Well, I’m half Polish, said Osiecki amiably, but I’m damned if I know whether I’m proud of it or not.

Sheldon immediately looked away, closing his mouth tightly as if he feared to utter an ill-timed malediction. Catching my eye he gave me a painful smile. It meant—I am doing my best to behave myself in the company of your friends, even though I smell Polish blood.

He won’t harm you, I said reassuringly.

What’s the matter…? cried Osiecki. What did I do?

Sheldon promptly rose to his feet, threw out his chest, frowned, then assumed his most striking histrionic pose.

Sheldon is not afraid, he said, sucking in air with each word he hissed. Sheldon does not wish to speak to a Polok. Here he paused and without moving the rest of his body, turned his head around as far as it would go, then back again, exactly like a mechanical doll. In doing this he half closed his eyelids, thrust forward his under lip, and, coming to Eyes Front! slowly raised his hand, the forefinger extended—like Dr. Munyon about to prate of liver pills.

Shhhhhh! from O’Mara.

S-HHHHHHH! And Sheldon lowered his hand to place the forefinger over his lips.

What is this? cried Osiecki, thoroughly elated by the performance.

Sheldon will speak. Afterwards the Poloks may speak. This is not the place for hooligans. Am I right, Mr.

Miller? Quiet, please! Again he twisted his head around, like a mechanical doll. There has happened once a very terrible thing. Excuse me if I must mention such things in the presence of ladies and gentlemen. But this man—he glowered fiercely at Osiecki—has asked me if I am a Pole. Pfui!—(He spat on the floor.) That I should be a Pole—pfui! (He spat again.) Excuse me, Madame Mrs. Miller—he made an ironic little bow—but when I hear the world Pole I must spit. Pfui! (And he spat a third time.)

He paused, taking a deep breath in order to inflate his chest to the proper degree. Also to gather up the venom which his glands were secreting. His lower jaw trembled, his eyes darted black rays of hate. As if made of compression rings, his body began to tighten: he had only to uncoil himself to spring to the other side of the street.

He’s going to throw a fit, said Osiecki in genuine alarm.

O’Mara jumped to his feet to offer Sheldon a glass of Sherry. Sheldon knocked it out of his hand, as if brushing away a fly. The Sherry spilled over Louella’s beautiful Nile green gown. She took no notice of it whatever. Osiecki was getting more and more agitated. In distress he turned to me imploringly.

Tell him I didn’t mean anything by what I said, he begged.

A Pole never apologizes, said Sheldon, looking straight ahead. He murders, he tortures, he rapes, he burns women and children—but he never says ‘I am sorry.’ He drinks blood, human blood—and he prays on his knees, like an animal. Every word from his mouth is a lie or a curse. He eats like a dog, he makes caca in his pants, he washes with filthy rags, he vomits in your face. Sheldon prays every night that God should punish them. As long as there is one Pole alive there will be tears and misery. Sheldon has no mercy on them. They must all die, like pigs … men, women and children. Sheldon says it … because he knows them.

His eyes, which were half-closed when he began, were now shut tight. The words escaped his lips, each one pressed forth as if by a bellows. At the corners of his mouth the saliva had collected, giving him the appearance of an epileptic.

Stop him, Henry, please, begged Osiecki. Yes, Val, please do something, cried Mona. This has gone far enough.

Sheldon! I yelled, thinking to startle him. He remained impassive, eyes front! as if he had heard nothing.

I got up, took him by the arms, and shook him gently. Come, Sheldon, I said quietly, snap out of it! I shook him again, more vigorously.

Sheldon’s eyes opened slowly, flutteringly; he looked around as if he had just come out of a trance.

A sickly smile now spread over his face, as though he had succeeded in sticking his finger down his throat and vomiting up a poisonous dose.

You’re all right now, aren’t you? I asked, giving him a sound thwack on the back.

Excuse me, he said, blinking and coughing, it’s those Poloks. They always make me sick.

There are no Poloks here, Sheldon. This man—pointing to Osiecki—is a Kanuck. He wants to shake hands with you.

Sheldon stuck out his hand as if he had never seen Osiecki before, and making a low bow, he said: Sheldon!

Glad to know you, said Osiecki, also making a slight bow. Here, have a drink, won’t you? and he reached for a glass.

Sheldon held the glass to his lips and sipped slowly, cautiously, as if not quite convinced it was harmless.

Good? beamed Osiecki.

Ausgezeichnet! Sheldon smacked his lips. He smacked them not from genuine relish but to show his good manners.

Are you an old friend of Henry’s? asked Osiecki, trying lamely to worm his way into Sheldon’s good graces.

Mister Miller is everybody’s friend, was the answer.

He used to work for me, I explained.

Oh, I see! Now I get it, said Osiecki. He seemed inordinately relieved.

He’s got a business of his own now, I added.

Sheldon beamed and began twiddling the jewelled rings on his fingers.

A legitimate business, said Sheldon, rubbing his hands together like a pawnbroker. Hereupon he slipped one of his rings off and held it under Osiecki’s nose. It held a large ruby. Osiecki examined it appraisingly and passed it over to Louella. Meanwhile Sheldon had slipped another ring off and handed it to Mona to examine. This time it was a huge emerald. Sheldon waited a few moments to observe the effects of this procedure. Then he ceremoniously took two rings off the hand, both diamonds. These he placed in my hand. Then he put his fingers to his lips and went Shhhhh!

While we were exclaiming how wonderful the stones were Sheldon reached into his vest pocket and brought out a little package wrapped in tissue paper. He undid this over the table, opening it out flat in the palm of his hand. Five or six cut stones gleamed forth, all small ones but of extraordinary brilliance. He laid them carefully on the table and reached into his other vest pocket. This time he brought forth a string of tiny pearls, o exquisite pearls, the like of which I had never seen.

When we had feasted our eyes on all these treasures, he again assumed one of his mystifying poses, held it for an impressive length of time, then dove into his inside coat pocket and extracted a long wallet of Moroccan make. He unfolded this in mid air, like a prestidigitator, then, one by one, he drew forth bills of all denominations in about a dozen different currencies. If it was real money, as I had good reason to believe it was, it must have represented several thousand dollars.

Aren’t you afraid to walk around with all this stuff in your pockets? some one inquired.

Fluttering his fingers in the air, as if touching little bells, he replied sententiously: Sheldon knows how to manage.

I told you he was nuts, cackled O’Mara.

Oblivious of the remark, Sheldon continued: In this country no one bothers Sheldon. This is a civilized country. Sheldon always minds his own business … Isn’t that so, Mister Miller? He paused to inflate his chest. Then he added: Sheldon is always polite, even to niggers.

But Sheldon…

Wait! he cried. Quiet, please! And then, with a mysterious twinkle in his gimlet eyes, he unbuttoned his shirt, rapidly retreated a few steps until his back touched the window, dangled a piece of black tape which was slung around his neck, and before we could say Boo! gave a terrific blast from a police whistle attached to the tape. The noise pierced our ear drums. It was hallucinating.

Grab it! I yelled, as Sheldon raised it to his lips again.

O’Mara clutched the whistle tightly. Quick! hide everything! he yelled. If the cops come we’ll have a hell of a time explaining this loot.

Osiecki at once gathered the rings, the bills, the wallet and the jewels together, calmly slipped them in his coat pocket, and sat down with arms folded, waiting for the police to arrive.

Sheldon looked on scornfully and contemptuously. Let them come, he said, his nose in the air, his nostrils quivering. Sheldon is not afraid of the police.

O’Mara busied himself stuffing the whistle back in Sheldon’s bosom, buttoning his shirt, then his vest and coat. Sheldon permitted him to do all this quite as if he were a mannikin being dressed for the show window. He never once took his eyes off Osiecki however.

Sure enough, in a few moment the bell rang. Mona rushed to the door. It was the police all right.

Talk! muttered O’Mara. He raised his voice as though continuing a heated argument. I responded in the same key, not caring what I said. At the same time I signalled Osiecki to join in. All I could get from him was a grin. With arms folded he placidly watched and waited. Between snatches of the mock dispute Mona could be heard protesting that we knew nothing about a police whistle. Hadn’t heard a thing, I could hear her say. O’Mara was chattering away like a magpie, assuming other voices, other intonations now. In deaf-and-dumb code he was frantically urging me to follow suit. Had the police brushed their way in at that moment they would have witnessed a droll piece of business. In the midst of it I broke out laughing, forcing O’Mara to redouble his efforts. Louella, of course, sat like a stone. Osiecki looked upon the performance as if from a stall in the circus. He was completely at ease; in fact he was radiant. As for Sheldon, he never budged from his position. His back was still against the window. He remained there all buttoned up, as if waiting for the window-dresser to arrange his arms and legs. Repeatedly I waved to him to speak, but he remained impervious, aloof, altogether disdainful, in fact.

Finally we heard the door close and Mona scurrying back.

The stupid fools! she said.

They always come when I blow the whistle, said Sheldon in a matter of fact tone.

I only hope the landlord doesn’t come down, I remarked.

They’re away for the week-end, said Mona.

Are you sure those cops are not standing outside? said O’Mara.

They’ve gone, said Mona, I’m sure of it. God, there’s nothing worse than a thick mick, unless it’s two thick micks. I thought I’d never convince them.

Why didn’t you invite them in? asked Osiecki. That’s always the best way.

Yes, said Louella, we always do that.

It was a good stunt, grinned Osiecki. Do you always play games like that? He’s fun, this Sheldon. He got up leisurely and dumped the loot on the table, he went over to Sheldon and said: Could I have a look at that whistle?

O’Mara was instantly on his feet, ready to fling both arms around Sheldon. Gripes! Don’t start that again! he begged.

Sheldon put his two hands out, palms forward, as if to ward us off. Quiet! he whispered, reaching with his right hand for the back pocket of his trousers. With one hand thus extended and the other on his hip, but concealed by his coat, he said quietly and grimly: If I lose the whistle I always have this. So saying, he whipped out a revolver and levelled it at us. He pointed it at each of us in turn, no one daring to make a move or utter a sound for fear his hand would automatically press the trigger. Convinced that we were properly impressed, Sheldon slowly returned the revolver to his hip pocket.

Mona made a bee-line for the bathroom. In a moment she was calling me to join her. I excused myself to see what she wanted. She almost dragged me in, then closed and locked the door. Please, she whispered, get them out of here, all of them, I’m afraid something will happen.

Is that what you wanted? All right, I said, but half-heartedly.

No, please she begged, do it right away. They’re crazy, all of them.

I left her locked in the bathroom and returned to the group. Sheldon was now showing Osiecki a murderous-looking pocket knife which he also carried with him. Osiecki was testing the blade with his thumb.

I explained that Mona was feeling ill, thought it best we break up.

Sheldon was for running out and telephoning a doctor. Finally we succeeded in ousting them, Osiecki promising to take good care of Sheldon, and Sheldon protesting that he could take care of himself. I expected to hear the whistle blow in a few minutes. I wondered what the cops would say when they emptied Sheldon’s pockets. But no sound broke the silence.

As I undressed for bed my eye fell on the little brass ash tray, from India supposedly, which I was especially fond of. It was one of the little objects which I had selected the day I bought the furniture; it was something I hoped to keep forever. As I held it in my hand, examining it anew, I suddenly realized that not a thing in the place belonged to the past, my own past. Everything was brand new. It was then I thought of the little Chinese nut which I had kept since childhood in a little iron bank on the mantelpiece at home. How I had come by this nut I no longer remember; it had probably been given me by some relative returning from the South Seas. At intervals I used to open the little bank, which never had more than a few pennies in it, get out the nut and fondle it. It was as smooth as suede, the color of light siena, and had a black band running lengthwise through the center. I have never seen another nut like it. Sometimes I would take it out and carry it about with me for days or weeks, not for good luck, but because I liked the feel of it. It was a completely mysterious object to me, and I was content to leave it a mystery. That it had an ancient history, that it had passed through many hands, that it had traveled far and wide, I was certain. It was that which endeared it to me. One day, after I had been married to Maude for some time, I had such a longing for this little fetish that I made a special trip to my parents’ home to recover it. To my amazement and disappointment I was informed that my mother had given it to some little boy in the neighborhood who had expressed a liking for it. What boy? I wanted to know. But she could no longer remember. She thought it silly of me to be so concerned about a trifle. We talked of this and that, waiting for my father to arrive and have dinner together.

What about my theatre, I suddenly demanded. Did you get rid of that too?

Long ago, said my mother. You remember little Arthur who lived in the flats across the way? He was crazy about it.

So you gave it to him? I had never cared much for little Arthur. He was a born sissy. But my mother thought he was a grand little fellow, had such lovely manners, and so on.

Do you suppose he still has it? I asked.

Oh no, of course not! He’s a big fellow now, he wouldn’t want to play with that any more.

You can’t tell, I said. Maybe I’ll run over there and see.

They’ve moved.

And you don’t know where to, I suppose?

She didn’t, of course, or most likely she did but wouldn’t tell me. It was so foolish of me to want these old things back, she repeated.

I know it, I said, but I would give anything to see them again.

Wait till you have children of your own, then you can buy them new ones, better ones.

There couldn’t be a better theatre than that one, I protested vehemently. I gave her a long spiel about my Uncle Ed Martini who had spent months and months making it for me. As I talked I could see it again standing under the Christmas tree. I could see my little friends, who always dropped in during the holidays, sitting in a circle on the floor, watching me manipulate the paraphernalia which went with the theatre.

My Uncle had thought of everything, not only changes of scene and a variety of cast but footlights, pulleys, wings, backdrops, everything imaginable. Every Christmas I brought out this theatre, up until I was sixteen or seventeen years of age. I could play with it to-day even more passionately than when I was a child, so beautiful, so perfect, so intricate it was. But it was gone and I would never see it again. Most certainly I would never find another one like it, for this one had been made with love and with a patience which no one to-day seems to possess. It was strange, too, I reflected, because Ed Martini had always been regarded as a good for nothing, a man who wasted his time, who drank too much and talked too much. But he knew what would make a child happy!

Nothing from my boyhood had been preserved. The tool chest had been given to the Good Will Society, my story books to another little urchin whom I detested. What he had done with my beautiful books I could well imagine. The exasperating part of it all was that my mother would make not the slightest effort to help me recover these belongings. About the books, for instance, she averred that I had read them over so many times I must know the contents by heart. She simply could not, or would not, understand that I wanted to possess them physically. Perhaps she was unconsciously punishing me for the light-hearted way I used to accept gifts.

