I would turn him over to the health department and institute suit against him.
Then I reached the front of the Acme. The men watched me pass too, all of them loafing and seeking something to look at. The woman was now in a section where all the buildings were black and vacant, a great lane of black barren depression windows. For a moment she stopped before one of these windows. Then she went on. Something in the window had caught her eyes and detained her.
When I reached the window I saw what it was. It was the window of the only occupied store in the section. A second-hand store, a pawn shop. Now it was long after office hours and the store was closed, the windows piled high with jewelry, tools, typewriters, suitcases and cameras. A sign in the window read: Highest Prices Paid For Old Gold. Because I knew she had read that sign, I read it over and over again. Highest Prices Paid For Old Gold. Highest Prices Paid For Old Gold. Now both of us had read it, she and I — Arturo Bandini and his woman. Wonderful! And had she not peered carefully into the back of the store? Then so would Bandini, for as did Bandini's woman so did Bandini. A small light burned in the back, over a stumpy little safe. The room bulged with second-hand articles. In one corner stood a wire cage behind which was a desk. The eyes of my woman had seen all of this, and I would not forget.
I turned to follow her again. At the next corner she stepped from the curbing just as the stop light signaled green and GO. I came up fast, eager to cross too, but the light changed to red and STOP. The hell with red lights. Love tolerates no barriers. Bandini must get through. On to victory! And I crossed anyhow. She was only twenty feet before me, the curved mystery of her form flooding me. I would soon be upon her. This had not occurred to me.
Well, Bandini; what will you do now?
Bandini does not falter. Bandini knows what to do, don't you Bandini? Of course I do! I am going to speak sweet words to her. I am going to say hello, my beloved! And a beautiful night it is; and would you object if I walked a bit with you? I know some fine poetry, like the Song of Solomon and that long one from Nietzsche about voluptuousness - which do you prefer? Did you know that I was a writer? Yes indeed! I write for Posterity. Let us walk down to the water's edge while I tell you of my work, of the prose for Posterity.
But when I reached her a strange thing took place.
We were abreast of one another. I coughed and cleared my throat. I was about to say, Hello, my good woman. But something jammed in my throat. I could do nothing else. I couldn't even look at her, because my head refused to turn on my neck. My nerve was gone. I thought I was going to faint. I am collapsing, I said; I am in a state of collapse. And then the strange thing happened: I began to run. I picked up my feet, threw back my head, and ran like a fool. With elbows chugging and nostrils meeting the salt air I ran like an Olympic runner, a half-miler sprinting down the home stretch to victory.
What are you doing now, Bandini? Why are you running?
I feel like running. What of it? I guess I can run if I feel like it, can't I?
My feet clacked on the deserted street. I was picking up speed. Doors and windows shot past me in amazing style. I never realized I had such speed. Passing the Longshoremen's Hall at a fast clip, I took a wide turn into Front Street. The long warehouses threw black shadows into the road, and among them was the swift echo of my feet. I was at the docks now, with the sea across the street, beyond the warehouses.
I was none other than Arturo Bandini, the greatest half-miler in the history of the American track and field annals. Gooch, the mighty Dutch champion, Sylvester Gooch, speed demon from the land of windmills and wooden shoes, was fifty feet ahead of me, and the mighty Dutchman was giving me the race of my career. Would I win? The thousands of men and women in the stands wondered - especially the women, for I was known jokingly among the sport scribes as a "woman's runner," because I was so tremendously popular among the feminine fans. Now the stands were cheering in a frenzy. Women threw out their arms and begged me to win — for America. Come on, Bandini! Come on Bandini! Oh you Bandini! How we love you! And the women were worried. But there was nothing to worry about. The situation was well in hand, and I knew it. Sylvester Gooch was tiring; he couldn't stand the pace. And I was saving myself for those last fifty yards. I knew I could defeat him. Fear not, my ladies, you who love me, fear not! The American honors depend upon my victory, I know this, and when America needs me you will find me there, in the midst of the fight, eager to give my blood. With proud beautiful strides I opened up at the fifty yard mark. My God, look at that man run! Shrieks of joy from the throats of thousands of women. Ten feet from the tape I lunged forward, snapping it a quarter of a second before the mighty Dutchman. Pandemonium in the stands. Newsreel cameramen gathered around me, begging me for a few words. Please, Bandini, please! Leaning against the American-Hawaiian docks I panted for breath and smilingly agreed to give the boys a statement. A nice bunch of fellows.
"I want to say hello to my mother," I panted. "Are you there, Mother? Hello! You see, gentlemen, when I was a boy back in California I had a paper route after school. At that time my mother was in the hospital. Every night she was near death. And that's how I learned to run. With the horrible realization that I might lose my mother before finishing with my Wilmington Gazettes, I used to run like a madman, finishing my route and then racing five miles to the hospital. And that was my training ground. I want to thank you all, and once more say hello to my mother back in California. Hello, Mother! How's Billy and Ted? And did the dog get well?"
