by John Fante
I whispered, “Who is that woman, Solomon?”
He didn’t know. She had been there earlier in the evening, drinking a great deal. I told him I wanted to go out the back way. “It’s the door on the right,” he said.
She finished her whiskey and hammered the table with the empty glass. I walked over, took a sip of beer, and told her to excuse me a minute. I jerked my thumb toward the men’s room. She patted my arm. Solomon was watching me as I took the door opposite the men’s room. It led to the storeroom, and the door to the alley was a few feet beyond. As soon as the fog smothered my face I felt better. I wanted to be as far away as possible. I wasn’t hungry but I walked a mile to a hotdog stand on Eighth Street and had a cup of coffee to kill time. I knew she would go back to my room after she missed me. Something told me she was insane, it could have been that she had too much liquor, but it didn’t matter, I didn’t want to see her again.
I got back to my room at two in the morning. Her personality and that mysterious smell of old age still possessed it, and it was not my room at all. For the first time its wonderful solitude was spoiled. Every secret of that room seemed laid open. I threw open the two windows and watched the fog float through in sad tumbling lumps. When it got too cold I closed the windows and, though the room was wet from the fog and my papers and books were filmed with dampness, the perfume was still there unmistakably. I had Camilla’s tam-o-shanter under my pillow. It too seemed drenched with the odor, and when I pressed it to my mouth it was like my mouth in that woman’s black hair. I sat in front of the typewriter, idly tapping the keys.
As soon as I got started I heard steps in the hall and I knew she was coming back. I turned off the lights quickly and sat in the darkness, but I was too late, for she must have seen the light under the door. She knocked and I did not answer. She knocked again, but I sat still and puffed on a cigaret. Then she began to beat the door with her fists and she called out that she would start kicking it, and that she would kick it all night long, unless I opened it. Then she started kicking it, and it made a terrible noise through that rickety hotel, and I rushed over and opened the door.
“Darling!” she said, and she held out her arms.
“My God,” I said. “Don’t you think this has gone far enough? Can’t you see I’m fed up?”
“Why did you leave me?” she asked. “Why did you do that?”
“I had another engagement.”
“Darling,” she said. “Why do you lie to me like that?”
“Oh nuts.”
She walked across the room and pulled the page from my typewriter again. It was full of all manner of nonsense, a few odd phrases, my name written many times, bits of poetry. But this time her face broke into a smile.
“How wonderful!” she said. “You’re a genius! My darling is so talented.”
“I’m awfully busy,” I said. “Will you please get out?”
It was as though she hadn’t heard me. She sat on the bed, unbuttoned her jacket, and dangled her feet. “I love you,” she said. “You’re my darling, and you’re going to love me.”
I said, “Some other time. Not tonight. I’m tired.”
That saccharine odor came through.
“I’m not kidding,” I said. “I think you’d better go. I don’t want to throw you out.”
“I’m so lonely,” she said.
She meant that. Something was wrong with her, twisted, gushing from her with those words, and I felt ashamed for being so harsh.
“Alright,” I said. “We’ll just sit here and talk for a while.”
I pulled up the chair and straddled it, with my chin on the back, looking at her as she snuggled on the bed. She wasn’t as drunk as I thought. Something was wrong with her and it was not alcohol and I wanted to find out what it was.
Her talk was madness. She told me her name, and it was Vera. She was a housekeeper for a rich Jewish family in Long Beach. But she was tired of being a housekeeper. She had come from Pennsylvania, fled across the country because her husband had been unfaithful to her. That day she had come down to Los Angeles from Long Beach. She had seen me in the restaurant on the corner of Olive Street and Second. She had followed me back to the hotel because my eyes “had pierced her soul.” But I couldn’t remember seeing her there. I was sure I had never seen her before. Having found out where I lived, she had gone to Solomon’s and got drunk. All day she had been drinking, but it was only that she might become reckless and go to my room.
“I know how I revolt you,” she said. “And that you know about my wounds and the horror my clothes conceal. But you must try to forget my ugly body, because I’m really good at heart, I’m so good, and I deserve more than your disgust.”
I was speechless.