(The desire to strengthen the ties which bound me to the past, to my wonderful childhood, was becoming ever stronger. The more insipid and distasteful the everyday world became, the more I glorified the golden days of childhood. I could see more and more clearly as time went on that my childhood had been one long holiday—a carnival of youth. It wasn’t that I felt myself growing old, it was simply that I realized I had lost something precious.)

This theme became even more poignant when my father, thinking to revive pleasant memories, would tell me of the doings of my old playmate, Tony Marella. I just read something about him last week in The Chat, he would begin. First it used to be about Tony Marella’s athletic exploits, how, for example, he had won the Marathon and almost dropped dead. Then it was about the Club Tony Marella had organized, and how he was going to improve the lot of the poor boys in the neighborhood. There was always a photo of him accompanying the article. From The Chat, which was just a local weekly, he soon began to be talked about in the Brooklyn dailies. He was a figure to be reckoned with, he would be heard from one of these days. Yes, it wouldn’t be surprising if he were to run for Alderman soon. And so on … There was no doubt about it, Tony Marella was the new star in the firmament of the Bush-wick Section. He had started from the bottom, had triumphed over all handicaps, had put himself through law school; he was a shining example of what the son of a poor immigrant could make of himself in this glorious land of opportunity.

Much as I liked Tony Marella, it always sickened me to hear the way my folks raved about him. I had known Tony from grammar school; we were always in the same class and we graduated together at the head of the class. Tony had to struggle for everything, whereas for me it was the contrary. He was a tough, rebellious kid whose animal spirits drove the teachers crazy. With the boys he was a born leader. For years I lost track of him completely. Never even gave him a thought. One winter’s evening, tramping through the snow, I ran into him. He was on his way to a political meeting, and I, I was keeping a date with some dizzy-blonde. Tony tried to get me to accompany him to the meeting, said it would do me good. I laughed in his face. A bit peeved, he began talking politics to me, told me he was out to reform the Democratic party of our district, our old home district. Again I laughed, his time almost insultingly. To this Tony cried: You’ll be voting for me in a couple of years, wait and see. They need men like me in the Party.

Tony, I said, I’ve never voted yet and I don’t think I ever will. But if you’re running for office I may make an exception. I’d like nothing better than to see you become President of the United States. You’d be a credit to the White House. He thought I was kidding him, but I was dead serious.

In the midst of this talk Tony mentioned the name of his possible rival, Martin Malone. Martin Malone! I exclaimed. Not our Martin Malone? The very one, he assured me. Now the coming figure in the Republican Party. I was that surprised you could have knocked me over with a feather. That blockhead! How had he ever come into such prominence? Tony explained that it was the father’s influence. I remembered old man Malone well; he was a good man and an honest politician, rare thing. But his son! Why, Martin, who was four years older than us, was always at the foot of the class. He stuttered badly too, or he did as a boy. And this dunce was now a leading figure in local politics. You see why I’m not interested in politics, I said. There’s where you’re wrong, Henry, said Tony vehemently. Would you want to see Martin Malone become a Congressman?

Frankly, said I, I don’t give a damn who becomes Congressman of this district, or any district. It doesn’t matter in the slightest. It doesn’t even matter who’s President. Nothing matters. The country isn’t run by these shits. Tony shook his head in thorough disapproval. Henry, you’re lost, he said. You’re an out-and-out anarchist. And on this we parted, not to meet again for a number of years.

The old man never ceased harping on Tony’s virtues. I knew, of course, that my father was only trying to put some life in me. I knew that after he had done talking about Tony Marella he would ask how the writing business was coming along, had I sold anything yet, and so on. And if I said that nothing of importance had happened yet, my mother would then give me one of those sad, sidelong looks, as if to pity me for the ignorance of my ways, perhaps adding aloud that I had always been the brightest boy in the class, that I had had every opportunity, yet here I was trying to become a foolish thing like a writer. If you could only write something for the Saturday Evening Post! she would say. Or, to make my position even more ludicrous, this: Maybe

The Chat would take one of your stories! (Everything I wrote, incidentally, she called a story, though I had explained to her a dozen or more times that I didn’t write stories. Well, whatever they are, then, was always her final word.)

In parting I would always say to her: You’re sure now there are none of my old things left? The answer always was—Forget it! In the street, as she stood at the fence to wave good-bye, there’d be this Parthian shot from her: Don’t you think you’d better give up that writing and find a job? You’re not getting any younger, you know. You may be and old man before you’re famous.

I would leave filled with remorse that I hadn’t made their evening more entertaining. On the way to the elevated station I had to pass Tony Marella’s old home. His father still ran a cobbler’s shop on the street front. Tony had blossomed right out of that hovel in which he was raised. The edifice itself had undergone no changes in the generation which had passed. Only Tony had changed, had evolved, in keeping with the times. I felt certain he still spoke Italian to his parents, still kissed his father affectionately when greeting him, was still providing for the family out of his meagre salary. What a different atmosphere reigned in that household! What a joy it must have been to his parents to see Tony making his way in the world! When he made his grand speeches they were unable to understand a word; he said. But they knew he was saying the right thing.’ Everything he did was right in their eyes. He was indeed a good son. And, if he ever made the grade, he would be a damned good President.

As I rehearsed all this I recalled how my mother used to speak of my father, of the pride and joy he was to his parents. I was the thorn in their side. I brought nothing but problems. Who could say, though? One day it might all turn out different. One day, by a single stroke, perhaps I might alter the whole set-up. I might yet prove that I was not completely hopeless. But when? And how?

5

It was of a sunny day in the first rush of Spring that we found ourselves on Second Avenue. The Mezzotint racket was on its last legs and there was nothing new on the horizon. We had come to the East Side to make a touch but nothing had come of it. Weary and thirsty from tramping about in the blazing sun, we were wondering how to get a cool drink on no money. Passing a candy store with an inviting soda fountain we decided, on a mutual impulse, to go in, have our drink, and then pretend we had lost our money.

The owner, a homely, friendly sort of Jew, waited on us himself. His manner indicated that we obviously hailed from another world. We dawdled over the drink, drawing him into conversation in order to prepare him for the sad news. He seemed flattered that we took such notice of him. When it came time I fumbled around for change and, not finding any, asked Mona in a loud voice to look through her bag, saying that I must have left my money at home. She of course couldn’t dig up a red cent. I suggested to the man, who was calmly observing this performance, that, if he didn’t mind, we would pay the next time we were in the neighborhood. Quite affably he said that we could forget about it if we liked. Then he politely inquired what part of the city we came from. To our surprise we discovered that he knew intimately the very street we were living on. At this point he invited us to have another drink and with the drink he offered us some delicious cakes. It was plain he was curious to know more about us. Since we had nothing to lose, I decided to make a clean breast of it.

So we were broke? He had suspected that we were but he was dumbfounded, nevertheless, that two people so intelligent, speaking such beautiful English, born Americans to boot, should find it difficult to make a living in a city like New York. I of course pretended that I would welcome a job if I could find one. I hinted that it wasn’t easy for me to find work because I was really incapable of doing anything but push the pen, adding that I was probably not very good at this either. He was of a different mind. Had he been able to read and write English, he informed us, he would now be living on Park Avenue. His story, a fairly common one, was that some eight years ago he had come to America with just a few dollars in his pocket. He had immediately accepted a job in a marble quarry, in Vermont. Brutal work But it has enabled him to save up a few hundred dollars. With this money he had bought some odds and ends, put them in a sack, and set out on the road as a peddler. In less than no time (it almost sounded like an Horatio Alger story) he had acquired a pushcart, then a horse and wagon. His mind had always been set on coming to New York where he longed to open a shop of some sort. By chance he had found out that one could make a good living selling imported candies. At this juncture he reached up behind him and got down an assortment of foreign candies, all in beautiful boxes. He explained rather minutely how he had peddled these candies from door to door, beginning in Columbia Heights where we now lived. He had done it successfully, speaking only a broken English. In less than a year he had put aside enough to set up shop. The Americans, he said, loved imported candies. They didn’t mind the price. Here he began to reel off the prices of the various brands. Then he told us how much profit there was in each box. Finally he said: If I could do it, why can’t you? And in the next breath he offered to supply us with a full valise of imported candies, on credit, if we would only try it out.

The fellow was so kind, so obviously trying to put us back on our feet, that we didn’t have the heart to refuse. We permitted him to fill a big valise, accepted the money he offered us for a taxi home, and said good-bye. On the way home I grew thoroughly excited over the prospect. Nothing for it but to start out fresh, the next morning, right in our own neighborhood. Mona, I observed, wasn’t nearly as elated as I, but she was game to try it. During the night, I confess, my ardor cooled off a bit.

(Fortunately, O’Mara was away for a few days, visiting an old friend. He would have ridiculed the idea mercilessly.)

The next day, at noon, we met to compare notes. Mona was already home when I arrived. She didn’t appear very enthusiastic about her morning. She had sold a few boxes, yes, but it had been hard work. Our neighbors, according to her, weren’t a very hospitable sort. (I, of course, hadn’t sold a single box. I was already through, in my mind, with door to door canvassing. In fact, I was almost ready to take a job.)

There was a better way, Mona thought, to go about the business. To-morrow she would tackle the office buildings where she would have to do with men, not housewives and servants. That failing, she would try the night clubs in the Village, and possibly the cafes along Second Avenue. (The cafes appealed to me; I thought I might tackle them myself, on my own.)

The office buildings proved somewhat better than residences, but not much better. It was hard to get to the man behind the desk, particularly when it was candies you had to offer. And then there were all kinds of filthy propositions to put up with. One or two individuals, the better sort, had bought a half-dozen boxes at once. Out of pity, clearly. One of these was a very fine chap indeed. She was going to see him again soon. Apparently he had done his best to persuade her to abandon the racket. I’ll tell you more about him later, she said.

I’ll never forget my first night as a peddler. I had chosen the Cafe Royal as my starting point because it was a familiar haunt. (It was my hope that I would run into some one I knew who would start me off on the right foot.) People were still loitering over dinner when I sailed in with my little suitcase filled with candy boxes. I took a quick glance about but saw no one I knew. Presently I caught sight of a group of merrymakers seated at a long table. I decided they were the ones to tackle first.

Unfortunately they were a little to gay. Imported candies, no less! jeered one jolly fellow. Why not imported silks? The man next to him wanted to inspect the candies, wanted to make sure they were imported and not domestic. He took a few boxes and passed them around. Seeing the women nibbling away I assumed everything was in order. I circulated round the table, coming finally to the man who appeared to be the master of ceremonies. He was full of talk, a wise-cracker. Candies, hum! A new racket. Well dressed and speaks a good English. Probably working his way through college … Et patati et potata. He bit into a few, then passed the box around in the other direction, still making running comments, a monologue which kept the others in stitches. I was left to stand there like a stick. No one had as yet asked me the price of a box. Neither had any one said he would take a box. Like a game of parchesi, it was. Then, after they had all sampled the candy to their heart’s content, after they had nibbled and joked at my expense, they began talking of other matters, about all sorts of things but not a word about candy, not a word about the young man, yours truly, who was standing there waiting for some one to speak up.

I stood there quite a time, wondering just how far these convivial souls intended to push their little joke. I made no effort to collect the boxes which were scattered about. Nor did I open my mouth to say a word. I just stood there and looked from one to the other questioningly, my gaze gradually changing to a glare. I could feel a wave of embarrassment pass from one to the other. Finally the man who was the jolly host, and at whose elbow I was standing mutely, sensed that something untoward was taking place. He turned half-way round, looked up at me for the first time, then, as if to brush me away, remarked: What, you still here? We don’t want any candy. Away with it! Still I said nothing, just scowled. My fingers were twitching nervously; I was itching to grab him by the throat. I still couldn’t believe he intended to play that sort of trick on me—not me, a born white American, an artist to boot, and all the other grand things I credited myself with in a moment of wounded pride. Suddenly I recalled the scene I had put on for the amusement of my friends in this same cafe, when I had made such abominable sport of the poor old Jew. Suddenly I realized the irony of my situation. Now

I was the poor helpless individual. The butt of the evening. It was grand sport. Grand indeed, if you happened to be seated at the table and not standing on your hind legs like a dog begging for a few crumbs. I went hot and cold. I was so ashamed of myself, so damned sorry for myself at the same time, that I was ready to murder the man who was baiting me. Far better to land in jail than tolerate further humiliation. Better to start a rumpus and break the deadlock.

Fortunately the man must have sensed what was passing through my head. However, he didn’t quite know how to pass it off, his little joke. I heard him, in a rather conciliatory voice, say—What’s the matter? Then for a few minutes I heard nothing, nothing but the sound of my own voice. What I was yelling I don’t know. I know only that I was ranting like a madman. I might have continued indefinitely had not the waiters rushed up to bundle me off. Their arms about me, I they were just about to throw me out bodily, when the man who had been baiting me begged them to let me go. Springing to his feet, he put his hand on my shoulder. I’m so sorry, he said, I had no idea I was causing you such anguish. Sit down a moment, won’t you? He reached for a bottle and poured out a glass of wine. I was flushed and still glowering. My hands were trembling violently. The whole company now stared at me; it seemed as if they formed one huge animal with many pairs of eyes. People at the other tables were also staring at me. I felt the man’s warm hand resting on mine; he was urging me in a soothing voice to take a drink. I raised the glass and swallowed it down. He refilled it and raised his own to his lips. To your health! he said, and the other members of his party followed suit. Then he said: My name is Spielberg. What is yours, if I may ask? I gave him my right name, which sounded intensely strange to my ears, and we clinked glasses. In a moment they were all talking at once, all trying desperately to prove to me how sorry they were for their rude behavior. Won’t you have some chicken? begged a sweet young woman opposite me. She raised the platter and handed it to me. I couldn’t very well refuse. The waiter was summoned. Wouldn’t I like something else? Coffee, surely, and perhaps a little schnapps? I consented. I hadn’t yet said a word, other than to give my name. (What is Henry Miller doing here? I kept repeating to myself. Henry Miller … Henry Miller.)

Out of the jumble of words which assaulted my ears I finally made out the following—What on earth are you doing here? Is this an experiment? By this time I was able to draw a smile. Yes, I said feebly, in a way.

It was my would-be tormentor who was now endeavoring to talk to me in earnest. What are you really? he said. I mean, what do you do ordinarily?

I told him in a few words.

