Plexus (25 page)

Fortunately the man must have sensed what was passing through my head. However, he didn't quite know how to pass it off, his little joke. I heard him, in a rather conciliatory voice, say—“What's the matter?” Then for a few minutes I heard nothing, nothing but the sound of my own voice. What I was yelling I don't know. I know only that I was ranting like a madman. I might have continued indefinitely had not the waiters rushed up to bundle me off. Their arms about me, they were just about to throw me out bodily, when the man who had been baiting me begged them to let me go. Springing to his feet, he put his hand on my shoulder. “I'm so sorry,” he said, “I had no idea I was causing you such anguish. Sit down a moment, won't you?” He reached for a bottle and poured out a glass of wine. I was flushed and still glowering. My hands were trembling violently. The whole company now stared at me; it seemed as if they formed one huge animal with many pairs of eyes. People at the other tables were also staring at me. I felt the man's warm hand resting on mine; he was urging me in a soothing voice to take a drink. I raised the glass and swallowed it down. He refilled it and raised his own to his lips. “To your health!” he said, and the other members of his party followed suit. Then he said: “My name is Spielberg. What is yours, if I may ask?” I gave him my right name, which sounded intensely strange to my ears, and we clinked glasses. In a moment they were all talking at once, all trying desperately to prove to me how sorry they were for their rude behavior. “Won't you have some chicken?” begged a sweet young woman opposite me. She raised the platter and handed it to me. I couldn't very well refuse. The waiter was summoned.
Wouldn't I like something else? Coffee, surely, and perhaps a little schnapps? I consented. I hadn't yet said a word, other than to give my name. (“What is Henry Miller doing here? I kept repeating to myself. “Henry Miller… Henry Miller.”)

Out of the jumble of words which assaulted my ears I finally made out the following—“What on earth are you doing here? Is this an experiment?” By this time I was able to draw a smile. “Yes,” I said feebly, “in a way.”

It was my would-be tormentor who was now endeavoring to talk to me in earnest. “What
are
you really?” he said. “I mean, what do you do ordinarily?”

I told him in a few words.

Well, well! Now we were getting somewhere. He had suspected something of the sort all along. Could he help me, perhaps? He knew a number of editors intimately, he confided. Had once hoped to be a writer himself. And so on….

I remained with them an hour or two, eating and drinking, and feeling thoroughly at home with them. Everyone present bought a box of candy. One or two went over to the other tables and induced their friends to buy too, somewhat to my embarrassment. Their manner of doing it suggested that this was the least they could do for a man who was obviously destined to be one of America's great writers. It was astonishing to me what sincerity and genuine sympathy they now displayed. And only a little while ago I had been the butt of their crude jokes. They were all Jews, it turned out. Middle-class Jews who took a lively interest in the arts. I suspected that they took me for a Jew too. No matter. It was the first time I had met any Americans for whom the word artist suggested magic. That I happened to be an artist
and
a peddler made me doubly interesting to them. Their ancestors had all been peddlers and, if not artists, scholars. I was in the tradition.

I was in the tradition all right. Shuffling about from joint to joint I wondered what Ulric would say if he were to
run into me. Or Ned, who was still slaving for that grand old man McFarland. Musing thus, I suddenly noticed a Jewish friend of mine, an ear doctor, approaching. (I owed him quite a bill.) Before he could catch my eyes I ran into the street and hopped a bus going uptown. I waved to him from the platform. After I had ridden a few blocks I got off, walked wearily back to the bright lights, and began all over again, selling a box now and then, always, it seemed, to a middle-class Jew, a Jew who felt sorry, and perhaps a little ashamed, for me. It was strange to be receiving the commiseration of a downtrodden people. The reversal of roles yielded a mysterious assuagement. I shuddered to think what would happen to me should I have the misfortune to run into a gang of rowdy Irishers.

Around midnight I ducked home. Mona was already back and in a good mood. She had sold a whole valiseful of candies. And all in one spot. Had been wined and dined as well.
Where?
At Papa Moskowitz's. (I had skipped Moskowitz's because I had seen the ear doctor heading for it.)