“Forgive my body!” she said. She put her arms out to me, the tears flowing down her cheeks. “Think of my soul!” she said. “My soul is so beautiful, it can bring you so much! It is not ugly like my flesh!”
She was crying hysterically, lying on her face, her hands groping through her dark hair, and I was helpless, I didn’t know what she was talking about; ah, dear lady, don’t cry like that, you mustn’t cry like that, and I took her hot hand and tried to tell her she was talking in circles; it was all so silly, her talk, it was self-persecution, it was a lot of silly things, and I talked like that, gesturing with my hands, pleading with my voice.
“Because you’re such a fine woman, and your body is so beautiful, and all this talk is an obsession, a childish phobia, a hangover from the mumps. So you mustn’t worry and you mustn’t cry, because you’ll get over it. I know you will.”
But I was clumsy, and making her suffer even more, because she was down in an inferno of her own creation, so far away from me that the sound of my voice made the hiatus seem worse. Then I tried to talk to her of other things, and I tried to make her laugh at my obsessions. Look lady, Arturo Bandini, he’s got a few himself! And from under the pillow I drew out Camilla’s tam-o-shanter with the little tassle on it.
“Look lady! I’ve got them too. Do you know what I do, lady? I take this little black cap to bed with me, and I hold it close to me, and I say: ‘Oh I love you, I love you, beautiful princess!” And then I told her some more; oh, I was no angel; my soul had a few twists and bends all its own; so don’t you feel so lonely, lady; because you’ve got lots of company; you’ve got Arturo Bandini, and he’s got lots to tell you. And listen to this: Do you know what I did one night? Arturo, confessing it all: do you know the terrible thing I did? One night a woman too beautiful for this world came along on wings of perfume, and I could not bear it, and who she was I never knew, a woman in a red fox and a pert little hat, and Bandini trailing after her because she was better than dreams, watching her enter Bernstein’s Fish Grotto, watching her in a trance through a window swimming with frogs and trout, watching her as she ate alone; and when she was through, do you know what I did, lady? So don’t you cry, because you haven’t heard anything yet, because I’m awful, lady, and my heart is full of black ink; me, Arturo Bandini, I walked right into Bernstein’s Fish Grotto and I sat upon the very chair that she sat upon, and I shuddered with joy, and I fingered the napkin she had used, and there was a cigaret butt with a stain of lipstick upon it, and do you know what I did, lady? You with your funny little troubles, I ate the cigaret butt, chewed it up, tobacco and paper and all, swallowed it, and I thought it tasted fine, because she was so beautiful, and there was a spoon beside the plate, and I put it in my pocket, and every once in a while I’d take the spoon out of my pocket and taste it, because she was so beautiful. Love on a budget, a heroine free and for nothing, all for the black heart of Arturo Bandini, to be remembered through a window swimming with trout and frog legs. Don’t you cry, lady; save your tears for Arturo Bandini, because he has his troubles, and they are great troubles, and I haven’t even begun to talk, but I could say something to you about a night on the beach with a brown princess, and her flesh without meaning, her kisses like dead flowers, odorless in the garde
n of my passion.
But she was not listening, and she staggered off the bed, and she fell on her knees before me and begged me to tell her she was not disgusting.
“Tell me!” she sobbed. “Tell me I am beautiful like other women.”
“Of course you are! You’re really very beautiful!”
I tried to lift her, but she clung to me frantically, and I couldn’t do anything but try to soothe her, but I was so clumsy, so inadequate, and she was so far down in the depths beyond me, but I kept trying.
Then she started again about her wounds, those ghastly wounds, they had wrecked her life, they had destroyed love before it came, driven a husband from her and into another woman’s arms, and all of this was fantastic to me and incomprehensible because she was really handsome in her own way, she was not crippled and she was not disfigured, and there were plenty of men who would give her love.
She staggered to her feet and her hair had fallen to her face, the strands of hair pasted against her tear-soaked cheeks; her eyes were blotchy and she looked like a maniac, sodden with bitterness.
“I’ll show you!” she screamed. “You’ll see for yourself, you liar! liar!”
