
did say: “Ask and it shall be given, knock and it shall be opened unto 
you,” but one was not to infer from these words that one was to give up 
work and become a panhandler. “God looks after me,” he said, “because I 
look after myself. I put in fifteen and sixteen hours a day. I don’t pray 
to God to put money in my pockets, I beg him to bless my work!” At this 
point he softened somewhat. “You don’t seem to understand,” he said. “Let 
me try to explain it to you. It’s really very simple … ” I told him I 
didn’t give a hoot for his explanations, that all I cared to know was—would
he lend me the five dollars or not?

“Of course I won’t, Henry, if you put it that way. You have to learn 
first to put yourself in God’s good graces.”

“Fuck that!” I said.

“Henry, you’re steeped in sin and ignorance!” In an effort to placate me 
he grasped my arm. I brushed it away. We walked down the street in silence.
After a time, speaking as softly as he could, he said: “I know it’s hard to
repent. I’ve been a sinner myself. But I wrestled with might and main. And 
finally, Henry, God showed me the way. God taught me how to pray. And I 
prayed, Henry, night and day. I prayed even while talking to a client. And 
God has answered my prayers. Yes, out of the bounteous goodness of His 
heart He forgave, He brought me back to the fold. Look, Henry … last year I
earned a scant $1500.00. This year—and the year is not over—I’ve earned 
well over ten thousand dollars. That’s the proof, Henry. Even an atheist 
can’t contest such logic!” In spite of myself I was amused. I’ll listen, 
thought I to myself. I’ll let him try to convert me. Maybe then I can make 
it ten bucks instead of five.

“You’re not starved, are you, Henry?” he suddenly inquired. “Because if 
you are we’ll stop off somewhere and have a bite to eat. Perhaps this is 
God’s way of bringing us together.”

I told him that I wasn’t at the point of dropping in the street. The way 
I said it, however, implied that it was a possibility.

“That’s good,” said Luther, with his customary insensitiveness. “What you
need more than earthly food is spiritual sustenance. If one has that one 
can do without ordinary food. Remember this—God always provides sufficient 
for the day, even to sinners. He watches over the sparrows … You haven’t 
altogether forgotten the good teachings, have you?—I know your parents sent
you to Sunday School … and they also provided you with a good education. 
God was looking alter you all the time, Henry … “

“Jesus,” I asked myself, “How long will this continue?”

“Perhaps you remember the Epistles ol St. Paul?” he continued. Since I 
gave him a blank look he dove into his breast pocket and exhumed a 
worn-looking New Testament. He stopped dead, and began thumbing the pages.

“Don’t bother,” I said, “give it to me from memory. I’ve got to get home 
soon.”

“That’s all right,” he said, “we’re on God’s time now. Nothing can be 
more important than the precious words of the Bible. God is our Comforter, 
remember that, Henry.”

“But what if God doesn’t answer one’s prayers?” I said, more to 
discourage him from looking up the Epistles of St. Paul than to know the 
answer.

“God always answers him who seeks Him,” said Luther. “Perhaps not the 
first time or the second time, but eventually. Sometimes God sees fit to 
try us first. He wants to be sure of our love, our loyalty, our faith. It 
would be too simple if we could just ask for something and have it fall 
into our laps, wouldn’t it now?”

“I don’t know,” I said, “why not? God can do anything, can’t He?”

“Always within reason, Henry. Always according to our merits. It’s not 
God who punishes us, but we ourselves. God’s heart is always open to him 
who seeks Him out. But it must be a real need. One must be desperate before
God gives of his kindness.”

“Well, I’m pretty desperate tight now,” I said. “Honest, Luther, I need 
that money bad. We’re going to be evicted in a day or two if something 
doesn’t happen.”

Luther was strangely unmoved by this last piece of information. He was so
well attuned to God’s ways, it seemed, that a little matter like eviction 
meant nothing to him. Perhaps God wanted it that way. Perhaps it was a 
preparation for something better. “What does it matter, Henry,” he said 
fervidly, “what does it matter where you are living if only you can find 
God? You can find Him in the street as easily as at home. God will shelter 
you with His blessed wings. He watches over the homeless just as much as He
does over others. His eye is on us always. No, Henry, if I were you, I 
would go home and pray, pray that He show you the way. Sometimes a change 
does us good. Sometimes we get too comfortable and we forget whence all our
blessings flow. Pray to Him tonight, on your knees, and with a full heart. 
Ask Him to give you work for your hands. Ask to serve Him, remember that. 
Serve the Lord, it is said, and keep His commandments. That is what I am 
constantly doing—now that I have found the light. And God rewards me 
abundantly, as I explained to you before … “

“But look, Luther, if God is really taking care of you so handsomely, as 
you say, couldn’t you share just a little of your blessed reward with me? 
After all, five dollars isn’t a fortune.”

“I could do that, Henry, most certainly—if I thought it were the right 
thing to do. But you’re in God’s hands now: He will look after you.”

“In what way would it interfere with God’s plans if you were to lend me 
that five bucks?” I insisted. I was getting fed up.

“The ways of the Lord are beyond our knowing,” said Luther solemnly. 
“Perhaps he will have a job for you to go to in the morning.”

“But I don’t want a job, damn it! I have my own work to do. What I need 
is five bucks, that’s all.”

“That will probably be provided too,” said Luther. “Only you must have 
faith. Without faith, even the little you have will be taken from you.”

“But I haven’t anything,” I protested. “Not a Goddamned thing, don’t you 
understand? God can’t take anything away from me because I have nothing. 
Figure that out!”

“He can take away your health, he can take your wife from you, he can 
take from you the power to move your limbs, do you realize that?”

“He’d be one big louse to do that!”

“God afflicted Job sorely, surely you haven’t forgotten that. He also 
raised Lazarus from the dead. God giveth and God taketh away.”

“Sounds like a swindle game.”

“Because you are still beclouded with ignorance and folly,” said Luther. 
“For each one of us God has a special lesson to teach. You will have to 
learn humility.”

“If I only got a bit of a break,” I said, “I might be ready to learn my 
lesson. How can a man learn humility when his back is already broken?”

Luther disregarded this last completely. In restoring the New Testament 
to his breast pocket he came upon some forms from the insurance company, 
which he flourished in my face.

“What?” I fairly shrieked, “you don’t mean to say you want to sell me a 
policy?”

“Not now, to be sure,” said Luther, grasping my arm again to quell my 
agitation, “not now, Henry, but perhaps in a month or so. God works His 
wonders in mysterious ways. Who knows but that a month from now you may be 
sitting on top of the world? If you had one of these in your possession you
could borrow from the insurance company. It would save you a lot of 
embarrassment.”

Here I abruptly took leave of him. He was still standing with hand 
outstretched, as if immobilized, when I got to the other side of the 
street. I gave him one parting glance and spat out a gob of juicy disgust. 
“You prick!” I said to myself. “You and your fucking Comforter! For a pair 
of heartless shits I’ve never seen the like of you. Pray f You bet I’ll 
pray.

I’ll pray that you have to crawl on hands and knees to scratch for a 
penny. I’ll pray that your wrists and knees give out, that you have to 
crawl on your belly, that your eyes will become bleary, and filled with 
scum.”

The house was dark when I got back. No Mona. I sank into the big chair 
and gave myself up to moody reflections. In the soft light of my table lamp
the room looked better than ever. Even the table, which was in a state of 
huge disorder, affected me pleasantly.’ It was obvious that there had been 
a long interruption. Manuscripts were lying about everywhere, books lay 
open at the pages where I had left off reading. The dictionary too was 
lying open on top of the bookcase.

As I sat there I realized that the room was impregnated with my spirit. I
belonged here, nowhere else. It was foolish of me to stir out in the manner
of a householder. I should be home writing. I should do nothing but write. 
Providence had taken care of me thus far, why not forever? The less I did 
about practical matters the more smoothly things went. These forays into 
the world only alienated me from mankind.

Since that fantastic evening with Cromwell, I hadn’t written a line. I 
moved over to the writing table and began fiddling with the papers. The 
last column I had written—the very day that Cromwell had visited us—lay 
before me. I read it over quickly. It sounded good to me, extraordinarily 
good. Too good, in fact, for the newspaper. I pushed it aside and began 
slowly perusing a novelette which was unfinished, that “Dairy of a 
Futurist,” of which I had read fragments to Ulric once. I was not only 
favorably impressed, I was deeply moved by my own words. I must have been 
in good spirits to have written that well.

I glanced at one manuscript after another, reading only a few lines at a 
time. Finally I came to my notes. They were as fresh and inspiring as when 
I had jotted them down. Some of them, which I had already made use of, were
so provocative that I wanted to write the stories all over again, write 
them from a fresh, new angle. The more I unearthed, the more feverish I 
became. It was as though a huge wheel inside me had begun to revolve.

I pushed everything aside and lit a cigarette. I gave myself up to a 
delicious reverie. All that I had wanted to write these past fall months 
was now writing itself out. It oozed out like milk from a coconut. I had 
nothing to do with it. Someone else was in charge. I was merely the 
receiving station transmitting it to the blue.

