The place pleased me, generally. But not this morning. A subtle, indefinable atmosphere of uneasiness prevailed. Something was lost. Or was something here that ought not to be? Could it be that I had brought home a guest last night, who had left behind some unfamiliar scent, some aura, some memory? Had I made some scandalous fool of myself in the course of the night?
No, not I. A clown, perhaps; yes. But a fool, never— drunk or sober.
My clothes hung over the chair where I had thrown them. I turned out the pockets and discovered to my astonishment that I had $55 in bills and $4.50 in change. Yesterday’s newspaper was dated April 27. Between this date and the first of the following month, when my aunt’s check was due, I could not possibly have had more than a dollar or two—unless I had borrowed money somewhere. In that case I must have met a rich stranger, I thought; nobody I know would lend me this much money, even if he had it.
I filled my percolator and set it to heat, and went to my tiny bathroom, where I switched on the light and had a long, close look at myself. I was relieved to see my own image in the mirror. I like the way I look, and go to some pains to look that way. It takes more muscles to frown than to smile, they say. They ought to practice the Gothic-arched fixed grin I offer the world. I have a way of never meeting your gaze—I offer my colorless gray eyes for inspection beneath strong lenses in a manner which seems to say, In these apparently clear drops of stagnant water curious creatures creep and crawl. It is said that somewhere in the ruined labyrinth of my mind there wanders the ghost of a lost genius, but that some small, necessary bit of me is missing. Either it was knocked out when I was young or it never grew at all. As I am, like a boy who has lost a front tooth, I have what others have not—a perfect space to spit through—and I use it. I am a master of the studied insult.
I had no fault to find with my appearance, then, as I turned from the mirror. But black coffee was slow in settling my mind. There was some brandy in the cupboard. That helped. Then I found myself feeling in the handkerchief pocket of my coat and sighing with relief as I found and lit a long, thin cigar.
I had never smoked a cigar in my life before.
Could it be perhaps that last night, under the influence of whatever I was drinking, I had smoked a cigar and liked it? This was an expensive cigar. Perhaps the rich man who lent me all that money gave me cigars as well?
And then I remembered that Mourne Cashel had given me the money. That was the most astounding thing of all. Cashel is proprietor and editor of a pulpy little magazine devoted to tenth-rate science fiction. Since storytelling is a dying art and conjecture is its last gasp, little Cashel’s back is bowed from stooping to scrape the bottom of an oft-rinsed barrel. He has to adulterate the aqueous solution of strained imagination that he dispenses, with syrupy editorial introductions. Only people who read such stuff are bemused enough to write it, so Cashel’s shabby book is subscribed to mainly by part-time hacks who get their livings teaching school or monitoring I.B.M. installations. At less than fifty cents a copy, having a circulation of twenty thousand and carrying no advertisements, the magazine is a dead loss, says Cashel. He will pay a few paltry dollars for a six thousand-word story, the month after publication. He never lent anybody a penny. “I haven’t got it,” he says, almost in physical agony. I believe he really does suffer when he has to say no to a request for a small loan.
This was one of the reasons why, having little else to do, I went out to annoy Mourne Cashel yesterday morning. For, as some men dread cats, so he seemed to dread me. And since some men are fascinated by what they most abhor, Cashel appeared to be attracted to me.
It all came back with vivid clarity while I smoked that inexplicable cigar.
For Cashel’s sake I had made an especially careful toilet. Now some men dress to kill. I dress to wound. My contempt for appearances is real and deep. My best suit is black alpaca, carefully made by a theatrical tailor not to fit, skillfully padded and draped to hang just wrong enough to irritate those who notice such things. The left sleeve is a shade longer than the right; the right lapel is a trifle wider than the left; the trousers are too low in the waist, and their legs are of different lengths and widths; the waistcoat is too high at the neck and appears to be buttoned up askew. My shoes are made to give me the appearance of having two left feet. I am perfectly comfortable, however: You are the one who is ill-at-ease, and it serves you right for taking stock of such trivia!
So dressed and, in a manner of speaking, armed, I walked uptown with only eighty-five cents left of my allowance and ran poor Cashel to earth just as he was going out to lunch. Now, while thumbscrews could not get money from him, Cashel was always good for a lunch. Yesterday, with a stifled sigh, he took me to the Crepuscule, the darkest restaurant in New York. It has a domed ceiling, lit only by tiny inset bulbs widely spaced in the designs of the better-known constellations.
Cashel had a cocktail made with vodka because it does not smell. I had one made with rum, because it does smell. “Are you writing anything these days, Ira?” he asked.
“I am more than halfway through my novel,” I told him.
“I’d love to read it, my dear fellow.”
I said to him, “You don’t know how to read, little man, any more than you know how to edit. Having skimmed, you give marks. Once a schoolteacher, always a schoolteacher. You can read my book when it’s out, if you’ve got the price of a copy. Touching that matter, Cashel, I find myself somewhat short of housekeeping money. Lend me fifty.”
“I haven’t got it!” he said, in a kind of wail.
I laughed. I had known exactly what he would say, of course. I said, “I didn’t really mean a loan. I meant an advance. I’ll write a story for you, Cashel—there now. And knowing, as you do what I think of your horrible little magazine, you’ll realize that when I offer to write you a story I’ve touched rock bottom. Well?”
He called for more drinks. “I can’t advance! I haven’t got it. The accountants—” He half stifled a sigh. “You have so much talent,” he said. “Why do you use it to torment people?”
“Can one go through life without treading on worms?” I asked. “But my story. Listen. The title is Dreadful Little Brat. Now it seems there is a child of the ash cans who has an utterly evil character. The things she does are something shocking. But she has a face like a flower. Free-lance photographers are always snapping her sitting on doorsteps, looking up to the sky, because she looks so like an angel. Actually she’s scheming how to blackmail the candy-store man out of a dollar to buy lipstick. She is a truly dreadful little brat. Now one morning she is loitering by a lamppost, having forged a letter saying she’s too sick to go to school, reading a theatrical magazine she has stolen from the drugstore. Her attention is caught by a photograph of a sublimely beautiful actress curtsying within a circle of bouquets on a stage. ‘What wouldn’t I give to be her!’ she says aloud. ‘Your soul, for example?’ says a voice, and there stands a man with a black box. She nods. ‘Step inside, please,’ says the man. She does so, and he presses a button.”
Cashel said, “Oh, dear; oh, dear!” and ordered more cocktails.
I went on, “Now somewhere in Palm Springs a loathsome old harridan, almost destroyed by her frightful debaucheries, flips through an old album. She finds a picture of a flower-faced little angel sitting on a doorstep. ‘What wouldn’t I give to be her!’ she cries. ‘Your soul?’ says a voice, and there stands a man with a black box. She nods. ‘Step inside, please,’ says the man. She does so, and he presses a button.”