world. You’ve got ignorant kikes and hoodlums around you. You’re crazy with your own brand of pride and snobbery. There’s nobody good enough for you. ... I could have helped you. Now it’s too late!”
I would not argue with Denise. I felt a certain sympathy with her. She said I was living badly. I agreed. She thought I wasn’t all there, and I would have had to be completely crazy to deny it. She said I was writing stuff that made sense to no one. Maybe so. My last book, Some Americans , subtitled The Sense of Being in the USA , was quickly remaindered. The publishers had begged me not to print it. They offered to forget a debt of twenty thousand dollars if I would shelve it. But now I was perversely writing Part II. My life was in great disorder.
I was, however, loyal to something. I had an idea.
“Why did you ever bring me back to Chicago?” said Denise. “Sometimes I think you did it because your dead are buried here. Is that the reason? Land where my Jewish fathers died? And you dragged me to your graveyard so you could get into the anthem? And what’s it about? All because you have delusions about being a marvelous noble person. Which you are—like hell!”
Such abuse does Denise more good than vitamins. As for me, I find that certain kinds of misunderstanding are full of useful hints. But my final though silent answer to Denise was always the same. Despite her intelligence, she had been bad for my idea. From that standpoint, Renata was the better woman—better for me.
Renata had forbidden me to drive a Dart. I tried to negotiate with the Mercedes salesman for a secondhand 250-C, but in the showroom Renata—roused, florid, fragrant, large—had put her hand on the silver hood and said, “This one—the coupe.” The touch of her palm was sensual. Even what she did to the car I felt in my own person.
five
But now something had to be done about this wreck. I went to the Receiving Room and fetched Roland the doorman—skinny, black, elderly, never-shaven Roland. Roland Stiles, unless I deceived myself (a strong likelihood), was on my side. In my fantasies of solitary death it was Roland whom I saw in my bedroom filling a flight bag with a few articles before calling the police. He did so with my blessing. He particularly needed my electric razor. His intensely black face was pitted and spiky. Shaving with a blade must have been nearly impossible.
Roland, in the electric-blue uniform, was perturbed. He had seen the ruined car when he came to work in the morning but, he said, “I couldn’t be the one to tell you, Mist’ Citrine.” Tenants on their way to work had seen it, too. They knew of course to whom it belonged. “This is a real bitch,” said Roland soberly, his lean old face twisted and his mouth and mustache puckered. Quickwitted, he had always kidded me about the beautiful ladies who called on me. “They come in Volkswagens and Cadillacs, on bikes and motorcycles, in taxis and walkin’. They ask when you went out, and when you comin’ back, and they leave notes. They come, they come, they come. You some ladies’ man. Plenty of husbands got it in for you, I bet.” But the amusement was gone. Roland hadn’t been a black man sixty years for nothing. He knew moronic infernos. I had lost the immunity which made my ways so entertaining. “You in trouble,” he said. He muttered something about “Miss Universe.” He called Renata Miss Universe. Sometimes she paid him to entertain her little boy in the Receiving Room. The child played with parcels while his mother lay in my bed. I didn’t like it, but you can’t be a ridiculous lover by halves.
“Now what?”
Roland twisted his hands outward. He lifted his shoulders. Shrugging, he said, “Call the cops.”
Yes, a report had to be filed, if only because of the insurance. The insurance company would find this a very queer case. “Well, flag the squad car when it passes. Have those
I would not argue with Denise. I felt a certain sympathy with her. She said I was living badly. I agreed. She thought I wasn’t all there, and I would have had to be completely crazy to deny it. She said I was writing stuff that made sense to no one. Maybe so. My last book, Some Americans , subtitled The Sense of Being in the USA , was quickly remaindered. The publishers had begged me not to print it. They offered to forget a debt of twenty thousand dollars if I would shelve it. But now I was perversely writing Part II. My life was in great disorder.
I was, however, loyal to something. I had an idea.
“Why did you ever bring me back to Chicago?” said Denise. “Sometimes I think you did it because your dead are buried here. Is that the reason? Land where my Jewish fathers died? And you dragged me to your graveyard so you could get into the anthem? And what’s it about? All because you have delusions about being a marvelous noble person. Which you are—like hell!”
Such abuse does Denise more good than vitamins. As for me, I find that certain kinds of misunderstanding are full of useful hints. But my final though silent answer to Denise was always the same. Despite her intelligence, she had been bad for my idea. From that standpoint, Renata was the better woman—better for me.
Renata had forbidden me to drive a Dart. I tried to negotiate with the Mercedes salesman for a secondhand 250-C, but in the showroom Renata—roused, florid, fragrant, large—had put her hand on the silver hood and said, “This one—the coupe.” The touch of her palm was sensual. Even what she did to the car I felt in my own person.
five
But now something had to be done about this wreck. I went to the Receiving Room and fetched Roland the doorman—skinny, black, elderly, never-shaven Roland. Roland Stiles, unless I deceived myself (a strong likelihood), was on my side. In my fantasies of solitary death it was Roland whom I saw in my bedroom filling a flight bag with a few articles before calling the police. He did so with my blessing. He particularly needed my electric razor. His intensely black face was pitted and spiky. Shaving with a blade must have been nearly impossible.
Roland, in the electric-blue uniform, was perturbed. He had seen the ruined car when he came to work in the morning but, he said, “I couldn’t be the one to tell you, Mist’ Citrine.” Tenants on their way to work had seen it, too. They knew of course to whom it belonged. “This is a real bitch,” said Roland soberly, his lean old face twisted and his mouth and mustache puckered. Quickwitted, he had always kidded me about the beautiful ladies who called on me. “They come in Volkswagens and Cadillacs, on bikes and motorcycles, in taxis and walkin’. They ask when you went out, and when you comin’ back, and they leave notes. They come, they come, they come. You some ladies’ man. Plenty of husbands got it in for you, I bet.” But the amusement was gone. Roland hadn’t been a black man sixty years for nothing. He knew moronic infernos. I had lost the immunity which made my ways so entertaining. “You in trouble,” he said. He muttered something about “Miss Universe.” He called Renata Miss Universe. Sometimes she paid him to entertain her little boy in the Receiving Room. The child played with parcels while his mother lay in my bed. I didn’t like it, but you can’t be a ridiculous lover by halves.
“Now what?”
Roland twisted his hands outward. He lifted his shoulders. Shrugging, he said, “Call the cops.”
Yes, a report had to be filed, if only because of the insurance. The insurance company would find this a very queer case. “Well, flag the squad car when it passes. Have those
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