Yet, when she chooses to pay me a compliment she will always call me a fool. “You’re such a dear fool, Val.” Meaning that I am great enough, complex enough, in her estimation at least, to belong to the world of Dostoevski. At times, when she gets to raving about my unwritten books, she will even go so far as to say that I am another Dostoevski. A pity I can’t throw an epileptic fit now and then. That would really give me the necessary standing. What happens, unfortunately, what breaks the spell, is that I all too quickly degenerate into a “bourgeois.” In other words I become too inquisitive, too picayune, too intolerant. Dostoevski, according to Mona, never displayed the least interest in “facts.” (One of those near truths which make one wince sometimes.) No, to believe her, Dostoevski was always in the clouds—or else buried in the depths. He never bothered to swim on the surface. He took no thought of gloves or muffs or overcoats. Nor did he pry into women’s purses in search of names and addresses. He lived only in the imagination.
Stasia, now, had her own opinion about Dostoevski, his way of life, his method of working. Despite her vagaries, she was, after all, a little closer to reality. She knew that puppets are made of wood or papier-mâché, not just “imagination.” And she was not too certain but that Dostoevski too might have had his “bourgeois” side. What she relished particularly in Dostoevski was the diabolical element. To her the Devil was real. Evil was real. Mona, on the other hand, seemed unaffected by the evil in Dostoevski. To her it was just another element of his “imagination.” Nothing in books frightened her. Almost nothing in life frightened her either, for that matter. Which is why, perhaps, she walked through fire unharmed. But for Stasia, when visited by a strange mood, even to partake of breakfast could be an ordeal. She had a nose for evil, she could detect its presence even in cold cereals. To Stasia the Devil was an omnipresent Being ever in wait for his victim. She wore amulets to ward off the evil powers; she made certain signs on entering a strange house, or repeated incantations in strange tongues. All of which Mona smiled on indulgently, thinking it “delicious” of Stasia to be so primitive, so superstitious. “It’s the Slav in her,” she would say.
Now that the authorities had placed Stasia in Mona’s hands it behooved us to view the situation with greater clarity, and to provide a more certain, a more peaceful mode of life for this complicated creature. According to Mona’s tearful story, it was only with the greatest reluctance that Stasia was released from confinement. What she told them about her friend—as well as about herself—only the Devil may hope to know. Over a period of weeks, and only by the most adroit maneuvering, did I succeed in piecing together the jigsaw puzzle which she had constructed of her interview with the physician in charge. Had I nothing else to go on I would have said that they both belonged in the asylum. Fortunately I had received another version of the interview, and that unexpectedly, from none other than Kronski. Why he had interested himself in the case I don’t know. Mona had no doubt given the authorities his name—as that of family physician. Possibly she had called him up in the middle of the night and, with sobs in her voice, begged him to do something for her beloved friend. What she omitted telling me, at any rate, was that it was Kronski who had secured Stasia’s release, that Stasia was in nobody’s care, and that a word from him (to the authorities) might prove calamitous. This last was pish-posh, and I took it as such. The truth probably was that the wards were full to overflowing. In the back of my head was the resolution to visit the hospital myself one fine day and find out precisely what occurred. (Just for the record.) I was in no great hurry. I felt that the present situation was but a prelude, or a presage, of things to come.
In the interim I took to dashing over to the Village whenever the impulse seized me. I wandered all over to place, like a stray dog. When I came to a lamppost I lifted my hind leg and pissed on it. Woof woof! Woof!
Thus it was that I would often find myself standing outside the Iron Cauldron, at the railing which fenced off the mangy grass plot now knee-deep with black snow, to observe the comings and goings. The two tables nearest the window were Mona’s. I watched her as she trotted back and forth in the soft candlelight, passing out the food, a cigarette always glued to her lips, her face wreathed in smiles as she greeted her clients or accepted their orders. Now and then Stasia would take a seat at the table, her back always to the window, elbows on the table, head in hands. Usually she would continue to sit there after the last client had left. Mona would then join her. Judging from the expression on the latter’s face, it was always an animated conversation they were conducting. Sometimes they laughed so heartily they were doubled up. If, in such a mood, one of their favorites attempted to join them, he or she would be brushed off like a bottle fly.
Now what could these two dear creatures be talking about that was so very, very absorbing? And so excruciatingly humorous? Answer me that and I will write the history of Russia for you in one sitting.
The moment I suspected they were making ready to leave I would take to my heels. Leisurely and wistfully I’d meander, poking my head into one dive after another, until I came to Sheridan Square. At one corner of the Square, and always lit up like an old-fashioned saloon, was Minnie Douchebag’s hangout. Here I knew the two of them would eventually wind up. All I waited for was to make sure they took their seats. Then a glance at the clock, estimating that in two or three hours one of them at least would be returning to the lair. It was comforting, on casting a last glance in their direction, to observe that they were already the center of solicitous attention. Comforting—what a word!—to know that they would receive the protection of the dear creatures who understood them so well and ever rallied to their support. It was amusing also to reflect, on entering the subway, that with a slight rearrangement of clothing even a Bertillon expert might have difficulty deciding which was boy and which girl. The boys were always ready to die for the girls—and vice versa. Weren’t they all in the same rancid piss-pot to which every pure and decent soul is consigned? Such dearies they were, the whole gang. Darlings, really. The drags they could think up, gwacious! Everyone of them, the boys particularly, was a born artist. Even those shy little creatures who hid in a corner to chew their nails.
Was it from contact with this atmosphere in which love and mutual understanding ruled that Stasia evolved the notion that all was not well between Mona and myself? Or was it due to the sledgehammer blows I delivered in moments of truth and candor?
“You shouldn’t be accusing Mona of deceiving you and lying to you,” she says to me one evening. How we happened to be alone I can’t imagine. Possibly she was expecting Mona to appear any moment.
“What would you rather have me accuse her of?” I replied, wondering what next.
“Mona’s not a liar, and you know it. She invents, she distorts, she fabricates . . . because it’s more interesting. She thinks you like her better when she complicates things. She has too much respect for you to really lie to you.”
I made no effort to reply.
“Don’t you know that?” she said, her voice rising.
“Frankly, no!” said I.
“You mean you swallow all those fantastic tales she hands you?”
“If you mean that I regard it all as an innocent little game, no.”
“But why should she want to deceive you when she loves you so dearly? You know you mean everything to her. Yes, everything.”
“Is that why you’re jealous of me?”
“Jealous? I’m outraged that you should treat her as you do, that you should be so blind, so cruel, so . . .”
I raised my hand. “Just what are you getting at?” I demanded. “What’s the game?”
“Game? Game?” She drew herself up in the manner of an indignant and thoroughly astounded Czarina. She was utterly unaware that her fly was unbuttoned
