too, he added. They mustn't suspect anything.
Then, like a pair of stage hands, they proceeded to restore the room to its original state of disorder, even down to the distribution of the bread crumbs. They argued a few minutes as to whether a certain book had been lying on the floor open or unopened.
As we were leaving the room the young man insisted that the door had been ajar, not closed.
Fuck it! said Curley. They wouldn't remember that.
Intrigued by this observation, I said: What makes you so sure?
It's just a hunch, he replied. You wouldn't remember, would you, unless you had a reason for leaving the door partly open. What reason could she have had? None. It's simple.
It's too simple, I said. One remembers trivial things without reason sometimes.
His answer was that any one who lived in a state of filth and discorder couldn't possibly have a good memory. Take a thief, he said, he knows what he's doing, even when he makes a mistake. He keeps track of things. He has to or he'd be shit out of luck. Ask this guy!
He's right, said his friend. The mistake I made was in being too careful. He wanted to tell me his story, but I urged them to go. Save it for next time, I said.
Sailing into the street, Curley turned to inform me that I could count on his aid any time. We'll fix her, he said.
5
It was getting to be like sequences in a coke dream, what with the reading of entrails, the unraveling of lies, the bouts with Osiecki, the solo ramblings along the waterfront at night, the encounters with the masters at the public library, the wall paintings, the dialogues in the dark with my other self, and so on. Nothing could surprise me any more, not even the arrival of an ambulance. Some one, Curley most likely, had thought up that idea to rid me of Stasia. Fortunately I was alone when the ambulance pulled up. There was no crazy person at this address, I informed the driver. He seemed disappointed. Some one had telephoned to come and get her. A mistake, I said.
Now and then the two Dutch sisters who owned the building would drop in to see if all was well. Never stayed but a minute or two. I never saw them except unkempt and bedraggled. The one sister wore blue stockings and the other pink and white striped stockings. The stripes ran spirally, like on a barber's pole.
But about The Captive ... I went to see the play on my own, without letting them know. A week later they went to see it, returning with violets and full of song. This time it was—(Just a Kiss in the Dark.
Then one evening—how did it ever happen?—the three of us went to eat in a Greek restaurant. There they spilled the beans, about The Captive, what a wonderful play it was and how I ought to see it some time, maybe it would enlarge my ideas. But I have seen it! I said. I saw it a week ago. Whereupon a discussion began as to the merits of the play, capped by a battle royal because I failed to see eye to eye with them, because I interpreted everything in a prosaic, vulgar way. In the midst of the argument I produced the letter filched from the little casket. Far from being crestfallen or humiliated, they sailed into me with such venom, raised such a howl and stink, that soon the whole restaurant was in an uproar and we were asked, none too politely, to leave.
As if to make amends, the following day Mona suggested that I take her out some night, without Stasia. I demurred at first but she kept insisting. I thought probably she had a reason of her own, one which would be disclosed at the proper time, and, so I agreed. We were to do it the night after next.
The evening came but, just as we were about to leave she grew irresolute. True, I had been ragging her about her appearance—the lip rouge, the green eyelids, the white powdered cheeks, the cape that trailed the ground, the skirt that came just to her knees, and above all, the puppet, that leering, degenerate-looking Count Bruga, which she was hugging to her bosom and which she meant to take along.
No, I said, not that, by God!
Why?
Because ... God-damn it, no!
She handed the Count to Stasia, removed her cape, and sat down to think it over. Experience told me that that was the end of our evening. To my surprise, however, Stasia now came over, put both arms around us—just like a great big sister—and begged us not to quarrel. Go! she said. Go and enjoy yourselves! I'll clean house while you're gone. She fairly pushed us out, and as we marched off she kept shouting—Have a good time! Enjoy yourselves!
It was a lame start but we had decided to go through with it. As we hastened our steps—why? where were we rushing?—I felt as if I would explode. But I couldn't get a word out, I was tongue-tied. Here we were, rushing along arm in arm to enjoy ourselves, but nothing definite had been planned. Were we just taking the air?
Presently I realized that we were headed for the subway. We entered, waited for a train, got in, sat down. Not a word as yet had passed between us. At Times Square we rose, like robots tuned to the same wave length, and tripped up the stairs. Broadway. Same old Broadway, same old Neon hell's a-fire. Instinctively we headed north. People stopped in their tracks to stare at us. We pretended not to notice.
Finally we arrived in front of Chin Lee's. Shall we go up? she asked. I nodded. She walks straight to the booth we had occupied that first night—a thousand years ago.
The moment the food is served her tongue loosens. Everything floods back: the food we ate, the way we faced each other, the airs we listened to, the things we said to one another ... Not a detail overlooked.
As one recollection followed another we grew more and more sentimental. Falling in love again ... never wanted to ... what am I to do...? It was as if nothing had happened in between—no Stasia, no cellar life, no misunderstandings. Just we two, a pair of shoulder birds, with life everlasting.
A full dress rehearsal, that's what it was. To-morrow we would play our parts—to a packed house.
Were I asked which was the true reality, this dream of love, this lullaby, or the copper-plated drama which inspired it, I would have said—This. This is it!