Well, well! Now we were getting somewhere. He had suspected something of the sort all along. Could he help me, perhaps? He knew a number of editors intimately, he confided. Had once hoped to be a writer himself. And so on…

I remained with them an hour or two, eating and drinking, and feeling thoroughly at home with them. Every one present bought a box of candy. One or two went over to the other tables and induced their friends to buy too, somewhat to my embarrassment. Their manner of doing it suggested that this was the least they could do for a man who was obviously destined to be one of America’s great writers. It was astonishing to me what sincerity and genuine sympathy they now displayed. And only a little while ago I had been the butt of their crude jokes. They were all Jews, it turned out. Middle class Jews who took a lively interest in the arts. I suspected that they took me for a Jew too. No matter. It was the first time I had met any Americans for whom the word artist suggested magic. That I happened to be an artist and a peddler made me doubly interesting to them. Their ancestors had all been peddlers and, if not artists, scholars. I was in the tradition.

I was in the tradition all right. Shuffling about from joint to joint I wondered what Ulric would say if he were to run into me. Or Ned, who was still slaving for that grand old man McFarland. Musing thus, I suddenly noticed a Jewish friend of mine, an ear doctor, approaching. (I owed him quite a bill.) Before he could catch my eyes I ran into the street and hopped a bus going uptown. I waved to him from the platform. After I had ridden a few blocks I got off, walked wearily back to the bright lights, and began all over again, selling a box now and then, always, it seemed, to a middle-class Jew, a Jew who felt sorry, and perhaps a little ashamed, for me. It was strange to be receiving the commiseration of a down-trodden people. The reversal of roles yielded a mysterious assuagement. I shuddered to think what would happen to me should I have the misfortune to run into a gang of rowdy Irishers.

Around midnight I ducked home. Mona was already back and in a good mood. She had sold a whole valiseful of candies. And all in one spot. Had been wined and dined as well. Where? At Papa Moskowitz’s. (I had skipped Moskowitz’s because I had seen the ear doctor heading for it.)

I thought you were going to start with the Village to-night?

I did, she exclaimed, then hurriedly explained how she had run into that banker, Alan Cromwell, who was looking for a quiet place to chat. She had dragged him to Moskowitz’s where they had listened to the cymbalon and so on and so on. Anyway, Moskowitz had bought a box of candy, then introduced her to his friends, all of whom insisted on buying candy. And then who should happen along but that man she had met in an office building the first morning. Mathias was his name. He and Moskowitz were friends from the old country. This Mathias of course also bought a half-dozen boxes.

Here she switched off about the real estate business. Mathias, it seems, was eager to have her learn the business. He was certain she could sell houses as easily as imported candies. First, of course, she would have to learn how to drive a car. He would teach her himself, she said. She thought it a good idea to learn, even if she never sold real estate. We could use the car to go for a spin occasionally. Wouldn’t that be wonderful? And so on…

And how did he and Cromwell get along? I finally managed to put in.

Just fine.

No, really?

Why not? They’re both intelligent and sensitive. Because Cromwell’s a drunkard you needn’t think he’s a sap.

O. K. But what did Cromwell have to tell—you that was so important?

Oh that I We never got to that. There were so many people at our table…

O. K. I must say, though, you certainly did handsomely. Pause. I sold a few myself.

I’ve been thinking, Val, she began, as if she hadn’t heard me.

I knew what was coming. I made a wry grimace.

Seriously, Val, you shouldn’t be selling candy. Let me do it! You see how easy it is for me. You stay home and write.

But I can’t write night and day.

Well read then, or go to the theatre, or see your friends. You never go to see your friends any more.

I said I would think about it. Meanwhile she had emptied her purse on the table. Quite a haul, it was.

Our patron will certainly be surprised, said I.

Oh, did I tell you? I saw him to-night. I had to go back for more candy. He said if it keeps up this way we’ll soon be able to open a shop of our own.

Won’t that be swell!

Things rolled along merrily for a couple of weeks. I had made a compromise with Mona: I carried the two valises and waited outside while she cleaned up.

I always took a book along and read. Sometimes Sheldon accompanied us. He not only insisted on carrying the valises-but he also insisted on paying for the midnight repast which we always ate in a Jewish delicatessen on Second Avenue. A wonderful meal it was each night. Plenty of sour cream, radishes, onions, strudels, pastrami, smoked fish, all kinds of dark bread, creamy sweet butter, Russian tea, caviar, egg noodles—and Seltzer water. Then home in a taxi, always over the Brooklyn Bridge. Alighting in front of our stately brown stone house, I often wondered what the landlord would think were he to notice us coming home at that hour of the morning with our two valises.

There were always new admirers cropping up. She had a difficult time, Mona, to shake them off. The latest one as a Jewish artist—Manuel Siegfried. He hadn’t much money but he had a wonderful collection of art books. We borrowed them freely, especially the erotic ones. We liked best the Japanese artists. Ulric came several times with a magnifying glass, so as not to miss a stroke.

O’Mara was for selling them and have Mona pretend they had been stolen. He thought we were overly scrupulous.

One night, when Sheldon called to accompany us, I opened one of the most sensational albums and asked him to look at it. He took one glance and turned his back to me. He held his two hands over his eyes until I had closed the book.

What’s the matter with you? I asked.

He put his finger to his lips and looked away.

They won’t bite you, I said.

Sheldon wouldn’t answer, just kept edging towards the door. Suddenly he put his two hands to his mouth and made a bee line for the toilet. I heard him retching. When he returned he came up to me, and, putting his two hands in mine, looked into my eyes imploringly. Never let Mrs. Millet see them! he begged in a hushed voice. I put my two fingers to my lips and said: All right, Sheldon, on my word of honor!

He was on hand now almost every night. When I didn’t feel like talking I would let him stand beside me, like a post, while I read. After a time it struck me as foolish to be making the rounds with this blinking idiot. Mona, when she learned that I intended to stay home, was delighted. She would be able to operate more freely, she said. We would all be better off.

And so, one night while chewing the fat with O’Mara, who was also delighted that I was staying home, the idea came to me to start a mail order candy business. O’Mara, always ready for a new proposition, fairly jumped to the bait. Put it over in a big way, that was his idea. We began at once to make plans: the right kind of letter-head, circular letters, follow-up letters, lists of names, and so on. Thinking of names, I began to count up all the clerks, telegraphers and managers I knew in the telegraph company. They couldn’t possibly refuse to buy a box of candy once a week. That was all we intended to ask of our potential clients—a box a week. It never occurred to us that one might grow tired of eating a box of candy, even imported candy, once a week every week for fifty-two weeks of the year.

We decided that it was better not to let Mona know about our scheme for a while. You know how she is, said O’Mara.

Of course nothing of any consequence developed. The stationery was beautiful, the letters perfect, but the sales were virtually nil. In the midst of our campaign Mona discovered what we were up to. She didn’t approve of it at all. Said we were wasting time. Besides, she was about sick of the game. Mathias, her real estate friend, was ready to launch her any day. She already knew how to drive, she said. (Neither of us believed this.) A few good sales and we would soon have a house of our own. And so on … And then there was Alan Cromwell. She hadn’t told me of his proposition. She had been waiting for a propitious moment.

Well, what is it? I asked.

He wants me to write a column—for the Hearst papers. One a day without fail.

I jumped. ‘What! A column a day? Whoever heard of the Hearst papers offering a column to an unknown writer?

That’s his affair, Val. He knows what he’s doing.

But will they print the stuff? I thought I smelled a rat.

No, she replied not right away. We’re to do it for a few months, and if they like it … Anyway, that’s not important! The thing is that Cromwell will pay us a hundred dollars a week out of his own pocket. He’s dead sure he can sell the man who runs the syndicate. They’re close friends.

And what am I—or you, excuse me!—supposed to write about every day?

Anything under the sun.

You don’t mean it!

I certainly do. Otherwise I wouldn’t have given it a moment’s thought.

I had to admit it sounded good. So … she’d sell real estate and I would write a daily column. Not bad. A hundred a week, you say? That’s damned decent of him … Cromwell, I mean. He must think a lot of you. (This with a straight face.)

It’s a mere bagatelle to him, Val. He’s simply trying to be of help.

Does he know about me? I mean, has he no suspicion?

Of course not. Are you mad?

Well, I just wondered. Sometimes a guy like that … you know … Sometimes you can tell them most anything. I’d like to meet him some time. I’m curious.

That would be easy, said Mona, smiling.

What do you mean?

Why, just meet me at Moskowitz’s some evening. I’ll introduce you as a friend.

That’s an idea. I’ll do that some evening. It’ll be fun. You can introduce me as a Jewish physician. How’s that?

But before we give up this candy racket, I added, I’d like to try out something. I have a hunch that if we were to send a couple of messenger boys to the various telegraph offices we would clean up. We might sell a couple of hundred at one stroke.

Oh, that reminds me, said Mona. The candy store man has invited us to go to dinner with him next Saturday. He wants to give us a treat to show his appreciation. I think he’ll offer to set us up in business. I wouldn’t turn it down cold, if I were you—you might hurt his feelings.

Of course. He’s a prince. He’s done more for us than any of our friends ever have.

The next days were absorbed in writing personal notes to all my old pals in the telegraph company. I even included messages to some of the men in the vice-president’s office. In routing the itinerary, I realized that instead of a couple of messengers I would require a half-dozen—if the coup was to be accomplished at one stroke.

I totalled up the possible sales—came to something over $500.00. Not a bad way to retire from the candy business, I thought to myself, rubbing my hands in expectation.

The day came. I picked six bright boys, gave them explicit instructions, and sent them on their way.

Towards evening they came filing back, each one with a full valise. Not a box had been sold. Not one. I couldn’t believe my eyes. I paid the boys off—a considerable sum!—and sat down on the floor with the valises all about me.

The letters, which I had attached to the candy boxes with rubber bands, were intact. I picked them up one by one and shook my head over each one. Incredible, incredible! I kept repeating. Finally I came to the two addressed to Hymie Laubscher and Steve Romero. I held the envelopes in my two hands for a while, unable to comprehend the situation. If I couldn’t depend on two old pals like Hymie and Steve, who then could I depend on?

Unwittingly I had opened the envelope addressed to Steve Romero. Something was written across the top of the letter head. Before reading a word I already felt relieved. At least he had given an explanation.

Spivak intercepted your boy in the vice-president’s office. Notified all hands to refuse the candy. Sorry. Steve.

I opened Hymie’s envelope. Same message. I opened Costigan’s envelope. Ditto. By this time I was raging. That bastard Spivak! So that was his way of getting back at me! I swore I would strangle him, right on the street, next tune I ran into him.

I sat there with Costigan’s note in my hand. Costigan the knuckle-duster. It was ages since I had seen or heard from him. What a treat it would be for him to teach Spivak a little lesson! All he needed to do was to lure the latter uptown some evening, trap him in a dark street near the river and give him the works. The trouble that stinker had gone to! Telephoning each and every office in Brooklyn, Manhattan and the Bronx! I was surprised that Hymie hadn’t dispatched a messenger to tip me off; it would have saved me a lot of jack. But he had probably been short-handed, as usual.

I got to thinking of all the goofy guys I knew who were always ready to do me a good turn. There was the night clerk in the 14th Street office who gambled incessantly; his boss was a eunuch who had been trying for years to induce the president to use carrier pigeons to deliver the telegrams. Never was there a more heartless, soulless individual than this hombre from Green-point; he would do anything for a few more dollars to place on the horses. There was the hunchback over in the fish market. An out-and-out fiend, a sort of Jack-the-Ripper in mufti. And that night-messenger, Arthur Wilmington. Once a minister of the gospel, he was now a filthy human wreck who made caca in his pants. There was sly little Jimmy Falzone, with the face of an angel and the instincts of a thug. There was the rat-faced lad from Harlem who peddled dope and falsified checks. There was the drunken giant from Cuba, Lopez, who could crack a man’s ribs with one gentle hug. There was Kovalski, the demented Pole, who had three wives and fourteen children: he would do anything short of murder—for a dollar.

For that matter I didn’t even have to think of such riff-raff. There was Gus, the policeman, who escorted Mona from place to place in the Village whenever she was in the mood for it. Gus was one of those faithful dogs who would club a man to death if a woman merely hinted that she had been insulted by a strange man. And what about our good Catholic friend Buckley, the detective, who when drunk would take out his black crucifix and ask us to kiss it? Hadn’t we done him a good turn one night by hiding his revolver when he was on a rampage?

When Mona arrived I was still seated on the floor, still in a reverie. The news didn’t upset her greatly. She had expected something of the sort to happen. She was actually glad it had turned out so; perhaps it would cure me once and for all of my impracticable schemes. She was the only one who knew how to raise money and she did it without creating a fuss. When would I begin to put complete confidence in her?

Let’s quit all this, I said. If Cromwell comes across with that hundred bucks a week we ought to be able to manage, don’t you think?

She wasn’t sure. The hundred-a-week would take care of us, but what about the alimony, what about her mother and brothers, what about this and that?

Did you ever raise that mortgage money your mother was asking for? I inquired.

Yes, she had—weeks ago. She didn’t want to go into that just now, it was too painful. She merely remarked that no matter how much money came in it just flew. There was only one solution, and that was to make a big haul. The real estate game appealed to her more and more.

Let’s stop the candy business anyway, I urged. We’ll go to dinner with our patron and we’ll break the news to him gently. I’m sick of selling things … and I don’t want you to be selling things either. It’s disgusting.

She appeared to agree with me. Suddenly, while creaming her face, she said: Why don’t we call Ulric up and go out to dinner together? You haven’t seen him for ages, you know.

I thought it a good idea. It was rather late but I decided to phone and see. It put my things on and dashed out.

An hour or so later the three of us were sitting in a restaurant down near the City Hall. An Italian place. Ulric was delighted to see us again. Had been wondering what we were up to all this time. While waiting for the minestrone we had a couple of drinks. Ulric had been working like a dog on some soap campaign and was glad of the opportunity to relax. He was in a mellow mood.

Mona was giving him an earful about the candy business—just the highlights. Ulric always listened to her tales with a sort of bemused wonder. He waited to hear my side of it before passing any comments. If I seemed in a corroborative mood he would then listen with both ears, quite as if he were hearing it all for the first time.

What a life! he chuckled. I wish I had the guts to venture out a little more. But then those things never happen to me. So you peddled candies in the Cafe Royal? I’ll be damned. He wagged his head and chuckled some more.