Just the other day, some twenty years since this occurrence, I came upon 
the words of one Jean-Paul Richter, which described exactly how I felt at 
that moment. What a pity I did not know them then! Here is what he wrote:

“Rien ne m’a jamais Emu davantage que le sieur Jean-Paul. Il s’est assis 
a sa table et, par ses livres, il m’a corrompu et transforme. Maintenant, 
je m’enflamme de moi-meme.”

My reverie was broken by a gentle knock at the door. “Come in,” I said, 
not moving from the spot. To my surprise Mr. Taliaferro, our landlord, 
entered.

“Good evening, Mr. Miller,” he said, in his quiet, easy Southern way. “I 
hope I am not disturbing you?”

“Not at all,” I replied, “I was just dreaming.” I motioned to him to take
a seat and after a due pause I asked what I might do for him.

At this he smiled benevolently, drawing his chair a little closer. “You 
look as though you were deep in work,” he said, with sincere kindness. 
“It’s unfortunate that I should have disturbed you at such a moment.”

“I assure you I wasn’t working, Mr. Taliaferro. I’m glad indeed to see 
you. I’ve been intending to call on you for some time. You must have 
wondered … “

“Mr. Miller,” he interrupted, “I thought it was time we had a little chat
together. I know you have lots of preoccupations, besides your work. 
Perhaps you are not even aware that it is some months now since you last 
paid your rent. I know how it is with writers … ” The man was so truly 
gentle and considerate that I simply couldn’t stand on pretense with him. I
had no idea how many months we were in arrears. What I admired in Mr. 
Taliaferro was that he had never in any way made us feel uncomfortable. 
Only once before had he ventured to knock at our door and that was to 
inquire if we needed anything. It was with a feeling of great relief, 
therefore, that I surrendered myself to him.

Just how it happened I don’t know, but in a few moments I was sitting 
beside him on the cot we had bought for O’Mara. He had his arm around my 
shoulders and was explaining to me, quite as if I were a younger brother, 
and in a voice so gentle, so soothing, that he knew I was a good 
individual, knew I had never intended to put him off so long (it was five 
months, I discovered) but that sooner or later I would have to come to 
terms with the world.

“But Mr. Taliaferro, I think if you gave us just a little time … “

“Son,” he said, pressing my shoulder ever so lightly, “it’s not time you 
need, it’s an awakening. Now if I were you, I would talk it over with Mrs. 
Miller this evening and see if you couldn’t find a place more suited to 
your income. I am not going to hurry you unduly. Look around … take your 
time … find the place you like, and then move. What do you think?”

I was almost in tears. “You’re too kind,” I said. “Of course you’re 
right. Certainly we shall find another place, and quickly too. I don’t know
how to thank you for your delicacy and consideration. I guess I am a 
dreamer. I never realized that it was so long since we last paid you.”

“Of course you didn’t,” said Mr. Taliaferro. “You’re an honest man, I 
know that. But don’t worry about … “

“But I do worry about it,” I said. “Even though we may have to move 
without paying you the back rent, I want you to know that I will definitely
pay it back later, probably in driblets.”

“Mr. Miller, if you were situated differently, I would be glad to accept 
your promise, but it’s too much to ask of you now. If you can find another 
place before the first of next month I shall be quite content. Let’s forget
about the back rent, yes?”

What could I say? I looked at him with moist eyes, shook his hand warmly 
and gave him my word that we would be out on time.

As he rose to take leave of me he said: “Don’t be too discouraged about 
this. I know how much you like this place. I hope you were able to do good 
work here. Some day I expect to read your books.” Pause. “I hope you’ll 
always think of us as friends.”

We shook hands once more, then I closed the door softly after him. I 
stood a few minutes with my back to the door, surveying the room. I felt 
good. As though I had just come through a successful operation. Just a 
little dizziness from the anesthetic. How Mona would take it I didn’t know.
Already I was breathing easier. Already I had visions of living among poor 
people, my own sort. Down to earth again. Excellent. I walked to and fro, 
threw open the rolling doors and strutted about in the vacant apartment in 
the rear. A last taste of refinement. I took a good look at the stained 
glass window, rubbed my hand over the rose silk tapestry, slid a few feet 
on the highly polished floor, looked at myself in the huge mirror. I 
grinned at myself and said again and again, “Good! Good!”

In a few minutes I had made myself a pot of tea and fixed a thick, juicy 
sandwich. I sat down at my work table, put my feet up on a hassock, and 
picked up a volume of Elie Faure, opening it at random … “When this people 
is not cutting throats or burning buildings, when it is not decimated by 
famine and butchery, it has only one function—to build and decorate palaces
whose vertical walls shall be thick enough to protect the Sar, his wives, 
his guard, and his slaves—twenty or thirty thousand persons—against the 
sun, invasion, or perhaps revolt. Around the great central courts are the 
apartments covered with terraces or with domes, with cupolas, images of the
absolute vault of the deserts, which the Oriental soul will rediscover when
Islam shall have reawakened it. Higher than these, observatories which are 
at the same time temples, the zigurats, the pyramidal towers whose stages 
painted with red, white, blue, brown, black, silver and gold, shine afar 
through the veils of dust which the winds whirl in spiral. Especially at 
the approach of evening, the warring hordes and the nomadic pillagers, who 
see the sombre confines of the desert streaked with this motionless 
lightning, must recoil in fear. It is the dwelling of the god, and 
resembles those steps of the plateau of Iran leading to the roof of the 
world, which are striped with violent colors by subterranean fire and by 
the blaze of the sun. The gates are guarded by terrific brutes, bulls and 
lions with human heads, marching … ” A few blocks away, in a quiet street 
largely taken over by the Syrians, we found a modest furnished room 
situated in the rear of the house on the ground floor. The woman who rented
the place was a blue-nose from Nova Scotia, a harridan who gave me the 
shudders every time I looked at her. Everything imaginable had been crammed
into our quarters: wash tubs, cooking stove, heater, huge sideboard, 
old-fashioned wardrobe, extra couch, a battered rocker, a still more 
battered armchair, a sewing, machine, a horsehair sofa, a what-not filled 
with five-and-tencent store knick-knacks, and an empty bird cage. I 
suspected that it was this room the old witch herself had inhabited prior 
to our arrival.

To put it pleasantly, an atmosphere of dementia reigned.

The saving thing was the garden outside our back door. It was a long 
rectangular garden enclosed by high brick walls, reminding me for some 
unaccountable reason of the garden in Peter Ibbetson. At any rate, it was a
place in which to dream. Summer had just begun and in the late afternoons I
would drag out a big armchair and read. I had just discovered Arthur 
Weigall’s books and was devouring them one after another. After reading a 
few pages I would fall into a reverie. Here in the garden everything was 
conducive to dream and reverie—the soft, fragrant air, the humming of 
insects, the lazy flight of the birds, the swishing of foliage, the murmur 
of foreign voices in the gardens adjoining.

An interlude of peace and privacy.

It was during this period that purely by chance I ran into my old friend 
Stanley one day. Forthwith Stanley began to visit us at frequent intervals,
usually accompanied by his two boys, one five, the other seven. He had 
grown very fond of his youngsters and took great pride in their appearance,
their manners, their speech. From Stanley I learned that my daughter was 
now attending a private school. His elder son, also named Stanley, had 
quite a crush on her, he informed me. This last he imparted with great 
relish, adding that Maude viewed the situation with alarm. As to how “they”
were getting along, that I had to drag out of him. It was nothing to worry 
about, he assured me, but the tone in which he said it conveyed that their 
circumstances were none too good. Poor old Melanie was still slaving away 
at the hospital, hobbling to work now with a cane; her nights she spent 
coddling her varicose veins. She and Maude were more than ever at odds. 
Maude, of course, was still giving piano lessons.

It was just as well I didn’t visit them any more, was Stanley’s summing 
up. They had given me up as hopeless and irresponsible. Only Melanie, 
apparently, had a good word to say for me, but then Melanie was just a 
doddering idiot. (Always subtle and tactful, Stanley.) “Can’t you sneak me 
in there some time when no one’s home?” I begged. “I want to see how the 
place looks. I’d like to see the child’s toys, if nothing more.”

Stanley couldn’t see the wisdom of this but promised to think it over.

Then he added quickly: “You’d better forget about them. You’ve made a new
life for yourself, stick to it!”

He must have sensed that we didn’t have enough to eat, for every time he 
came he brought food, usually the remnants of some Polish concoction his 
wife had made—soups, stews, puddings, jam. Good gruel, the sort we needed. 
In fact, we began to look forward to these visits.

