That half-voiced dream in the dark, that night alone in the desert, the voice of Ulric comforting me, the Carpathian mountains moving up from under the moon, Timbuctoo, the camel bells, the smell of leather and of dry, scorched dung, («What are you thinking of?» «I too!») the tense, richly-filled silence, the blank, dead walls of the tenement opposite, the fact that Arthur Raymond was asleep, that in the morning he would continue his exercises, forever and ever, but that I had changed, that there were exits, loopholes, even though only in the imaginations, all this acted like a ferment and dynamized the days, months, years that lay ahead. It dynamized my love for her.
It made me believe that what I could not accomplish alone I could accomplish with her, for her, through her, because of her. She became the water-sprinkler, the fertilizer, the hot-house, the mule pack, the pathfinder, the bread-winner, the gyroscope, the extra vitamin, the flame-thrower, the go-getter.
From that day on things moved on greased skids. Get married? Sure, why not? Right away. Have you got the money for the license? No, but I'll borrow it. Fine. Meet you on the corner....
We're in the Hudson Tubes on our way to Hoboken. Going to get married there. Why Hoboken? I don't remember. Perhaps to conceal the fact that I had been married before, perhaps we were a bit ahead of the legal schedule. Anyway, Hoboken.
In the train we have a little tiff. The same old story—she's not sure that I want to marry her. Thinks I'm doing it just to please her.
A station before Hoboken she jumps out of the train. I jump out too and run after her.
«What's the matter with you—are you mad?»
«You don't love me. I'm not going to marry you.»
«You are too, by God!»
I grab her and pull her back to the edge of the platform. As the next train pulls in I put my arms around her and embrace her.
«You're sure, Val? You're sure you want to marry me?»
I kiss her again. «Come on, cut it out! You know damned well we're going to get married.» We hop in.
Hoboken. A sad, dreary place. A city more foreign to me than Pekin or Lhassa. Find the City Hall. Find a couple of bums to act as witnesses.
The ceremony. What's your name? And your name? And his name? And so on. How long have you known this man? And this man is a friend of yours? Yes sir. Where did you pick him up—in the garbage can? O.K. Sign here. Bang, bang! Raise your right hand! I solemnly swear, etc, etc. Married. Five dollars, please. Kiss the bride. Next, please....
Everybody happy?
I want to spit.
In the train.... I take her hand in mine. We're both depressed, humiliated. «I'm sorry, Mona... we shouldn't have done it that way.»
«It's all right, Val.» She's very quiet now. As though we had just buried some one.
«But it isn't all right, God damn it! I'm sore. I'm disgusted. That's no way to get married. I'll never....»
I checked myself. She looked at me with a startled expression.
«What were you going to say?»
I lied. I said: «I'll never forgive myself for doing it that way.»
I became silent. Her lips were trembling.
«I don't want to go back to the house just yet,» said she.
«Neither do I.»
Silence.
«I'll call up Ulric,» said I. «We'll have dinner with him, yes?»
«Yes,» she said, almost meekly.
We got into a telephone booth together to call up Ulric. I had my arm around her. «Now you're Mrs. Miller,» I said. «How does it feel?»
She began to weep. «Hello, hello? That you, Ulric?»
«No, it's me, Ned.»
Ulric wasn't there—had gone somewhere for the day.
«Listen, Ned, we just got married.»
«Who got married?» he said.
«Mona and I, of course... who did you think?»
He was trying to joke about it, as though to say he couldn't be sure whom I would marry.
«Listen, Ned, it's serious. Maybe you've never been married before. We're depressed. Mona is weeping. I'm on the verge of tears myself. Can we come up there, drop in for a little while? We're lonely. Maybe you'll fix us a little drink, yes?»
Ned was laughing again. Of course we were to come—right away. He was expecting that cunt of his, Marcelle. But that wouldn't matter. He was getting sick of her. She was too good to him. She was fucking the life out of him. Yes, come up right away... we'd all drown our sorrows.
«Well, don't worry, Ned'll have some money. We'll make him take us to dinner. I suppose nobody will think to give us a wedding present. That's the hell of getting married in this informal fashion. You know, when Maude and I got married we pawned some of the wedding gifts the next day. Never got them back again either. We wouldn't want a lot of knives and forks sterling, would we?»
«Please don't talk that way, Val.»
«I'm sorry. I guess I'm a bit screwy to-day. That ceremony let me down. I could have murdered that guy.»
«Val, stop, I beg you!»
«All right, we won't talk about it any more. Let's be gay now, what? Let's laugh....»
Ned had a warm smile. I liked Ned. He was weak. Weak and lovable. Selfish underneath. Very selfish. That's why he could never get married. He had talent too, lots of talent, but no genius, no sustaining powers. He was an artist who had never found his medium. His best medium was drink. When he drank he became expansive. In physique he reminded one of John Barrymore in his better days. His role was Don Juan, especially in a Finchley suit with an ascot tie about his throat. Lovely speaking voice. Rich baritone, full of enchanting modulations. Everything he said sounded suave and important, though he never said a word that was worth remembering. But in speaking he seemed to caress you with his tongue; he licked you all over, like a happy dog.
«Well, well,» he said, grinning from ear to ear, and already half-cocked, I could see. «So you went and did it? Well, come on in. Hello Mona, how are you? Congratulations! Marcelle isn't here yet. I hope she doesn't come. I don't feel so terribly vital today.»
He was still grinning as he sat down in a big throne chair near the easel.
«Ulric will certainly be sorry he missed this,» he said. «Will you have a little Scotch — or do you want gin?
«Gin.»
«Well, tell me all about it. When did it happen-just now? Why didn't you let me know — I would have stood up for you....» He turned to Mona. «You're not pregnant, are you?»
«Jesus, let's talk about something else,» said Mona. «I swear I'll never get married again... it's horrible.»
«Listen, Ned, before you get drunk, tell me something... how much money have you got on you?»
He fished out six cents. «Oh, that's' all right,» he said, «Marcelle will have something.»
«If she comes.»
«Oh, she'll come, don't worry. That's the hell of it. I don't know which is worse — to be broke or to have Marcelle on one's hands.»
«I didn't think she was so bad,» I said.
«No, she isn't, really,» said Ned. «She's a darned nice gal. But she's too affectionate. She clings. You see, I'm not made for conjugual bliss. I get weary of the same face, even if it's a Madonna. I'm fickle. And she's constant. She's bolstering me up all the time. I don't want to be bolstered up—not all the time.»
«You don't know what you want,» said Mona. «You don't know when you're well off.»
«I guess you're right,» said Ned. «Ulric's the same way. We're masochists, I guess.» He grinned. He was a little ashamed of using a word like that so readily. It was an intellectual word and Ned had no use for things intellectual.
The door-bell rang. It was Marcelle. I could hear her giving him a smacking kiss.