The Rosy Crucifixion 3 - Nexus (28 page)

I told him I had been married and divorced. I gave him my stage name.

Sounds like you’ve got it all sewed up. Well, at least you won’t have to be running around nights, will you?

To which she replied: He’s like you, he hates the Village and all that bohemian nonsense. Seriously, Val, he’s a person of some culture. He’s passionate about music, for one thing. He once played the violin, I believe.

Yeah? And what do you call him, this old geezer?

Pop.

Pop?

Yes, just Pop.

How old is he … about?

Oh, fiftyish, I suppose.

That’s not so very old, is it?

No-o-o. But he’s settled in his ways. He seems older.

Well, I said, by way of closing the subject, it’s all highly interesting. Who knows, maybe it will lead to something. Let’s go for a walk, what do you say?

Certainly, she said. Anything you like.

Anything you like. That was an expression I hadn’t heard from her lips in many a moon. Had the trip to Europe worked a magical change? Or was there something cooking that she wasn’t ready to tell about just yet? I wasn’t eager to cultivate doubts. But there was the past with all its tell tale scars. This proposition of Pop’s now—it all seemed above board, genuine. And obviously entered into for my sake, not hers. What if it did give her a thrill to be taken for a writer instead of an actress? She was doing it to get me started. It was her way of solving my problem.

There was one aspect of the situation which intrigued me vastly. I got hep to it later, on hearing her report certain conversations which she had had with Pop. Conversations dealing with her work. Pop was not altogether a fool, apparently. He would ask questions. Difficult ones sometimes. And she, not being a writer, could hardly be expected to know that, faced with a direct question—Why did you say this?—the answer might well be: I don’t know. Thinking that she should know, she would give the most amazing explanations, explanations which a writer might be proud of had he the wits to think that fast. Pop relished these responses. After all, he was no writer either.

Tell me more! I would say.

And she would, though much of it was probably fictive. I would sit back and roar with laughter. Once I was so delighted that I remarked—How do you know you might not also be a writer?

Oh no, Val, not me. I’ll never be a writer. I’m an actress, nothing more.

You mean you’re a fake?

I mean I have no real talent for anything.

You didn’t always think that way, I said, somewhat pained to have forced such an admission from her.

I did too! she flashed. I became an actress … or rather I went on the stage … only to prove to my parents that I was more than they thought me to be. I didn’t really love the theatre. I was terrified every time I accepted a role. I felt like a cheat. When I say I’m an actress I mean that I’m always making believe. I’m not a real actress, you know that. Don’t you always see through me? You see through everything that’s false or pretentious. I wonder sometimes how you can bear to live with me. Honestly I do…

Strange talk, from her lips. Even now, in being so honest, so sincere, she was acting. She was making believe now that she was only a make believer. Like so many women with histrionic talent, when her real self was in question she either belittled herself or magnified herself.

She could only be natural when she wished to make an impression on some one. It was her way of disarming the adversary.

What I wouldn’t have given to overhear some of these conversations with Pop! Particularly when they discussed writing. Her writing. Who knows? Maybe the old geezer, as she reluctantly called him, did see through her. Maybe he only pretended to be testing her (with this writing chore) in order to make it easier for her to accept the money he showered on her. Possibly he thought that by permitting her to think she was earning this money he would save himself embarrassment. From what I gathered, he was scarcely the type to openly suggest that she become his mistress. She never said so squarely but she insinuated that physically he was somewhat repulsive. (How else would a woman put it?) But to continue the thought … By flattering her ego—and what could be more flattering to a woman of her type than to be taken seriously as an artist?—perhaps she would assume the role of mistress without being asked. Out of sheer gratitude. A woman, when truly grateful for the attentions she receives, nearly always offers her body.

The chances were, of course, that she was giving value for value, and had been from the very beginning.

Speculations of this order in no way disturbed the smooth relationship we had established. When things are going right it’s amazing how far the mind can travel without doing damage to the spirit.