There wasn’t much change in Stanley, I noticed, except that his nose was 
now pressed closer to the grindstone. He was working nights in a big 
printing establishment in lower New York, he told me. Now and then, 
standing up over the kitchen tubs, he would try to write. He found it 
almost impossible to concentrate—too many domestic worries. Usually they 
were broke before the week was up. Anyway, he was more interested in his 
children now than in writing. He wanted them to have a good life. Soon as 
they were old enough he would send them to college. And more of the same …

Though he found It impossible to write, he did read. Now and then he 
brought along one of the books which entranced him. It was always the work 
of a romantic writer, usually of the 19th century. Somehow, no matter what 
book we were discussing, no matter what the world situation, no matter even
if a revolution were impending, our talks always ended on Joseph Conrad. Or
if not Conrad, then Anatole France. I had long ceased to be interested in 
either of these writers. Conrad bored me. But when Stanley began to sing 
his praise I would become intrigued despite myself. Stanley was no critic, 
to be sure, but, just as in the old days when we used to sit by the glowing
stove in the kitchen and while the hours away, so now Stanley had a way of 
talking about the men he adored which infected me. He was full of yarns, 
usually about trivial episodes. These yarns were always humorous and spiced
with malice and irony. The undercurrent, however, was freighted with 
tenderness, an immense, throbbing tenderness, which was almost suffocating.
This tenderness of his, which he always smothered, redeemed his rancor, his
cruelty, his vindictiveness. It was an aspect of his nature, however, which
he rarely betrayed to others. In general he was brusque, mordant, 
acidulous. With a few words and gestures he could destroy any ambiance. 
Even when silent there emanated from him a fluid which was corrosive.

In talking to me, however, he always melted. For some strange reason he 
saw in me an alter ego. Nothing gave him more delight, nothing could make 
him more charming and solicitous, than the fact I felt miserable or 
defeated. Then we were brothers. Then he could relax, expand, sun himself. 
He liked to think that we were accursed. Had he not prophesied time on end 
that all my efforts would be of no avail? Had he not predicted that I would
never make a good husband, nor a father, nor ever become a writer? Why did 
I persist? Why didn’t I settle down, as he had, take some humdrum job and 
accept my lot? It was patent that it did his heart good to gloat thus. Ever
and always he went out of his way to remind me that I was “just a Brooklyn 
boy,” a lad from the 14th Ward—like himself, like Louis Pirossa, like Harry
Martin, like Eddie Goeller, like Alfie Betcha. (All failures.) No, none of 
us would ever come to aught. We were condemned in advance. I ought to be 
grateful, he thought, that I wasn’t sitting in the penitentiary or that I 
hadn’t become a drug addict. Lucky for me that I came of a solid, 
respectable family.

Just the same, I was doomed.

As he continued to rant, however, his voice became more and more 
soothing. There was now a wistful quality in it, a nostalgic tinge. It was 
so very clear that, despite all he said, he could think of no better 
heritage than the life we once led, the companions we once had, in the good
old 14th Ward. He spoke of our mutual friends of long ago as if he had made
a life’s study of each separate one. They were all so diverse in character 
and temperament, yet each and every one had been circumscribed by his 
limitations, held in a vise of his own making. For Stanley there was no 
hope of egress, never had been, for any of them. Nor for us, to be sure. 
For other individuals there might be loopholes, but not for the men of the 
14th Ward. We were in jeopardy, forever. It was this very fact, this 
deliciously ineluctable fact, which endeared the memory of our bygone 
friends. Most certainly, he admitted, they possessed as great talent as men
elsewhere in the world. Indisputably they possessed all the qualities which
made of other men poets, kings, diplomats, scholars. And they had proved 
themselves capable of revealing these qualities, each on his level, each in
his own unique way. Was not Johnny Paul the very soul of a king? Was he not
a potential Charlemagne? His chivalry, his magnanimity, his faith and 
tolerance, were they not the very attributes of a Saladin? Stanley could 
always wax most eloquent when it came to Johnny Paul, whom neither of us 
had seen since we were nine or ten. What became of him, we used to ask each
other.

What? No one knew. By choice or by fate he had remained anonymous. He was
there, somewhere, in the great mass of humanity, leavening it with the 
fervor of his truly regal spirit. That was sufficient for Stanley. For me 
too, indeed. Strange that the very mention of the name Johnny Paul could 
bring tears to our eyes. Was he really so near and dear to us—or had we 
magnified his importance with the passing years? In any case, there he 
stood—in the hall of memory—the incarnation of all that was good, all that 
was promising. One of the grand Untouchables. Whatever it was he possessed,
whatever it was he purveyed, it was imperishable. We had been aware of it 
as boys, we were convinced of it now as men …

Mona, at first rather distrustful of Stanley, rather uneasy in his 
presence, warmed to him more and more with each succeeding visit. Our talk 
of the old neighborhood, of our wonderful playmates, our curious and brutal
games, our fantastic notions (as children) of the world we inhabited, 
revealed to her a side of life she had never known. Occasionally she would 
remind Stanley of her Polish origin, or her Roumanian origin, or her 
Viennese origin, or telescope them all into “the heart of the Carpathian 
mountains.” To these overtures Stanley always gave a lame ear, or as the 
Greeks say—koutsaftis. In his mind the fact that she couldn’t speak a word 
of Polish was sufficient to put her in the same category as all the other 
“out-landers” of this world. Besides, for Stanley’s taste she was a little 
too glib. Out of deference to me he never contradicted her, but the 
devastating expressions which flitted over his features spoke volumes. 
Doubt and disdain were the expressions Stanley most easily summoned. More 
than anything else Stanley was disdainful. This disdain which never quite 
left his features, which at most he subdued or repressed, was concentrated 
in his nose. He had the rather long, fine nose with flaring nostrils which 
is often noticeable among the Poles. Whatever was suspect, whatever was 
distasteful or antipathetic, manifested itself at once through this organ. 
The mouth expressed bitterness, the eyes a steadfast cruelty. They were 
small eyes, the color of agate; they were set wide apart and the look they 
gave bored clean through one. When he was merely ironical they twinkled, 
like cold, remote stars; when he was angry they burned like arrows dipped 
in poison.

What made him particularly awkward and ill at ease in Mona’s presence was
her fluency, her agility, her quick intelligence. They were not qualities 
he admired in the other sex. It was not altogether by accident that he had 
chosen for wife a dolt, a half-wit, who, to hide her ignorance or 
embarrassment, would grin fatuously or titter in a most disconcerting way. 
True to form, he treated her like an object. She was the vassal. Perhaps he
did love her once, but if so it must have been in another incarnation. 
Nevertheless he felt at home with her. He knew how to cope with her faults 
and transgressions.

He was such a queer, queer fellow, Stanley. Such a mixture of rasping 
contradictions. But there was one thing he seldom did, queer gazabo that he
was—he seldom asked questions. When he did, they were direct questions and 
they had to be answered directly. It was, of course, not tact but pride 
which made him act in this seemingly discreet way. He took it for granted 
that I would inform him of anything important which came to pass. He 
preferred to have me volunteer the information than to pump it out of me. 
Knowing him as I did, I regarded it as hopeless to explain to him our 
manner of life. Had I told him simply that I had taken to thieving he would
have swallowed it unquestioningly. Had I told him I had become a 
counterfeiter he might have arched his eyebrows in quizzical approbation. 
But to tell him of the devious nature of our operations would have baffled 
and repelled him.

A rum bird, this Polski. The only trace of suavity he ever displayed was 
in narrating one of his quaint yarns. At table, if he asked for a piece of 
bread, it was like a slap in the face. He was deliberately rude and 
insulting. It made him feel good to see others squirm.

At the same time he had a shyness which was quixotic. If Mona were to 
seat herself opposite him and cross her legs he would avert his eyes. If 
she put her make-up on in his presence he would pretend not to be aware of 
it. Her beauty itself made him self-conscious. It also made him suspicious.
A woman as beautiful and intelligent as Mona marrying a guy like me—there 
was something louche about it in his eyes. He knew of course where and how 
I had met her. Now and then he referred to it casually, but always 
tellingly. When she spoke of her childhood in Poland or Vienna he would 
watch me attentively, hoping, I suppose, that I would embellish the story, 
fill in the long missing details. There was a gap somewhere and it bothered
him. Once he went so far as to remark that he doubted she was ever born in 
Poland. But that she was a Jewess, that he never suspected. She was 
American through and through, that was his private belief. But an unusual 
American, for a female, that is. He couldn’t get over her diction, which 
was without the slightest trace of accent or locale. How did she ever learn
to speak such a pure English? he would ask. How could I be sure of anything
concerning her? “I know you,” he would say, “you’re a Romantic … You prefer
to have it a mystery.” Which was quite true. “Me,” he said, “I want to know
what’s what. I want things above-board. No hide-and-seek games for me.” Yet
it was he, Stanley, who was so enamoured of Herr Nagel, the hero of 
Mysteries. What discussions we had by the kitchen fire & propos this 
enigmatic figure of Hamsun’s! He would have given his right arm, Stanley, 
to have created such a character. It was not only that Herr Nagel enveloped
himself in a shroud of mystery, it was also his sense of humor, his pranks,
his volte-faces which appealed to Stanley. But what he adored above all was
the contradictory nature of the man. Herr Nagel’s helplessness in the 
presence of the woman he loved, his masochism, his diabolism, his 
sentimentality, his extreme vulnerability—these qualities made him 
extraordinarily precious. “I tell you, Henry, that Hamsun is a master,” 
Stanley would say. He had said the same of Conrad, of Balzac, of Anatole 
France, of de Maupassant, of Loti. He had said the same of Reymont when he 
finished The Peasants. (For quite different reasons, to be sure.)

