discussed writing. Her writing. Who knows? Maybe the old geezer, as she reluctantly called him, did see through her. Maybe he only pretended to be testing her (with this writing chore) in order to make it easier for her to accept the money he showered on her. Possibly he thought that by permitting her to think she was earning this money he would save himself embarrassment. From what I gathered, he was scarcely the type to openly suggest that she become his mistress. She never said so squarely but she insinuated that physically he was somewhat repulsive. (How else would a woman put it?) But to continue the thought ... By flattering her ego—and what could be more flattering to a woman of her type than to be taken seriously as an artist?—perhaps she would assume the role of mistress without being asked. Out of sheer gratitude. A woman, when truly grateful for the attentions she receives, nearly always offers her body.
The chances were, of course, that she was giving value for value, and had been from the very beginning.
Speculations of this order in no way disturbed the smooth relationship we had established. When things are going right it's amazing how far the mind can travel without doing damage to the spirit.
I enjoyed our walks after dinner. It was a new thing in our life, these walks. We talked freely, more spontaneously. The fact that we had money in our pockets also helped; it enabled us to think and talk about other things than our usual sad predicament. The streets roundabout were wide, elegant, expansive. The old mansions, gracefully gone to seed, slept in the dust of time. There was still an air of grandeur about them. Fronting some of them were iron Negroes, the hitching posts of former days.
The driveways were shaded by arbors, the old trees rich in foliage; the lawns, always neat and trim, sparkled with an electric green. Above all, a serene stillness enveloped the streets; one could hear footsteps a block away.
It was an, atmosphere which was conducive to writing. From the back windows of our quarters I looked out upon a beautiful garden in which there were two enormous shade trees. Through the open window there often floated up the strains of good music. Now and then there came to my ears the voice of a cantor—Sirota or Rosenblatt usually—for the landlady had discovered that I adored synagogue music. Sometimes she would knock at the door to offer me a piece of home-made pie or a strudel she had baked. She would take a lingering look at my work table, always strewn with books and papers, and rush away, grateful, it seemed, for the privilege for having had a peek into a writer's den.
It was on one of our evening walks that we stopped off at the corner stationery store, where they served ice cream and sodas, to get cigarettes. It was an old time establishment run by a Jewish family. Immediately I entered I took a fancy to the place; it had that faded, somnolescent air of the little shops I used to patronize as a boy when looking for a chocolate cream drop or a bag of Spanish peanuts. The owner of the place was seated at a table in a dim corner of the store, playing chess with a friend. The way they were hunched over the board reminded me of celebrated paintings, Cezanne's card players particularly. The heavy man with gray hair and a huge cap pulled down over his eyes continued to study the board while the owner waited on us.
We got our cigarettes, then decided to have some ice cream.
Don't let me keep you from your game, said I, when we had been served. I know what it is to be interrupted in a chess game.
So you play?
Yes, but poorly. I've wasted many a night at it. Then, though I had no intention of detaining him, I threw out a few remarks about Second Avenue, of the chess club I once haunted there, of the Cafe” Royal, and so on.
The man with the big cap now got up and approached us. It was the way he greeted us which made me realize that he had taken us for Jews. It gave me a warm feeling.
So you also play chess? he said. That's fine. Why don't you join us?
Not to-night, I replied. We're out for a breath of air.
Are you living in the neighborhood?
Right up the street, I replied. I gave him the address.
Why that's Mrs. Skolsky's house, he said. I know her well. I've got a gents’ furnishing shop a block or so away ... on Myrtle Avenue. Why don't you drop in some time?
With this he extended his hand and said: Essen's the name. Sid Essen. He then shook hands with Mona.
We gave our names and again he shook hands with us. He seemed strangely delighted. You're not a Jew, then? he said.
No, said I, but I often pass for one.
But your wife, she's Jewish, isn't she? He looked at Mona intently.
No, I said, she's part Gypsy, part Roumanian. From Bukovina.
Wonderful! he exclaimed. Abe, where are those cigars? Pass the box to Mr. Miller, will you? He turned to Mona. And what about some pastry for the Missus?
Your chess game ... I said.
Drat it! he said. We were only killing time. It's a pleasure to talk to some one like you—and your charming wife. She's an actress, isn't she?
I nodded.
I could tell at a glance, he said.
It was thus the conversation began. We must have gone on talking for an hour or more. What intrigued him, evidently, was my fondness for things Jewish. I had to promise that I would look him up at his store soon. We could have a game of chess there, if I felt like it. He explained that the place had become like a morgue. He didn't know why he held on to the place—there was only a handful of customers left. Then, as we shook hands again, he said he hoped we would do him the honor of meeting his family. We were almost next door neighbors, he said.
We've got a new friend, I remarked, as we sauntered down the street.
He adores you, I can see that, said Mona.
