chuckled. What a flimsy way of telling me that the letter had been destroyed! I wasn't being taken in that easily. Fishing the pieces of envelope out of the bowl I examined them carefully. No part of the letter adhered to any of the pieces. I was certain now that the letter itself had been preserved, that it had been stashed away somewhere, some place I would never think to look.
A few days later I picked up a curious piece of information. It fell out during the course of a heated argument between the two of them. They were in Stasia's little room, where they usually repaired to discuss secret affairs. Unaware of my presence in the house, or perhaps too excited to keep their voices down, words were bandied about that should never have reached my ears.
Mona was raising hell with Stasia, I gathered, because the latter had been throwing her money around like a fool. What money? I wondered. Had she come into a fortune? What made Mona furious, apparently, was that Stasia had given some worthless idiot—I couldn't catch the name—a thousand dollars. She was urging her to make some effort to recover part of the money at least. And Stasia kept repeating that she wouldn't think of it, that she didn't care what the fool did with her money.
Then I heard Mona say: If you don't watch out you'll be waylaid some night.
And Stasia innocently: They'll be out of luck. I don't have any more.
You don't have any more?
Of course not! Not a red cent.
You're mad!
I know I am. But what's money good for if not to throw away?
I had heard enough. I decided to take a walk. When I returned Mona was not there.
Where did she go? I asked, not alarmed but curious.
For reply I received a grunt.
Was she angry?
Another grunt, followed by—I suppose so. Don't worry, she'll be back.
Her manner indicated that she was secretly pleased.
Ordinarily she would have been upset, or else gone in search of Mona.
Can I make you some coffee? she asked. It was the first time she had ever made such a suggestion.
Why not? said I, affable as could be.
I sat down at the table, facing her. She had decided to drink her coffee standing up.
A strange woman, isn't she? said Stasia, skipping all preliminaries. What do you really know about her?, Have you ever met her brothers or her mother or her sister? She claims her sister is far more beautiful than she is. Do you believe that? But she hates her. Why? She tells you so much, then leaves you dangling. Everything has to be turned into a mystery, have you noticed?
She paused a moment to sip her coffee.
We have a lot to talk about, if, we ever get the chance. Maybe between us we could piece things together.
I was just about to remark that it was useless even to try when she resumed her monologue.
You've seen her on the stage, I suppose?
I nodded.
Know why I ask? Because she doesn't strike me as an actress. Nor a writer either. Nothing fits with anything. Everything's part of a huge fabrication, herself included. The only thing that's real about her is her make believe. And—her love for you.
The last gave me a jolt. You really believe that, do you?
Believe it? she echoed. If she didn't have you there would be no reason for her to exist. You're her life...
And you? Where do you fit in?
She gave me a weird smile. Me? I'm just another piece of the unreality she creates around her. Or a mirror perhaps in which she catches a glimpse of her true self now and then. Distorted, of course.
Then, veering to more familiar ground, she said: Why don't you make her stop this gold-digging? There's no need for it. Besides, it's disgusting the way she goes at it. What makes her do it I don't know. It's not money she's after. Money is only the pretext for something else. It's as though she digs at some one just to awaken interest in herself. And the moment one shows a sign of real interest she humiliates him. Even poor Ricardo had to be tortured; she had him squirming like an eel ... We've got to do something, you and I. This has to stop.
If you were to take a job, she continued, she wouldn't have to go to that horrible place every night and listen to all those filthy-mouthed creatures who fawn on her. What's stopping you? Are you afraid she would be unhappy leading a humdrum existence? Or perhaps you think I'm the one who's leading her astray? Do you? Do you think I like this sort of life? No matter what you think of me you must surely realize that I have nothing to do with all this.
She stopped dead.
Why don't you speak Say something!
Just as I was about to open my trap in walks Mona—with a bunch of violets. A peace offering.
Soon the atmosphere became so peaceful, so harmonious, that they were almost beside themselves. Mona got out her mending and Stasia her paint box. I took it all in as if it were happening on the stage.
In less than no time Stasia had made a recognizable portrait of me—on the wall which I was facing. It was