Of one thing I could be certain, he would never say it of me, even if the
whole world were unanimous about it. A master of literature, from Stanley’s
viewpoint, had to be a type like the above-mentioned. He had first of all 
to be of the Old World; he had to be suave, he had to have finesse, 
subtlety, velleity. He had to have a style which was finished; he had to be
adept with plot, characters, situations; he had to command a broad 
knowledge of the world and of human affairs. In his opinion I would never, 
never be able to spin a good yam. Even in Sherwood Anderson, whom he 
grudgingly admitted now and then to be an excellent story teller, he found 
grave faults. His style was too fresh, too raw, too new for Stanley’s 
taste. Yet he laughed until the tears came to his eyes when he read The 
Triumph of the Egg. He admitted it resentfully. He had laughed in spite of 
himself, as it were. And then he took on about Jerome K. Jerome, certainly 
a strange bird for a Polski to mention. In Stanley’s opinion nothing 
funnier had ever been written than Three Men in a Boat. Even the Polish 
writers had no one to equal him. But then the Poles were seldom funny. “If 
a Pole calls something funny,” said Stanley, “it means that he finds it 
bizarre. He’s too somber, too tragic, to appreciate horseplay.” Speaking 
thus, the word droll would inevitably cross his lips. Droll was his 
favorite word, and it expressed a multitude of dissimilar things. To be 
droll implied a. certain vein of excellence, of uniqueness, which Stanley 
prized exceedingly. If he said of an author—“He’s a droll chap”—he meant 
thereby to pay him a weighty compliment. Gogol, for instance, was one of 
these droll chaps. On the other hand he could refer to Bernard Shaw as a 
droll chap too. Or Strindberg. Or even Maeterlinck.

A rum bird, Stanley, Droll, what!

As I say, these sessions often took place in the garden. If we had the 
money I would get a few bottles of beer for him. He liked only beer and 
vodka. Now and then we held conversation with a Syrian neighbor leaning out
of a second story window. They were friendly people and the women were 
ravishingly beautiful. Mona with her heavy dark tresses they had taken at 
first to be one of them. Our landlady, we soon learned, was violently 
prejudiced against the Syrians. For her they represented the scum of the 
earth—first, because they were dark-skinned, second, because they spoke a 
language which no one else understood. She made it clear to us in no 
uncertain terms that she was horrified by the attention we gave them. She 
trusted we would have sense enough not to invite them to our quarters. 
After all, she put it tersely, she was running a “respectable” rooming 
house.

I swallowed her remarks as best I could, always bearing in mind that we 
might one day need a stay-of-grace. I dismissed her as an eccentric old 
witch about whom the less said the better. I took the precaution to warn 
Mona never to leave our door unlocked when we Were absent. One look at my 
manuscripts and we would be done for.

It was after we were here a few weeks that Mona informed me one day that 
she had run into Tony Maurer again. He and the Milwaukee millionaire were 
gadding about together. Apparently, Tony Maurer was sincerely desirous of 
helping Mona. He had confided that he was working on his friend to get him 
to write out a sizeable check—perhaps for a thousand dollars.

This was precisely the sort of break we had been praying for. With a sum 
like that we would be able to break out and see something of the world. Or 
we might join O’Mara. The latter was constantly sending us post cards from 
the sunny South telling us how smooth and easy things were down there. At 
any rate, we were through with little ole New York.

It was Mona who kept urging a change of scene. It disturbed her 
profoundly that I no longer made any effort to write. To be sure, I had 
half convinced her that it was all her fault, that so long as she continued
to lead a double life I could do nothing. (Not that I distrusted her, I 
emphasized, but that she caused me too much worry.) As I say, she was only 
partially convinced. She knew that the trouble went deeper. In her simple, 
naive way she concluded that the only way to alter the situation was to 
alter the scene.

Then one day there came a telephone call from Tony Maurer, apprising her 
that everything was set for the kill. She was to meet the two of them at 
Times Square where a limousine would be waiting to take them up the Hudson.
A good meal at an inn and the check would be forthcoming. (It would be for 
seven hundred and fifty, not a thousand.)

After she had gone I picked up a book. It was Wisdom and Destiny. I 
hadn’t read a line of Maeterlinck for years: it was like getting back to a 
raw diet. Toward midnight, feeling somewhat restless and uneasy, I went for
a stroll. Passing a department store I noticed a window crammed with 
camping and porting outfits. That gave me the idea of tramping through the 
South. With knapsacks over our backs we could hitch-hike to the Virginia 
border and then foot it the rest of the way. I saw just the outfit I 
intended to don, including a magnificent pair of brogans. The idea so 
fascinated me that I suddenly grew hungry, hungry as a bear. I headed for 
Joe’s restaurant at Borough Hall where I treated myself to a Porterhouse 
steak smothered in onions. As I ate I dreamed. In a day or two we would be 
out of the filthy city, sleeping under the stars, fording streams, climbing
mountains, sweating, panting, singing at the top of our lungs. I prolonged 
the reverie while putting away a huge piece of home-made apple pie 
(deep-dish fashion) together with a strong cup of coffee. I was about ready
now to pick my teeth and saunter homeward. At the cash register I noticed 
the array of choice cigars. I selected a Romeo and Juliet and, with a 
feeling of peace and good will toward the whole world, I bit off the tip of
the cigar and spat it out.

It must have been two o’clock when I got home. I undressed and got into 
bed; I lay there with eyes wide open, expecting any minute to hear her 
footsteps. Toward dawn I dozed off.

It was eight-thirty when she came tripping in. Not the least bit tired 
either. Couldn’t think of going to bed. Instead, she began making 
breakfast—bacon and eggs, coffee, hot rolls which she had picked up on the 
way. Insisted that I remain in bed until the last minute.

“But where in hell have you been all this time?” I did my best to growl. 
I knew everything must have passed off well—she was too radiant for it to 
have been otherwise.

“Let’s eat first,” she begged. “It’s a long story.”

“Did you get the check—that’s all I want to know.”

She waved it before my eyes.

That same afternoon we ordered a slew of things at the department store; 
they were to be delivered the next day, by which time we hoped to cash the 
check. The morrow came and still we hadn’t cashed the check. The clothes, 
of course, went back to the department store. In despair we put the check 
through a bank, which meant a delay of several days at least.

Meanwhile a serious altercation had broken out between Mona and the 
blue-nosed harridan of a landlady. It seems that in the midst of a 
conversation with the beautiful Syrian woman next door the landlady had 
erupted into the garden and begun hurling names at the Syrian woman. 
Outraged, Mona had insulted the old bitch, whereupon the latter took to 
abusing her in fantastic terms, saying that she was a Syrian too, and a 
whore, and this and that. The fracas almost ended in a hair-pulling match.

The upshot of it all was that we were given a week’s notice to get out. 
Since we intended to leave anyway we were not unhappy about it. There was 
one thought, however, which rankled in me: how to get even with the old 
bitch?

It was Stanley who showed me the way. Since we were clearing out for 
good, why not pay her back in regal style? “Fine,” I said, “but how?” In 
his mind it was simple. He would bring the kids along, as usual, on the 
last day; he would hand them the ketchup bottle, the mustard, the fly 
paper, the ink, the flour, everything with which to do the devil’s work. 
“Let them do whatever comes into their heads,” he said. “How’s that?” He 
added: “Kids love to do whatever is destructive.”

Myself I thought it a marvelous idea. “I’ll give them a hand,” I said. 
“When it comes to dirty work, I’m a bit of a vandal myself.”

The day after we planned this campaign of despoliation we received word 
from the bank that our check was no good. Frantic telephone calls to Tony 
Maurer—and to Milwaukee. Our millionaire had disappeared—as if the earth 
had swallowed him. For a change, we were the victims of a hoax. I had a 
good laugh at myself, despite my chagrin.

But what to do now?

We broached the news to Stanley. He took it philosophically. Why not move
into his flat? He would take the mattress off his bed and put it on the 
floor in the parlor—for us. They never used the parlor. As for food, he 
guaranteed that we wouldn’t starve.

“But where will you sleep? Or how, rather?” I asked.

“On the springs,” he said.

“But your wife?”

“She won’t mind. We’ve often slept on the bare floor.”

Then he added: “After all, it’s only temporary. You can look for a job, 
and when you get one you can find a place of your own.”

“O.K.” I said, and clasped his hand.

“Get your things packed,” said Stanley. “What have you got to take with 
you?”

‘Two valises and a typewriter, that’s all.”

“Get busy then. I’ll put the kids to work.” And with this he moved the 
big horsehair sofa over against the door, so that no one could enter.

While Mona packed the valises I ransacked the cupboard. The kids had been
looking forward to his event. They went to it with a vengeance. In ten 
minutes the place was a wreck. Everything that could be smeared was smeared
with ketchup, vinegar, mustard, flour, broken eggs. On the chairs they 
pasted the fly paper. The garbage they strewed over the floor, grinding it 
in with their heels. Best of all was the ink work. This they splattered 
over the walls, the rugs and the mirrors. The toilet paper they made 
garlands of to festoon the bespattered furniture.