And is O’Mara still with you? he asked.

Yes, but he’s leaving soon now. He wants to go South. Has a hunch he can clean up down there.

I suppose you won’t miss him too much, what?

But I will, I said. I like O’Mara, despite his faults.

To this Ulric nodded his head, as if to say that I was over-indulgent but it was a good trait.

And that Osiecki fella … what’s happened to him?

In Canada now. His two friends—you remember them—are looking after his girl.

I see, said Ulric, rubbing his tongue back and forth over his ripe red lips. Chivalrous lads, what? and he chuckled some more.

By the way, he said, turning to Mona, doesn’t it seem to you that the Village is getting rather seedy these days? I made the mistake of taking some of my Virginia friends down there the other night. We got out in a hurry, I can tell you. All I could see were dives and joints. Maybe we didn’t have enough under our belts … There was one spot, a restaurant, I think, over on Sheridan Square. Quite a place, I don’t mind saying.

Mona laughed. You mean Minnie Douchebag’s hang-out?

Minnie Douchebag?

Yes, that crazy fairy who sings and plays the piano … and wears women’s clothes. Wasn’t he there?

Of course! said Ulric. I didn’t know that was his name. I must say it fits him. A real zany, by God. I thought at one point he’d climb the chandeliers. What a vile, stinking tongue he has too! He turned to me. Henry, things have changed some since our time. Try to picture me sitting there with two staid, conservative Virginians. To tell the truth, they hardly understood a word he said.

The dives and joints, as Ulric called them, were of course the places we had been haunting. Though I pretended to make fun of Ulric’s squeamishness, I shared his opinion of these places. The Village had indeed deteriorated. There were nothing but dives and joints, nothing but pederasts, Lesbians, pimps, tarts, fakes and phonies of all description. I didn’t see the point of telling Ulric about it, but the last time we were at Paul and Joe’s the place was entirely dominated by homos in sailors’ uniforms. Some lascivious little bitch had tried to bite off a piece of Mona’s right breast—right in the dining room. Coming away from the place we had stumbled over two sailors writhing on the floor of the balcony, their pants down and grunting and squealing like stuck pigs. Even for Greenwich Village that was going pretty far, it seemed to me. As I say, I saw no point in relaying these incidents to Ulric—they were too incredible for him to swallow. What he liked to hear were Mona’s tales about the clients she shook down, those queer birds, as he called them, from Weehawken, Milwaukee, Washington, Porto Rico, the Sorbonne, and so on. It was plausible but mystifying to him that men of good standing should prove so vulnerable. He could understand shaking them down once, but not again and again.

How does she ever manage to hold them off? he blurted out, then made as if he were biting his tongue.

Suddenly he switched. You know, Henry, that man McFarland has been asking for you repeatedly. Ned, of course, doesn’t understand how you could turn down a good offer like that. He keeps telling McFarland you will turn up one day. You must have made a tremendous impression on the old boy. I suppose you have other plans, but—if you ever change your mind I think you could get most anything you want of McFarland. He told Ned confidentially that he would sack the whole office in order to keep a man like you. Thought I ought to tell you this. You never know…

Mona quickly diverted the talk to another trend. Soon we had drifted to the subject of burlesque. Ulric had a diabolical memory for names. He could not only recall the names of the comedians, the soubrettes, the hoochee-koochee dancers of the last twenty years, he could also give the names of the theatres where he has seen them, the songs they sang, whether it was winter or spring, and who had accompanied him on each occasion. From burlesque he drifted to musical comedies and thence to the various Quat’z’Arts Balls.

These pow-wows, when the three of us got together, were always rambling, hectic, diffuse. Mona, who was never able to concentrate on anything for long, had a way of listening which would drive any man crazy. Always, just when you had reached the most interesting part of your story, she was suddenly reminded of something, and it had to be communicated at once. It made no difference whether we were talking of Cimabue, Sigmund Freud or the Fratellini brothers: the things she thought so important to tell us were as remote as the asteroids. Only a woman could make such outlandish connections. Nor was she one of those who could have her say and then let you have yours. To get back to the point was like trying to reach the shore directly opposite by fording a swift stream. One always had to allow for drift.

Ulric had grown somewhat accustomed to this form of conversation, much against the grain. It was a pity to subject him to it, though, for when given free play he could rival the Irish harp. That photographic eye of his, those soft palps with which he touched things, particularly the things he loved, his nostalgic memory which was inexhaustible, his mania for detail, certitude, exactitude (time, place, rhythm, ambiance, magnitude, temperature) gave to his talk a quality such as the old masters achieved in pigment. Indeed, often when listening to him I had the impression that I was actually in the company of an old master. Many of my friends referred to him as quaint—charming and quaint. Which meant, old-fashioned. Yet he was neither a scholar, a recluse, nor a crank. He was simply of another time. When he spoke of the men he loved—the painters—he was one with them. Not only had he the gift of surrendering himself, he had also the art of identifying himself with those whom he revered.

He used to say that my—talk could send him home drunk. He pretended that in my presence he could never say things the way he wanted to, the way he meant. He seemed to think it only natural that I should be a better story teller than he, because I was a writer. The truth is, it was just the other way round. Except for rare moments when I was touched off, when I went hay-wire, when I blew my top, I was a stuttering gawk by comparison.

What really roused Ulric’s admiration and devotion was the raw content of my life, its underlying chaos. He could never reconcile himself to the fact that, though we had sprung from the same milieu, had been reared in the same stupid German-American atmosphere, we had developed into such different beings, had gone in such totally opposite directions. He exaggerated this divergence, of course. And I did little to correct it, knowing the pleasure it gave him to magnify my eccentricities. One has to be generous sometimes, even if it makes one blush.

Sometimes, said Ulric, when I talk about you to my friends it sounds fabulous, even to me. In the short time since we’ve known each other again it seems to me you already led a dozen lives. I hardly know anything about that period in between—when you were living with the widow and her son, for example. When you had those rich sessions with Lou Jacobs—wasn’t that his name? That must have been a rewarding period, even if a trying one. No wonder that man McFarland sensed something different in you. I know I’m treading on dangerous ground in opening that subject again—he gave a quick, appealing glance at Mona—but really, Henry, this life of adventure and movement which you crave … excuse me, I don’t mean to put it crudely … I know you’re a man of contemplation too … Here he sort of gave up, chuckled, snorted, rolled his tongue over his lips, swallowed a few drops of cognac, slapped his thighs, looked from one to the other of us, and let out a good long belly laugh. Damn it, you know what I mean! he blurted out. I’m stuttering like a school-boy. I think what I intended to say is just this—you need a larger scope to your life. You need to meet men who are more near your own stature. You should be able to travel, have money in your pocket, explore, investigate. In short—bigger adventures, bigger exploits.

I nodded my head smilingly, urging him to continue.

Of course I realize also that this life which you’re now leading is rich in ways that are beyond me … rich to you as a writer, I mean. I know that a man doesn’t choose the material of life which is to make his art. That’s given, or ordained, by the cast of his temperament. These queer characters who seem attracted to you as if by a magnet, no doubt there are vast worlds to be plumbed there. But at what a cost! It would exhaust me to spend an evening with most of them. I enjoy listening to you telling about them, but I don’t think I could cope with all that myself. What I mean, Henry, is that they don’t seem to give anything in return for the attention you bestow on them. But there I go again. I’m wrong, of course. You must know instinctively what’s good for you and what’s bad.

Here I had to interrupt him. About that you are wrong, I think. I never think of such a thing—what’s good or what’s bad for me. I take what comes my way and I make the best of it. I don’t cultivate these people deliberately. You’re right, they’re attracted to me—but so am I to them. Sometimes I think I have more in common with them than with you or with O’Mara or any of my real friends. By the way, have I got any real friends, do you think? I know one thing, I never can count on you in a pinch, not any of you.

That’s very true, Henry, he said, his lower jaw dropping to a queer angle. I don’t think any of us are capable of being quite the friend you should have. You deserve much better.

Shit, I said, I don’t mean to harp on that. Forgive me, that was just a random thought.

What’s become of that doctor friend of yours … Kronski? I haven’t heard you speak of him lately.

I haven’t the slightest idea, I said, He’s probably hibernating. He’ll show up again, don’t worry.

Val treats him abominably, said Mona. I don’t understand it. If you ask me, he’s a real friend. Val never seems to appreciate his real friends. Except you, Ulric. But sometimes I have to remind him to get in touch with you. He forgets easily.

I don’t think he’ll ever forget you easily, said Ulric. With this he gave his thighs a thumping wallop and broke into a sheepish grin. That wasn’t a very tactful remark, was it? But I’m sure you know what I mean, and he put his hand over Mona’s and squeezed it gently.

I’ll take care that he doesn’t forget me, said Mona lightly. I suppose you never thought we would last this long, did you?

To tell the truth, I didn’t, said Ulric. But now that I know you, know how much you mean to each other, I understand.

Why don’t we get out of here? I said. Why not come over to our place? We could put you up for the night, if you like. O’Mara won’t be home to-night.

All right, said Ulric, I’ll take you up. I can afford to take a day or two off. I’ll ask the patron to give us a bottle or two … What would you like?

When we threw on the lights in the apartment Ulric stood a moment at the threshold taking it in appraisingly. It sure looks beautiful, he said, almost wistfully. I hope you can keep it for a long time. He walked over to my work table and studied the disarray. It’s always interesting to see how a writer arranges his things, he said musingly. You can feel the ideas bubbling from the papers. It all seems so intense. You know—and he put an arm around my shoulder—I often think of you when I’m working. I see you huddled over the machine, your fingers racing like mad. There’s always a marvelous look of concentration on your face. You had that even as a boy—I suppose you don’t remember that. Yeah, yeah! Golly, it’s funny how things turn out. I have a job, sometimes, to make myself believe that this writer I know is also my friend, and a very old friend. There’s something about you, Henry—and that’s what I was trying to get at in the restaurant—something legendary, I might say, if that doesn’t seem too big a word. You understand me, o don’t you? His voice was a pitch lower now, extremely suave and mellow, honeyed, in fact. But sincere. Devastatingly sincere. His eyes were moist with affection; he was drooling at the mouth. I had to shut off the current or we would all be in tears.

When I came back from the bathroom he and Mona were talking earnestly. He still had his hat and coat on. In his hands was a long sheet of paper with fantastic words which I kept by my side in case of need. Evidently he had been pumping Mona about my work habits. Writing was an art which intrigued him enormously. He was amazed, apparently, to see how much I had written since we last met. Lovingly he fingered the books which were stacked up on the writing table. You don’t mind? he said, glancing at a few notes lying beside the books. I didn’t mind in the least, of course. I would have opened my skin to let him peer inside, were I able to. It tickled me to see how much he made of each little thing. At the same time I couldn’t help thinking that here was the only friend I had who displayed a genuine interest in what I was doing. It was reverence for writing itself which he evinced—and for the man, whoever it might be, who had the guts to struggle with the medium. We might have stood there the whole night talking about those queer words I had listed, or about that little note I had made anent The Diary of a Futurist, which I was then laboring on.

So this was the man of another epoch whom my friends dubbed old-fashioned! Yes, it had indeed become old-fashioned to show such naive mystification over mere words. The men of the Middle Ages were another breed entirely. They spent hours, days, weeks, months discussing minutiae which have no reality for us. They were capable of absorption, concentration, digestion to a degree which seems to us phenomenal if not pathological. They were artists through and through. Their lives were steeped in art, as well as in blood. It was one life through and through. It was this kind of life which Ulric craved, though he despaired of ever realizing it. What he secretly hoped was that perhaps I would recapture and bequeath to others this unitive life in which everything was woven into a significant whole.

He was walking around now with glass in hand, gesticulating, making guttural sounds, smacking his lips, as if he had suddenly found himself in Paradise. What an idiot he had been to talk that way in the restaurant! Now he could see that other side of me which he had touched on so lightly before. What richness the place exuded! The very annotations in the margins of my books spoke eloquently of an activity which was foreign to him. Here was a mind seething with ideas. Here was a man who knew how to work. And he had been accusing me of wasting my time!

This cognac isn’t too bad, is it? he said, allowing himself time to pause. A little less cognac and a little more reflection—that would be the path of wisdom, for me. He made one of those typical grimaces which only he knew how to combine into a compound of abjection, adulation, flattery, vilification and triumph.

Man, how do you find time to do it all, will you tell me that? he groaned, sinking into an easy chair without spilling a drop of the precious liquid. One thing is evident, he added quickly, and that’s this: you love what you’re doing. I don’t! I ought to take the hint and change my ways … That sounds rather fatuous, I guess, doesn’t it? Go ahead, laugh; I know how ridiculous I sound at times…

I explained that I wasn’t laughing at him but with him.

It doesn’t matter one way or the other, he said. I don’t mind if you do laugh at me. You’re the one person I can count on to register real reactions. You’re not cruel, you’re honest. And I find damned little of that commodity among the fellows I associate with. But I’m not going to bore you with that old song-and-dance. Here he leaned forward to ooze forth a warm, genial smile. Perhaps this is inapropos, but I don’t mind telling you, Henry, that the only time I work with vim and vigor, with anything approaching love, is when that darkie, Lucy, poses for me. The hell of it is I can never get my end in. You know Lucy—how she lets me manipulate her and all that. She poses in the nude for me now, you know. Yeah! A wonderful piece of ass. He chortled again. It was almost a whinny. Golly, those poses that critter strikes sometimes! I wish you were there to see it. You’d die laughing. But in the end she leaves me dangling. I have to douse the old boy in cold water. It gets me down. Oh well…

He looked up at Mona, who was standing behind him, to see how she was reacting.

To his utter amazement she came out with this: Why don’t you let me pose for you sometime?

His eyes began to roll wildly. He looked from her to me and back again at her.

By Jove! he said, how is it I never thought of that before? I suppose this bird doesn’t mind?

The night wore on with reminiscence, talks of the future, plans for explorations into the night life, and ended as always with the names of the great painters ringing in our ears. Ulric’s last remark before dropping off to sleep was: I must read Freud’s essay on da Vinci soon … Or would you say it wasn’t so important after all?

The important thing now is to sleep well and wake up refreshed, I replied.

He signified his assent by giving a loud fart—quite unintentionally, of course.

