After such indescribably tumultuous communions I often sat down to the machine thinking that the moment had at last arrived. “Now I can say it!” I would tell myself. And I would sit there, mute, motionless, drifting with the stellar flux. I might sit that way for hours, completely rapt, completely oblivious to everything about me. And then, startled out of the trance by some unexpected sound or intrusion, I would wake with a start, look at the blank paper, and slowly, painfully tap out a sentence, or perhaps only a phrase. Whereupon I would sit and stare at these words as if they had been written by some unknown hand. Usually somebody arrived to break the spell. If it were Mona, she would of course burst in enthusiastically (seeing me sitting there at the machine) and beg me to let her glance at what I had written. Sometimes, still half-drugged, I would sit there like an automaton while she stared at the sentence, or the little phrase. To her bewildered queries I would answer in a hollow, empty voice, as if I were far away, speaking through a microphone. Other times I would spring out of it like a jack-in-the-box, hand her a whopping lie (that I had concealed “the other pages,” for instance), and begin raving like a lunatic. Then I could really talk a blue streak! It was as if I were reading from a book. All to convince her—and even more myself!—that I had been deep in work, deep in thought, deep in creation. Dismayed, she would apologize profusely for having interrupted me at the wrong moment. And I would accept her apology lightly, airily, as though to say—“What matter? There’s more where that came from… I have only to turn it on or off… I’m a prestidigitator, I am.” And from the lie I would make truth. I’d spool it off (my unfinished opus) like a man possessed—themes, sub-themes, variations, detours, parentheses—as if the only thing I thought about the livelong day was creation. With this of course went considerable clowning. I not only invented the characters and events, I acted them out. And poor Mona exclaiming: “Are you really putting all that into the story? or the book?” (Neither of us, in such moments, ever specified what book.) When the word book sprang up it was always assumed that it was the book, that is to say, the one I would soon get started on—or else it was the one I was writing secretly, which I would show her only when finished. (She always acted as if she were certain this secret travail was going on. She even pretended that she had searched everywhere for the script during my periods of absence.) In this sort of atmosphere it was not at all unusual, therefore, that reference be made occasionally to certain chapters, or certain passages, chapters and passages which never existed, to be sure, but which were “taken for granted” and which, no doubt, had a greater reality (for us) than if they were in black and white. Mona would sometimes indulge in this kind of talk in the presence of a third person, which led, of course, to fantastic and often most embarrassing situations. If it were Ulric who happened to be listening in, there was nothing to worry about. He had a way of entering into the game which was not only gallant but stimulating. He knew how to rectify a bad slip in a humorous and fortifying way. For example, he might have forgotten for a moment that we were employing the present tense and begun using the future tense. (“I know you will write a book like that some day!”) A moment later, realizing his error he would add: “I didn’t mean will write—I meant the book you are writing—and very obviously writing, too, because nobody on God’s earth could talk the way you do about something in which he wasn’t deeply engrossed. Perhaps I’m being too explicit—forgive me, won’t you?” At such junctures we all enjoyed the relief of letting go. We would indeed laugh uproariously. Ulric’s laughter was always the heartiest—and the dirtiest, if I may put it that way. “Ho! Ho!” he seemed to laugh, “but aren’t we all wonderful liars! I’m not doing so bad myself, by golly. If I stay with you people long enough I won’t even know I’m lying any more. Ho Ho Ho! Haw Haw! Haw! Ha Ha! Hee Hee!” And he would slap his thighs and roll his eyes like a darkie, ending with a smacking of the lips and a mute request for a wee bit of schnapps.… With other friends it didn’t go so well. They were too inclined to ask “impertinent” questions, as Mona put it. Or else they grew fidgety and uncomfortable, made frantic efforts to get back to terra firma. Kronski, like Ulric, was one who knew how to play the game. He did it somewhat differently from Ulric, but it seemed to satisfy Mona. She could trust him. That’s how she put it to herself, I felt. The trouble with Kronski was that he played the game too well. He was not content to be a mere accomplice, he wanted to improvise as well. This zeal of his, which was not altogether diabolical, led to some weird discussions—discussions about the progress of the mythical book, to be sure. The critical moment always announced itself by a salvo of hysterical laughter—from Mona. It meant that she didn’t know where she was anymore. As for myself, I made little or no effort to keep up with the others, it being no concern of mine what went on in this realm of make believe. All I felt called upon to do was to keep a straight face and pretend that everything was kosher. I would laugh when I felt like it, or make criticism and correction, but under no circumstances, neither by word, gesture or implication did I let on that it was just a game.…
Strange little episodes were constantly occurring to prevent our life from becoming monotonously smooth. Sometimes they happened one, two, three, like firecrackers going off.