With both hands she jerked loose her dark skirt and it fell into a nest at her ankles. She stepped out of it and she was really beautiful in a white slip and I said it. I said, “But you’re lovely! I told you you were lovely!”
She kept sobbing as she worked at the clasps of her blouse, and I told her it wasn’t necessary to take off any more; she had convinced me beyond a doubt and there was no need for hurting herself further.
“No,” she said. “You’re going to see for yourself.”
She couldn’t release the clasps at the back of the blouse, and she backed toward me and told me to unclasp them. I waved my hand. “For God’s sake, forget about it,” I said. “You’ve convinced me. You don’t have to do a strip act.” She sobbed desperately and seized the thin blouse with her two hands and ripped it from her with one jerk.
When she began to lift her slip I turned my back and walked to the window, because I knew then she was going to show me something unpleasant, and she began to laugh at me and shriek at me and point her tongue at my worried face. “Ya, ya! See! You know already! You know all about them!”
I had to go through with it, and I turned around and she was nude except for hose and shoes, and then I saw the wounds. It was at the loins; it was a birthmark or something, a burn, a seared place, a pitiful, dry, vacant place where flesh was gone, where the thighs suddenly became small and shriveled and the flesh seemed dead. I closed my jaws and then I said, “What—that? Is that all, just that? It’s nothing, a mere trifle.” But I was losing the words, I had to say them quickly or they would never form. “It’s ridiculous,” I said. “I hardly noticed it. You’re lovely; you’re wonderful!”
She studied herself curiously, not believing me, and then she looked at me again, but I kept my eyes on her face, felt the floating nausea of my stomach, breathed the sweetish thickish odor of her presence, and I said again that she was beautiful, and the world slipped out like a whimper, so beautiful she was, a small girl, a virgin child, so beautiful and rare to behold, and without a word, and blushing, she picked up her slip and drew it over her head, a crooning and mysterious satisfaction in her throat.
She was so shy all at once, so delighted, and I laughed to find the words coming easier now, and I told her again and again of her loveliness, of how silly she had been. But say it fast, Arturo, say it quickly, because something was coming up in me, and I had to get out, so I told her I had to go down the hall a minute and for her to dress while I was gone. She covered herself and her eyes were swimming in joy as she watched me leave. I went down to the end of the hall to the landing of the fire-escape, and there I let go, crying and unable to stop because God was such a dirty crook, such a contemptible skunk, that’s what he was for doing that thing to that woman. Come down out of the skies, you God, come on down and I’ll hammer your face all over the city of Los Angeles, you miserable unpardonable prankster. If it wasn’t for you, this woman would not be so maimed, and neither would the world, and if it wasn’t for you I could have had Camilla Lopez down at the beach, but no! You have to play your tricks: see what you have done to this woman, and to the love of Arturo Bandini for Camilla Lopez. And then my tragedy seemed greater than the woman’s, and I forgot her.
When I got back she was dressed and combing her hair in front of the little mirror. The torn blouse was stuffed inside her coat pocket. She seemed so exhausted and yet so serenely happy, and I told her I would walk downtown with her to the Electric Depot, where she would catch a train for Long Beach. She told me no, I wouldn’t have to do that. She wrote out her address on a piece of paper.
“Some day you’ll come to Long Beach,” she said. “I will wait a long time, but you’ll come.”
At the door we said goodbye. She held out her hand, it was so warm and alive. “Goodbye,” she said. “Take care of yourself.”
“Goodbye, Vera.”
There was no solitude after she left, there was no escape from that strange scent. I lay down and even Camilla who was a pillow with a tam-o-shanter for a head seemed so far away and I could not bring her back. Slowly I felt myself filling with desire and sadness; you could have had her, you fool, you could have done what you pleased, just like Camilla, and you didn’t do anything. All through the night she mangled my sleep. I would wake up to breathe the sweet heaviness she had left behind, and touch the furniture she had touched, and think of the poetry she had recited. When I fell asleep I had no recollection of it, for when I awoke it was ten in the morning and I was still tired, sniffing the air and thinking restlessly of what had happened. I could have said so much to her, and she would have been so kind. I could have said, look Vera, such and such is the situation, and such and such happened, and if you could do such and such, perhaps it would not happen again, because such and such a person thinks such and such about me, and it’s got to stop; I shall die trying, but it’s got to stop.