“I thought you were going to start with the Village tonight?”

“I did,” she exclaimed, then hurriedly explained how she had run into that banker, Alan Cromwell, who was looking for a quiet place to chat. She had dragged him to Moskowitz's where they had listened to the cymbalon and so on and so on. Anyway, Moskowitz had bought a box of candy, then introduced her to his friends, all of whom insisted on buying candy. And then who should happen along but that man she had met in an office building the first morning. Mathias was his name. He and Moskowitz were friends from the old country. This Mathias of course also bought a half-dozen boxes.

Here she switched off about the real-estate business. Mathias, it seems, was eager to have her learn the business. He was certain she could sell houses as easily as
imported candies. First, of course, she would have to learn how to drive a car. He would teach her himself, she said. She thought it a good idea to learn even if she never sold real estate. We could use the car to go for a spin occasionally. Wouldn't that be wonderful?
And so on
.…

“And how did he and Cromwell get along?” I finally managed to put in.

“Just fine.”

“No, really?”

“Why not? They're both intelligent and sensitive. Because Cromwell's a drunkard you needn't think he's a sap.”

“O.K. But what did Cromwell have to tell you that was so important?”

“Oh
that!
We never got to that. There were so many people at our table.…”

“O.K. I must say, though, you certainly did handsomely.” Pause. “I sold a few myself.”

“I've been thinking, Val,” she began, as if she hadn't heard me.

I knew what was coming. I made a wry grimace.

“Seriously, Val, you shouldn't be selling candy. Let
me
do it! You see how easy it is for me. You stay home and write.”

“But I can't write night and day.”

“Well read then, or go to the theater, or see your friends. You never go to see your friends anymore.”

I said I would think about it. Meanwhile she had emptied her purse on the table. Quite a haul, it was.

“Our patron will certainly be surprised,” said I.

“Oh, did I tell you? I saw him tonight. I had to go back for more candy. He said if it keeps up this way we'll soon be able to open a shop of our own.”

“Won't that be swell!”

Things rolled along merrily for a couple of weeks. I had made a compromise with Mona: I carried the two valises and waited outside while she cleaned up. I always took a book along and read. Sometimes Sheldon accompanied us. He not only insisted on carrying the valises but he also insisted on paying for the midnight repast which we always ate in a Jewish delicatessen on Second Avenue. A wonderful meal it was each night. Plenty of sour cream, radishes, onions, strudels, pastrami, smoked fish, all kinds of dark bread, creamy sweet butter, Russian tea, caviar, egg noodles—and Seltzer water. Then home in a taxi, always over the Brooklyn Bridge. Alighting in front of our stately brownstone house, I often wondered what the landlord would think were he to notice us coming home at that hour of the morning with our two valises.

There were always new admirers cropping up. She had a difficult time, Mona, to shake them off. The latest one was a Jewish artist—Manuel Siegfried. He hadn't much money but he had a wonderful collection of art books. We borrowed them freely, especially the erotic ones. We liked best the Japanese artists. Ulric came several times with a magnifying glass, so as not to miss a stroke.

O'Mara was for selling them and have Mona pretend they had been stolen. He thought we were overly scrupulous.

One night, when Sheldon called to accompany us, I opened one of the most sensational albums and asked him to look at it. He took one glance and turned his back to me. He held his two hands over his eyes until I had closed the book.

“What's the matter with you?” I asked.

He put his finger to his lips and looked away.

“They won't bite you,” I said.

Sheldon wouldn't answer, just kept edging towards the door. Suddenly he put his two hands to his mouth and made a beeline for the toilet. I heard him retching. When he returned he came up to me, and, putting his two hands
in mine, looked into my eyes imploringly. “Never let Mrs.
Miller
see them!” he begged in a hushed voice. I put my two fingers to my lips and said: “All right, Sheldon, on my word of honor!”

