My husband had a present for me when he came home, one that had come in the mail from Sotheby’s; it was a two-handed Japanese ceremonial sword. One of the dogs came home with a bone he had dug up somewhere, and when I looked at the bone closely I saw that it had teeth.
“I am going to put my houses away,” I said to my husband. “I can’t get my housework done.”
“They were not a particularly good present, were they,” he said. “I’ll try to get you something else instead.”
“They were perfectly lovely,” I told him. “I have been extremely happy with them; it’s only that I kind of have to let everything else go because of them. And those people at Loiret never come back outside anymore.”
“They were probably never there in the first place,” he said unkindly.
“I wonder what they could have been looking for. The movie camera is broken, by the way.”
“I thought it must be, from the things it was taking pictures of. I think you should put your postcards away, and I’ll try to think of another present for you.”
I put the postcards into a box with camphor and a copper coin, and my husband gave me a silver pomander, and in the encyclopaedia it said to take my pomander to an apothecary and get him to put civet into it, but Mr. Carter down at the drugstore said no. I have a reading copy of John Dee, so we left the skull where it was.
Well, that was not my last cocktail party, by a long way. You know the kind of party where some damnfool woman goes around cornering people and asking them questions like “What do you really think of the struggle between good and evil for the soul of man?” or “Do you know what I was reading the other day about the things they do to horses?” Well, these days it’s me. “Do you believe in ghosts?” I ask them. “Let me tell you about a very strange experience I had with the Château du Loiret; these people…”
“Well?”
“Well?” asked Stanley finally.
“I think that’s the end,” I said doubtfully.
“Aren’t you sure?”
“Ye-es.”
“Have you anything more to say?” Stanley inquired.
“No.”
“Have your characters anything more to say?”
“Only,” I giggled, “that they’re very glad they met you.”
Stanley shook his head. At last: “Well, it had a plot,” he said.
“Stanley!”
“Yes?”
“I wonder which of us really wrote this.”
“I refuse to take the blame,” said Stanley.
“Well, it’s yours, anyway. You practically wrote it.”
“I might have written it.”
“I’ll give it to you.”
“Don’t want it,” said Stanley nastily.
“ ‘Love, with this tawny marigold…’ ” I began. Stanley stared at me.
“I’ll dedicate it to you,” I added.
We both laughed.
III
•••
When This War Is Over
Early Short Stories
•••
“I thought I was insane, and would write about how the only sane people are the ones who are condemned as mad, and how the whole world is cruel and foolish and afraid of people who are different. That was when I was still in high school.”
•••
The Sorcerer’s Apprentice
Miss Matt was at least partially conscious that she looked like the teacher everyone has had for English in first-year high school; she was small and pretty, in a rice-powder fashion, with a great mass of soft dark hair that tried to stay on top of her head and straggled instead down over her ears; her voice was low and turned pleading instead of sharp; any presentable fourteen-year-old bully could pass her course easily. She had read Silas Marner aloud almost daily for the past ten years, marked tests in a dainty blue pencil, and still blushed dreadfully at the age of thirty-four.
The year she was twenty-eight she had gone from New York to San Francisco through the Panama Canal with two other teachers from her high school (Gym and General Science), but none of them had found husbands. With her meekest expectations still unsatisfied, Miss Matt lived quietly alone in an inexpensive two-room apartment, with a tiny kitchenette and a Cézanne print over the sofa. She knew her landlady fairly well; they had a cup of tea together occasionally, two refined ladies, in the landlady’s first-floor apartment, but in the six years she had lived in her apartment, Miss Matt had not met any of her neighbors.
On Wednesday afternoons, freed early from the high school, Miss Matt came home and straightened her apartment and washed her hair, and then, her head wrapped in a towel, wearing a Chinese silk housecoat, Miss Matt sat down with a peaceful cup of tea and played Afternoon of a Faun and The Sorcerer’s Apprentice on her small portable phonograph. Sometimes, when it had been a hard day at school and the future looked unusually dark, Miss Matt would permit herself to cry luxuriously for half an hour; afterward she would wash her face, and dress and go out to some nice restaurant for dinner.
Miss Matt was crying on the afternoon that Krishna came to see her. There was a sudden vigorous knock on the door, and while Miss Matt was still holding her handkerchief before her in surprise, the door opened a little and a small pretty head hooked curiously around the edge of the door and stayed, regarding Miss Matt.
After a minute Miss Matt walked over to the phonograph and turned off The Sorcerer’s Apprentice, averting her head so the tears were not completely visible. “Were you looking for me?” Miss Matt asked finally, then added “Dear?” as the visitor was undeniably a female child.
“Marian said I could come in here,” the child said.
Miss Matt collected herself and touched the handkerchief delicately to her eyes. “What did you want me for?” she asked. It was the first time in years Miss Matt had spoken to a child younger than the first year of high school, and she felt free to end a sentence with a preposition.
The child opened the door wider and slipped through, closing it behind her. She was carrying a large album of phonograph records, which she deposited carefully on Miss Matt’s maple end table.