I enjoyed our walks after dinner. It was a new thing in our life, these walks. We talked freely, more spontaneously. The fact that we had money in our pockets also helped; it enabled us to think and talk about other things than our usual sad predicament. The streets roundabout were wide, elegant, expansive. The old mansions, gracefully gone to seed, slept in the dust of time. There was still an air of grandeur about them. Fronting some of them were iron Negroes, the hitching posts of former days.

The driveways were shaded by arbors, the old trees rich in foliage; the lawns, always neat and trim, sparkled with an electric green. Above all, a serene stillness enveloped the streets; one could hear footsteps a block away.

It was an, atmosphere which was conducive to writing. From the back windows of our quarters I looked out upon a beautiful garden in which there were two enormous shade trees. Through the open window there often floated up the strains of good music. Now and then there came to my ears the voice of a cantor—Sirota or Rosenblatt usually—for the landlady had discovered that I adored synagogue music. Sometimes she would knock at the door to offer me a piece of home-made pie or a strudel she had baked. She would take a lingering look at my work table, always strewn with books and papers, and rush away, grateful, it seemed, for the privilege for having had a peek into a writer’s den.

It was on one of our evening walks that we stopped off at the corner stationery store, where they served ice cream and sodas, to get cigarettes. It was an old time establishment run by a Jewish family. Immediately I entered I took a fancy to the place; it had that faded, somnolescent air of the little shops I used to patronize as a boy when looking for a chocolate cream drop or a bag of Spanish peanuts. The owner of the place was seated at a table in a dim corner of the store, playing chess with a friend. The way they were hunched over the board reminded me of celebrated paintings, Cezanne’s card players particularly. The heavy man with gray hair and a huge cap pulled down over his eyes continued to study the board while the owner waited on us.

We got our cigarettes, then decided to have some ice cream.

Don’t let me keep you from your game, said I, when we had been served. I know what it is to be interrupted in a chess game.

So you play?

Yes, but poorly. I’ve wasted many a night at it. Then, though I had no intention of detaining him, I threw out a few remarks about Second Avenue, of the chess club I once haunted there, of the Cafe” Royal, and so on.

The man with the big cap now got up and approached us. It was the way he greeted us which made me realize that he had taken us for Jews. It gave me a warm feeling.

So you also play chess? he said. That’s fine. Why don’t you join us?

Not to-night, I replied. We’re out for a breath of air.

Are you living in the neighborhood?

Right up the street, I replied. I gave him the address.

Why that’s Mrs. Skolsky’s house, he said. I know her well. I’ve got a gents’ furnishing shop a block or so away … on Myrtle Avenue. Why don’t you drop in some time?

With this he extended his hand and said: Essen’s the name. Sid Essen. He then shook hands with Mona.

We gave our names and again he shook hands with us. He seemed strangely delighted. You’re not a Jew, then? he said.

No, said I, but I often pass for one.

But your wife, she’s Jewish, isn’t she? He looked at Mona intently.

No, I said, she’s part Gypsy, part Roumanian. From Bukovina.

Wonderful! he exclaimed. Abe, where are those cigars? Pass the box to Mr. Miller, will you? He turned to Mona. And what about some pastry for the Missus?

Your chess game … I said.

Drat it! he said. We were only killing time. It’s a pleasure to talk to some one like you—and your charming wife. She’s an actress, isn’t she?

I nodded.

I could tell at a glance, he said.

It was thus the conversation began. We must have gone on talking for an hour or more. What intrigued him, evidently, was my fondness for things Jewish. I had to promise that I would look him up at his store soon. We could have a game of chess there, if I felt like it. He explained that the place had become like a morgue. He didn’t know why he held on to the place—there was only a handful of customers left. Then, as we shook hands again, he said he hoped we would do him the honor of meeting his family. We were almost next door neighbors, he said.

We’ve got a new friend, I remarked, as we sauntered down the street.

He adores you, I can see that, said Mona.

He was like a dog that wants to be stroked and patted, wasn’t he?

A very lonely man, no doubt.

Didn’t he say he played the violin?

