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Authors: Anatole Broyard
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her to see that I was calm, that I could speak in a clear voice. Yet I felt lonely to the point of madness.
I was trying to catch her eye, to make her see me. If she saw me, perhaps she would reconsider, she would turn off the gas herself She would remember that we had an arrangement, she had invited me to come and live with her. I thought that if she saw me, she might grow nostalgic.
But that was a sentimental idea. The gas was making me sentimental—it was time to turn it off. I threw open all the windows, then I picked her up and carried her to the bed. Think how charming you could be, I said, if you chose to speak. But I knew she wouldn’t speak. She never spoke when I wanted her to, only when it didn’t matter. I composed myself to sleep because I couldn’t think of anything else to do; she tired me out. And as I was dozing off I thought that soon I would have to leave her.
11
W hen I left Sheri I had nowhere to go but Brooklyn. Apartments were still hard to find. Everyone was looking for a place in the Village, like people looking for love. But the last thing I wanted was to return to Brooklyn, even for a little while. I had tasted the city, and I would never be the same. To go back home made me feel like a character in one of those novels reviewers describe as shuttling back and forth in time. I’ve always disliked those novels.
My parents didn’t know about Sheri, so I told them I’d had a three-month sublet and now I was looking for a permanent place. They said yes, of course, they understood that I needed an apartment of my own—I was a veteran now. I don’t know what the word meant to them, but they used it all the time. They were forever saying, “You’re a veteran now,” as if that explained everything, as if I had been killed in the war and this veteran had come back in my place. They were still thinking about the war, but I had already forgotten it. Iwas a veteran of Sheri, and the war was nothing to me now.
When I first came back from the army, I had seen Brooklyn as a quiet place, a safe place. Now, after living with Sheri in the Village, I didn’t see it at all, I walked through Brooklyn without looking, without curiosity. I could only remember being a child there.
I had closed the bookshop. For the first time in my life, I felt a distaste for books. I think it was because my experience with Sheri reminded me too much of the books in the shop. Sheri and I were like a story by a young novelist who had been influenced by Kafka. Everyone was influenced by Kafka in those days. People in the Village used the word
Kafkaesque
the way my parents used
veteran
.
But without the shop, I had nothing to do all day. I wandered around the Village, ringing superintendents’ bells, asking about apartments. I sat in Washington Square, watched children skating, pigeons begging, the sun going down. Sometimes I rode on top of the Fifth Avenue bus to 110th Street and back. I didn’t want to see any of the people I knew in the Village because they reminded me of Sheri and I knew they would ask me about her.
Then, just when I needed something to do, my friend Milton Klonsky asked me to collaborate with him on a piece he had been asked to write for
Partisan Review
. The piece was on modern jazz, a subject neither Milton nor the editors of
Partisan
knew anything about. Since I had always been interested in jazz, Milton suggested that I write the first draft and he would rewrite it. What he meant was that I’d supply the facts and he’d turn them into prose.
It never even occurred to me to resent this arrangement—I was awed by
Partisan Review
and flattered by Milton’s offer. I had never written anything but notes to myself. I was always scribbling on little pads I carried around, jotting down ideas, phrases, images. Half of the young men in the Village were writing such notes. They wrote them in cafes, in the park, even on the street. You’d see them stop and pull out their pads or notebooks to jot down
I was trying to catch her eye, to make her see me. If she saw me, perhaps she would reconsider, she would turn off the gas herself She would remember that we had an arrangement, she had invited me to come and live with her. I thought that if she saw me, she might grow nostalgic.
But that was a sentimental idea. The gas was making me sentimental—it was time to turn it off. I threw open all the windows, then I picked her up and carried her to the bed. Think how charming you could be, I said, if you chose to speak. But I knew she wouldn’t speak. She never spoke when I wanted her to, only when it didn’t matter. I composed myself to sleep because I couldn’t think of anything else to do; she tired me out. And as I was dozing off I thought that soon I would have to leave her.
11
W hen I left Sheri I had nowhere to go but Brooklyn. Apartments were still hard to find. Everyone was looking for a place in the Village, like people looking for love. But the last thing I wanted was to return to Brooklyn, even for a little while. I had tasted the city, and I would never be the same. To go back home made me feel like a character in one of those novels reviewers describe as shuttling back and forth in time. I’ve always disliked those novels.
My parents didn’t know about Sheri, so I told them I’d had a three-month sublet and now I was looking for a permanent place. They said yes, of course, they understood that I needed an apartment of my own—I was a veteran now. I don’t know what the word meant to them, but they used it all the time. They were forever saying, “You’re a veteran now,” as if that explained everything, as if I had been killed in the war and this veteran had come back in my place. They were still thinking about the war, but I had already forgotten it. Iwas a veteran of Sheri, and the war was nothing to me now.
When I first came back from the army, I had seen Brooklyn as a quiet place, a safe place. Now, after living with Sheri in the Village, I didn’t see it at all, I walked through Brooklyn without looking, without curiosity. I could only remember being a child there.
I had closed the bookshop. For the first time in my life, I felt a distaste for books. I think it was because my experience with Sheri reminded me too much of the books in the shop. Sheri and I were like a story by a young novelist who had been influenced by Kafka. Everyone was influenced by Kafka in those days. People in the Village used the word
Kafkaesque
the way my parents used
veteran
.
But without the shop, I had nothing to do all day. I wandered around the Village, ringing superintendents’ bells, asking about apartments. I sat in Washington Square, watched children skating, pigeons begging, the sun going down. Sometimes I rode on top of the Fifth Avenue bus to 110th Street and back. I didn’t want to see any of the people I knew in the Village because they reminded me of Sheri and I knew they would ask me about her.
Then, just when I needed something to do, my friend Milton Klonsky asked me to collaborate with him on a piece he had been asked to write for
Partisan Review
. The piece was on modern jazz, a subject neither Milton nor the editors of
Partisan
knew anything about. Since I had always been interested in jazz, Milton suggested that I write the first draft and he would rewrite it. What he meant was that I’d supply the facts and he’d turn them into prose.
It never even occurred to me to resent this arrangement—I was awed by
Partisan Review
and flattered by Milton’s offer. I had never written anything but notes to myself. I was always scribbling on little pads I carried around, jotting down ideas, phrases, images. Half of the young men in the Village were writing such notes. They wrote them in cafes, in the park, even on the street. You’d see them stop and pull out their pads or notebooks to jot down
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