“Are those your records?” Miss Matt asked hesitantly.
“Marian said I could come and ask you if it is all right for me to play them here on your phonograph,” the child said. “What’s that?” She pointed at the Cézanne.
“It’s a picture,” Miss Matt said.
“We have pictures too,” the child said. “We have pictures of my daddy.”
“Won’t you sit down?”
The child turned and looked at Miss Matt for a long minute. “All right,” she said finally. “What’s your name?”
“Miss Matt,” Miss Matt said. “You may call me Miss Matt.”
“Mine’s Krishna,” the child said.
“Krishna.” Miss Matt sat down and picked up her cup of tea. “Krishna?”
“Krishna Raleigh,” the child said. “I’m six years old and I live just downstairs and right underneath here.” Both she and Miss Matt looked down at the floor, and then Krishna went on, “Marian said I could come and play my records here.”
“Who is Marian?” Miss Matt asked, “and why should she give you permission to come up here?”
“That’s my mother, Marian,” Krishna said impatiently.
“I think it’s all right.” Miss Matt tried to make her voice sound a little doubtful, as though she felt enough authority to deny Krishna if she wanted to, but she realized almost immediately that all Krishna thought was that possibly Miss Matt did not own the phonograph either. “What records are they?” Miss Matt asked quickly.
“My daddy’s records,” Krishna said proudly. “My daddy made them for me and Marian, and you can listen to them if you want to.”
Miss Matt stood up and reached for the album, but Krishna said “I’ll do it” and ran across the room to put an arm protectingly over the album. “They’re my records,” she said.
“May I look at them?” Miss Matt asked
coldly.
“No,” Krishna said. She opened the album lovingly and took out the first record. “This is my daddy playing the piano,” she said. “Take that other record off the phonograph.” Miss Matt went silently and removed The Sorcerer’s Apprentice and changed the needle while Krishna stood by, impatiently holding her record. “I play the phonograph all the time at home, but now it’s broken,” she said, “so Marian said I could come and ask you if you would let me hear my daddy’s records.”
The edge of Krishna’s chin came just to the level of the turntable; she was forced, reluctantly, to yield the record to Miss Matt to have it put on the phonograph, and Miss Matt inspected it carefully, turning it over and over, before she placed it onto the turntable. It was a private recording, labeled TOWN HALL, and then, in ink underneath, “James Raleigh, Shostakovich Polka, June, 1940.” The other side was smooth and ungrooved; Miss Matt ran her hand over it before she set it down.
“Come on,” Krishna said finally. “This record has where my daddy talks on it.” She waited, her face just at the edge of the phonograph, and when Miss Matt started to put the phonograph arm down on the record, Krishna giggled and said, “These records start from the inside, dopey.” Miss Matt put the arm down at the center of the record and waited. First there was the sound of applause, and then a short wait, and then a man’s voice said faintly “…by Shostakovich,” and then more applause. “That’s my daddy talking,” Krishna said. Miss Matt waited respectfully until the piano started and then said, “Is that your father playing?”
“He played all these records,” Krishna said. “He plays the piano in concerts.” Her voice rose defiantly. “He’s the best piano player who ever lived.”
Miss Matt sat down on the straight chair next to the phonograph. “Would you like to sit on the couch?” she asked Krishna.
Krishna went over solemnly and sat down on the edge of the couch, and Miss Matt, with the music loud beside her, watched the child curiously. She was a very pretty child, with blond curls and a sweet smile; Miss Matt wondered fleetingly if her father was blond. “Where is your father now?” she asked.
“Shhh,” Krishna said, pointing to the phonograph. “He’s in the Army.”
Miss Matt nodded sympathetically.
“He kills people,” Krishna said. “He’s over killing Nazis now.” She sighed theatrically. “He used to play the piano, and when he’s killed all the Nazis he’s going to come home and play the piano again.”
“He plays beautifully,” Miss Matt said softly.
“It’s all right,” Krishna said. Her eyes wandered around the room and came to rest finally. “What’s that thing?”
Miss Matt stood up and lifted the arm of the phonograph from the record. “I thought you wanted to hear your daddy playing,” she said.
“What’s that thing?” Krishna repeated.
Miss Matt turned. “It’s a doll,” she said with annoyance. “Do you want to hear the records or not?”
“I want that doll,” Krishna said. She slid off the couch and scampered across the room to the doll.
“I bought that doll in a place called Panama,” Miss Matt said. “I bought it from a little girl about your age whose mother made lots of dolls like that. I like that doll as well as almost anything I own.” She raised her voice slightly. “Shall I continue with the records?”
Krishna was trying to reach for the doll high in the bookcase where Miss Matt kept it; finally she put her foot on the lower shelf, pushing the books back, and reached up on her toes to seize the doll triumphantly. It was a limp thing, with a gourd for a head and a scrap of red silk for a dress. “I’m going to take this doll home,” Krishna said.
“That’s my doll.” Miss Matt forced herself to stand by the phonograph. “Your mother wouldn’t like to have you take someone else’s things.”