Stanley and I, for our part, stood on the table and decorated the ceiling
with ketchup and mustard, with flour and cereals which we had made into a 
thick paste. The sheets and covers we ripped with knives and scissors. With
the big bread knife we gouged out huge chunks of the horse hair sofa. 
Around the toilet seat we spread some mouldy marmalade and honey. 
Everything which could be turned upside-down, dismantled, disconnected or 
tom apart we turned upside down, dismantled, disconnected and ripped apart.
Everything was done with quiet commotion. The last bit of destruction I 
left for the children to perform. It was the mutilation of the scared 
Bible. First they doused it in the bath tub, then smeared it with filthy 
unguents, then tore out handfuls of pages and scattered them about the 
room. The woeful-looking remnants of the Holy Book we then put in the bird 
cage which we suspended from the chandelier. The chandeliers themselves we 
bent and twisted into an unrecognizable shape. We hadn’t time to wash the 
kids; we wiped them as best we could with the tom sheets. They were radiant
with joy. What a job! Never again would they have a chance like this. This 
last operation finished, we took counsel. Seating the kids on his knees, 
Stanley gravely instructed them what to do. They were to leave first, by 
the back exit. They were to walk quietly and leisurely to the front gate, 
quicken their steps as they moved down the street, then run as fast as they
could and wait for us around the corner. As for us, if we encountered the 
old blue-nosed bitch, we could hand her the keys and bid her good-bye 
pleasantly. She would have a job to push the door open, assuming that she 
suspected anything amiss. By that time we would have joined the kids and 
hopped a taxi.

Everything went as planned. The old lady never made an appearance. I had 
one valise, Stanley the other, and Mona carried the typewriter. At the 
corner the children were waiting for us, merry as could be. We caught a 
taxi and drove to Stanley’s home.

I thought his wife might be a bit put out when she learned what the 
children had done, but no, she thought it was a wonderful prank. She was 
delighted that they had had such a holiday. Her only complaint was that 
they had soiled their clothes. Lunch was waiting for us—cold meats, 
boloney, cheese, beer and crackers. We laughed our guts out rehearsing the 
morning’s work.

“You see what the Poles are capable of,” said Stanley. “When it comes to 
destruction we know no limits. The Poles are brutes at bottom; they’re even
worse than the Russians. When they kill they laugh, when they torture they 
get hysterical with glee. That’s Polish humor for you.”

“And when they’re sentimental,” I added, “they give you their last 
shirt—or the mattress from their bed.”

*

Luckily it was summertime, for the only covering we had was a sheet and 
Stanley’s winter overcoat. The place was clean, fortunately, even though 
poverty stricken. No two dishes were alike; the knives, forks and spoons, 
all odd pieces, had been collected from junk heaps. There were three rooms,
one after another, all of them dark—the typical railroad flat. There was no
hot water, no bath-tub, not even a shower. We bathed in turn at the kitchen
sink. Mona wanted to assist with the cooking but Sophie, his wife, wouldn’t
hear of it. All we had to do was to roll up our mattress each day and sweep
the floor. Now and then we washed the dishes.

It wasn’t bad at all, not for a temporary flop. The neighborhood was 
depressing, to be sure—we were living in the dumps, only a few doors from 
the elevated line. The worst thing about the situation was that Stanley 
slept in the daytime. However, he slept only about five hours. He ate 
sparingly, I noticed. The one thing he couldn’t do without was cigarettes. 
He rolled his own, incidentally; it was a habit which he had retained from 
the old days at Fort Oglethorpe.

The one thing we couldn’t demand of Stanley was cash. His wife doled him 
out ten cents each day for carfare. When he left for work he took a couple 
of sandwiches with him wrapped in newspaper. From Tuesday on everything was
bought on credit. A depressing routine, but Stanley had been following it 
for years. I don’t think he ever expected things to be otherwise. So long 
as they ate every day, so long as the children were nourished and clothed …

Every day Mona and I disappeared toward noon, went our respective ways, 
and returned in time for dinner. We gave the impression that we were busy 
scouting for jobs. Mona concentrated on raising little sums to tide us 
over; I floated about aimlessly, visiting the library, the art museums, or 
taking in a movie when I could afford it. Neither of us had the least 
intention of looking for work. We never even mentioned the subject to one 
another.

At first they were pleased to see Mona returning each day with something 
for the children. Mona made it a point to return with arms loaded. Besides 
the food we sorely needed she often brought rare delicacies which Stanley 
and his wife had never tasted. The children always got candy or pastry. 
They lay in wait for her each evening at the front door. It was quite jolly
for a while. Plenty of cigarettes, wonderful cakes and pies, all kinds of 
Jewish and Russian bread, pickles, sardines, tuna fish, olives, mayonnaise,
smoked oysters, smoked salmon, caviar, herrings, pineapples, strawberries, 
crab meat, charlotte russe, God knows what all. Mona pretended that they 
were gifts from friends. She didn’t dare admit that she had squandered 
money on these luxuries. Sophie, of course, was dazzled. She had never seen
such an array of food as now graced the cupboard. It was obvious that she 
could support such a diet indefinitely. The children likewise.

Not Stanley however. He could think only in terms of privation. What 
would they do when we left? The children were being spoiled. His wife would
expect miracles which it was beyond his power to perform. He began to 
resent our luxurious ways. One day he opened the cupboard, took down some 
tins and jars of the finest delicacies, and said he was going to exchange 
them for money. There was a gas bill to pay, long overdue. The next day he 
took me aside and informed me bluntly that that wife of mine was to cut out
bringing candies and cakes for the children. He was getting to look more 
and more glum. Perhaps the restless days on the bare springs were wearing 
him down. Perhaps he surmised that we were making no effort to get work.

The situation was definitely Hamsunesque, but Stanley was in no mood to 
appreciate this quality. At table we scarcely spoke. The children acted as 
if they were cowed. Sophie spoke only when her Lord and Master approved. 
Now and then even the carfare was lacking. It was always Mona who handed 
out the dough.

I expected to be asked point-blank one day how she happened to always 
have ready cash on hand. Sophie, of course, never asked questions. Mona had
her enchanted. Sophie followed her constantly with her eyes, observing 
every movement, every gesture. It was apparent that to her Mona was a sort 
of goddess.

I used to wonder, when I lay awake nights, how Sophie would react if she 
were permitted to follow Mona in her eccentric course for just one day. Let
us suppose a day when Mona is keeping an appointment with the one-legged 
veteran from Weehawken. Rothermel, that was his name, would of course be 
drunk as usual. He would be waiting in the back of a beer parlor in one of 
those lugubrious side streets of Weehawken. He would already be drooling in
his beer. As Mona enters he endeavors to rise from his seat and make a 
ceremonious bow, but his artificial leg hinders him. He flutters 
helplessly, like a big bird whose leg is caught in a trap. He sputters and 
curses, wiping the spittle from his vest with a dirty napkin.

“You’re only two hours late this time,” he grumbles. “How much?” and he 
reaches inside his breast pocket for his fat wallet.

Mona of course—it is a scene they enact frequently—pretends to be 
insulted. “Put that thing away! Do you think that’s all I come for?”

He: “I’m damned if I can think of any other reason. Certainly it’s not on
my account.”

That’s how it begins. A duet which they have rehearsed a hundred times.

He: “Well, what’s the story this time? Even if I’m a dope, I must say I 
admire your invention.”

She: “Must I always give you a reason? When will you learn to put 
confidence in other human beings?”

He: “A nice question, that. If you would stay for a half-hour sometime 
maybe I could answer it. When must you be going?” He looks at his watch. 
“It’s just a quarter to three.”

She: “You know that I have to be back by six.” He: “Your mother’s still 
an invalid, then?”

She: “What do you suppose—that a miracle occurred?”

He: “I thought maybe it was your father this time.”

She: “Oh, stop it! You’re drunk again.”

He: “Fortunately for you. Otherwise I might forget to bring my wallet 
along. How much? Let’s get that over with, then perhaps we can chat a bit. 
It’s an education to talk with you.”

She: “You’d better make it fifty today … “

He: “Fifty? Listen, sister, I know I’m a fool, but I’m not a gold mine.”

She: “Must we go through this all over again?”

Rothermel pulls out his wallet ruefully. He lays it on the table. ‘What 
are you going to have?”

She: “I told you.”

He: “I mean what will you have to drink? You’re not going to rush off 
without a drink, are you?”

She: “Oh well … make it a champagne cocktail.” He: “You never drink beer,
do you?” He toys with the wallet.

She: ‘What are you fiddling with that for? Are you trying to humiliate 
me?”

