What joy now possessed me! What complete and absolute trust!
Rising to my feet, a new being entire, I put forth my arms to embrace the world. Nothing had changed; it was the world I had always known. But I saw it now with other eyes. I no longer sought to escape it, to shun its ills, or alter it in any least way. I was fully of it and one with it. I had come through the valley of the shadow of death; I was no longer ashamed to be human, all-too-human.
I had found my place. I belonged. My place was in the world, in the midst of death and corruption. For companions I had the sun, the moon, the stars. My heart, cleansed of its inquiries, had lost all fear; it ached now to offer itself to the first comer. Indeed, I had the impression that I was all heart, a heart which could never be broken, nor even wounded, since it was forever inseparable from that which had given it birth.
And so, as I walked forward and onward into the thick of the world, there where full havoc had been wreaked and panic alone reigned, I cried out with all the fervor which my soul possessed—Take heart, O brothers and sisters! Take heart!
12
On arriving at the office Monday morning I found a cablegram lying on my desk. In black and white it said that her boat was arriving Thursday, I should meet her at the pier.
I said nothing to Tony, he'd only view it as a calamity. I kept repeating the message to myself over and over; it seemed almost unbelievable.
It took hours for me to collect myself. As I was leaving the office that evening I looked at the message once again to be certain I had not misread it. No, she was arriving Thursday, no mistake about it. Yes, this coming Thursday, not the next Thursday nor the last. This Thursday. It was incredible.
The first thing to do was to find a place to live. A cosy little room somewhere, and not too expensive. It meant I would have to borrow again. From whom? Certainly not from Tony.
The folks weren't exactly overjoyed to hear the news. My mother's sole comment was—I hope you won't give up your job now that she's returning.
Thursday came and I was at the pier, an hour ahead of time. It was one of the fast German liners she had taken. The boat arrived, a little late, the passengers disembarked, the luggage melted from sight, but no sign of Mona or Stasia. Panicky, I rushed to the office where the passenger list was held. Her name was not on the list, nor Stasia's either.
I returned to the little room I had rented, my heart heavy as lead. Surely she could have sent me a message. It was cruel, utterly cruel, of her.
Next morning, shortly after arriving at the office, I received a phone call from the telegraph office. They had a cablegram, for me. Read it! I yelled. (The dopes, what were they waiting for?)
Message: Arriving Saturday on Berengaria. Love.
This time it was the real Me Coy. I watched her coming down the gang-plank. Her, her. And more ravishing than ever. In addition to a small tin trunk she had a valise and a hat bag crammed with stuff. But where was Stasia?
Stasia was still in Paris. Couldn't say when she'd return.
Wonderful! thought I to myself. No need to make further inquiries.
In the taxi, when I told her about the room I had taken, she seemed delighted. We'll find a better place later, she remarked. (Christ, no! said I to myself. Why a better place?)
There were a thousand questions I was dying to put her but I checked myself. I didn't even ask why she had changed boats. What did it matter what had happened yesterday, a month ago, five years ago? She was back— that was enough.
There was no need to ask questions—she was bursting to tell me things. I had to beg her to slow down, not let it all out at once. Save some for later, I said.
While she was rummaging through the trunk—she had brought back all manner of gifts, including paintings, carvings, art albums—I couldn't resist making love to her. We went at it on the floor amidst the papers, books, paintings, clothing, shoes and what not. But even this interruption couldn't check the flow of talk. There was so much to tell, so many names to reel off. It sounded to my ears like a mad jumble.
Tell me one thing, said I, stopping her abruptly. Are you sure 7 would like it over there?
Her face took on an absolutely ecstatic expression. Like it? Val, it's what you've dreamed of all your life. You belong there. Even more than I. It has everything you are searching for and never will find here. Everything.
She launched into it again—the streets, how they looked, the crooked winding ones, the alleys, the impasses, the charming little places, the great wide avenues, such as those radiating from the Etoile; then the markets, the butcher shops, the book stalls, the bridges, the bicycle cops, the cafes, the cabarets, the public gardens, the fountains, even the urinals. On and on, like a Cook's tour. All I could do was roll my eyes, shake my head, clap my hands. If it's only half as good, thought I to myself, it will be marvelous.
There was one sour note: the French women. They were decidedly not beautiful, she wanted me to know. Attractive, yes. But not beauties, like our American women. The men, on the other hand, were interesting and alive, though hard to get rid of. She thought I would like the men, though she hoped I wouldn't acquire their habits, where women were concerned. They had a medieval conception of woman, she thought. A man had the right to beat a woman up in public. It's horrible to see, she exclaimed. No one dares to interfere. Even the cops look the other way.
I took this with a grain of salt, the customary one. A woman's view. As for the American beauty business, America could keep her beauties. They had never had any attraction for me.
We've got to go back, she said, forgetting that we had not gone there together. It's the only life for you, Val. You'll write there, I promise you. Even if we starve. No one seems to have money there. Yet they get by—how, I can't say. Anyway, being broke there is not the same as being broke here. Here it's ugly. There it's ... well, romantic, I guess you'd say. But we're not going to be broke when we go back. We've got to work hard now, save our money, so that we can have at least two or three years of it when we do go.