To begin with, there was the sudden and mysterious disappearance of our love letters, which had been hidden away in a big paper shopping bag at the bottom of the wardrobe. It took us a week or more to discover that the woman who cleaned house for us occasionally had thrown the bag in the rubbish. Mona almost collapsed when she heard the news. “We’ve simply got to find them!” she insisted. But how? The rubbish man had already made the rounds. Even supposing we could find the place where he had dumped them, they would be now be buried under a mountain of refuse. However, to satisfy her, I inquired where the disposal dump was located. O’Mara offered to accompany me to the place. It was way the hell and gone, somewhere in the Flatlands, I believe, or else near Canarsie—a Godforsaken spot over which hung a thick pall of smoke. We endeavored to find precisely the spot where the man had dumped that day’s rubbish. An insane task, to be sure. But I had explained the whole situation to the driver and by sheer force of will aroused in his brute conscience a spark of interest. He did his damnedest to remember, but it was hopeless. We got busy, O’Mara and I, and with rather elegant looking canes began poking things around. We uncovered everything under the sun but the missing love letters. O’Mara had all he could do to dissuade me from bringing home a sackful of odds and ends. For himself he had found a handsome pipe case, though what he intended to do with it I don’t know, as he never smoked a pipe. I had to content myself with a bone-handled pocketknife the blades of which were so rusty they wouldn’t open. I also pocketed a bill for a tombstone, from the directors of Woodlawn Cemetery.
Mona took the loss of the letters tragically. She looked upon the incident as a bad omen. (Years later, when I read what happened to Balzac in connection with the beloved Madame Hanska’s letters, I relived this episode vividly.)
The day after our visit to the dumps I received a most unexpected call from a police lieutenant in our precinct. He had come in search of Mona who fortunately was not home. After a few politenesses I asked what the trouble might be. No trouble, he assured me. Merely wanted to ask a few questions. Being the husband, I wondered aloud if I couldn’t answer them for her. He seemed reluctant to comply with this polite suggestion. “When do you expect her back?” he asked. I told him I couldn’t say. Was she at work, he ventured to ask. “You mean does she have a job?” said I. He ignored this. “And you don’t know where she went?” He was boring in, obviously. I replied that I hadn’t the slightest idea. The more questions he asked the more tight-lipped I became. I still had no inkling of what was on his mind.
Finally, however, I caught a clue. It was when he asked if she were an artist perchance that I began to get the drift. “In a way,” I said, waiting for the next question. “Well,” said he, extracting a Mezzotint from his pocket and laying it before me, ?
??maybe you can tell me something about this.”
Vastly relieved, I said—“Certainly! What would you like to know?”
“Well,” he began, settling back to enjoy a lengthy palaver, “just what is this? What’s the racket, I mean?”
I smiled. “There’s no racket. We sell them.”
“To whom?”
“Anybody. Everybody. Anything wrong with that?”
He paused to scratch his poll.
“Have you read this one yourself?” he asked, as if firing point-blank.
“Of course I have. I wrote it.”
“What’s that? You wrote it? I thought she was the writer?”
“We’re both writers.”
“But her name’s signed to it.”
“That’s true. We have our own reason for that.”