A few nights later we went to dinner with the man from the candy store. We sat in a cellar on Allen Street, that dreariest of all streets, where the elevated trains thunder overhead. An Arabian friend of his ran the restaurant. The food was excellent and our host was most generous. It was a genuine pleasure to talk to the man, he was so sincere, upright, plain-spoken. He talked at length about his youth which had been one long nightmare relieved only by intermittent dreams of being able one day to get to America. He described in simple, moving language his vision of America, conceived in the ghetto of Cracow. It was the same Paradise which millions of souls have fabricated in the darkness of despair. To be sure, the East Side wasn’t exactly as he had imagined it, but life was good nevertheless. He had hopes now of moving to the country some day, perhaps to the Catskill Mountains, where he would open a resort. He mentioned a town where I had spent my vacations as a boy: a little community long since taken over by the Chosen Tribe, bearing no resemblance to the charming little village I once had known. But I could easily imagine what a haven it would be for him.

We had been talking thus for some time when he suddenly thought of something. He got up and searched his overcoat pockets. Beaming like a schoolboy, he handed Mona and myself two little packets wrapped in tissue paper. They were little gifts, he explained, in appreciation of the way we had worked to make the candy business a success. We opened them at once. For Mona there was a beautiful wrist watch, for myself a fountain pen of the finest make. He thought they would be useful.

Then he proceeded to tell us of his plans for our future. We were to continue working just as we had been for a while and, if we trusted him sufficiently, we were to leave with him each week a portion of our earnings, so that he could lay something aside for us. He knew that we were incapable of saving a penny. He wanted very much to set us up in business, rent a little office somewhere and have people work for us. He was certain we would make a go of it. One should always start from the bottom, he thought, and use cash instead of borrowing, as Americans do. He took out his bank book and showed us his deposits. There was over twelve thousand dollars to his credit. After selling the store there would be another five to ten thousand dollars. If we did well, perhaps he would sell his store to us.

Again we were at a loss how to disillusion him. I intimated gently, very gently, that we might have other plans for the future, but seeing the look on his face I quickly dropped the subject. Yes, we would carry on. We would become the candy kings of Second Avenue.

Maybe we would move to the country too, help him run his resort in Livingston Manor. Yes, we would probably soon have children too. It was time to be getting serious. As for the writing, after we had built up a good business it would be time enough to think of that. Hadn’t Tolstoy retired to write only late in life? I nodded agreement rather than disappoint him. Then, in dead earnest, he asked if I didn’t think it would be a good idea to write up his life—how he rose from a worker in the marble quarries to the owner of a big resort. I said I thought it an excellent theme; we would talk it over when the time was ripe.

Anyway, we were hooked. For the life of me I couldn’t run out on the man. He was just too damned decent. Besides, Cromwell had yet to give the final word about that column. (He wouldn’t be in town again for a few weeks.) Why not stagger along in the candy business until then? As for Mona, she thought it would do no harm to try out the real estate business in the day time. Mathias was only too eager to advance her money on account until she made her first sale.

Despite all our good intentions the candy business was doomed. Mona could scarcely sell a box or two of an evening. I had taken to accompanying her again, waiting outside the joints with the two valises and myself with Elie Faure. (By now my blood was so saturated with the History of Art that I could close my eyes at will any time and recite whole passages, embroidering them with fantastic elaborations of my own.) Sheldon had mysteriously vanished, O’Mara had left for the South, and Osiecki was still in Canada. A dreary stretch. Tired of the Village and the East Side, we tried our luck uptown. It wasn’t the same old Broadway that George M. Cohan sang of. It was a noisy, rowdy, hostile atmosphere breeding nasty encounters, threats, insults, scorn, contempt and humiliation. All during this period I had a frightful case of the piles. I can see myself now all over again as I hung by the arms from a high picket railing opposite the Lido, thinking to ease the pain by lifting the weight off my feet. The last visit to the Lido ended with an attempt by the manager, an ex-pugilist, to lock Mona in his office and rape her. Good old Broadway!

It was high time to quit the racket. Instead of accumulating a little nest-egg we now owed our patron money. In addition I owed Maude a good sum for the home-made candy I had induced her to make for us. Poor Maude had entered into it with a will, thinking it would help us to meet the alimony bill.

In fact, everything was going screwy. Instead of getting up at noon we would lie abed till four or five in the afternoon. Mathias couldn’t understand what had come over Mona. Everything was set for her to make a killing, but she was letting it all drift through her hands.

Sometimes amusing things happened, such as a sudden attack of hiccoughs which lasted three days and finally forced us to summon a doctor. The moment I lifted up my shirt and felt the man’s cold finger on my abdomen I stopped hiccoughing. I felt a little ashamed of myself for having made him come all the way from the Bronx. He pretended to be delighted, probably because he discovered that we could play chess. He made no bones about the fact that when he wasn’t busy performing abortions he was playing chess. A strange individual, and highly sensitive. Wouldn’t think of taking money from us. Insisted on lending us some. We were to call on him whenever we were in a jam, whether for money of for an abortion. He promised that the next time he called he would bring me one of Sholem Aleichem’s books. (At this period I hadn’t heard of Moishe Nadir, else I would have asked him to lend me My Life as an Echo.)

I couldn’t help remarking, after he left, how typical it was of Jewish physicians to behave thus. Never had a Jewish doctor pressed me to pay my bill.

Never had I met one who was not interested in the arts and sciences. Nearly all of them were musicians, painters or writers on the side. What’s more, they all held out the hand of friendship. How different from the run of Gentile physicians! For the life of me I couldn’t think of one Gentile doctor of my acquaintance who had the least interest in art, not one who was anything but the medico.

How do you explain it? I demanded.

The Jews are always human, said Mona.

You said it. They make you feel good even if you’re dying.

A week or so later, in urgent need of fifty dollars, I suddenly thought of my dentist, also of the Chosen Tribe. In my usual roundabout way, I decided to go to the 23rd Street office, where old man Creighton was working as a night messenger, and dispatch him to my friend with a note. I explained to Mona, on the way to the telegraph office, the peculiar tie which existed between this night messenger and myself. I reminded her of how he had come to our rescue that night at Jimmy Kelly’s place.

At the office we had to wait a while—Creighton was out on a route. I chinned a bit with the night manager, one of those reformed crooks whom O’Rourke had in hand. Finally Creighton appeared. He was surprised to see me with my wife. In his tactful way he behaved as if he had never met her before.

I told the night clerk I would be keeping Creighton for an hour or two. Outside I called a cab, intending to ride over to Brooklyn with him and wait at the corner until he had made the touch for me. We started rolling. Leisurely I explained the nature of our errand.

But it isn’t necessary to do that! he exclaimed. I have a little money put aside. It would be a pleasure, Mr. Miller, to lend you a hundred, or even two hundred, if that will help you out.

I demurred at first but finally gave in.

I’ll bring it to you the first thing in the morning, said Creighton. He drove all the way home with us, chatted a while at the door, then headed for the subway. We had compromised on a hundred and fifty dollars.

The next morning, bright and early, Creighton showed up. You needn’t be in a hurry to pay it back, he said. I thanked him warmly and urged him to have dinner with us some evening. He promised to come on his next night off.

The following day there was a headline in the newspaper to the effect that our friend Creighton had set fire to the house he lived in and had been burned to death. No ‘explanation for his gruesome behavior was offered.

Well, that was one little sum we would never have to return. It was my custom to keep a little notebook in which I recorded the sums we had borrowed. That is, those I knew about. To ascertain what Mona owed her cavaliers was practically impossible. However, I had firm intentions of paying the debts I had contracted. Compared to hers, mine were trifling. Even so, it made a staggering list. Many of the items were for five dollars or less. These little sums, however, were the important ones, in my eyes. They had been given me by people who could ill afford to part with a dime. For example, that measly three and a half which had been lent me by Savardekar, one of my ex-night messengers. Such a frail, delicate creature. Used to live on a handful of rice per day. He was undoubtedly back in India now, preparing for sainthood. Most likely he no longer had need of that three-fifty. Just the same, it would have done me good, infinite good, to be able to send it to him. Even a saint has need of money occasionally.

As I sat there ruminating, it occurred to me that at one time or another almost every Hindu I had known had lent me money. Always touching little sums extracted from battered-looking purses. There was one item, I noticed, for four dollars and seventy-five cents. Due Ali Khan, a Parsee, who had the habit of writing me extraordinary letters, giving his observations of conditions in the telegraph business as well as his impressions of the municipality in general. He had a beautiful hand and used a pompous language. If it was not Christ’s teachings, or the sayings of the Buddha, which he quoted (for my edification), it was a matter of fact suggestion that I write the Mayor and order him to have the street numbers on all houses illuminated at night. It would make it easier for night messengers to find street addresses, he thought.

To the credit of one, Al Jolson, as we called him, there was a total of sixteen dollars. I had fallen into the bad habit of touching him for a buck every time I ran into him on the street. I did it primarily because it made him so intensely happy to accommodate me with this little offering each time we met. The penalty I had to pay was to stand and listen to him while he hummed a new tune he had composed. Over a hundred of his ditties were floating around among the publishers of Tin Pan Alley. Now and then, on amateur nights, he appeared before the footlights in some neighborhood theatre. His favorite song was Avalon, which he would sing straight or in falsetto, as you wished. Once, when I was entertaining a friend of mine—in Little Hungary—I had to call for a messenger to bring me some cash. It was Al Jolson who brought it. Thoughtlessly I invited him to sit down and have a drink with us. After a few words he asked if he might try out one of his songs. I thought he meant that he would hum it to us, but no, before I could stop him he was on his feet in the center of the floor, his cap in one hand and a glass in the other, singing at the top of his lungs. The patrons of course were highly amused. The song over, he went from table to table with cap in hand soliciting coins. Then he sat down and offered to buy us drinks. Finding this impossible, he slyly slipped me a couple of bills under the table. Your percentage, he whispered.

The man I already owed a considerable sum to was my Uncle Dave. Several hundred dollars it was, to be augmented as time went on. This Dave Leonard had married my father’s sister. He had been a baker for years and then, after losing two fingers, had decided to try something else. Though a born American, a Yankee to boot, he had had no education whatever. He couldn’t even write his own name. But what a man! What a heart! I used to lie in wait for Dave outside the Ziegfeld Follies Theatre. He had become a ticket speculator, a racket that netted him several hundred a week—and without much fuss or bother. If he wasn’t at the Follies he was at the Hippodrome or at the Met. As I say, I used to hang around outside these places, waiting to catch him during a lull. Dave had only to see me coming and his hand would be in his pocket, ready to flash the roll. It was an enormous wad he carried on him. He’d peel off fifty for me just as easily as ten. Never batted an eye. never asked me what I needed the money for. See me any time, he’d say, you know where to find me. Or else: Stick around a while and we’ll have a bite to eat.

Or—Would you like to see the show to-night? I’ll have a ticket up front for you, it’s an off night.

A regal guy, Dave. I used to bless his soul every time I parted from him … When I told him one day that I was writing he became thoroughly excited. To Dave it was like saying—I’m going to become a magician! His reverence for language was typical of the illiterate man. But there was more than this behind his enthusiasm. Dave understood me, understood that I was different from the rest of the family, and he approved of it. He reminded me touchingly of how I used to play the piano, what an artist I was. His daughter whom I had given lessons to, was now an accomplished pianist. He was stunned to learn that I no longer played. If I wanted a piano he would get me one—he knew where to pick one up cheap. Just say the word, Henry! And then he would cross-examine me about the art of writing. Did one have to think it all out beforehand or did one just make it up as one went along? Of course, one had to be a good speller, he supposed. And one had to keep up with newspapers, eh? It was his idea that a writer had to be thoroughly informed—about everything under the sun. But the thought he loved to dwell on most was that one day he would see my name in print, either in a newspaper, a magazine, or on a book cover. I suppose it’s hard to write a book, he would muse. It must be hard to remember what you wrote a week ago, no? And all those characters! What do you do, keep a list of them in front of you? And then he would ask my opinion of certain writers he had heard about. Or of some famous columnist who was rolling in money. That’s the thing, Henry … if you could only be a columnist, or a correspondent. Anyway, he was wishing me well. He was sure I’d make the grade. I had a lot on the ball, and so forth. You’re sure now that that’s enough? (Referring to the bill he had handed me.) Well, if you run short come back to-morrow. I’m not worrying about it, you know. And then, as an afterthought—Listen, can you spare a moment? I want you to meet one of my pals. He’s dying to shake hands with you. He used to work on a newspaper once.

Thinking about Dave and his utter goodness it came to me that I hadn’t seen my cousin Gene for a long long time. All I knew about him was that he had moved from Yorkville some years ago and was now living on Long Island with his two sons who were growing up.

I wrote him a post-card, saying I’d like to see him again, and asked where we might meet. He wrote back immediately, suggesting an elevated station near the end of the line.

I had fully intended to take with me a good package of groceries and some wine, but the best I could do on setting out to meet him was to rake up a little change, just about enough to get there and back. If he’s working, thought I to myself, he can’t be so terribly hard up. At the last minute I tried to borrow a dollar from the blind newspaperman at Borough Hall, but in vain.

It was something of a shock I experienced when I saw Gene standing on the platform with his little lunch box in his hand. His hair had already turned gray. He wore a pair of patched trousers, a thick sweater, and a peak cap. His smile, however, was radiant, his handclasp warm. In greeting me his voice trembled. It was still that deep, warm voice which he had even as a boy.

We stood there gazing into each other’s eyes for a minute or two. Then he said, in that old Yorkville accent: You look fine. Henry.

You look good yourself, said I, only a little thinner.

I’m getting old, said Gene, and he removed his cap to show me how bald he was getting.

Nonsense, I said, you’re only in your thirties. Why, you’re still a youngster.

No, he replied, I’ve lost my pep. I’ve had a hard time of it, Henry.

That’s how it began. I realized at once that he was telling me the truth. He was always candid, frank, sincere.

We marched down the elevated stairs into the middle of nowhere. Such a God-forsaken spot it was; something told me it would become more so as we journeyed onward.

I got it slowly, piecemeal, more and more heartrending as the story progressed. To begin with, he was only working two or three days a week. Nobody wanted beautiful pipe cases any more. It was his father who had found a place for him in the factory. (Ages ago, it seemed.) His father hadn’t believed in wasting time getting an education. I didn’t need to be reminded of what a boor his father was: always sitting around in his red flannel undershirt, winter or summer, with a can of beer in front of him. One of those thick Germans who would never change.

