LITMIR.BIZ

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a stray alleycat.

      Once Ulric called, but found the atmosphere so depressing I knew he would never repeat the visit. He spoke as if I were going through another “phase.” His attitude was—when you emerge from the tunnel, look me up! He was too discreet to make any comment on Stasia. All he dropped was: “A rum one, that!”

      To further the courtship I decided one day to get tickets for the theater. It was agreed that we would meet outside the theater. The evening came. I waited patiently a half-hour after the curtain had risen, but no Mona. Like a schoolboy, I had bought a bunch of violets to present her. Catching a reflection of myself in a shop window, the violets in my mitt, I suddenly felt so foolish that I dropped the violets and walked away. Nearing the corner, I turned round just in time to catch sight of a young girl in the act of recovering the violets. She raised them to her nostrils, took a deep whiff, then threw them away.

      On reaching the house I noticed that the lights were on full blast. I stood outside a few minutes, bewildered by the burst of song from within. For a moment I wondered if there were visitors. But no, it was just the two of them. They were certainly in high spirits.

      The song which they were singing at the top of their lungs was—“Let Me Call You Sweetheart.”

      “Let’s sing it again!” said I, as I walked in.

      And we did, all three of us.

       “Let me call you sweetheart, I’m in love with you. . . .”

      Again we sang it, and again. The third time around I put up my hand.

      “Where were you?” I bawled.

      “Where was I?” said Mona. “Why, right here.”

      “And our date?”

      “I didn’t think you were serious.”

      “You didn’t?” With that I gave her a sound slap in the puss. A real clout.

      “Next time, my lady, I’ll drag you there by the tail.”

      I sat down at the gut table and took a good look at them. My anger fell away.

      “I didn’t mean to hit you so hard,” said I, removing my hat. “You’re unusually gay this evening. What’s happened?”

      They took me by the arm and escorted me to the rear of the place, where the laundry tubs used to stand.

      “That’s what,” said Mona, pointing to a pile of groceries. “I had to be here when they arrived. There was no way to let you know in time. That’s why I didn’t meet you.”

      She dove into the pile and extracted a bottle of Benedictine. Stasia had already selected some black caviar and biscuits.

      I didn’t bother to ask how they had come by the loot. That would leak out of itself, later.

      “Isn’t there any wine?” I asked.

      Wine? Of course there was. What would I like—Bordeaux, Rhine wine, Moselle, Chianti, Burgundy . . .?

      We opened a bottle of Rhine wine, a jar of lox, and a tin of English biscuits—the finest. Resumed our places around the gut table.

      “Stasia’s pregnant,” said Mona. Like she might have said—“Stasia’s got a new dress.”

      “Is that what you were celebrating?”

      “Of course not.”

      I turned to Stasia. “Tell us about it,” I said, “I’m all ears.”

      She turned red and looked helplessly at Mona. “Let her tell you,” she said.

      I turned to Mona. “Well?”

      “It’s a long story, Val, but I’ll make it short. She was attacked by a bunch of gangsters in the Village. They raped her.”

      “They? How many?”

      “Four,” said Mona. “Do you remember the night we didn’t come home? That was the night.”

      “Then you don’t know who the father is?”

      “The father?” they echoed. “We’re not worrying about the father.”

      “I’d be glad to take care of the brat,” said I. “All I need to learn is how to produce milk.”

      “We’ve spoken to Kronski,” said Mona. “He’s promised to take care of things. But first he wants to examine her.”

      “Again?”

      “He’s got to be certain.”

      “Are you certain?”

      “Stasia is. She’s stopped menstruating.”

      “That means nothing,” said I. “You’ve got to have better evidence than that.”

      Stasia now spoke up. “My breasts are getting heavy.” She unbuttoned her blouse and took one out. “See!” She squeezed it gently. A drop or two of what looked like yellow pus appeared. “That’s milk,” she said.

      “How do you know?”

      “I tasted it.”

      I asked Mona to squeeze her breasts and see what would happen, but she refused. Said it was embarrassing.

      “Embarrassing? You sit with your legs crossed and show us everything you’ve got, but you won’t take your boobies out. That’s not embarrassing, that’s perverse.”

      Stasia burst out laughing. “It’s true,” she said. “What’s wrong with showing us your breasts?”

      “You’re the one who’s pregnant, not I,” said Mona.

      “When is Kronski coming?”

      “Tomorrow.”

      I poured myself another glass of wine and raised it on high. “To the unborn!” I said. Then lowering my voice, I inquired if they had notified the police.

      They ignored this. As if to tell me the subject was closed, they announced that they were planning to go to the theater shortly. They’d be glad to have me come along, if I wished.

      “To see what?” I asked.

      “The Captive,” said Stasia. “It’s a French play. Everybody’s talking about it.”

      During the conversation Stasia had been trying to cut her toenails. She was so awkward that I begged her to let me do it for her. When I had finished the job I suggested that she let me comb her hair. She was delighted.

      As I combed her hair she read aloud from The Drunken Boat. Since I had listened with evident pleasure she jumped up and went to her room to fetch a biography of Rimbaud. It was Carré’s Season in Hell. Had events not conspired to thwart it, I would have become a devotee of Rimbaud then and there.

      It wasn’t often, I must say, that we passed an evening together in this manner, or ended it on such a good note.

      With Kronski’s arrival next day the results of the examination negative, things commenced to go awry in earnest. Sometimes I had to vacate the premises while they entertained a very special friend, usually a benefactor who brought a supply of groceries or who left a check on the table. Conversing before me they often indulged in double talk, or exchanged notes which they wrote before my eyes. Or they would lock themselves in Stasia’s room and there keep up a whispered conversation for an ungodly while. Even the poems Stasia wrote were becoming more and more unintelligible. At least, those she deigned to show me. Rimbaud’s influence, she said. Or the toilet box, which never ceased gurgling.

      By way of relief there were occasional visits from Osiecki who had discovered a nice speakeasy, over a funeral parlor, a few blocks away. I’d have a few beers with him—until he got glassy-eyed and started scratching himself. Sometimes I’d take it into my head to go to Hoboken and, while

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