Tell him I'll be down in a minute, I said.
When I got to the head of the stairs there he was looking up at me, with a broad grin on his face. MacGregor, no less. The last man on earth I wanted to see.
I'll bet you're glad to see me, he piped. Hiding away as usual, I see. How are you, you old bastard?
Come on up!
You're sure you're not too busy? This with full sarcasm.
I can always spare ten minutes for an old friend, I replied.
He bounded up the steps. Nice place, he said, as he walked in. How long are you here? Hell, never mind telling me. He sat down on the divan and threw his hat on the table.
Nodding toward the machine he said: Still at it, eh? I thought you had given that up long ago. Boy, you're a glutton for punishment.
How did you find this place? I asked.
Easy as pie, he said. I phoned your parents. They wouldn't give me your address but they did give me the phone number. The rest was easy.
I'll be damned!
What's the matter, aren't you glad to see me?
Sure, sure.
You don't need to worry, I won't tell anybody. By the way, is what's her name still with you?
You mean Mona?
Yeah, Mona. I couldn't remember her name.
Sure she's with me. Why shouldn't she be?
I never thought she'd last this long, that's all. Well, it's good to know you're happy.
I'm not! I'm in a jam. One hell of a jam. That's why I came to see you. I need you.
No, don't say that! How the hell can I help you? You know I'm...
All I want you to do is listen. Don't get panicky. I'm in love, that's what.
That's fine, I said. What's wrong with that?
She won't have me.
I burst out laughing. Is that all? Is that what's worrying you? You poor sap!
You don't, understand. It's different this time. This is love. Let me tell you about her ... He paused a full moment. Unless you're too busy right now. He directed his gaze at the work table, observed the blank sheet in the machine, then added: What is it this time—a novel? Or a philosophical treatise?
It's nothing, I said. Nothing important.
Sounds strange, he said. Once upon a time everything you did was important, very important. Come on, what are you holding back for? I know I disturbed you, but that's no reason to clam up on me.
If you really want to know, I'm working on a novel.
A novel? Jesus, Hen, don't try that ... you'll never write a novel.
Why? What makes you so sure? Because I know you, that's why. You haven't any feeling for plot.
Does a novel always have to have a plot? Look, he countered, I don't want to gum up the works, but...
But what?
Why don't you stick to your guns? You can write anything, but not a novel.
What makes you think I can write at all?
He hung his head, as if thinking up an answer.
You never thought much of me as a writer, said I. Nobody does.
You're a writer all right, he said. Maybe you haven't produced anything worth looking at yet, but you've got time. The trouble with you is you're obstinate.
Obstinate?
Obstinate, yeah! Stubborn, mule-headed. You want to enter by the front door. You want to be different but you don't want to pay the price. Look, why couldn't you take a job as a reporter, work your way up, become a correspondent, then tackle the great work? Answer that!
Because it's a waste of time, that's why.
Other men have done it. Bigger men than you, some of them. What about Bernard Shaw?
That was O.K. for him, I replied. I have my own way.
Silence for a few moments. I reminded him of an evening in his office long ago, an evening when he had flung a new review at me and told me to read a story by John Dos Passes, then a young writer.
You know what you told me then? You said: ‘Hen, why don't you try your hand at it? You can write as good