“So that’s it?” He twiddled his thumbs, trying to think hard.
I waited for him to spring the big surprise.
“And you make a living selling these… uh, these pieces of paper?”
“We try to.…”
At this point who should burst in but Mona. I introduced her to the lieutenant who, by the way, was not in uniform.
To my amazement she exclaimed: “How do I know he’s Lieutenant Morgan?” Not a very tactful way to start off.
The lieutenant, however, was not at all put out; in fact, he behaved as if he thought it smart of her to explain the nature of his call. He did it with tact and civility.
“Now, young lady,” he said, ignoring what I had volunteered, “would you mind telling me just why you wrote this little article?”
Here we both spoke up at once. “I told you I wrote it!” I exclaimed. And Mona, paying no heed to my words: “I see no reason why I should explain that to the police.”
“Did you write this, Miss… or rather Mrs. Miller?”
“I did.”
“She did not,” said I.
“Now which is it?” said the lieutenant in a fatherly way. “Or did you write it together?”
“He had nothing to do with it,” said Mona.
“She’s trying to protect me,” I protested. “Don’t believe a word she tells you.”
“Maybe you’re trying to protect her!” said the lieutenant.
Mona couldn’t contain herself. “Protect?” she cried. “What are you getting at? What’s wrong with this… this…?” She was stumped what to call the incriminating piece of evidence.
“I didn’t say that you had committed a crime. I’m merely trying to find out what impelled you to write it.”
I looked at Mona and then at Lieutenant Morgan. “Let me explain, won’t you? I’m the one who wrote it. I wrote it because I was angry, because I hate to see an injustice done. I want people to know about it. Does that answer the question?”
“So, then you didn’t write this?” said Lieutenant Morgan, addressing Mona. “I’m glad to know that. I couldn’t imagine a fine looking young lady like you saying such things.”
Again Mona was stumped. She had expected quite another response.
“Mr. Miller,” he continued, with a slight change of tone, “we’ve been having complaints about this diatribe of yours, if I may call it that. People don’t like the tone of it. It’s inflammatory. You sound like a radical. I know you’re not, of course, or you wouldn’t be living in a place like this. I know this apartment very well. I used to play cards here with the Judge and his friends.”
I began to relax. I knew now that it would end with a pleasant little piece of advice about not becoming an agitator.
“Why don’t you offer the Lieutenant a drink?” I said to Mona. “You don’t mind having a drink with us, do you, lieutenant? I take it you’re off duty.”
“I wouldn’t mind at all,” he responded, “now that I know the sort of people you are. We have to look into these things, you know. Routine. This is a sedate old neighborhood.”
I smiled as though to say I understood perfectly. Then, like a flash, I thought of that officer of the law before whom I had been hauled when I was a mere shaver. The recollection of this incident gave me an inspiration. Downing a glass of sherry, I took a good look at Lieutenant Morgan and was off like a mud lark.
“I’m from the old 14th Ward,” I began, beaming at him in mellow fashion. “Perhaps you know Captain Short and Lieutenant Oakley? Or Jimmy Dunne? Surely you remember Pat McCarren?”
Bull’s eyes! “I come from Greenpoint,” he said, putting out his hand.
“Well, well, what do you know!” We were in the clear.
“By the way,” I said, “would you have rather had whisky? I never thought to ask you.” (We had no whisky but I knew he would refuse.) “Mona, where’s that Scotch we had around here?”
“No, no!” he protested. “I wouldn’t think of it. This is just fine.”
“So you’re from the old 14th Ward… and you’re a writer? Tell me, what do you write besides these… uh… these…? Any books?”
“A few,” I said. “I’ll send you the latest one as soon as it’s off the press.”
“That would be kind of you. And send me something of your wife’s too, won’t you? You picked a clever little lady, I must say that. She certainly knows how to defend you.”
We chatted awhile about the old days and then Lieutenant Morgan decided he had better go.
“We’ll just file this under… what did you say you call these things?”
