"Thank you," I said, "but I haven't any money."
Vriesländer looked at me benevolently. "You've still got time to make some. They tell me you're a first-class salesman. If you want to set yourself up in business, come and see me. I finance you, you do the selling, and we share fifty-fifty."
"That's not so simple. I'd have to buy pictures from dealers. They'd expect me to pay the prices they get from their customers."
Vriesländer laughed. "You're still a greenhorn, Ross. Give it a try. In the business world everybody gets his little cut. Otherwise every market in the world would collapse. Come and see me when you've thought it over."
He stood up and so did I. For a moment I thought he might pinch my behind in fatherly absent-mindedness.
I prepared to leave. "Don't forget the tip," said Vriesländer.
My feelings must have appeared on my face, because he burst out laughing. "You and your moral scruples," he said. "My dear Ross, there's going to be money lying around, just waiting to be picked up. Do you want to leave it for the Nazis who robbed us? I say we've got it coming to us. You should be logical about these things."
The cook handed me a jar of goulash as I was leaving. I took Lissy home in a cab. "You must be all black and blue," I said. "Working for that pinching machine. Does he chase you around the typewriter?"
"No. He only pinches me when people are looking. It's his way of showing off. He's impotent."
Lissy stood shivering in the doorway, a small forlorn figure. "Won't you come up?" she asked.
"I can't, Lissy."
"I suppose not," she said dejectedly.
"I'm sick," I said, God knows why. "Hollywood," I added.
"I don't want you to make love to me. It's just that the room seems so dead when I go in alone."
I paid the driver and went up with her. It was a dismal room, with pictures of movie actresses on the wall. The only personal note was a teddy bear and a few dolls.
"Should I make some coffee?" she asked.
"That would be lovely."
The activity revived her. Over the coffee she told me a little about her life. It went in one ear and out the other. I stood up to go. "Sleep well, Lissy," I said. "And don't do anything foolish. You're very pretty and tomorrow is another day."
She nodded. "Don't worry. It was just one of those bad moments. Take care of yourself, Robert."
It snowed next day. In the afternoon the streets were white, and the skyscrapers looked like enormous beehives covered with snow and light. The traffic sounds were muffled and the snow was still coming down.
I was playing chess with Melikov when Natasha came in. She shook the snow off her hair and the hood of her cape.
"Did you come in the Rolls-Royce?" I asked.
She was silent for a moment. "I took a cab" she said finally. "Does that make you feel better?"
"Much better," I said. "Where do you want to go?"
"Wherever you say."
I went to the door and looked out. "It's snowing hard," I said. "Your furs would be ruined. We'd better stay here till it stops."
"You don't have to give me reasons for staying here," she said. "If only we had something to eat."
I suddenly remembered the Vriesländer's goulash. The strain in our relations had driven it from my mind.
"My goulash!" I said. "We can eat in my room."
"Can we? Won't that gangster call the police?"
"Nothing to worry about. With the room I've got now nobody can see us going in or out. Come on!"
Thanks to Lisa Teruel's good taste in lamp shades, the room looked a lot better by night than by day. Lowy's cat, which I had put on the table, seemed to welcome us. I took Natasha's cape and set about my preparations for dinner. I possessed an enamel cooking pot, and electric hot plate, a few dishes, and the most necessary cutlery. I spread out a towel on the table, poured the goulash into the pot, and switched on the hot plate. "It won't be long," I said. Natasha was still standing, leaning against the door.
"There's not much room," I said. "But there's always the bed."
"You don't mean it."
I wasn't at all sure of myself and I had intended to go slow. But once again, the moment I came close to her I felt that she was almost naked under her thin dress and I forgot my resolutions. I said nothing, and she, too, was silent. It was a long time since I had been with a woman, and I suddenly realized how indifferent everything else in the world can become when the bit of individuality we carry around with us is swept away by the nameless, faceless being that consists only of hands, burning skin, and avidly swollen member. I wanted to be inside her, to merge with her hot darkness, her quivering lungs, her heartbeat, until nothing remained of our existence but the throbbing of our blood and a panting that seemed no longer to be within us but: somewhere outside us.
We lay on the bed exhausted, on the verge of sleep. I felt Natasha beside me, her breath, her hair, the gentle movement of her ribs, and the faint beating of her heart. She was not yet wholly Natasha or even a nameless woman; she was breath and heartbeat and skin. Only later did consciousness rush in, bringing with it name and feeling, a weary hand groping for a shoulder, and a mouth muttering meaningless words. Then suddenly I smelled it.
"Damn it, the goulash!"
Natasha half opened her eyes. "Throw it out the window."
"God forbid. I think I can save it."
