He was like a dog that wants to be stroked and patted, wasn't he?
A very lonely man, no doubt.
Didn't he say he played the violin?
Yes, said Mona. Don't you remember, he mentioned that the string quartet met at his home once a week ... or used to.
That's right. God, how the Jews love the violin! . I suspect he thinks you have a drop of Jewish blood in you, Val.
Maybe I have. I certainly wouldn't be ashamed of it if I did.
An awkward silence ensued.
I didn't mean it the way you took it, I finally said.
I know it, she replied. It's all right.
They all know how to play chess too. I was half talking to myself. And they love to make gifts, have you ever noticed?
Can't we talk about something else?
Of course I Of course we can! I'm sorry. They excite me, that's all. Whenever I bump into a real Jew I feel I'm back home. I don't know why.
It's because they're warm and generous—like yourself, she said.
It's because they're an old people, that's what I think.
You were made for some other world, not America, Val. You get on famously with any people except your own. You're an outcast.
And what about you? You don't belong here either.
I know, she said. Well, get the novel written and we'll clear out. I don't care where you take me, but you must see Paris first.
Righto! But I'd like to see other places too ... Rome, Budapest, Madrid, Vienna, Constantinople. I'd like to visit your Bukovina too some day. And Russia—Moscow, Petersburg, Nijny-Novgorod ... Ah, to walk down the Nevsky Prospekt ... in Dostoievsky's footsteps! What a dream!
It could be done, Val. There's no reason why we can't go anywhere we want ... anywhere in the world.
You really think so?
I know so. Then, impulsively she blurted out—I wonder where Stasia is now?
You don't know?
Of course I don't. I haven't had a word from her since I got back. I have a feeling I may never hear from her again.
Don't worry, I said, you'll hear from her all right. She'll turn up one day—just like that!
She was a different person over there.
How do you mean?
I don't know exactly. Different, that's all. More normal, perhaps. Certain types of men seemed to attract her. Like that Austrian I told you about. She thought he was so gentle, so considerate, so full of understanding.
Do you suppose there was anything between them?
Who knows? They were together constantly, as if they were madly in love with each other.
As if, you say. What does that mean?
She hesitated, then heatedly, as if still smarting: No woman could fall for a creature like that! He fawned on her, he ate from her hand. And she adored it. Maybe it made her feel feminine.
It doesn't sound like Stasia, I said. You don't think she really changed, do you?
I don't know what to think, Val. I feel sad, that's all. I feel I've lost a great friend.
Nonsense! I said. One doesn't lose a friend as easily as that.
She said I was too possessive, too...
Maybe you were—with her.
No one understood her better than I. All I wanted was to see her happy. Happy and free.
That's what every one says who's in love.
It was more than love, Val. Much more.
How can there be anything more than love? Love is all, isn't it?
Perhaps with women there's something else. Men are not subtle enough to grasp it.
Fearing that the discussion would degenerate into argument I changed the subject as skilfully as I could. Finally I pretended that I was famished. To my surprise she said—So am I.
We returned to our quarters. After we had had a good snack—pate de foie gras, cold turkey, cole slaw, washed down with a delicious Moselle—I felt as if I could go to the machine and really write. Perhaps it was the