He: “That would be rather difficult, it seems to me.” A pause. “You know,
sitting here waiting for you, I was thinking of how I might give you a real
thrill. You don’t deserve it, but shit! if I had any sense I wouldn’t be 
sitting here talking to you.” Pause. “Do you want to know what I was 
thinking of? How to make you happy. You know, for a beautiful girl you’re 
about the most unhappy creature I ever met. I’m not a bundle of optimism 
myself, and I’m not much to look at, and I’m getting more decrepit every 
day, but I can’t say I’m thoroughly miserable. I still have one leg. I can 
hop around. I laugh now and then, even if it’s at my own expense. But, do 
you know something—I’ve never once heard you laugh. That’s terrible. In 
fact it’s painful. I give you all you ask for but you never change. You’re 
always set for a touch. It ain’t right. You’re doing yourself harm, that’s 
what I mean … “

She (cutting him short): “Everything would be different if I married you,
is that what you mean to say?”

He: “Not exactly. Christ knows, it wouldn’t be a bed of roses. But at 
least I could provide for you. I could put an end to this begging and 
borrowing.”

She: “If you really wanted to free me you wouldn’t put a price on it.”

He: “It’s just like you to put it that way. You never suppose for an 
instant … “

She: “That we could lead separate lives?”

The waiter arrives with the champagne cocktail.

He: “Better fix another one—the lady is thirsty.”

She: “Do we have to go through this farce every time we meet? Don’t you 
think it’s a bit boring?”

He: “To me it isn’t. I haven’t any illusions left. But its a way of 
talking to you. I prefer this subject to hospitals and invalids.”

She: “You don’t believe my stories, is that it?”

He: “I believe every word you tell me—because I want to believe. I have 
to believe in something, even if it’s only you.”

She: “Only me?”

He: “Come, you know what I mean.”

She: “You mean that I treat you like a sucker.”

He: “I couldn’t express it more accurately myself. Thank you.”

She: “What time is it now, please?”

Rothermel looks at his watch. He lies: “It’s three twenty exactly.” Then,
with an air of consternation: “You got to have another drink. I told him to
fix one for you.”

She: “You drink it, I won’t have time.”

He (frantically): “Hey, waiter, where’s that cocktail I ordered an hour 
ago?” He forgets himself and attempts to rise from his seat. Stumbles and 
sinks back again, as if exhausted. “Damn that leg! I’d be better off with a
wooden stump. Damn the bloody, fucking war! Excuse me, I’m forgetting 
myself … “

To humor him Mona takes a sip of the cocktail, then rises abruptly. “I 
must be going,” she says. She starts walking toward the door.

“Wait a minute, wait a minute!” shouts Rothermel. “I’ll call a taxi for 
you.” He pockets his wallet and hobbles after her.

In the taxi he puts the wallet in her hand. “Help yourself,” he says, 
“you know I was only joking before.”

Mona coolly helps herself to a few bills and stuffs the wallet in his 
side pocket.

“When will I see you again?”

“When I need more money, no doubt.”

“Don’t you ever need anything but money?” Silence. They ride through the 
crazy streets of Weehawken which is in the New World, according to the 
atlas, but which might just as well be a wart on the planet Uranus. There 
are cities one never visits except in moments of desperation—or at the turn
of the moon when the whole endocrine system goes haywire. There are cities 
which were planned eons ago by men of the antediluvian world who had the 
consolation of knowing they would never inhabit them. Nothing is amiss in 
this anarchronistic scheme of things except the fauna and flora of a lost 
geological age. Everything is familiar yet strange. At every corner one is 
disoriented. Every street spells micmac.

Rothermel, sunk in despair, is dreaming of the variegated life of the 
trenches. He remains a lawyer even though he has but one leg. He not only 
hates the Boches who took his leg away, he hates his own countrymen 
equally. Above all, he hates the town he was born in. He hates himself for 
drinking like a sot. He hates all mankind as well as birds, animals, trees 
and sunlight. All he has left of an empty past is money. He hates that too.
He rises each day from a sodden sleep to pass into a world of quicksilver. 
He deals in crime as if it were a commodity, like barley, wheat, oats. 
Where once he gamboled, caroling like a lark; now he hobbles furtively, 
coughing, groaning, wheezing. On the morning of the fatal battle he was 
young, virile, jubilant. He had cleaned out a nest of Boches with his 
machine gun, wiped out two lieutenants of his own brigade, and was about to
rifle the canteen. That same evening he was lying in his own blood and 
sobbing like a child.—The world of two-legged men had passed him by; he 
would never be able to rejoin them. In vain he howled like a beast. In vain
he prayed. In vain he called for his mother. The war was over for him—he 
was one of its relics.

When he saw Weehawken again he wanted to crawl into his mother’s bed and 
die. He asked to see the room where he played as a child. He looked at the 
garden from the window upstairs and in utter despair he spat into it. He 
shut the door on his old friends and took to the bottle. Ages pass during 
which he shuttles back and forth on the loom of memory. He has only one 
security—his wealth. It is like telling a blind man he may have a white 
cane.

And then one evening, seated alone at a table in a village dive, a woman 
approaches and hands him a Mezzotint to read. He invites her to sit down. 
He orders a meal for her. He listens to her stories. He forgets that he has
an artificial limb, forgets that there ever was a war. He knows suddenly 
that he loves this woman. She does not need to love him, she needs only to 
be. If she will consent to see him occasionally, for just a few minutes, 
life will have meaning again.

Thus Rothermel dreams. He forgets all the heartrending scenes which have 
sullied this beautiful picture. He would do anything for her, even now.

And now let us leave Rothermel for a while. Let him dream in his taxicab 
as the ferryboat gently cradles him on the bosom of the Hudson. We will 
meet him again, on the shores of Manhattan.

At Forty-Second Street Mona dives into the subway to emerge in a few 
minutes at Sheridan Square. Here her course becomes truly erratic. Sophie, 
if she were still on her heels, would indeed have difficulty following her.
The Village is a network of labyrinths modeled upon the corrugated reveries
of the early Dutch settlers. One is constantly coming face-to-face with 
himself at the end of a tortuous street. There are alleys, lanes, cellars 
and garrets, squares, triangles, courts, everything anomalous, incongruous 
and bewildering: all that lacks are the bridges of Milwaukee. Certain 
doll’s houses, squeezed between somber tenements and morbid factories, have
been dozing in a vacuum of time which could be described only in terms of 
decay. The dreamy, somnolent past exudes from the facades, from the curious
names of the streets, from the miniature scale imparted by the Dutch. The 
present announces itself in the strident cries of the street urchins, in 
the muffled roar of traffic which shakes not only the chandeliers but the 
very foundations of the underground. Dominating everything is the confusion
Of races, tongues, habits. The Americans who have muscled in are 
off-center, whether they be bankers, politicians, magistrates, Bohemians, 
or genuine artists. Everything is cheap, tawdry, vulgar and phony. Minnie 
Douchebag is on the same level as the prison warden round the corner. The 
fraternization, such as it is, takes place at the bottom of the melting 
pot. Every one is trying to pretend that it is the most interesting locale 
in the city. It is a quarter full of characters; they collide like protons 
and electrons, always in a five-dimensional world whose fundament is chaos.

It is in a world like this that Mona is at home and thoroughly herself. 
Every few paces she runs into some one she knows. These encounters resemble
to a remarkable degree the collisions of ants in the throes of work. 
Conversation is conducted through antennae which are manipulated 
frenetically. Has some devastating upheaval just occurred which vitally 
concerns the entire ant-hill? The running up and down stairs, the 
salutations, the handshaking, the rubbing of noses, the phantom 
gesticulations, the pourparlers, the gurgitations and regurgitations the 
aerial transmissions, the dressing and undressing, the whispering, the 
warnings, the threats, the entreaties, the masquerades—all go on in insect 
fashion and with a speed such as only insects seem capable of mustering. 
Even when snow-bound the Village is in constant commotion and 
effervescence. Yet nothing of the slightest importance ever ensues. In the 
morning there are headaches, that is all.

Sometimes, however, in one of those houses which one notices only in 
dream, there lives a pale, timid creature, usually of dubious sex, who 
belongs to the world of du Maurier, Chekov or Alain Fournier. The name may 
be Alma, Frederika, Ursula, Malvina, a name consonant with the auburn 
tresses, the pre-Raphaelite figure, the Gaelic eyes. A creature who rarely 
sirs from the house, and then only in the wee hours of the morning.

Toward such types Mona is fatally drawn. A secret friendship veils all 
their intercourse in mystery. Those breathless errands which drive her 
through the runnelled streets may have for objective nothing more than the 
purchase of a dozen white goose eggs. No other eggs will do. En passant she
may take it into her head to surprise her seraphic friend by buying her an 
old-fashioned cameo smothered in violets, or a rocking-chair from the hills
of Dakota, or a snuff-box scented with sandalwood. The gifts first and then
a few bills fresh from the mint. She arrives breathlessly and departs 
breathlessly, as if between thunder claps. Even Rothermel would be 
powerless to suspect how quickly and for what ends his money goes. All we 
know, who greet her at the end of a feverish day, is that she has managed 
to buy a few groceries and can dispense a little cash. On the Brooklyn side
we talk in terms of coppers, which in China is “cash.” Like children we 
play with nickels, dimes and pennies. The dollar is an abstract conception 
employed only in high finance …

Only once during our stay with the Poles did Stanley and I venture abroad
together. It was to see a Western picture in which there were some 
extraordinary wild horses. Stanley, reminded of his days in the cavalry, 
became so excited that he decided not to go to work that evening. All 
through the meal he told yams, with each yam growing more tender, more 
sympathetic, more romantic. Suddenly he recalled the voluminous 
correspondence which we had exchanged when we were in our teens.