I turned off the hot plate and carefully poured out the goulash, leaving only the burned crust mat had stuck to the pot. Then I opened the window and put the pot on the outside sill. "The smell will be gone in a minute," I said. "The goulash is saved."
"The goulash is saved," Natasha repeated without moving. "Now I suppose you want me to get out of bed."
"All I want is to bring you a cigarette and a glass of vodka. You don't have to take them."
She thought it over for a moment. "I'll take them. Where did you get the lamp shades? In Hollywood?"
"They were here when I moved in."
"They're Mexican. And I'll bet they belonged to a woman."
"That may be. The woman's name was Lisa Teruel. She's moved out."
"No woman would leave such nice lamp shades behind."
"Sometimes people leave more than that behind, Natasha."
"Only if the police are after them." She sat up; "I don't know why, but all of a sudden I'm ravenous."
"I knew it. So am I."
I filled the plates.
"Do you know, Robert, I didn't believe you when you said you were having dinner with your goulash family. I see it was true."
"I lie as little as possible. It's simpler."
"So it is. For instance, I'd never tell you that I hadnt been unfaithful to you."
"Unfaithful! What a preposterous word!"
"Why is it preposterous?"
"Because it implies a pact we never made, a kind of ownership. If you go to bed with other men, you may be unfaithful to yourself, but not to me."
"That sounds pretty silly to me, but if it makes you feel better. . . ."
I laughed. "Natasha," I said, "horrible as it may sound, something tells me that I love you. And we tried so hard not to."
"Did we?" She gave me a strange look. "All the same I've been unfaithful to you."
"And I love you all the same. What has the one got to do with the other? They're two separate things, like wind and water; they move each other, but they don't mix."
"I don't get it."
"Neither do I. Do we always have to understand everything?"
I didn't believe her. Or even if I did, what did it matter? She was there, she was with me; anything more was for people who knew what the future held in store for them.
XXX
I sold the Egyptian cat to a Dutchman. The day I received the check I asked Kahn to have dinner with me at Voisin. "Are you as rich as all that?" he asked.
"When the ancients were getting ready to drink," I explained, "they used to pour a little wine on the ground as an offering to the gods.
I go to a good restaurant for the same reason. Which reminds me that they've still got some beautiful Cheval Blanc in their cellar. We'll have a bottle. Okay?"
"Okay. We can pour out the dregs on our plates to keep the gods in a good humor."
Voisin was full, as restaurants tend to be in wartime. Even people who are in no danger whatever feel that they have to get something out of life before it's too late. And they spend their money more freely in troubled times.
Kahn was depressed. "I'm feeling low," he said. "I've had a letter from Carmen. She thinks we should separate. She says we don't understand each other. She doesn't want me to write any more. Has she got someone else?"
The news had hit him hard. "I don't think so," I said. "She doesn't seem to see anybody but her landlady and the chickens in the back yard. I saw her a few times. She was happy to be doing nothing."
"What would you do? Should I go out there and bring her back? Would she come?"
"I don't think so."
"Neither do I. What should I do?"
"Wait. And stop writing. Maybe she'll come back of her own accord."
"Do you believe that?"
"No," I said. "Does it mean so much to you?"
He was silent for a moment. "It shouldn't. It never used to. It was sort of a whim. Not now. Do you know why?"
"Because she doesn't want to come back."
He smiled sadly. "It seems so simple. Except when it happens to us."
I thought of Natasha. Hadn't the same thing almost happened to me? And wouldn't it happen one of these days? I shook off the thought and wondered what to say to Kahn. The whole thing was completely out of character. It was absurd, incongruous, and for that very reason dangerous. In a poet, a man of imagination, it would have been absurd but understandable; in a coolheaded intellectual like Kahn it was merely absurd. He had been amused by Carmen's odd combination of tragic beauty and phlegmatic soul, and, because he was at loose ends, this amusement had become a kind of refuge for him. Now he was suddenly taking it seriously. That was a bad sign, a sign that he was going to pieces.
He raised his glass. "How little we find to say about women when we're happy! And how much when we're not!"
"That's true. Do you think you would have been happy with Carmen?"
"You think we weren't right for each other? That's true. But when people are right for each other, separation comes easier. It's like a pot cover. When it fits there's no difficulty in taking it off. When it doesn't, and you have to take a hammer to it, you're likely to break something."
"That's nonsense," I said. "All proverbial sayings can be twisted into their opposites."
"All situations, too. Forget about Carmen. I guess I'm just generally depressed. The war's coming to an end, Robert."
"Is that why you're depressed?"
"No. But then what? Do you know what you're going to do?"
"Who knows these things for sure? It's impossible to conceive of the war being over, and it's impossible to conceive of what we're going to do."
"Do you want to stay here?"