“She doesn’t care,” Krishna said.
“Krishna,” Miss Matt said, “You may not have that doll. Put it back, please.”
Krishna turned and looked at Miss Matt in surprise. “I want it,” she said.
“I won’t let you play your daddy’s records on the phonograph,” Miss Matt warned.
“All right.” Krishna was pulling interestedly at the doll’s head, twisting the red silk dress. “I heard them lots of times.”
Miss Matt walked over and put her hand firmly on the doll. “Give that to me,” she demanded.
Krishna began to laugh. She snatched the doll away from Miss Matt and retreated with it across the room. “You’re a crazy old woman,” she said. “You’re an old crazy old woman.”
“Go home,” Miss Matt said. She took a deep breath to calm herself, and lifted her head. “Go right home. Go home immediately.”
“No,” Krishna said. “You’re a crazy old woman, crazy, crazy.” Deliberately holding the doll out in front of her, she ripped off the silk dress and let it fall onto the floor, then snapped off the head. Miss Matt watched Krishna for a minute, her chin trembling, and then she went over to the phonograph and lifted the record off and smashed it onto the floor. “You don’t deserve to have a father like that,” she said.
Krishna began to laugh again. “Wait till I tell Marian,” she said. “Wait till I tell Marian a crazy old woman broke my daddy’s best record where he was talking.”
“You can tell Marian anything you like,” Miss Matt said. For the first time in her life her voice was shrill. “Now you take the rest of these records and get out.” She seized Krishna quickly by the shoulder, pinching as hard as she could, and began to push her toward the door, slapping her hands to make her drop the pieces of the doll.
Krishna, still laughing, clung stubbornly to the door frame, bracing her feet against Miss Matt’s furious shoving. Miss Matt finally got her into the hall and slammed the door, then took the album of records and set them quickly outside, slamming the door again before Krishna could get back in. Krishna was still laughing when Miss Matt slammed the door for the second time and turned the key, but when the child realized that the door had shut for the last time, her laughter turned suddenly into howls of anger. Miss Matt, leaning against the door on the inside, distinguished the phrase, repeated over and over, “I want that doll!” Finally Miss Matt heard the crying fade away toward the stairs, and the child’s voice crying, “Mommy, make her give me that doll!”
I’ve got to hurry, Miss Matt thought. She stepped quickly around the broken record on the floor to the broken doll, scooped up the dress and then the other pieces, and hesitated, looking around. Finally she went into the kitchenette and opened the cupboard under the sink, and put the pieces of the doll behind the boxes of soap and the dusting cloths. I’ll tell them that awful child did it, she was thinking. If I hurry, I can say that child did it all. Still hurrying, she took a brush and a dustpan and went back to the broken record. It had shattered into small pieces, and it took Miss Matt a few precious seconds to gather them up into the dustpan. I’ll tell them I’ll sue, she was thinking. She emptied the dustpan into a paper bag and put the bag into the sink cupboard with the doll, and then, her house straightened, with no sign left of Krishna’s presence, she fluffed up the pillows of the couch and went into her little bedroom, where she dressed hurriedly and carelessly, repeating to herself incoherently: “I’ll tell them the child did it, I’ll say I’ll sue.”
She pulled on a hat over her still-damp hair, tucking the straggling ends up under the hat and holding them there with many hairpins. When she put her coat on, she turned up the collar and ducked her head down so her face would be hidden. Then she picked up her pocketbook and went out, closing the door behind her quietly. Go to the movies where it’s dark, she was thinking. When she got down the first flight of stairs and was near the door of the apartment directly under hers, she hesitated for a minute before she ran down the hall to the next flight of stairs. Come back later, she thought, when they’re all tired of looking for me.
Period Piece
Mrs. Van Corn had not been out of the house in seven months.
She could walk perfectly well, although she disliked it; she was not particularly afraid of subways or taxis; she was not pregnant, sick, or discouraged with the things she saw. Mrs. Van Corn had simply not been out of the house because she liked staying inside. “It’s the things that happen to me,” she would explain seriously to her few intimate friends who were allowed inside the house to visit her. “I do so detest mud, and people, and so many ugly things happen…like…” And Mrs. Van Corn would allow her voice to trail off significantly, and whatever friend was listening would nod, and shrug sympathetically, and murmur.
Mrs. Van Corn always referred to the incident of the dog by a significant silence, and her friends always understood. The incident of the dog had been the direct cause of Mrs. Van Corn’s deciding to remain inside the house. She had been outside shopping one day, with George, the chauffeur, waiting carefully outside the doors of the shops, and she had been leaving the hairdresser, displeased at something. She had almost reached the car (with George standing carefully by the open door) when a dog—not a Fifth Avenue dog—had come up and put its head under her skirt. “His nose, you know,” Mrs. Van Corn subsequently explained, faintly. It had been necessary for George to help her carefully into the car and take her home immediately. When she reached home and had been assisted to her room, Mrs. Van Corn concluded that she did not belong in the outside world, and made her decision to stay at home.
Let Me Tell You Page 24