It all began the day after I saw him coming down “the street of early 
sorrows,” seated atop the hearse beside the driver. (After his uncle’s 
death Stanley’s aunt had married an undertaker, a Pole again. Stanley 
always had to accompany him on the burial expeditions.)

I was in the middle of the street, playing cat, when the funeral 
procession came along. I was certain it was Stanley who had waved to me, 
yet I could not believe my eyes. Had it not been a funeral procession I 
would have trotted alongside the vehicle and exchanged greetings. As it 
was, I stood rooted to the spot, watching the cortege slowly disappear 
round the corner.

It was the first time I had seen Stanley in six years.

It made an impression on me. The following day I sat down and wrote him a
letter—to the old address.

Stanley now brought out that first letter—and all the others which had 
followed. I was ashamed to tell him that I had long since lost his. But I 
could still remember the flavor of them, all written on long sheets of 
yellow paper, in pencil, with a flourishing hand. The hand of an autocrat. 
I recalled the perennial salutation he employed: “My charming fellow!” This
to a boy in short pants! They were letters, to speak of style, such as 
Theophile Gautier might have written to an unknown sycophant. Doped with 
literary borrowings. But they put me in a fever, always.

What my own letters were like I had never once thought of. They belonged 
to a distant past, a forgotten past. Now I held them in my hand, and my 
hand trembled as I read. So this was me in my teens? What a pity no one had
made a movie of us! Droll figures we were. Little jackanapes, bantams, 
cocks-o’-the-walk. Discussing such ponderous things as death and eternity, 
reincarnation, metempsychosis, libertinism, suicide. Pretending that the 
books we read were nothing to the ones we would write ourselves one day. 
Talking of life as if we had experienced it to the core.

But even in these pretentious exercises of youth I detected to my 
amazement the seeds of an imaginative faculty which was to ripen with time.
Even in these fly-blown missives there were those abrupt breaks and rushes 
which indicate the presence of hidden fires, of unsuspected conflicts. I 
was moved to observe that even at this period I could lose myself, I who 
was hardly aware that I had a self. Stanley, I recalled, never lost 
himself. He had a style and in it he was fixed, as if constricted by a 
corset. I remember that at that period I thought of him as being so much 
more mature, so much more sophisticated. He would be the brilliant writer; 
I would be the plodding ink-slinger. As a Pole he had an illustrious 
heritage; I was merely an American, with an ancestry which was vague and 
dubious. Stanley wrote as if he had stepped off the boat only the day 
before. I wrote as if I had just learned to use the language, my real 
language being the language of the street, which was no language at all. 
Back of Stanley I always visualized a line of warriors, diplomats, poets, 
musicians. Myself’ I had no ancestry whatever. I had to invent one.

Curious, but any feelings of lineage or of ephemeral connections with the
past which might arise in me were usually evoked by one of three curiously 
disparate phenomena: one, narrow, olden streets with miniature houses: two,
certain unreal types of human beings, generally dreamers or fanatics; 
three, photographs of Tibet, of the Tibetan landscape particularly. I could
be disoriented in a jiffy, and was then marvelously at home, one with the 
world and with myself. Only in such rare moments did I know or pretend to 
understand myself. My connections were, so to speak, with man and not with 
men. Only when I was shunted back to the grand trunk line did I become 
aware of my real rhythm, my real being. Individuality expressed itself for 
me as a life with roots. Efflorescence meant culture—in short, the world of
cyclical development. In my eyes the great figures were always identified 
with the trunk of the tree, not with the boughs and leaves. And the great 
figures were capable of losing their identity easily: they were all 
variations of the one man, Adam Cadmus, or whatever he be called. My 
lineage stemmed from him, not from my ancestors. When I became aware I was 
superconscious; I could make the leap back at one bound.

Stanley, like all chauvinists, traced his arboreal descent only to the 
beginnings of the Polish nation, that’s to say, to the Pripet marshes. 
There he lay bogged, like a weasel. His antennae reached only to the 
frontiers which were limitrophe to Poland. He never became an American, in 
the true sense. For him America was merely a condition or state of trance 
which permitted him to transmit his Polish genes to his heredity. Any 
differentiations from the norm, that is, from the Polish type, were to be 
attributed to the rigors of adjustment and adaption. Whatever was American 
in him was merely an alloy which would be dissolved in the generation that 
was to spring from his loins.

Preoccupations of this sort Stanley never divulged overtly, but they were
there and they manifested themselves in the form of insinuations. The 
emphasis he gave to a word or phrase always provided the clue to his real 
feelings. He was thoroughly antipathetic to the new world in which he found
himself. He made only enough effort to keep alive. He went through the 
motions, as we say, nothing more. Though his experience of life was purely 
negative it was none the less potent. It was a matter of charging the 
battery: his children would make the necessary connections with life. 
Through them the racial energy of the Poles, their dreams, their longings, 
their aspirations, would be revived. Stanley was content to inhabit an 
in-between world.

All this admitted, it was nevertheless a luxury for me to bathe in the 
effluvium of the Polish spirit. Polonesia, I called it. An inland sea, like
the Caspian, surrounded by the steppes. Over the troubled, stagnant waters,
over treacherous shoals and invisible sources, flew huge migratory birds, 
heralds of past and future—of a Polish past and future. All that surrounded
this sea was inimical and poisonous. From the language alone came the 
much-needed sustenance.

What are the riches of English, I used to say to myself, compared to the 
melodious verdure of this Babel? When a Pole employs his native tongue he 
speaks not only to his friend but to his compatriots everywhere in the 
world. To the ear of a foreigner like myself, who was privileged to assist 
at these sacred performances, the speeches of my Polish friends seemed like
interminable monologues addressed to the innumerable ghosts of the Diaspora
within and without. Every Pole regards himself as the secret custodian of 
the fabulous repositories of the race; with his death some secret part of 
the accumulated intangibles, unfathomable to aliens, dies with him. But in 
the language nothing is lost: so long as one Pole is left to articulate, 
Poland will live.

When he spoke Polish he was another man, Stanley. Even when he spoke to 
one as insignificant as his wife Sophie. He might have been talking of milk
and crackers, but to my ears it sounded as if we were back in the Age of 
Chivalry. Nothing is better suited to describe the modulations, dissonances
and distillations of this language than the word alchemy. Like a strong 
dissolvent, the Polish language converts the image, concept, symbol or 
metaphor into a mysterious transparent liquid of camphorous odor which, by 
its mellifluous resonances, suggests the perpetual alternation and 
interchange of idea and impulse. Issuing like a hot geyser from the crater 
of the human mouth, Polish music—for it is hardly a language—consumes 
everything with which it comes into contact, intoxicating the brain with 
the pungent, acrid fumes of its metallic source. A man employing this 
medium is no longer a mere man—he has appropriated the powers of a 
sorcerer. The Book of Demonology could only have been written in this 
language. To say this is a quality of the Slavs explains nothing. To be a 
Slav does not mean to be a Pole. The Pole is unique and untouchable; he is 
the prime mover, the original impetus personified, and his realm is the 
dread realm of doom. For him the sun was extinguished long ago. For him all
horizons are limited and circumscribed. He is the desperado of the race, 
self-accursed and self-acquitted. Make the world, overt He would rather 
drag it down to the bottomless pit.

Reflections of this order always rose to the surface when I would leave 
the house to stretch my legs. A short distance from Stanley’s home lay a 
world akin in many respects to the one I had known as a child. Through it 
ran a canal black as ink whose stagnant waters stank like ten thousand dead
horses. But all about the canal were winding lanes, eddying streets, still 
paved with cobblestones, the worn sidewalks flanked by diminutive shanties 
cluttered with shutters dislocated from their hinges, creating the 
impression, from a distance, of being enormous Hebrew letters. Furniture, 
bric-a-brac, utensils, implements and materials of all kinds littered the 
streets. The fringe of the societal world.

Each time I approached the confines of this Lilliputian world I changed 
back to a boy of ten. My senses became more acute, my memory more alive, my
hunger more sharp. I could hold conversation with the self which I once was
and with the self I had become. Who I was that walked and sniffed and 
explored, I knew not. An interlocutory I, doubtless. An I suborned by a 
superior court of justice … In this supraliminal arena Stanley always 
figured tenderly. He was the invisible comrade to whom I imparted those 
larval thoughts which elude speech. Immigrant, orphan, derelict—of these 
three ingredients he was composed. We understood one another because we 
were complete opposites. What he envied I gave him regally; what I craved 
he fed me from his carrion beak. We swam like Siamese fish on the glaucous 
surface of the lake of childhood. We knew not our Protector. We rejoiced in
our imagined freedom.