Yes, said Mona. Don’t you remember, he mentioned that the string quartet met at his home once a week … or used to.

That’s right. God, how the Jews love the violin! . I suspect he thinks you have a drop of Jewish blood in you, Val.

Maybe I have. I certainly wouldn’t be ashamed of it if I did.

An awkward silence ensued.

I didn’t mean it the way you took it, I finally said.

I know it, she replied. It’s all right.

They all know how to play chess too. I was half talking to myself. And they love to make gifts, have you ever noticed?

Can’t we talk about something else?

Of course I Of course we can! I’m sorry. They excite me, that’s all. Whenever I bump into a real Jew I feel I’m back home. I don’t know why.

It’s because they’re warm and generous—like yourself, she said.

It’s because they’re an old people, that’s what I think.

You were made for some other world, not America, Val. You get on famously with any people except your own. You’re an outcast.

And what about you? You don’t belong here either.

I know, she said. Well, get the novel written and we’ll clear out. I don’t care where you take me, but you must see Paris first.

Righto! But I’d like to see other places too … Rome, Budapest, Madrid, Vienna, Constantinople. I’d like to visit your Bukovina too some day. And Russia—Moscow, Petersburg, Nijny-Novgorod … Ah, to walk down the Nevsky Prospekt … in Dostoievsky’s footsteps! What a dream!

It could be done, Val. There’s no reason why we can’t go anywhere we want … anywhere in the world.

You really think so?

I know so. Then, impulsively she blurted out—I wonder where Stasia is now?

You don’t know?

Of course I don’t. I haven’t had a word from her since I got back. I have a feeling I may never hear from her again.

Don’t worry, I said, you’ll hear from her all right. She’ll turn up one day—just like that!

She was a different person over there.

How do you mean?

I don’t know exactly. Different, that’s all. More normal, perhaps. Certain types of men seemed to attract her. Like that Austrian I told you about. She thought he was so gentle, so considerate, so full of understanding.

Do you suppose there was anything between them?

Who knows? They were together constantly, as if they were madly in love with each other.

As if, you say. What does that mean?

She hesitated, then heatedly, as if still smarting: No woman could fall for a creature like that! He fawned on her, he ate from her hand. And she adored it. Maybe it made her feel feminine.

It doesn’t sound like Stasia, I said. You don’t think she really changed, do you?

I don’t know what to think, Val. I feel sad, that’s all. I feel I’ve lost a great friend.

Nonsense! I said. One doesn’t lose a friend as easily as that.

She said I was too possessive, too…

Maybe you were—with her.

No one understood her better than I. All I wanted was to see her happy. Happy and free.

That’s what every one says who’s in love.

It was more than love, Val. Much more.

How can there be anything more than love? Love is all, isn’t it?

Perhaps with women there’s something else. Men are not subtle enough to grasp it.

Fearing that the discussion would degenerate into argument I changed the subject as skilfully as I could. Finally I pretended that I was famished. To my surprise she said—So am I.

We returned to our quarters. After we had had a good snack—pate de foie gras, cold turkey, cole slaw, washed down with a delicious Moselle—I felt as if I could go to the machine and really write. Perhaps it was the talk, the mention of travel, of strange cities … of a new life. Or that I had successfully prevented our talk from degenerating into a quarrel. (It was such a delicate subject, Stasia.) Or perhaps it was the Jew, Sid Essen, and the stir of racial memories. Or perhaps nothing more than the Tightness of our quarters, the feeling of snugness, cosiness, at homeness.

Anyway, as she was clearing the table, I said: If only one could write as one talks … write like Gorky, Gogol, or Knut Hamsun!

She gave me a look such as a mother sometimes directs at the child she is holding in her arms.

Why write like them? she said. Write like you are, that’s so much better.

I wish I thought so. Christ! Do you know what’s the matter with me? I’m a chameleon. Every author I fall in love with I want to imitate. If only I could imitate my self I

When are you going to show me some pages? she said. I’m dying to see what you’ve done so far.

Soon, I said.

Is it about us?

I suppose so. What else could I write about?