So I sit around all day thinking about it; and I think about a few other Italians, Casanova and Cellini, and then I think about Arturo Bandini, and I have to punch myself in the head. I begin to wonder about Long Beach, and I say to myself that perhaps I should at least visit the place, and maybe Vera, to have a talk with her concerning a great problem. I think of that cadaverous place, the wound on her body, and try to find words for it, to fit it across the page of a manuscript. Then I say to myself that Vera, for all her flaws, might perform a miracle, and after the miracle is performed a new Arturo Bandini will face the world and Camilla Lopez, a Bandini with dynamite in his body and volcanic fire in his eyes, who goes to this Camilla Lopez and says: see here, young woman, I have been very patient with you, but now I have had enough of your impudence, and you will kindly oblige me by removing your clothes. These vagaries please me as I lie there and watch them unfold across the ceiling.
One afternoon I tell Mrs. Hargraves that I shall be gone for a day or so, Long Beach, some business, and I start out. I have Vera’s address in my pocket, and I say to myself, Bandini, prepare yourself for the great adventure; let the conquering spirit possess you. On the corner I meet Hellfrick, whose mouth is watering for more meat. I give him some money and he dashes into a butcher shop. Then I go down to the Electric Station and catch a Red Car for Long Beach.
Chapter Twelve
The name on the mailbox was Vera Rivken, and that was her full name. It was down on the Long Beach Pike, across the street from the Ferris Wheel and the Roller Coaster. Downstairs a poolhall, upstairs a few single apartments. No mistaking that flight of stairs; it possessed her odor. The banister was warped and bent, and the grey wallpaint was swollen, with puffed places that cracked open when I pushed them with my thumb.
When I knocked, she opened the door.
“So soon?” she said.
Take her in your arms, Bandini. Don’t grimace at her kiss, break away gently, with a smile, sa
y something. “You look wonderful,” I said. No chance to speak, she was over me again, clinging like a wet vine, her tongue like a frightened snake’s head, searching my mouth. Oh great Italian Lover Bandini, reciprocate! Oh Jewish girl, if you would be so kind, if you would approach these matters more slowly! So I was free again, wandering to the window, saying something about the sea and the view beyond. “Nice view,” I said. But she was taking off my coat, leading me to a chair in the corner, taking off my shoes. “Be comfortable,” she said. Then she was gone, and I sat with my teeth gritted, looking at a room like ten million California rooms, a bit of wood here and a bit of rag there, the furniture, with cobwebs in the ceiling and dust in the corners, her room, and everybody’s room, Los Angeles, Long Beach, San Diego, a few boards of plaster and stucco to keep the sun out.
She was in a little white hole called the kitchen, scattering pans and rattling glasses, and I sat and wondered why she could be one thing when I was alone in my room and something else the moment I was with her. I looked for incense, that saccharine smell, it had to come from somewhere, but there was no incense burner in the room, nothing in the room but dirty blue overstuffed furniture, a table with a few books scattered over it, and a mirror over the paneling of a Murphy bed. Then she came out of the kitchen with a glass of milk in her hand. “Here,” she offered. “A cool drink.”
But it wasn’t cool at all, it was almost hot, and there was a yellowish scum on the top, and sipping it I tasted her lips and the strong food she ate, a taste of rye bread and Camembert cheese. “It’s good,” I said, “delicious.”
She was sitting at my feet, her hands on my knees, staring at me with the eyes of hunger, tremendous eyes so large I might have lost myself in them. She was dressed as I saw her the first time, the same clothes, and the place was so desolate I knew she had no others, but I had come before she had had a chance to powder or rouge and now I saw the sculpture of age under her eyes and through her cheeks. I wondered that I had missed these things that night, and then I remembered that I had not missed them at all, I had seen them even through rouge and powder, but in the two days of reverie and dream about her they had concealed themselves, and now I was here, and I knew I should not have come.