The Best of All Possible Worlds

laughing to the floor. This was my wife, with a different cosmetic, different couturier, different posture and intonation. „My actress!“ I said. „Your actress!“ she laughed. „Tell me what I should be and I'll be it. Carmen? All right, I'm Carmen. Brunhild? Why not? I'll study, create and, when you grow bored, re-create. I'm enrolled at the Dance Academy. I'll learn to sit, stand, walk, ten thousand ways. I'm chin deep in speech lessons, I'm signed at the Berlitz! I am also a member of the Yamayuki Judo Club?“ „Good Lord,“ I cried, „what for?“ „This!“ she replied, and tossed me head over heels into bed!“

„Well,“ said Smith, „from that day on I've lived Reilly and nine other Irishmen's lives! Unnumbered fancies have passed me in delightful shadow plays of women all colours, shapes, sizes, fevers! My wife, finding her proper stage, our parlour, and audience, me, has fulfilled her need to be the greatest actress in the land. Too small an audience? No! For I, with my ever-wandering tastes, am there to meet her, whichever part she plays. My jungle talent coincides with her wide-ranging genius. So, caged at last, yet free, loving her I love everyone. It's the best of all possible worlds, friend, the best of all possible worlds.“»

There was a moment of silence.

The train rumbled down the track in the new December darkness.

The two commuters, the young and the old, were thoughtful now, considering the story just finished.

At last the younger ma n swallowed and nodded in awe. «Your friend Smith solved his problem, all right.»

«He did.»

The young man debated a moment, then smiled quietly. «I have a friend, too. His situation was similar, but — different. Shall I call him Quillan?»

«Yes,» said the old man, «but hurry. I get off soon.»

«Quillan,» said the young man quickly, «was in a bar one night with a fabulous redhead. The crowd parted before her like the sea before Moses. Miraculous, I thought, revivifying, beyond the senses! A week later, in Greenwich, I saw Quillan ambling along with a dumpy little woman, his own age, of course, only thirty-two, but she'd gone to seed young. Tatty, the English would say; pudgy, snouty-nosed, not enough make-up, wrinkled stockings, spider's-nest hair, and immensely quiet; she was content to walk along, it seemed, just holding Quillan's hand. Ha, I thought, here's his poor little parsnip wife who loves the earth he treads, while other nights he's out winding up that incredible robot redhead! How sad, what a shame. And I went on my way.

A month later I met Quillan again. He was about to dart into a dark entranceway in MacDougal Street, when he saw me. „Oh, God!“ he cried, sweating. „Don't tell on me! My wife must never know!“

I was about to swear myself to secrecy when a woman called to Quillan from a window above.

I glanced up. My jaw dropped.

There in the window stood the dumpy, seedy little woman!!

So suddenly it was clear. The beautiful redhead was his wife! She danced, she sang, she talked loud and long, a brilliant intellectual, the goddess Siva, thousand-limbed, the finest throw pillow ever sewn by mortal hand. Yet she was strangely — tiring.

So my friend Quillan had taken this obscure Village room where, two nights a week, he could sit quietly in the mouse-brown silence or walk on the dim streets with this good homely dumpy comfortably mute woman who was not his wife at all, as I had quickly supposed, but his mistress!

I looked from Quillan to his plump companion in the window above and wrung his hand with new warmth and understanding. „Mum's the word!“ I said. The last I saw of them, they were seated in a delicatessen, Quillan and his mistress, their eyes gently touching each other, saying nothing, eating pastrami sandwiches. He too had, if you think about it, the best of all possible worlds.»

The train roared, shouted its whistle and slowed. Both men, rising, stopped and looked at each other in surprise. Both spoke at once:

«You get off at this stop?»

Both nodded, smiling.

Silently they made their way back and, as the train stopped in the chill December night, alighted and shook hands.

«Well, give my best to Mr. Smith.»

«And mine to Mr. Quillan!»

Two horns honked from opposite ends of the station. Both men looked at one car. A beautiful woman was in it. Both looked at the other car. A beautiful woman was in it.

They separated, looking back at each other like two schoolboys, each stealing a glance at the car toward which the other was moving.

«I wonder,» thought the old man, «if that woman down there is…»

«I wonder,» thought the young man, «if that lady in his car could be…»

But both were running now. Two car doors slammed like pistol shots ending a matinee.

The cars drove off. The station platform stood empty. It being December and cold, snow soon fell like a curtain.