there in the cafe as he passed
was that American poet with a
pile of saucers in front of him
and a stupid look on his potato
face talking about the Dada
movement with a Roumanian
who said his name was Tristan
Tzara, who always wore a
monocle and had a headache,
and, back at the apartment
with his wife that now he loved
again, the quarrel all over, the
madness all over, glad to be
home, the office sent his mail
up to the flat. So then the letter
in answer to the one he'd
written came in on a platter
one morning and when he saw
the hand writing he went cold
all over and tried to slip the
letter underneath another. But
his wife said, ''Who is that
letter from, dear?'' and that
was the end of the beginning of
that.
He remembered the good times
with them all, and the quarrels.
They always picked the finest
places to have the quarrels.
And why had they always
quarrelled when he was feeling
best? He had never written any
of that because, at first, he
never wanted to hurt any one
and then it seemed as though
there was enough to write
without it. But he had always
thought that he would write it
finally. There was so much to
write. He had seen the world
change; not just the events;
although he had seen many of
them and had watched the
people, but he had seen the
subtler change and he could
remember how the people were
at different times. He had been
in it and he had watched it and
it was his duty to write of it;
but now he never would.
"How do you feel?" she said.
She had come out from the tent
now after her bath.
"All right."
"Could you eat now?" He saw
Molo behind her with the
folding table and the other boy
with the dishes.
"I want to write," he said.
"You ought to take some broth
to keep your strength up."
JOY FEELINGS | DECEMBER ISSUE
267