Mrs. Skolsky looked at me inquiringly.
Yes, I said, she's right. He's worse than that, to tell the truth. He's one of those people whose intelligence serves no purpose. He's intelligent enough to be a lawyer, but in every other respect he's an imbecile.
Mrs. Skolsky looked nonplused. She was not accustomed to hearing people talk that way about their friends.
But he spoke of you so warmly, she said.
It makes no difference, I replied. He's impervious, obtuse ... thick-skinned, that's the word.
Very well ... if you say so, Mr. Miller. She backed away.
I have no friends any more, I said. I've killed them all off.
She gave a little gasp.
He doesn't mean it quite that way, said Mona.
I'm sure he can't, said Mrs. Skolsky. It sounds dreadful.
It's the truth, like it or not. I'm a thoroughly unsocial individual, Mrs. Skolsky.
I don't believe you, she replied. Nor would Mr. Essen.
He'll find out one day. Not that I dislike him, you understand.
No, I don't understand, said Mrs. Skolsky.
Neither do I, said I, and I began to laugh.
There's a bit of the devil in you, said Mrs. Skolsky. Isn't that so, Mrs. Miller?
Maybe, said Mona. He's not always easy to understand.
I think I understand him, said Mrs. Skolsky. I think he's ashamed of himself for being so good, so honest, so sincere—and so loyal to his friends. She turned to me. Really, Mr. Miller, you're the friendliest human being I ever knew. I don't care what you say about yourself—I'll think what I please ... When you've unpacked come down and have dinner with me, won't you, the two of you?
You see, I said, when she had retreated, how difficult it is to make people accept the truth.
You like to shock people, Val. There's always truth in what you say, but you have to make it unpalatable.
Well, I don't think she'll let MacGregor bother us any more, that's one good thing.
He'll follow you to your grave, said Mona.
Wouldn't it be queer if we were to run into him in Paris?
Don't say that, Val! The thought of it is enough to spoil our trip.
If that guy ever gets her to Paris he'll rape her. Right now he can't even lay a hand on her backside...
Let's forget about them, will you, Val? It gives me the creeps to think of them.
But it was impossible to forget them. All through the dinner we talked about them. And that night I had a dream about them, about meeting them in Paris. In the dream Guelda looked and behaved like a cocotte, spoke French like a native, and was making poor MacGregor's life unbearable with her lascivious ways. I wanted a wife, he lamented, Not a whore! Reform her, will you, Hen? he pleaded. I took her to a priest, to be shrived, but as things turned out we found ourselves in a whorehouse and Guelda, the number one girl, was in such demand that we couldn't get a squeak out of her. Finally she took the priest upstairs with her, whereupon the Madame of the whorehouse threw her out, stark naked, with a towel in one hand and a bar of soap in the other.
Only a few weeks now and the novel would be finished. Pop already had a publisher in mind for it, a friend of his whom he had known in the old country. He was determined to find a legitimate publisher for it or do it himself, according to Mona. The bugger was feeling good these days; he was making money hand over fist on the stock market. He was even threatening to go to Europe himself. With Mona, presumably. (Don't worry, Val, I'll give him the slip when the time comes. Yes, but what about that money you were to put in the bank? I'll square that too, don't worry!)
She never had any doubts or fears where Pop was concerned. It was useless to attempt to guide her, or even make suggestion: she knew far better than I what she could do and what she couldn't. All I knew of the man was what she told me. I always pictured him as well-dressed, excessively polite, and carrying a wallet bulging with greenbacks. (Menelik the Bountiful.) I never felt sorry for him, either. He was enjoying himself, that was clear. What I did wonder about sometimes was—how could she continue to keep her address secret? To live with an invalid mother is one thing, to keep the whereabouts of this manage a secret quite another. Perhaps Pop suspected the truth—that she was living with a man. What difference could it make to him whether it was an invalid mother or a lover or a husband—as long as she kept her appointments? Perhaps he was tactful enough to help her save face? He was no dope, that was certain ... But why would he encourage her to leave for Europe, stay away for months or longer? Here, of course, I had only to do a bit of transposing. When she said Pop would like to see me go to Europe for a while, I had only to turn it around and I could hear her saying—to Pop: I want so much to see Europe again, even if only for a little while. As for publishing the novel, perhaps Pop hadn't the slightest intention of doing anything, either through his friend, the publisher (if there were such a one) or on his own. Perhaps he fell in with her there to satisfy the lover or husband—or the poor invalid mother. Perhaps he was a better actor than either of us!
Maybe—this was a random thought—maybe there had never passed a word between them about Europe. Maybe she was just determined to get there again, no matter how.
Suddenly Stasia's image floated before me. Strange, that not a word had ever been received from her! Surely she couldn't still be wandering about in North Africa. Was she in Paris—waiting? Why not? It was simple enough to have a box at the Post Office, and another box somewhere else, in which to hide the letters which Stasia may have written. Worse than meeting MacGregor and his Guelda in Paris would be to run into Stasia. How stupid of me never to have though of a clandestine correspondence! No wonder everything was running smoothly.
