I ate in the back of a saloon on Sixth Avenue, not far from Ulric's
place. I had what I wanted and was still ten cents to the good. I felt
genial and expansive, in a mood to accept anything. My mood must have
been written on my face because, as I stood a moment at the doorway to
take in the scene, a man airing a dog saluted me in friendly fashion. I
thought he had mistaken me for some one else, something which
frequently happens to me, but no, he was just friendlily inclined,
perhaps in the same glowing mood as myself. We exchanged a few words
and presently I was walking along with him and the dog. He said he
lived nearby and that if I cared to join him in a friendly drink I
might accompany him to his apartment. The few words we had exchanged
convinced me that he was sensitive, cultured gentleman of the old
school. As a matter of fact he intimated, almost in the next breath,
that he had just returned from Europe where he had been living for a
number of years. As we reached his apartment he was relating a story
about an affair he had had with a countess in Florence. He seemed to
take it for granted that I knew Europe. He treated me as if I were an
artist.
The apartment was rather sumptuous. He immediately brought out a
beautiful box of excellent Havana cigars and asked me what I preferred
to drink. I took a whisky and settled down in a luxurious armchair. I
had the feeling that this man would be putting money in my hand before
long. He listened to me as though he believed every word I uttered.
Suddenly he ventured to ask if I were not a writer? Why? Well,
from the way I looked around, the way I stood, the expression about the
mouth—little things, undefinable, a general impression of sensitivity
and curiosity.
«And you?»
I asked, «what do you do?»
He made a deprecatory gesture, as though to say, I'm nothing any
more. «I was a painter once, a poor one, too. I don't do
anything now. I try to enjoy myself.»
That set me off. The words just fell out of me, like hot shot. I told
him where I stood, how messy things were, how things were happening
nevertheless, what grand hopes I had, what a life lay before me if I
could only take hold of it, squeeze it, marshall it, conquer it. I lied
a bit. It was impossible to admit to him, this stranger who had come to
my rescue out of a clear sky, that I was a total failure.
What had I written thus far?
Why, several books, some poems, a batch of short stories. I rattled
on at top speed so as not to be caught in trivial questions of fact.
About the new book I had begun—that was to be something magnificent.
There were over forty characters in it. I had made a great chart on my
wall, a sort of map of the book—he must see it some time. Did he
remember Kirillov, that character in one of Dostoievski's works, who
had shot or hanged himself because he was too happy? That was me all
over. I was going to shoot everybody off—out of sheer happiness...
To-day for example, if he could only have seen me a few hours ago.
Completely mad. Rolling in the grass by the side of a brook; chewing
mouthsful of grass; scratching myself like a dog; yelling at the top of
my lungs; doing handsprings; even got down on my knees and prayed, not
to ask for something, but to give thanks, thanks for being alive, for
being able to breathe the air.... Wasn't it wonderful just to
breathe?
I went on to relate little episodes out of my telegraphic life: the
crooks I had to deal with, the pathological liars, the perverts, the
shell-shocked bums sitting in the lodging houses, the slimy,
hypocritical charity workers, the diseases of the poor, the runaway
boys who disappear from the face of the earth, the whores who try to
muscle in and work the office buildings, the cracked pots, the
epileptics, the orphans, the reformatory lads, the ex-convicts, the
nymphomaniacs.
His mouth hung open like a hinge, his eyes were popping out of his
head: he looked for all the world like a good-natured toad that had
been hit with a rock. Have another drink?
Sure! What was I saying? Oh yes... in the middle of the book I would
explode. Why not? There were plenty of writers who could drag a thing
out to the end without letting go of the reins; what we needed was a
man, like myself for instance, who didn't give a fuck what happened.
Dostoievski hadn't gone quite far enough. I was for straight gibberish.
One should go cuckoo! People have had enough of plot and character.
Plot and character don't make life. Life isn't in the upper storey:
life is here now, any time you say the word, any time you let rip. Life
is four-hundred and forty horsepower in a two-cylinder engine—
He interrupted me here. «Well, I must say that you certainly seem to
have it... I wish I could read one of your books».
«You will,» I said, carried away by internal combustion. «I'll send
you one in a day or two.»
There was a knock at the door. As he got up to open it he explained
that he had been expecting some one. He begged me not to be disturbed,
it was merely a charming friend of his.
A gorgeously beautiful woman stood in the doorway. I rose to greet
her. She looked Italian. Possibly the countess he had spoken of
earlier.
Classified
New Travellers Companion