“Mezzotints,” said Mona.
“Good. Under M, then. Good-bye, and good luck with the writing! If you’re ever in trouble you know where to find me.”
We shook hands on that and gently closed the door after him.
“Whew!” I said, flopping into a chair.
“The next time any one asks for me,” said Mona, “remember that I write the Mezzotints. It’s lucky I came when I did. You don’t know how to deal with such people.”
“I thought I did pretty well,” I said.
“You should never be truthful with the police,” she said.
“It all depends,” I said. “You’ve got to use discrimination.”
“They’re not to be trusted,” she retorted. “You can’t afford to be decent with them.… I’m glad O’Mara wasn’t here. He’s a worse fool than you in such matters.”
“I’m damned if I can see what you’re complaining about.”
“He wasted our time. You shouldn’t have offered him a drink, either.”
“Listen, you’re going off on a tangent. The police are human, too, aren’t they? They’re not all brutes.”
“If they had any intelligence they wouldn’t be on the police force. They’re none of them any good.”
“O.K. Let’s drop it.”
“You think it’s ended—because he was nice to you. That’s their way of taking you in. We’re on the books now. The next thing you know we’ll be asked to move.”
“Oh, come, come!”
“All right, you’ll see.… The pig, he almost finished the bottle!”
The next disturbing incident took place a few days later. I had been going to the dentist the last few weeks, to a friend named Doc Zabriskie whom I had met through Arthur Raymond. One could spend years sitting in his waiting room. Zabriskie believed in doing only a little work at a time. The truth was, he loved to talk. You’d sit with mouth open and jaws aching while he chewed your ear off. His brother Boris occupied an adjoining niche where he made bridges and sets of false teeth. They were great chess players, the two of them, and often I had to sit down and play a bit of chess before I could get any work done on my teeth.
Among other things Doc Zabriskie was crazy about boxing and wrestling. He attended all the bouts of any importance. Like so many Jews in the professional world, he was also fond of music and literature. But the best thing about him was that he never pressed you to pay. He was especially lenient with artists, for whom he had a weakness.
One day I brought him a manuscript I had just written. It was a glorification, in the most extravagant prose,
of that little Hercules, Jim Londos.* Zabriskie read it through while I sat in the chair, mouth wide open and jaws aching like mad. He went into ecstasies over the script: had to show it immediately to brother Boris, then telephone Arthur Raymond about it. “I didn’t know you could write like that,” he said. He then intimated that we ought to get better acquainted. Wondered if we couldn’t meet somewhere of an evening and go into things more thoroughly.
We fixed a date and agreed to meet at the Café Royal after dinner. Arthur Raymond came, and Kronski and O’Mara. We were soon joined by friends of Zabriskie. We were just about to adjourn to the Roumanian Restaurant, down the street, when a bearded old man came up to our table peddling matches and shoelaces. I don’t know what possessed me, but before I could check myself I was making sport of the poor devil, baiting him with questions which he couldn’t answer, examining the shoelaces minutely, stuffing a cigar in his mouth, and in general behaving like a cad and an idiot. Everyone looked at me in amazement, and finally with stern disapproval. The old man was in tears. I tried to laugh it off, saying that he probably had a fortune hidden away in an old valise. A dead and stony silence ensued. Suddenly O’Mara grabbed me by the arm. “Let’s get out of here,” he mumbled, “you’re making a fool of yourself.” He turned to the others and explained that I must be drunk, said he’d walk me around the block. On the way out he stuffed some money in the old man’s hand. The latter raised his fist and cursed me.
We had hardly reached the corner when we ran full tilt into Sheldon, Crazy Sheldon.
“Mister Miller!” he cried, holding out both hands and smiling with a full set of gold teeth. “Mister O’Mara!” You would think we were his long-lost brothers.
We got on either side of him, locked arms, and started walking towards the river. Sheldon was bubbling over with joy. He had been searching all over town for me, he confided. Was doing well now. Had an office not far from his home.