Gene had married, two children had been born, and then, while the kids were still little tots, his wife had died of cancer, a painful, lingering death. He had used up all his savings and gone deep into debt. They had only been in the country, as he called it, a few months when his wife died. It was just at this time that they laid him off at the factory. He had tried raising tropical fish but it was no go. The trouble was that he had to find work he could do at home because there was no one to look after the kids. He did the cooking, the washing, the mending, the ironing, everything. He was alone, terribly alone. He never got over the loss of his wife whom he had loved dearly.

All this as we wended our way to his house. He hadn’t yet asked me a thing about myself, so absorbed was he in the narration of his miseries. When we got off the bus, finally, there was a long walk through dingy suburban streets to what looked like a vacant lot, at the very end of which stood his little shack, shabby, woebegone, exactly like the dwellings of the poor white in the deep South. A few flowers were struggling desperately to maintain life outside the front door. They looked pathetic. We walked in and were greeted by his sons, two good-looking youngsters who seemed somewhat undernourished. Quiet, grave lads, strangely sombre and reserved. I had never seen them before.

I felt more than ever ashamed of myself for not bringing something.

I felt I had to say something to clear myself.

You don’t have to tell me, said Gene. I know what it’s like.

But we’re not always broke I said. Listen, I’m going to come soon again, very soon, I promise you. And I’ll bring my wife along next time.

Don’t talk about it, said Gene. I’m so glad you came. We have some lentil soup on the stove, and we have some bread. We won’t go hungry.

He began again—about the days when they didn’t have a crumb to eat, when he had grown so desperate that he had gone to his neighbors and begged for a little food—just for the children.

But Dave would have helped you, I’m sure, I said. Why didn’t you ask him for money?

He looked pained. You know how it is. You don’t like to borrow from your relatives.

But Dave isn’t just a relative.

I know, Henry, but I don’t like to ask for help. I’d rather starve. If it weren’t for the kids I guess I would have starved.

While we were talking the kids had slipped out, to return in a few minutes with some cabbage leaves, celery and radishes.

You shouldn’t have done that, said Gene, admonishing them gently.

What did they do? I asked.

Oh, they filched those things from a neighbor of ours who’s away.

Good for them! I said. Damn it, Gene, they’ve got the right idea. Listen, you’re too modest, or too proud, I don’t know which. I apologized at once. How could I berate him for his simple virtues? He was the essence of kindness, gentleness, true humility. Every word he uttered had a golden ring. He never blamed anybody, nor life either. He spoke as if it were all an accident, part of his private destiny, and not to be questioned.

Maybe they could dig up a little wine too, ‘I said, half in joke, half in earnest.

I forgot all about that, said Gene blushingly. We’ve got a little wine in the cellar. It’s home made wine … elderberry … can you drink it? I’ve been saving it for just such an occasion.

The boys had already slipped downstairs. They were becoming more expansive with each sally. They’re fine boys, Gene, I said. What are they going to do when they grow up?

They won’t go into the factory, that’s one thing I know. I’m going to try to send them to college. I think it’s important to have a good education. Little Arthur, the youngest one, he wants to become a doctor. The big fellow is a wild one; he wants to go West and become a cow-boy. But he’ll get over that soon, I guess. They read these silly Westerns, you know.

Suddenly it occurred to him to ask if I didn’t have a child.

That was by my other wife, I said. A girl.

He was amazed to learn that I had re-married. Divorce, apparently, was something which never entered his head.

Does your wife work too? he asked.

In a way, I said. I didn’t know quite how to explain the complexities of our life in a few words.

I suppose, he said next, you’re still in the cement company.

The cement company! I nearly fell off the chair.

Why no, Gene, I said, I’m a writer now. Didn’t you know that?

A writer? It was his turn to be astonished. His face lit up with pleasure. It doesn’t really surprise me, though, he said. I remember how you used to read to us kids in the old days. We always fell asleep on you, remember? He paused to reflect, his head bowed, then looked up and remarked: Of course you had a good education too, didn’t you? He said it as if he had been an immigrant boy who had been denied the usual privileges of an American.

I tried to explain that I hadn’t gone very far in school, that we were practically in the same boat. In the middle of it I suddenly asked if he ever read any more.

Oh yes, he answered brightly. I read quite a little. Nothing much else to do, you know. He pointed to the shelf in back of me where his books were lodged. I turned round to glance at the titles: Dickens, Scott, Thackeray, the Bronte sisters, George Eliot, Balzac, Zola…

I don’t read any of the modern trash, he said, answering my unvoiced question.

We sat down to eat. The boys were ravenously hungry. Again I felt a pang of remorse. I realized that had I not been there they would have eaten twice as much. As soon as the soup was finished we tackled the greens. They had no oil, no dressing of any kind, not even mustard. The bread had given out too. I fished in my pocket and dug up a dime, all I had besides the carfare home. Let them go and get a loaf of bread, I said.

It’s not necessary, said Gene. They can go without. They’re used to it by now.

Come on! I could stand a bit more myself, couldn’t you?

But there’s no butter or jam!

What’s the difference? We’ll eat it plain. I’ve done that before.

The kids ducked out to get the bread.

Jesus, I said, you really are down to nothing, aren’t you?

This isn’t bad, Henry, he said. For a time, you know, we lived on weeds.

No, don’t tell me that! It’s preposterous. I was almost angry with him. Don’t you know, I said, that you don’t have to starve? This country is lousy with food. Gene, I’d go out and beg before I’d eat weeds. Damn it, I never heard of such a thing.

It’s different with you, said Gene. You’ve knocked around. You’ve been out in the world. I haven’t. I’ve lived like a squirrel in a cage … Except for that time I worked on the garbage scow.

What? The garbage scow? What do you mean by that?

I mean just that, said Gene calmly. Hauling garbage to Barren Island. It was when my kids were living with my wife’s parents for a time. I had the chance to do something different for a change … You remember Mr. Kiesling, the alderman, don’t you? He got me the job. I enjoyed it too—while it lasted. Of course the smell was frightful, but you can get used to anything after a while. It paid eighty dollars a month, about twice what I earned in the pipe factory. It was fun too, sailing out into the bay, around the harbor, up and down the rivers. It was the first and only chance I ever had to get out into the world. Once we got lost at sea, during a storm. We drifted around for days. The worst of it was that we ran out of food. Yeah, we were forced to eat garbage. It was quite a wonderful experience. I must say I enjoyed it. Far better than being in a pipe factory. Even if there was a terrible stench…

He paused a moment to savor it anew. His best days! Then suddenly he asked me if I had ever read Conrad, Joseph Conrad, who wrote about the sea.

I nodded my head.

There’s a writer I admire, Henry. If you could ever write a story like him, well … He didn’t know what to add to this. My favorite is The Nigger of the Narcissus. I must have read it at least ten times. Each time it seems better to me.

Yes, I know. I’ve read nearly all of Conrad. I agree with you, a wonderful writer … How about Dostoievsky, have you ever read him?

No, he hadn’t. Never heard the name before. What was he, a novelist? Sounded like a Polish name to him.

I’ll send you one of his books, I said. It’s called The House of the Dead. By the way, I added, I have loads of books. I could send you anything you like, as many as you like. Just tell me what you’d enjoy.

He said not to bother, he liked reading the same books over and over.

But wouldn’t you care to know something about other writers too?

He didn’t think he had the energy to get interested in new writers. But his son, the big lad, he liked to read. Maybe I could send him something. What sort of books does he read?

He likes the moderns.

Like whom?

Oh, Hall Caine, Rider Haggard, Henty…

I see. Sure, I said, I can send him something interesting.

Now the little fellow, said Gene, he hardly reads at all. He’s up on science. All he looks at are the scientific magazines. I think he’s cut out to be a doctor. You should see the laboratory he’s rigged up for himself. He’s got everything in there, all cut up and bottled. It stinks in there. But if it makes him happy…

Exactly, Gene. If it makes him happy. I stayed on until the last bus. Walking down the dark, mangy street we hardly exchanged a word. As I shook hands with them all I repeated that I would be back soon. We’ll have a feast next time, eh kids?

Don’t think of that, Henry, said Gene. Just come … and bring your wife along too.

The ride home seemed interminable. I not only felt sad, I felt morose, despondent, licked. I couldn’t wait to get home and switch on the lights. Once inside the Love Nest I would feel secure again. Never had it seemed more like a cosy womb, our wonderful little apartment. Truly, we lacked for nothing. If now and then we were hungry we knew it wouldn’t last forever. We had friends—and we had the gift of speech. We knew how to forage. As for the world, the real world was right inside our four walls. Everything we wanted of the world we managed to drag to our lair. It’s true, now and then I grew sensitive, or shy, when it came to making a touch of some one, but these moments were rare. In a pinch I could muster the courage to tackle an utter stranger. Certainly it was necessary to swallow one’s pride. But I preferred to swallow my pride rather than my own spittle.

Borough Hall never looked better to me than when I stepped out of the subway. I was already home. The passers-by wore a familiar air. They were not lost. Between the world I had just left and this one the difference was unthinkable. It was only the outskirts of the city, really, where Gene lived—but it was the wilderness to me. I shuddered to think that I might ever be condemned to such an existence.

An imperative desire to roam the streets for a while led me instinctively to Sackett Street. Filled with memories of my old friend, Al Burger, I walked past his house. It looked sadly dilapidated. The entire street, houses and all, seemed to have diminished since my last visit. Everything was shrunk and shriveled. Despite all, it was still a wonderful street to me. The Via Nostalgia.

As for the suburbs, so sinister and forlorn—every one I knew who had gone to live in the suburbs had given up the ghost. The current of life never bathed these purlieus. There could be only one purpose in retiring to these living catacombs: to breed and wither away. If it were an act of renunciation it would be comprehensible, but it was never that. It was always an admission of defeat. Life became routine, the dullest sort of routine. A humdrum job, a family with a big bosom to slink into, the barnyard pets and their diseases, the slick magazines, the comic sheet, the farmer’s almanac. Endless time in which to study oneself in the mirror. One after another, regular as the noon-day sun, the brats fell out of the womb. The rent came due regularly, too, or the interest on the mortgage. How pleasant to watch the new sewer pipes being laid! How thrilling to see new streets opening up and finally covered with asphalt! Everything was new. New and shoddy. New and desolate. New and meaningless. With the new came added comforts. Everything was planned for the coming generation. One was mortgaged to the shining future. A trip to the city and one longed to be back in the neat little bungalow with the lawn-mower and the washing machine. The city was disturbing, confusing, oppressive. One acquired a different rhythm living in the suburbs. What matter if one was not au courant? There were compensations—such as warm house-slippers, the radio, the ironing board which sprang out of the wall. Even the plumbing was attractive.

Poor Gene, of course, had no such compensations. He had fresh air, and that was about all. True, his was not quite the suburbs. He was marooned in that in-between area, that no-man’s land where one kept body and soul together in some hapless way which defied all logic. The ever-expanding city was always threatening to gobble him up, land and all. Or, the tide might recede for some quixotic reason and leave them high and dry. Sometimes a city starts to move outward in a certain direction, then suddenly changes its mind. Any improvements begun are left unfinished. The little community begins slowly to die, for lack of oxygen. Everything deteriorates and depreciates. In this atmosphere one may just as well read the same books—or the same book—over and over again. Or play the same phonograph record. In a vacuum one has no need of new things, nor of excitement, nor of foreign stimuli. One has only to maintain a bare survival, to vegetate, like a foetus in a jar.

I couldn’t sleep that night for thinking of Gene. His plight was all the more disturbing to me for the reason that I had always regarded him as my twin brother. In him I always saw myself. We looked alike and we spoke alike. We had been born almost in the same house. His mother could well have been my mother: certainly I preferred her to my own. When he winced with pain, I winced. When he expressed a longing to do something, I felt the same longing. We were like a team in harness. I don’t remember ever disputing with him, ever crossing him, ever insisting on doing something he did not want to do. What he owned was mine, and vice versa. Between us there was never the least jealousy or rivalry. We were one, body and soul … I saw in him now not the caricature of myself but rather a premonition of what was to come. If Fate could treat him so unkindly—my own brother who had never done any one any harm—what might it not have in store for me? The good that was in me was the overflow of his own bottomless well of goodness; the bad was my very own. The bad had accumulated as the result of our separation. When we parted ways I had lost that echo which I depended on for self-orientation. I had lost my touchstone.

All this was slowly dawning on me as I lay awake in bed. Never before had I entertained such thought about our relationship. But how clear it seemed to me now! I had lost my true brother. I had gone astray. I had willed myself to be other than him. And why? Because I would not go down before the world. I had pride. I simply would not admit defeat. But what did I want to give? I doubt if I ever thought of that, that there was something to give the world as well as to take from it. Boasting to every one that I was now a writer, as if that were the end-all and the be-all of existence. What a farce! I regretted that I had not lied to Gene. I should have told him I was a clerk in an office, a bank teller, anything but that I was a writer. It was like giving him a slap in the face.

How strange that years later his son—the wild one, as he called him—should come to me with his manuscripts and ask my advice. Had I set off a spark that night which inflamed the son? As the father had predicted, the boy had gone West, had led the life of an adventurer, had become a hobo, in fact, and then, like the prodigal son, he had returned, had taken up this weird business of writing in order to earn a living. I had given him what help I could, had urged him to stop writing for the magazines and do something serious. An then I never heard from him again. Now and then, when I pick up a magazine, I look for his name. Why don’t I write him a letter? I might at least inquire if his father is still alive. Perhaps I don’t want to know what became of my cousin Gene. Perhaps it would frighten me, even to-day, to know the truth.

6

I decided that I would start writing the daily column without waiting for Alan Cromwell’s O.K. To write something new and interesting each day, and keep it within the spatial limits allotted, demanded a bit of practise. I thought it well to be a few columns ahead; if Cromwell kept his word I would already be in the groove. In order to determine which had the most appeal, I tried out a variety of styles. I knew there would be days when I would be incapable of writing a word. I wasn’t going to be caught napping.

Meanwhile Mona had taken a temporary job as hostess in one of the Village night clubs—Remo’s. Mathias, the real estate operator, wasn’t quite ready to launch her. Why, I couldn’t discover. It might be, of course, that she had first to cool him off a bit. Sometimes these admirers of hers became too impetuous, wanted to marry her without delay. So she maintained.

Anyway, the job was rather in line with her temperament and previous experience. She danced as little as possible. The important thing was to make the victims drink as much as possible. The hostesses always got a percentage of the drink-money, if nothing more.

