Read Online The Tenants by Bernard Malamud - Free Book Online Page A
Authors: Bernard Malamud
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parted, he gazed into Lesser’s doubtful eyes with his own heavy eyes softened, as though forgiving him for whatever he had or hadn’t done, and said sonorously, “I thank you for reading it.” That’s all. And left so cleanly, although hauling the iron load of typewriter and weight of his book in his arms, it seemed to Lesser as though he had willed his disappearance in a prestidigitated poof. Talented man Willie Spearmint.
That same noon, in a relaxed mood—he had somewhere got a cigar—Willie remarked, “I can’t stay on to talk to you now, Lesser. My bitch is itching. We partying tonight in our place and have to buy some
bottles and stuff, but I’ll be around in a day or two to consummate that little mutual matter.”
“Suit yourself, Willie. Whenever you say. At your convenience.” Mixed in was envy for not having been invited to the party at Irene’s.
He’s afraid, Lesser thought. Shits green. So do I, to admit the truth. It’s bad enough to criticize a man’s living flesh, as whose book isn’t. But with color added? It’s a black life, understandably touchy stuff. Lesser dreaded a little what he had let himself in for. He had felt forewarned he would have to pay for doing Willie a favor. The nature of certain things, the weight of color.
Maybe I could make it easier all around by writing him a note? On paper there’s no personal confrontation—who needs it?
As he took time to write it the next morning—it was only eleven but Willie was on his mind and he was getting little done—the black knocked, not kicked at the door.
Lesser rose, nervous but relieved, eager to dump the burden that Willie had laid like a paving block on his head.
Willie, eyes downcast—obviously he’d had trouble working, because he was already putting the typewriter away under the table—as he straightened up seemed to tighten, as though no move but the next was possible and he had no love for it. He stood staring for a
while out the window. Lesser looked too. He saw nothing.
Willie kept staring, then seemed to give up, as though whatever he was looking for wasn’t there, if he were looking. What was there—or what there was, was in this room. In the room, whatever he was he wasn’t exactly. But after a while he was with Lesser, in his study, sitting like an ebony statue in the straight-back chair, and nobody, his presence stated, was his Pygmalion. He had sculpted himself.
The writer, sitting forward on his daybed, rubs dry white palms together.
“Drink?”
“Let’s cut out the preliminary crap and get down to where we are at.”
Lesser defensively reminds Willie he hadn’t asked to read his book. “You asked me to. If you think you made a mistake and are going to be stiffassed and uptight by what I say, maybe we ought to call it off before we start? I’m obliged to you for letting me see your manuscript.”
“I am uptight, man, because it’s my nature as well as my personal privilege, but let’s talk anyway, dig?”
Lesser asserts he is not out to arouse anyone’s antagonism. “I’ve got my own nature to consider. It likes to live in peace.”
“My antagonism is also my privilege and don’t go giving yourself too much credit for certain circumstances, like me asking you for a favor.”
“All I’m saying is if we can’t have a reasonable talk, let’s forget it. I’ve been on my book for years and finally want to get it done. For that I need peace and quiet. That’s why I like it up here—no serious disturbances, I can work. Levenspiel stalks me but I can stand it. Still, I wouldn’t want anybody else on my tail or in my hair, with or without cause.”
“Instead of preaching all those words, Lesser, why don’t you get off your white ass and say your true piece? I ain’t asking you to fatmouth me, just as I am not interested in getting into any argument with you.”
“I heartily agree.”
Lesser considers reading the part of the letter he had composed but drops that
That same noon, in a relaxed mood—he had somewhere got a cigar—Willie remarked, “I can’t stay on to talk to you now, Lesser. My bitch is itching. We partying tonight in our place and have to buy some
bottles and stuff, but I’ll be around in a day or two to consummate that little mutual matter.”
“Suit yourself, Willie. Whenever you say. At your convenience.” Mixed in was envy for not having been invited to the party at Irene’s.
He’s afraid, Lesser thought. Shits green. So do I, to admit the truth. It’s bad enough to criticize a man’s living flesh, as whose book isn’t. But with color added? It’s a black life, understandably touchy stuff. Lesser dreaded a little what he had let himself in for. He had felt forewarned he would have to pay for doing Willie a favor. The nature of certain things, the weight of color.
Maybe I could make it easier all around by writing him a note? On paper there’s no personal confrontation—who needs it?
As he took time to write it the next morning—it was only eleven but Willie was on his mind and he was getting little done—the black knocked, not kicked at the door.
Lesser rose, nervous but relieved, eager to dump the burden that Willie had laid like a paving block on his head.
Willie, eyes downcast—obviously he’d had trouble working, because he was already putting the typewriter away under the table—as he straightened up seemed to tighten, as though no move but the next was possible and he had no love for it. He stood staring for a
while out the window. Lesser looked too. He saw nothing.
Willie kept staring, then seemed to give up, as though whatever he was looking for wasn’t there, if he were looking. What was there—or what there was, was in this room. In the room, whatever he was he wasn’t exactly. But after a while he was with Lesser, in his study, sitting like an ebony statue in the straight-back chair, and nobody, his presence stated, was his Pygmalion. He had sculpted himself.
The writer, sitting forward on his daybed, rubs dry white palms together.
“Drink?”
“Let’s cut out the preliminary crap and get down to where we are at.”
Lesser defensively reminds Willie he hadn’t asked to read his book. “You asked me to. If you think you made a mistake and are going to be stiffassed and uptight by what I say, maybe we ought to call it off before we start? I’m obliged to you for letting me see your manuscript.”
“I am uptight, man, because it’s my nature as well as my personal privilege, but let’s talk anyway, dig?”
Lesser asserts he is not out to arouse anyone’s antagonism. “I’ve got my own nature to consider. It likes to live in peace.”
“My antagonism is also my privilege and don’t go giving yourself too much credit for certain circumstances, like me asking you for a favor.”
“All I’m saying is if we can’t have a reasonable talk, let’s forget it. I’ve been on my book for years and finally want to get it done. For that I need peace and quiet. That’s why I like it up here—no serious disturbances, I can work. Levenspiel stalks me but I can stand it. Still, I wouldn’t want anybody else on my tail or in my hair, with or without cause.”
“Instead of preaching all those words, Lesser, why don’t you get off your white ass and say your true piece? I ain’t asking you to fatmouth me, just as I am not interested in getting into any argument with you.”
“I heartily agree.”
Lesser considers reading the part of the letter he had composed but drops that