"I'd rather not talk about it today."
"You see? I'm always thinking about it. It's going to be a terrible leI'down for us refugees. Up to now we've been sustained by the thought of the injustice that was done to us. And now all of a sudden the injustice is gone. We'll be able to go back. What for? Where? And who wants us? How can we go back?"
"A good many wfll stay here."
He waved that away. "I mean the vulnerable ones. Not the opportunists and careerists."
"I mean the whole lot," I said. "Including the opportunists and careerists."
Kahn smiled. "There speaks the lover of humanity. Of all humanity, except for the individuals. Prosit, Robert. I'm talking a lot of nonsense today. It's a good thing you're here. Radios are great talkers, but poor listeners. Can you see me selling radios for the rest of my life?"
"Maybe you'll take over the factory."
"Can you see me owning a factory?"
"Not really," I admitted.
"The Cheval Blanc is all gone," I said. "And we've forgotten to sacrifice the last drops to the gods. How about an enormous dish of ice cream? You always said it was your favorite weakness."
He shook his head. "That was an act, Robert. Mostly for my own benefit. The smiling cynic, the bon vivant, who takes life's little pleasures as they come. I'm through with all that I'm just an old Jew."
"An old Jew of thirty."
"Jews are always old. We're born old. Each one of us carries two thousand years of persecution on his back—from the cradle to the grave."
"How about taking a bottle with us and continuing our conversation at my place?"
"That's another thing about the Jews. We're not drinkers. I'll just go home to my room over the shop, and tomorrow I'll laugh at myself. Good night, Robert."
He had me seriously worried. "I'll take you home," I said.
We stepped out into the bitter cold. "In some situations," I said, "mere's no sense in trying to be heroic. Your cold room ..."
"It's overheated," Kahn interrupted me.
"There are different kinds of coldness," I said. "Could anything be colder, for instance, than this damn neon light they have all over the place? It makes my teeth chatter twice as hard. Come on back to the hotel with me. Be reasonable."
"Tomorrow," said Kahn. "I have a date tonight."
"Don't be silly."
"I really have," he said. "With Lissy Koller. Now do you believe me?"
The twin, I thought. Why not? She was pretty and domestic, as hungry for love as a stray cat and a lot less stupid than Carmen. But suddenly in the glacial night it dawned on me why only Carmen would do for Kahn. Somehow her absolute futility helped him to bear the futility of his own uprooted existence.
The tail lights of the passing cars suggested scattered coals trying in vain to warm the darkness. We stopped outside the radio store, and I looked up. The light was on in Kahn's room. "Don't take on like a worried mother hen," said Kahn. "As you can see, I've left the light on. I won't be going into a dark room."
I thought of the twin who had been afraid of her room. Maybe she really was upstairs, combing her hair. "Does it get much colder in New York?" I asked.
"Much colder," said Kahn.
Natasha was covered with jewels: earrings set with enormous rubies, a diamond-and-ruby necklace, and a magnificent ring. Horst, the photographer, whispered in my ear: "That's a forty-two-carat ring. We're doing color photos of her hands. We wanted a big star ruby, but there was none to be Had. It doesn't matter; we'll fake the star. That's what retouching is for. Everything is fake nowadays."
"Really?" I asked, looking at Natasha, who was sitting motionless on the platform in a white satin dress, her rubies aflame in the spotlights. It was hard for me to believe that this cold gleaming goddess had lain on my bed the night before, rending the air with her raucous screams: "Deeper! Deeper! Break me into pieces! Crush me! Deeper!"
"That's right," said Horst "Women and politicians, for instance. False bosoms, rubber bottoms, made-up faces, false eyelashes, wigs, false teeth. Everything fake. When I come in with my off-focus lens and sophisticated light effects, the years melt away like sugar in coffee, and voilà."
"Where do the politicians come in?" I asked.
"Ah, the politicians. Most of them can hardly read and write. They have clever little Jews who write their speeches, agencies that supply them with jokes, ghost writers who turn out their books, actors who teach them personality, and sometimes even phonograph records that speak for them." Having got that off his chest, he bounded to his camera. "That's fine, Natasha. Hold it."
Natasha came down from the white light of the platform, and the goddess was transformed into the warm-blooded, bejeweled wife of an armaments magnate.
"One more pose and I'll be with you," she said to me. '"I'm famished."
I knew these attacks of hers. They were brought on by hypoglycemia, a condition in which the blood-sugar level drops at an abno
rmal rate. While we were living on Fifty-seventh Street I had often been awakened by strange sounds. Leaping out of bed to do battle with burglars, I had found her naked by the icebox, magically illumined by the inside light, with a cold chop in one hand and a piece of cheese in the other.
Shadows in Paradise Page 32