He was on hand now almost every night. When I didn't feel like talking I would let him stand beside me, like a post, while I read. After a time it struck me as foolish to be making the rounds with this blinking idiot. Mona, when she learned that I intended to stay home, was delighted. She would be able to operate more freely, she said. We would all be better off.

And so, one night while chewing the fat with O'Mara, who was also delighted that I was staying home, the idea came to me to start a mail-order candy business. O'Mara, always ready for a new proposition, fairly jumped to the bait. “Put it over in a big way,” that was his idea. We began at once to make plans: the right kind of letterhead, circular letters, follow-up letters, lists of names, and so on. Thinking of names, I began to count up all the clerks, telegraphers and managers I knew in the telegraph company. They couldn't possibly refuse to buy a box of candy once a week. That was all we intended to ask of our potential clients—a box a week. It never occurred to us that one might grow tired of eating a box of candy, even imported candy, once a week every week for fifty-two weeks of the year.

We decided that it was better not to let Mona know about our scheme for a while. “You know how she is,” said O'Mara.

Of course nothing of any consequence developed. The stationery was beautiful, the letters perfect, but the sales were virtually nil. In the midst of our campaign Mona discovered what we were up to. She didn't approve of it at all. Said we were wasting time. Besides, she was about sick of the game. Mathias, her real estate friend, was ready to launch her any day. She already knew how to drive, she said. (Neither of us believed this.) A few good sales and
we would soon have a house of our own.
And so on
.… And then there was Alan Cromwell. She hadn't told me of his proposition. She had been waiting for a propitious moment.

“Well, what is it?” I asked.

“He wants me to write a column—for the Hearst papers. One a day without fail.”

I jumped.
“What!
A column a day?” Whoever heard of the Hearst papers offering a column to an unknown writer?

“That's
his
affair, Val. He knows what he's doing.”

“But will they print the stuff?” I thought I smelled a rat.

“No,” she replied, “not right away. We're to do it for a few months, and if they like it… Anyway, that's not important! The thing is that Cromwell will pay us a hundred dollars a week out of his own pocket. He's dead sure he can sell the man who runs the syndicate. They're close friends.”

“And what am I—or
you
, excuse me!—supposed to write about every day?”

“Anything under the sun.”

“You don't mean it!”

“I certainly do. Otherwise I wouldn't have given it a moment's thought.”

I had to admit it sounded good. So… she'd sell real estate and I would write a daily column. Not bad. “A hundred a week, you say? That's damned decent of him
… Cromwell
, I mean. He must think a lot of you.” (This with a straight face.)

“It's a mere bagatelle to him, Val. He's simply trying to be of help.”

“Does he know about
me?
I mean, has he no suspicion?”

“Of course not. Are you mad?”

“Well, I just wondered. Sometimes a guy like that… you know.… Sometimes you can tell them most anything. I'd like to meet him some time. I'm curious.”

“That would be easy,” said Mona, smiling.

“What do you mean?”

“Why, just meet me at Moskowitz's some evening. I'll introduce you as a friend.”

“That's an idea. I'll do that some evening. It'll be fun. You can introduce me as a Jewish physician. How's that?”

“But before we give up this candy racket,” I added, “I'd like to try out something. I have a hunch that if we were to send a couple of messenger boys to the various telegraph offices we would clean up. We might sell a couple of hundred at one stroke.”

“Oh, that reminds me,” said Mona. “The candy store man has invited us to go to dinner with him next Saturday. He wants to give us a treat to show his appreciation. I think he'll offer to set us up in business. I wouldn't turn it down cold, if I were you—you might hurt his feelings.”

“Of course. He's a prince. He's done more for us than any of our friends ever have.”

The next days were absorbed in writing personal notes to all my old pals in the telegraph company. I even included messages to some of the men in the vice-president's office. In routing the itinerary, I realized that instead of a couple of messengers I would require a half-dozen—if the coup was to be accomplished at one stroke.

I totaled up the possible sales—came to something over $500.00. Not a bad way to retire from the candy business, I thought to myself, rubbing my hands in expectation.