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 setup. I might yet prove that I was not completely hopeless. But when? And how?
5
It was on 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 handbag, 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 had enabled him to save up a few hundred dollars. With this money he had bought some odds and ends, put them in a sack, and set out on the road as a peddler. In less than no time (it almost sounded like a 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 junction 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 the door to door canvassing. In fact, I was almost ready to take a job.)
There was a better way, Mona thought, to go about the business. Tomorrow she would tackle the office buildings where she would have to do with men, not housewives and servants. That failing, she would try the night clubs in the Village, and possibly the cafés along Second Avenue. (The cafés 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 Café 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 too gay. “Imported candies, no less!” jeered one jolly fellow. “Why not imported silks?” The man next to him wanted to inspect the candies, wanted to make sure they were imported and not domestic. He took a few boxes and passed them around. Seeing the women nibbling away I assumed everything was in order. I circulated round the table, coming finally to the man who appeared to be the master of ceremonies. He was full of talk, a wisecracker. “Candies, hum! A new racket. Well-dressed and speaks a good English. Probably working his way through college.…” Et patati et patata. He bit into a few, then passed the box around in the other direction, still making running comments, a monologue which kept the others in stitches. I was left to stand there like a stick. No one had as yet asked me the price of a box. Neither had 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 someone 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 halfway 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 p
ride. Suddenly I recalled the scene I had put on for the amusement of my friends in this same café, 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, 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. Everyone 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 downtrodden people. The reversal of roles yielded a mysterious assuagement. I shuddered to think what would happen to me should I have the misfortune to run into a gang of rowdy Irishers.
Around midnight I ducked home. Mona was already back and in a good mood. She had sold a whole valiseful of candies. And all in one spot. Had been wined and dined as well. Where? At Papa Moskowitz’s. (I had skipped Moskowitz’s because I had seen the ear doctor heading for it.)
“I thought you were going to start with the Village tonight?”
“I did,” she exclaimed, then hurriedly explained how she had run into that banker, Alan Cromwell, who was looking for a quiet place to chat. She had dragged him to Moskowitz’s where they had listened to the cymbalon and so on and so on. Anyway, Moskowitz had bought a box of candy, then introduced her to his friends, all of whom insisted on buying candy. And then who should happen along but that man she had met in an office building the first morning. Mathias was his name. He and Moskowitz were friends from the old country. This Mathias of course also bought a half-dozen boxes.
Here she switched off about the real-estate business. Mathias, it seems, was eager to have her learn the business. He was certain she could sell houses as easily as imported candies. First, of course, she would have to learn how to drive a car. He would teach her himself, she said. She thought it a good idea to learn even if she never sold real estate. We could use the car to go for a spin occasionally. Wouldn’t that be wonderful? And so on.…
“And how did he and Cromwell get along?” I finally managed to put in.
“Just fine.”
“No, really?”
“Why not? They’re both intelligent and sensitive. Because Cromwell’s a drunkard you needn’t think he’s a sap.”
“O.K. But what did Cromwell have to tell you that was so important?”
“Oh that! We never got to that. There were so many people at our table.…”
“O.K. I must say, though, you certainly did handsomely.” Pause. “I sold a few myself.”
“I’ve been thinking, Val,” she began, as if she hadn’t heard me.
I knew what was coming. I made a wry grimace.
“Seriously, Val, you shouldn’t be selling candy. Let me do it! You see how easy it is for me. You stay home and write.”
“But I can’t write night and day.”
“Well read then, or go to the theater, or see your friends. You never go to see your friends anymore.”
I said I would think about it. Meanwhile she had emptied her purse on the table. Quite a haul, it was.
“Our patron will certainly be surprised,” said I.
“Oh, did I tell you? I saw him tonight. I had to go back for more candy. He said if it keeps up this way we’ll soon be able to open a shop of our own.”
“Won’t that be swell!”
Things rolled along merrily for a couple of weeks. I had made a compromise with Mona: I carried the two valises and waited outside while she cleaned up. I always took a book along and read. Sometimes Sheldon accompanied us. He not only insisted on carrying the valises but he also insisted on paying for the midnight repast which we always ate in a Jewish delicatessen on Second Avenue. A wonderful meal it was each night. Plenty of sour cream, radishes, onions, strudels, pastrami, smoked fish, all kinds of dark bread, creamy sweet butter, Russian tea, caviar, egg noodles—and Seltzer water. Then home in a taxi, always over the Brooklyn
Bridge. Alighting in front of our stately brownstone house, I often wondered what the landlord would think were he to notice us coming home at that hour of the morning with our two valises.
There were always new admirers cropping up. She had a difficult time, Mona, to shake them off. The latest one was 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 beeline for the toilet. I heard him retching. When he returned he came up to me, and, putting his two hands in mine, looked into my eyes imploringly. “Never let Mrs. Miller see them!” he begged in a hushed voice. I put my two fingers to my lips and said: “All right, Sheldon, on my word of honor!”
He was on hand now almost every night. When I didn’t feel like talking I would let him stand beside me, like a post, while I read. After a time it struck me as foolish to be making the rounds with this blinking idiot. Mona, when she learned that I intended to stay home, was delighted. She would be able to operate more freely, she said. We would all be better off.