What intrigued me as a child, what intrigues me to this day, is the glory
and the wonder of eclosion. There are balmy days in childhood when, perhaps
because of the great retardation of time, one steps outdoors into a world 
which is dozing. It is not the world of humans, nor is it the world of 
nature which is drowsing—it is the inanimate world of stones, minerals, 
objects. The inanimate world in bud. With the slow-motion eyes of childhood
one watches breathlessly as tills latent realm of life slowly reveals its 
pulse-beat. One becomes aware of the existence of those invisible rays 
which emanate perpetually from the most remote parts of the cosmos and 
which radiate from the microcosm as well as from the macrocosm. “As above, 
so below.” In the twinkle of an eye one is divorced from the illusory world
of material reality; with every step one places himself anew at the 
carrefour of these concentric radiations which are the true substance of an
all-encompassing and all-pervading reality. Death has no meaning. All is 
change, vibration, creation and recreation. The song of the world, 
registered in every particle of that specious substance called matter, 
issues forth in an ineffable harmony which filters through the angelic 
being lying dormant in the shell of the physical creature called man. Once 
the angel assumes dominion, the physical being flowers. Throughout all 
realms a quiet, persistent blossoming takes place.

Why is it that angels, whom we foolishly associate with the vast 
interstellar spaces, love everything which is mignon t..

As soon as I reach the banks of the canal, where my world in miniature 
lies waiting, the angel takes over. I no longer scrutinize the world—the 
world is inside me. I see it as clearly with eyes closed as with eyes wide 
open. Enchantment, not sorcery. Surrender, and the bliss which accompanies 
surrender. What was dilapidation, decay, sordidness, is transmuted. The 
microscopic eye of the angel sees the infinite parts which compose the 
divine whole; the telescopic eye of the angel sees nothing but totality, 
which is perfect. In the wake of the angel there are only universes to 
behold—size means nothing.

When man, with his pitiful sense of relativity, looks through the 
telescope and marvels at the immensity of creation, he means to confess 
that he has succeeded in reducing the limitless to the limited. He 
acquires, as it were, an optic lease on the boundless grandeur of a 
creation which is unfathomable to him. What matter if he succeed in putting
a thousand universes within the focus of his microscopic telescope? The 
process of enlargement merely enhances the sense of the miniature. But man 
feels more at home in his little universe, or pretends he does, when he has
uncovered what lies beyond its bounds. The thought that his universe may be
no bigger than a tiny blood corpuscle entrances him, lulls his desperate 
anguish. But the use of the artificial eye, no matter to what monstrous 
proportions it be magnified, never brings him joys. The greater his 
physical vision, the more awed he becomes. He understands, though he 
refuses to believe, that with this eye he will never penetrate, still less 
partake of, the mystery of creation. To re-enter the mysterious world from 
which he sprang he realizes, in a vague, dim way, that other eyes are 
needed.

It is with the angelic eye that man beholds the world of his true 
substance.

These miniature realms, where all is shrunken, muted and transformed, 
emerge often as not in books. A page of Hamsun frequently yielded the same 
mysterious harmonies of enchantment as a walk by the canal. For a brief 
moment one experiences the same sort of vertigo as when the motorman 
deserts his post with the trolley in full flight. After that it is pure 
voluptt. Surrender again. Surrender to the spell which has rendered the 
author superfluous. Immediately one’s rhythm is retarded. One lingers 
before the verbal structures which palpitate like living houses. One knows 
that some one never encountered before, and never to be encountered again, 
will emerge and take possession of one. It may be a personage as innocuous 
as Sophie. It may be a question of large white goose eggs which will 
dominate the whole passage. No governing the cosmic fluid in which the 
events and situations are now bathed. The dialogue may become pure 
nonsense, astral in its implications. The author has made it clear that he 
is absent. The reader is face to face with an angelic sport. He will live 
this scene, this protracted moment, over and over again, and with a 
sharpened sense of reality verging on the hallucinatory. Only a little 
street—perhaps not a block long. Diminutive gardens tended by trolls. 
Perpetual sunshine. And remembered music, toned down to blend with the hum 
of insects and the rustle of leaves. Joy, joy, joy. The intimate presence 
of flowers, of birds, of stones which have preserved the record of similar 
magical days.

I think of Hamsun because it was with Stanley that I shared so often 
these extraordinary experiences. Our grotesque life in the street, as boys,
had prepared us for these mysterious encounters. In some unknown way we had
undergone the proper initiation. We were, without knowing it, members of 
that traditional underground which vomits forth at suitable intervals those
writers who will later be called Romantics, mystics, visionaries or 
diabolists. It was for such as us—then mere embryonic beings—that certain 
“outlandish” passages were written. It is we who keep alive these books 
which are constantly threatening to fall back into oblivion. We lie in 
wait, like beasts of prey, for moments of reality which will not only match
but confirm and corroborate these literary extravaganzas. We grow like 
corkscrews, we become lopsided, we squint and stammer in a vain endeavor to
fit our world into the existent one. In us the angel sleeps lightly, ready 
at the slightest tremor to assume command. Only solitary vigils restore us.
Only when we are cruelly separated do we really communicate with each 
other.

Often it is in dreams that we communicate … I am on a familiar street 
searching for a particular house. The moment I set foot in this street my 
heart beats wildly. Though I have never seen the street it is more familiar
to me, more intimate, more significant, than any street I have known. It is
the street by which I return to the past. Every house, every porch, every 
gate, every lawn, every stone, stick, twig and leaf speaks eloquently. The 
sense of recognition, compounded of myriad layers of memory, is so powerful
that I am almost dissolved.

The street has no beginning nor end: it is a detached segment swimming in
a fuzzy aura and complete in itself. A vibrant portion of the infinite 
whole. Though there is never any activity in this street it is not empty or
deserted. Indeed, it is the most alive street I can think of. It is alive 
with memories, like an arcane grove which pullulates with its swarms of 
invisible hosts. I can’t say that I walk down this street, nor can I say 
either that I glide through it. The street invests me. I am devoured by it.
Perhaps only in the insect world are there sensations to match this 
harrowing form of bliss. To eat is wonderful, but to be eaten is a treat 
beyond description. Perhaps it is another, more extravagant, kind of union 
with the external world. An inverted sort of communion.

The end of this ritual is always the same. Suddenly I am aware that 
Stanley is waiting for me. He stands not at the end of the street, for 
there is no end … he stands at that fuzzy edge where light and substance 
fuse. His summons is always curt and brusque: “Come on, let’s go!” 
Immediately I adapt my pace to his. Forward march! The beloved street 
wheels softly around, like a turn-table operated by an unseen switchman, 
and as we reach the corner it joins neatly and inexorably with the 
intersecting streets which form the pattern of our childhood precincts. 
From here on it is an exploration of the past, but a different past from 
that of the memorial street. This past is an active one, cluttered with 
souvenirs, but souvenirs only skin deep. The other past, so profound, so 
fluid, so sparkling, made no separation between itself, present and future.
It was timeless, and if I speak of it as a past it is only to suggest a 
return which is not really a return but a restoration. The fish swimming 
back to the source of its own being.

When the inaudible music begins, one knows for a certainty that he is 
alive.

Stanley’s part in the second half of the dream is to rekindle the flame. 
I will take leave of him when he has set all the mnemonic filaments 
a-quiver. This function, which he performs with instinctive adroitness, 
might be likened to the quivering oscillations of a compass needle. He 
holds me to the path, a tortuous, zigzag path, but saturated with 
reminiscences. We buzz from flower to flower, like bees. When we have 
extracted out fill of nectar we return to the honey-comb. At the entrance I
take leave of him, plunging into the very hub of transformation. My ears 
resound with the oceanic hum. All memory is stifled. I am deep in the 
labyrinthine shell, as secure and alive as a particle of energy adrift in 
the stellar sea of light. This is the deep sleep which restores the soul. 
When I awake I am new-born. The day stretches before me like a velvet 
meadow. I have no recollection of anything. I am a freshly-minted coin 
ready to fall into the palm of the first-comer.

It is on such a day that I am apt to make one of those haphazard 
encounters which will alter the course of my life. The stranger coming 
toward me greets me like an old friend. We have merely to exchange a few 
words and the intimate stenographic language of ancient brothers replaces 
the current jargon. Communication is cryptic and serphic, accomplished with
the ease and rapidity of born deaf-mutes. For me it has only one purport—to
bring about a re-orientation. Altering the course of my life, as I put it 
before, means simply—correcting my sidereal position. The stranger, fresh 
from the other world, tips me off. Given my true bearings, I cut a fresh 
swathe through the chartered realms of destiny. Just as the dream street 
swung softly into position, so I now wheel into vital alignment. The 
panorama against which I move is awesome and majestic. A landscape truly 
Tibetan beckons me onward. I know not whether it is a creation of the inner
eye or some cataclysmic disturbance of the outer reality attuning itself to
the profound re-orientation I have just made. I know only that I am more 
solitary than ever. Everything that occurs now will have the quality of 
shock and discovery. I am not alone. I am in the midst of other solitaries.
And each and every one of us speaks his own unique language! It is like the
coming together of distant gods, each one wrapped in the aura of his own 
incomprehensible world. It is the first day of the week in the new cycle of
consciousness. A cycle, need I say, which may last a week or a lifetime. En
avant, je me dis. Allons-y! Nous sommes la.


THE END
