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 lime, 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 yarn 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 else 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 to 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 would never 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, God-damn 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 O’Mara 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 oil 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, to-morrow’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. Al 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 half-way 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, felling 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-racing. 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’s going to get me, as 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 make 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 t 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 school-boy. 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 practising 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 practising falls.

Soon a group has collected around us, taking our bicycles apart and performing tricks, a la Joe Jackson. All in pantomine, 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 taxi-cabs 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 pedalling 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. Hymie 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 bow-legged 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 to-night, 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 Poloks, 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 Polok is a Polok anywhere. You can’t trust ‘em. His teeth were 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 stere with arms up yelling for me to return.

The next thing I know, I’m directing taxi-cabs, 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 work-out 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 to-day, 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 under weight.

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.

You wheel? What wheel? You must be dreaming.

I smiled. I was 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 to-day, 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 happen 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 promoting 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.

Is it 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 tip-toed towards the sanctum sanctorum.

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 nit-wits 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 hoowink 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 eyes 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 out-dated. 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 traversed 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 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, penetration 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 pointblank.

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, supposing 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 some one, 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 to-night. 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. To 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 re-’ member my first trip to China…. Here he began munching a sandwich. When yon 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 to-night 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 god-damned 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.

I 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 to-morrow 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 loop-hole, 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 strait-jacket.

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 of 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 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 everyday 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 to-day.

What? yelled O’Mara. Gripes, 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? Supposing something were to happen to you? Supposing 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? 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 oil 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 checks 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? 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 lets’ 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 gentle-j men what they would like to drink, will you? To us—v 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 dream 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 to-day. 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 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 burn 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 god-damned 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!

4

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 excrimin-ations, 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 wopping 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 live-long 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 o 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 this 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 Ulric 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 ore 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 lying 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 fir ma. 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 or 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 big 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 Godforsaken spot over which hung a thick pall of smoke. We endeavored to find precisely the spot where the man had dumped that 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 the 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 dumps 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 pointblank.

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. In 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 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 world she tells you.

Maybe you’re trying to protect her I 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 haled 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 mud-lark.

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 come 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 awhile 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 *. 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.

The Greek wrestler.

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 stern 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 round 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 towards 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 round as if to make sure we were out of earshot. Then he started walking backwards, 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. Poloks 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 o few moments. Suddenly he stopped, opened 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!

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 your mouth! said O’Mara.

Sh-h-h-h!

More muffled flim-flam. Broken by an occasional Cooooooo or Eeeeeee. 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 Polok! 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.

SHHHHHHH! 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 POLOKS. 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 Mister Sheldon one day. Jesus, how he trembled when he saw that drunken Polok!

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 Polok 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 odd 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 an 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 needs 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, of course, but she didn’t see much difference between 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 he 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 o 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 Bravely. 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 o 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.