It wasn’t long before young Corsi, who had a celebrated establishment of his own in the Village—one of the landmarks—fell violently in love with her. He would drop in towards closing time and escort her to his place. There they drank nothing but champagne. Towards daybreak he would have his chauffeur drive her home in his beautiful limousine.

Corsi was one of the impetuous ones who was set on marrying her. He had dreams of spiriting her away to Capri or Sorrento, where they would adopt a new mode of life. Evidently he was doing his utmost to persuade Mona to quit Remo’s. So was I, as a matter of fact. I sometimes whiled away an idle hour wondering how it would look to see his reasoning and mine side by side. And her replies.

Well, Cromwell was due in town any day. With his arrival perhaps she’d take a different view of things. At any rate, she had intimated in an off moment that she might.

More disquieting to me, however, than young Corsi’s violent attempts to woo her were the annoyances she was subject to at the hands of certain notorious Lesbians in the Village. Apparently they came to Remo’s expressly to work on her, buying drinks just as liberally as the men. Corsi too was incensed, I learned. In desperation he begged her—if she must work—to work for him. This failing, he tried another tack. He tried to make her drunk each night, assuming that that would make her grow disgusted with her job. But this too failed to work.

The reason nothing would budge her, I finally learned, was because she had taken a fancy to one of the dancers, a Cherokee girl who was in bad straits—and pregnant to boot. Too decent, too frank and outspoken, the girl would have been fired long ago had she not been the main attraction. Every night, it seems, people dropped in ‘just to seen her do her number. The number always ended with the split. How long she could continue to do the split, without dropping the child, was a grave question.

A few nights after Mona had confided the situation to me the girl fainted on the floor. They carried her from the dance floor to the hospital, where she had a premature birth, the child being born dead. Her condition was so critical that she was obliged to remain in the hospital several weeks. Then an unexpected event occurred. The day she was to be released she was taken with such a fit of despondency that she jumped from, the window and killed herself.

After this tragic incident Mona couldn’t look at Remo’s. For a while she made no attempt to do anything. To make her feel easier, also to prove to her that I could do a little gold-digging myself when I had a mind to, I sallied forth each day to make a few touches here and there. It wasn’t that we were desperate; I did it to get my hand in, and—to convince her that if we really had to carry on like sharks I was almost as good at it as she. Naturally, I tackled the sure-fire ones first. My cousin, the one who owned my beautiful racing wheel, was number one on my list. I got a ten spot from him. He handed it to me grudgingly, not because he was a tight-wad but because he disapproved of borrowing and lending. When I inquired about the bike he informed me that he had never ridden it, that he had sold it to a chum of his, a Syrian. I went immediately to the Syrian’s home—it was only a few blocks away—and made such an impression on him, talking about bike races, prize fights, football and so on, that when we parted he slipped me a ten dollar bill. He even urged me to bring my wife some night and have dinner with the family.

From Zabrowskie, my old friend the ticker-tapper at the telegraph office near Times Square, I got another ten spot and a new hat. An excellent lunch too. The usual conversation, of course. All about the horses, about working too hard, about looking out for a rainy day. Eager to have me promise that I would accompany him some night when there was a good fight on.

When I finally let out that I expected to write a column for the Hearst papers he looked at me goggle-eyed. As I say, he had already given me the ten spot. Now he began talking in earnest. I was to remember, if I needed any more between now and then—then meaning when I was in full swing as a columnist—I was to call on him. Maybe you’d better take twenty instead of ten, he said. I handed him back the bill and received a twenty. At the corner we had to stop at a cigar store where he filled my breast pocket with fat cigars. It was then he noticed that the last hat he had bought for me looked rather seedy. We stopped at a haberdasher’s, on the way back to the telegraph office, where he bought me another hat, a Borsalino no less. One has to look right, he counseled. Never let them know you’re poor. He looked so happy when we parted you would have thought I was the one who had done the favors. Don’t forget! was his last shot, and he rattled the keys in his trousers pocket.

I felt pretty good with forty dollars in my pocket. It was a Saturday and I thought I might just as well keep up the good work. Maybe I’d bump into an old friend and shake down some more jack—just like that. Running my hands through my pockets, I realized I didn’t have any small change on me. I didn’t want to break a bill—a clean forty bucks or nothing.

I said I had nothing in change; I was mistaken, for in my vest pocket I found two ancient-looking pennies, white pennies. Had probably kept them for good luck.

Up on Park Avenue I came upon the showrooms of the Minerva Motor Company. A handsome car, the Minerva. Almost as good as the Rolls-Royce. I wondered if by chance my old friend Otto Kunst, who had once been a bookkeeper for them, was still there. Hadn’t seen Otto for years—almost since the dissolution of our old club.

I stepped inside the swanky showroom and there was Otto, as sombre and sedate as an undertaker. He was sales manager now. Smoking Murads, as of yore. Had a couple of good-looking rocks on his fingers too.

He was glad to see me again, but in that restrained way which always irritated me.

You’re sitting pretty, I said.

And what are you doing? He flung this at me as if to say—what is it this time?

I told him I was taking over a column for a newspaper shortly.

Well! He arched his eyebrows. Hmmm!

I thought I might just as well try him for a ten spot—to make it an even fifty. After all, sales manager, old friend … Why not?

I got a curt refusal. Didn’t even bother to explain why he couldn’t. It was out of the question, that was all. Impossible. I knew it was useless to prod him but I did, just to irritate him. Damn it, even though I didn’t need o it, he had no right to refuse. He should do it for old time’s sake. Otto twiddled his watch chain as he listened. Cool as a cucumber, mind you. No embarrassment whatever. No sympathy either.

God, you’re a tightwad! I concluded.

He smiled unperturbedly. I never ask a favor and I never give any, he responded blandly. Smug as a bug in a rug, he was. As though he’d always be a sales manager—or something even more important. Didn’t think, did he, that only a few years later he’d be trying to sell apples on Fifth Avenue. (Even millionaires couldn’t afford Minervas during the depression.)

Well, forget about it, I said. The truth is, I’ve got a wad on me. I was just testing you out. I hauled out the bills and flashed them before his eyes.. He looked puzzled, then frowned. Before he could say a word I added, as I extracted the two white pennies: What I really dropped in for was to ask you a favor. Could you lend me three cents to make up the nickel for the subway? I’ll pay you back the next time I

pass this way.

His face brightened immediately. I could almost feel the sigh of relief he let drop.

Sure I can do that, he said. And rather solemnly he fished out three pennies.

It’s mighty white of you, I said, and shook his hand with extra fervor, as if I were indeed grateful.

It’s nothing, he said, quite seriously, and you don’t need to give it back.

You’re sure? I said. At last he began to realize I was rubbing it in.

I can always lend you a few pennies, he said sourly, but not ten bucks. Money doesn’t grow on trees, you know. When I sell a man a car I sweat for it. Besides, I haven’t sold a car now for over two months.

That’s really tough, isn’t it? You know, you almost make me feel sorry for you. Well, remember me to the wife and kids.

He ushered me to the door the way he would a customer. Drop in again some time, he said, as we parted.

Next time I’ll buy a car—just the chassis.

He gave me a mirthless grin. As I walked towards the subway I cursed him up and down for a mean, stingy, heartless son of a bitch. And to think we had been bosom pals when we were boys! I couldn’t get over it. The strange thing was, I couldn’t help but reflect, that he had grown to be like his old man whom he had always detested. A mean, stingy, hard-hearted, pigheaded old Dutchman! he used to call him.

Well, that was one friend I could wipe off my list. I did then and there, and with such a will that years later, when we encountered one another on Fifth Avenue, I was unable to recall who he was. I took him for a detective, no less! I can hear him now repeating asininely: What, you don’t remember me?

No, I don’t, I said. Really, I don’t. Who are you?

The poor bugger had to give his name before I could place him.

Otto Kunst had been my closest chum in that street of early sorrows. After I left America the only boys I ever thought of were the ones I had had the least to do with. For example—the group that lived in the old farm house up the street. This was the only house in the whole wide neighborhood which had seen other days, days when our street had been a country lane named after a Dutch settler, Van Voorhees. Anyway, in this ramshackle, tumble-down habitation lived three families. The Vosslers, made up exclusively of oafs and curmudgeons, dealt in coal, wood, ice and manure; the Laskis comprised a father who was a pharmacist, two brothers who were pugilists, and a grown-up daughter who was just a chunk of beef; the Newton family consisted of a mother, and a son whom I seldom spoke to but for whom I had a singular reverence. Ed Vossler, who was about my own age, strong as an ox and slightly demented, had a hare lip and stuttered woefully. We never had any prolonged conversations but we were friends, if not chums. Ed worked from morning till night; it was hard work, too, and because of this he seemed older than the rest of us who did nothing but play after school. As a boy I never thought of him except as a walking utility; we had only to offer him a few cents and he would perform the tasks we despised. We teased him a good deal, as boys will. It was when I got to Europe, curiously enough, that I found myself thinking occasionally about this queer oaf, Ed Vossler. I must say I always thought of him with affection. I had learned by this time how almost microscopic is that world of mortals of whom one can say: He’s a man you can count on. Now and then I sent him a picture post-card but of course I never heard from him. For all I knew he may have been dead.

Ed Vossler enjoyed a certain protection from his second cousins, the Laskis. Especially from Eddie Laski, who was a little older than us and a most unpleasant fellow too. His brother Tom, whom Eddie aped in every way, was rather a sweet person and already on the way to becoming a figure in the world of fisticuffs. This Tom was about twenty-two or three, quiet, well-behaved, neat in appearance, and rather handsome. He wore long spitcurls, after the manner of Terry McGovern. One would hardly have suspected that he was such a fighter had not Eddie, his brother, boasted so much about him. Now and then we had the pleasure of watching the two of them spar in the backyard where the manure pile stood.

But Eddie Laski—it was difficult to keep out of his range. As soon as he saw you coming he would block the path, his mouth spread in a wide, nasty grin which bared his big yellow teeth; pretending to shake hands he would make a few passes—like lightning!—and give you a tremendous jab in the ribs or else what he called a playful poke in the jaw. The damned fool was always practising the old one-two. It was positive torture to extricate oneself from his clothes. We were all agreed that he would never make his mark in the ring. Some day he’ll meet up with the wrong guy! That was our unanimous verdict.

Jimmy Newton, who was vaguely related to the Vosslers and the Laskis, was a complete anomaly in their midst. Nobody could have been more silent than he, nor more well-behaved, nor more sincere and genuine. What he worked at no one knew. We saw him rarely and spoke to him even more rarely. He was the sort of fellow, however, who had only to say Good morning! and you felt better. His good-morning was like a blessing. What intrigued us about him was the undefinable and ineradicable air of melancholy which he wore. It suited one who had experienced some deep, unmentionable tragedy. We suspected that his sorrow had to do with his mother whom we never saw. Was she an invalid perhaps? Was she insane? Or was she a horrible cripple? As for his father, we never knew whether he was dead or had deserted them.

To us healthy, care-free youngsters, this Laski menage was enveloped in mystery. Punctually every morning at seven-thirty the elder Mr. Laski, who was blind, left the house with his dog, tapping the way with a stout cane. This in itself had a queer effect upon us. But the house itself looked crazy. Certain windows, for example, were never opened, the shades always down. At one of the other windows sat Mollie, the Laski daughter, usually with a can of beer beside her. She was there, as in a show, from the moment the curtain rose. Having absolutely nothing to do, having no desire moreover to do anything, she simply sat there the whole day long gathering up the gossip. She had the low-down on everything that went on in the neighborhood. Now and then her figure ripened, as if she were about to have a child, but there never were any births or deaths. She simply changed with the seasons. Lazy slut that she was, we liked her. She was too lazy to even walk to the corner grocer’s; she’d flip us a quarter or half dollar from the window, which was on the street level, and tell us to keep the change. Sometimes she forgot what she had sent us for and told us to keep the damned stuff.

Old man Vossler, who also ran a trucking business, was a big brute of a man who did nothing but curse and swear when you ran into him. He could lift enormous weights with ease, whether drunk or sober. Naturally we stood in awe of him. But it made our blood curl to see the way he booted his son around—he could fairly lift him from the ground with his big toe. And the way he lashed him with the horse whip! Though we didn’t dare to play any tricks on the old man we often held prolonged conferences in the open lot at the corner as to how we might retaliate. It was disgraceful to see how Ed Vossler put his hand over his head and crouched when he saw his old man coming. In desperation once we summoned Ed to confer with us, but the moment he got the drift of our talk he ran off with his tail between his legs.

Curious how often these figures out of my boyhood reverted to memory. The ones I speak of, belonged more to that old neighborhood, the 14 th Ward, which I was so fond of. In the street of early sorrows they were anomalies. As a mere lad—in the old neighborhood—I had been accustomed to mixing with half-wits, incipient gangsters, petty crooks, would-be prize fighters, epileptics, drunks and sluts. Every one in that dear ancient world was a character. But in the new neighborhood to which I had been transferred every one was normal, matter of fact, non-spectacular. There was only one exception, apart from the members of the weird tribe inhabiting the farm house. I can no longer remember the name of this chap, but his personality is engraved in my memory. He was a newcomer to the neighborhood, somewhat older than the rest of us, and distinctly different. One day, as we were shooting marbles, I dropped an expression which made him look up in astonishment. Where do you hail from? he asked. From Driggs Avenue originally, I said. At once he was off his knees and literally hugging me. Why didn’t you tell me that before? he cried. I’m from Wythe Avenue, corner of North Seventh.

It was like two Masonic brothers exchanging pass words. At once a bond was established between us. Whatever game we played he was always on my side. If one of the older boys threatened to go for me he interposed himself. If he had anything important to confide he’d employ the jargon of the 14th Ward.

One day he introduced me to his sister, who was a trifle younger than I. It was almost love at first sight. She wasn’t so beautiful, even to my youthful eyes, but she had a way about her which I associated with the behavior of the girls I had admired in the old neighborhood.

One night a surprise party was given me. Every youngster in the neighborhood was there—except this new-found friend of mine and his little sister. I was heart-broken. When I asked why they hadn’t been invited I was told that they didn’t belong. That settled it for me. At once I sneaked out of the house and went in search of them. I quickly explained to their mother that there had been a mistake, that it was a pure oversight, and that every one was waiting for her son and daughter to appear. She patted me on the head with a knowing smile and told me what a good boy I was. She tanked me so profusely, indeed, that I blushed.

I escorted my two friends to the party in triumph, only to perceive, however, that I had made a grave blunder. On all sides they were given the cold shoulder. I did my best to dissipate the atmosphere of hostility but in vain. Finally I could bear it no longer. Either you make friends with my friends, I announced boldly, holding the latter by the arms, or you can all go home. This is my party and I want my own friends here.

For this piece of bravado I got a sound slap in the face from my mother. I winced but stood my ground.

It isn’t fair! I bellowed, almost on the point of tears now.

All at once they gave way. It was almost a miracle the way the ice broke up. In no time we were all laughing, shouting, singing. I couldn’t understand why it had happened so suddenly.

During the course of the evening the girl, whose name was Sadie, got me in a corner to express her thanks for what I had done. It was wonderful of you, Henry. she said, to which I blushed deeply. It was nothing at all, I mumbled, feeling silly and heroic at the same time. Sadie looked around to see if any one were observing us, then boldly kissed me on the lips. This time I blushed even more deeply.

My mother would like you to come for dinner some evening, she whispered. Will you come?

I squeezed her little hand and said Sure.

It was in the flats across the street where Sadie and her brother lived. I had never been inside a house on that side of the street. I wondered what their home was like. In calling for them I was too flustered to notice a thing. All I could recall was that it had a distinctly Catholic odor. Nearly all the people, incidentally, who lived in the flats—railroad flats they were—were members of the Roman Church. This was enough in itself to alienate them from the other people in the street.

The first discovery I made, on visiting my two friends, was that they were very very poor. The father, who had been a locomotive engineer, was dead; the mother, who was suffering from some grave malady, was unable to leave the house. They were Catholics all right. Devout ones. That was obvious at once. In every room, it seemed to me, there were rosaries and crucifixes, votive candles, chromos of the Madonna and Child or of Jesus on the Cross. Though I had seen these evidences of the faith in other homes, nevertheless each time it happened I got the creeps. My dislike of these sacred relics—if one could call them that—was purely and simply because of their morbidity. True, I didn’t know the word morbid then but the feeling was definitely that. When I had first glimpsed these relics in the homes of my other little friends I remember that I had mocked and jeered. It was my mother, oddly enough, my mother who despised Catholics almost as much as drunkards and criminals, who had cured me of this attitude. To make me more tolerant she would force me to go to mass occasionally with my Catholic friends.

Now, however, when I described in detail the conditions in the home of my two friends, she showed little sympathy. She repeated that she didn’t think it was good for me to see so much of them. Why? I wanted to know. She refused to answer me directly. When I suggested that she permit me to bring them fruit and candy from our sideboard, which was always overflowing with good things, she frowned. Sensing that there was no good reason behind her refusals, I decided to pinch the edibles and smuggle them over to my friends. Now and then I stole a few pennies from her pocketbook and handed them to Sadie or her brother. Always as if my mother had requested me to do so.

Your mother must be a very kind woman, said Sadie’s mother one day.

I smiled, rather lamely.

You’re sure, Henry, it’s your mother who sends us these gifts?

Certainly, I said, smiling ever so brightly now. We have much more than we need. I can bring you other things too, if you like.

Henry, come here, said Sadie’s mother. She was seated in an old-fashioned rocker. Now listen to me carefully, Henry. She patted my head affectionately and held me close to her. You’re a very, very good boy and we love you. But you mustn’t steal to make others happy. That’s a sin. I know you mean well, but…

It isn’t stealing, I protested. They would only go to waste.

You have a big heart, he said. A big heart for such a little boy. Wait a while. Wait till you grow older and earn your own living. Then you can give to your heart’s content.

The next day Sadie’s brother took me aside and begged me not to be angry with his mother for refusing my gifts. She likes you very much, Henry, he said.

But you don’t have enough to eat, said I.

Certainly we do, he said.

You don’t! I know because I know how much we eat.

I’ll be getting a job soon, he said. We’ll have plenty then.

In fact, he added, I may get a job next week.

What sort of job?

I’m going to work part time for the undertaker.

That’s terrible, said I.

Not really, he replied. I won’t have to handle the stiffs.

You’re sure?

Positive. He’s got men for that. I’m going to run errands, that’s all.

And how much will you get?

Three dollars a week.

I left him wondering if I couldn’t find a job too. Perhaps I could find something to do on the sly. My thought was, of course, to turn over my earnings to them. Three dollars a week was nothing, even in those days. I lay awake the whole night thinking it over. I was certain in advance that I would never receive my mother’s permission to take a job. Whatever was to be done had to be done secretly and with cunning and foresight.

Now it happened that a few doors from us lived a family in which the eldest son ran a coffee business on the side. That is to say, he had drummed up a small clientele for a blend which he mixed himself; on Saturdays he used to deliver the packages himself. It was quite a route he covered and I wasn’t too confident that I could manage it alone but I decided to ask him to give me a chance. To my surprise I found that he was only too happy to have me take over; he had been on the verge of abandoning his little enterprise.

The following Saturday I set forth with two valises filled with small packages of coffee. I was to get fifty cents as salary and a small commission on new business. Should I be able to collect on any of the bad debts I was to get a bonus. I carried a linen bag with a draw string in which I was to put the money I collected.

After coaching me as to how to approach the debtors he had warned me specifically to beware of the dogs in certain regions. I checked these spots with a red pencil on the itinerary where everything was plainly indicated—brooks and culverts, viaducts, reservoirs, fence lines, government property, and so on.

That first Saturday was a huge success. My boss literally rolled his eyes when I dumped the money on the table. Immediately he volunteered to raise my salary to seventy-five cents. I had gotten him five new customers and collected a third of the bad debts. He hugged me as if he had found a jewel.

You’ll promise you won’t tell my folks I’m working for you? I begged.

Of course not, he said.

No, promise! Promise on your word of honor!

He looked at me strangely. Then slowly he repeated—I promise on my word of honor.

The next morning, Sunday, I waited outside the door of my friends’ home to catch them on their way to church. I had no trouble persuading them to let me go to mass with them. They were delighted, in fact.

When we left the church of St. Francis de Sales—a horrible place of worship—I explained to them what I had accomplished. I fished out the money—it amounted to almost three dollars—and handed it to Sadie’s brother. To my utter amazement he refused to accept it.

But I only took the job for your sake, I expostulated.

I know, Henry, but my mother would never hear of such a thing.

But you don’t need to tell her it’s from me. Tell her you got a raise.

She wouldn’t believe that, he said.

Then tell her you found it in the street. Look, I’ll dig up an old purse. Put it in the purse and say you found it in the gutter just outside the church. She’ll have to believe that.

Still he was reluctant to take the money.

I was at my wits’ end. If he was not going to accept the money all my efforts were in vain. I left him with the promise that he would think it over.

It was Sadie who came to my rescue. She was closer to her mother and she understood the situation in a more practical way. At any rate she thought her mother ought to know what I meant to do for them—in order to express her appreciation.

Before the week was up we had a talk together, Sadie and I. She ..was waiting for me outside the school gate one afternoon.

It’s settled, Henry, she said, all out of breath, my mother agrees to take the money, but only for a little while—until my brother gets a full time job. Then we’ll pay you back.

I protested that I didn’t want to be paid back, but that if her mother insisted on such an arrangement I would have to give in. I handed over the money which was wrapped in a piece of butcher’s paper.

Mother says the Virgin Mary will protect you and bless you for your kindness, said Sadie.

I didn’t know what to say to this. No one had ever used such language with me. Besides, the Virgin Mary meant absolutely nothing to me. I didn’t believe in that nonsense.

Do you really believe in all that … that Virgin Mary stuff? I asked.

Sadie looked shocked—or perhaps grieved. She nodded her head gravely.

Just what is the Virgin Mary? I asked.

You know as well as I do, she answered.

No I don’t. Why do they call her Virgin?

Sadie thought a moment, then replied most innocently:

Because she’s the mother of God.

Well, what is a Virgin anyway?

There’s only one Virgin, answered Sadie, and that’s the Blessed Virgin Mary.

That’s no answer, I countered. I asked you—what is a Virgin?

It means a mother who is holy, said Sadie, none too sure of herself.

Here I had a brilliant thought. Didn’t God create the world? I demanded.

Of course.

Then there’s no mother. God doesn’t need a mother.

That’s blasphemy, Sadie almost shrieked. You’d better speak to the priest.

I don’t believe in priests.

Henry, don’t talk that way! God will punish you.

Why?

Because.

All right, said I, you ask the priest! You’re a Catholic. I’m not.

You shouldn’t say things like that, said Sadie, deeply offended. You’re not old enough to be asking such questions. We don’t ask such questions. We believe. If you don’t believe you can’t be a good Catholic.

I’m willing to believe, I retorted, if he will answer my questions.

That’s not the way, said Sadie. First you have to believe. And then you must pray. Ask God to forgive your sins…

Sins? I don’t have any sins to confess.

Henry, Henry, don’t speak that way, it’s wicked. Everybody sins. That’s what the priest is for. That’s why we pray to the Blessed Mary.

I don’t pray to anybody, I said defiantly, a little weary of her moony talk.

That’s because you’re a Protestant.

I am not a Protestant. I’m nothing. I don’t believe in anything … there!

You’d better take that back, said Sadie, thoroughly alarmed. God could strike you dead for talking like that.

She was ‘so visibly appalled by my utterance that her fear imparted itself to me.

I mean, said I, endeavoring to backwater, that we don’t pray like you do. We only pray in church—when the minister prays.

Don’t you pray before you go to sleep?

No, I replied, I don’t. I guess I don’t know much about praying.

We’ll teach you then, said Sadie. You must pray every day, three times a day at least. Otherwise you’ll burn in Hell.

We parted on these words. I gave her my solemn promise that I would make an effort to pray, at least before going to sleep. As I walked away, however, I suddenly asked myself what it was I was supposed to pray for. I was almost on the point of running back to ask her. The word sins stuck in my crop. What sins? I kept asking myself. What had I been doing that was so sinful? I rarely lied, except to my mother. I never stole, except from my mother. What had I to confess? It never occurred to me that I had committed a sin in lying to my mother or stealing from her. I had to behave thus because she didn’t know any better. Once she saw things in my light she would understand my behavior. That’s how I viewed that situation.

Mulling over my conversation with Sadie, reflecting on the sombre gloom which pervaded their household, I began to think that perhaps my mother was right in distrusting Catholics. We didn’t do any praying in our house yet everything went smoothly. Nobody ever mentioned God in our family. Yet God hadn’t punished any of us. I came to the conclusion that Catholics were by nature superstitious, just like savages. Ignorant idol-worshipers. Cautious, timid folk who hadn’t the guts to think for themselves. I decided I would never again go to mass. What a dungeon their Church was! Suddenly—a random flash—it dawned on me that maybe they wouldn’t be so poor, Sadie’s family, if they didn’t think about God so much. Everything went to the Church, to the priests, that is, who were always begging for money. I had never liked the sight of a priest. Too oily and smirky for me. No, the hell with them! And to hell with their candles, their rosaries, their crucifixes—and their Virgin Mary’s!

At last I’m face to face with that man of mystery, Alan Cromwell, handing him another drink, slapping him on the back, having a grand time with him, in short. And right in our own little love nest!

It was Mona who had arranged the meeting—with the connivance of Doc Kronski. Kronski is drinking too, and shouting and gesticulating. And so is his mousey little wife who is posing for the occasion as my wife. I am no longer Henry Miller. I have been given a new monniker for the evening: Dr. Harry Marx.

Only Mona is absent. She is supposed to arrive later.

Things have progressed fantastically since that moment earlier in the evening when I shook hands with Cromwell. I have to admit to myself, speaking of the devil, that he is indeed a handsome chap. And not only handsome (in a Southern way) but fair-spoken and gullible as a child. I wouldn’t’ say that he was stupid, no. Trusting, rather. Not cultured either, but intelligent. Not shrewd but capable. A man with a good heart, an outgoing man. Bubbling over with good-will.

It seemed a shame to be taking him in, to be making sport of him. I could see that the idea was Kronski’s, not Mona’s. Feeling guilty because we had neglected him, Kronski, so long, she had probably acquiesced without thought. That’s how it looked to me.

Anyway, we were all in fine fettle. The confusion was enormous. Fortunately, Cromwell had arrived lit up like a Zeppelin. By nature unsuspecting, the drinks made him more so. He seemed not to realize that Kronski was Jewish, though it was obvious he was even to a child. Cromwell took him for a Russian. As for me, with that name Marx, he didn’t know what to think. (Kronski had conceived the brilliant idea of palming me off as a Jew.) The disclosure of this startling fact—that I was Jewish—made no impression whatever on Cromwell. We might as well have told him I was a Sioux or an Eskimo. He was curious, however, to know what I did for a living. In accordance with our preconceived plan I informed Cromwell that I was a surgeon, that Dr. Kronski and I shared offices together. He looked at my hands and nodded his head gravely.

For me the difficult thing was to remember, during the course of an endless evening, that Kronski’s wife was my wife. This, of course, was another invention of Kronski’s fertile brain—a way of diverting suspicion, he thought. Every time I looked at that mouse of his I felt like swatting her. We did our best to ply her with drinks; all she would do, however, was to take a little sip and push the glass aside. But as the evening wore on and our horseplay grew bolder and bolder, she livened up. A way of saying that she unkinked a bone or two, no more. When on one occasion she broke into a fit of hysterical laughter I thought she would be taken seriously ill. She was better at weeping.

Cromwell, on the other hand, was a hearty laugher. At times he didn’t know what he was laughing about, but our own laughter was so infectious that he didn’t give a damn what he was laughing about. Now and then he asked a question or two about Mona, whom it was obvious he regarded as a very strange individual, though an adorable one. We, of course, pretended that we had known her from infancy. We praised her writing outrageously, inventing a whole arsenal of poems, essays and stories which she, we were certain, was too modest to have mentioned the existence of. Kronski went so far as to express the opinion that she would be the foremost woman writer in America before long. I pretended not to be so certain of this but agreed that she possessed extraordinary talent, extraordinary possibilities.

Asked if we had seen any of the columns she had turned out, we professed to be completely ignorant, astounded in fact, that she was doing such a thing.

We’ll have to put a stop to that, said Kronski. She’s too good to be wasting her time that way.

I agreed with him. Cromwell looked baffled. He couldn’t see what was so terrible about writing a daily column. Besides, she needed money.