Laughter. Murmurings about my simple native humility. Congratulations.
But after all, there wasn't much satisfaction in defeating Gooch, great victory though it was. Out of breath I was tired of being an Olympic runner.
It was that woman in the purple coat. Where was she now? I hurried back to Avalon Boulevard. She was not in sight. Except for the stevedores in the next block and the circling of moths around street lamps, the boulevard was deserted.
You fool! You've lost her. She is gone forever.
I began a swing around the block in search for her. In the distance I heard the bark of a police dog. That was Herman. I knew all about Herman. He was the mailman's dog. He was a sincere dog; he not only barked, he also bit. Once he had chased me blocks and tore the socks from my ankles. I decided to give up the search. It was growing late anyhow. Some other night I would seek her. I had to be at work early next morning. And so I started for home, walking up Avalon.
I saw the sign again: Highest Prices Paid For Old Gold. It stirred me because she had read it, the woman in the purple coat. She had seen and felt all of this — the store, the glass, the window, the junk inside. She had walked along this very street. This very sidewalk had felt the enchanted burden of her weight. She had breathed this air and smelled that sea. The smoke from her cigarette had mingled with it. Ah, this is too much, too much!
At the bank I touched the place where she had struck a match. There — on my fingertips. Wonderful. A small black streak. Oh streak, your name is Claudia. Oh Claudia, I love you. I shall kiss you to prove my devotion. I looked about.
No one was in sight for two blocks. I reached over and kissed the black streak.
I love you, Claudia. I beg you to marry me. Nothing else in life matters. Even my writings, those volumes for posterity, they mean nothing without you. Marry me or I shall go down to the dock and jump off head first. And I kissed again the black streak.
Then I was horrified to notice that the whole of the bank front was covered with the stripes and streaks of thousands and thousands of matches. I spat in disgust.
Her mark must be a unique mark; something like herself, simple and yet mysterious, a match-streak such as the world had never known before. I shall find it if I have to search forever. Do you hear me? Forever and forever. Until I become an old man I shall stand here, searching and searching for the mysterious mark of my love. Others shall not discourage me. Now I begin: a lifetime or a minute, what does it matter?
After less than two minutes I found it. I was sure of its origin. A small mark so faint that it was almost invisible. Only she could have made it. Wonderful. A tiny little mark with the faintest suggestion of a flair at the tail of it, a bit of artistry to it, a mark like a serpent about to strike.
But someone was coming. I heard footsteps on the sidewalk. He was a very old man with a white beard. He carried a cane and a book and appeared in deep thought. He limped on his cane. His eyes were very bright and small. I ducked inside the archway until he passed by. Then I emerged and showered savage kisses upon the mark. Again I beseech you to marry me. Greater love than this no man hath. The time and tide wait for no man. A stitch in time saves nine. A rolling stone gathers no moss. Marry me!
Suddenly the night shook with a faint coughing. It was that old man. He had gone down the street about fifty yards and turned around. There he was, leaning on his cane and watching me intently.
Shivering with shame I hurried up the street. At the end of the block I turned around. The old man had now moved back to the wall. He was examining it too. Now he was looking after me. I shuddered at the thought of it. Another block and I turned once more. He was still there, that awful old man. I ran the rest of the way home.
Chapter Nineteen
MONA AND MY mother were already in bed. My mother snored softly. In the living room the davenport was pulled out, my bed made and the pillow loosened. I undressed and got in. The minutes passed. I couldn't sleep. I tried my back and then my side. Then I tried my stomach. The minutes passed. I could hear them ticking away on the clock in my mother's bedroom. A half hour passed. I was wide awake. I rolled about and felt an ache in my mind. Something was wrong. An hour passed. I began to get angry that I could not sleep, and I started to sweat. I kicked off the covers and lay there, trying to think of something. I had to get up early. I would be no good at the cannery without a lot of rest. But my eyes were sticky and they burned when I tried to close them.
It was that woman. It was the weaving of her form down the street, the flash of her white sickly face. The bed got intolerable. I turned on the light and lit a cigarette. It burned in my throat. I threw it away and resolved to give up smoking forever.
Once more in bed. And I tossed. That woman. How I loved her! The coil of her form, the hunger in her hunted eyes, the fur at her neck, the run in her hose, the feeling in my chest, the color of her coat, the flash of her face, the tingle in my fingers, the floating after her down the street, the coldness of the glittering stars, the dumb sliver of a warm crescent moon, the taste of the match, the smell of the sea, the softness of the night, the stevedores, the click of poolballs, the beads of music, the coil of her form, the music of her heels, the stubbornness of her gait, the old man with a book, the woman, the woman, the woman.
I had an idea. I threw the covers off and leaped out of bed. What an idea! It came to me like an avalanche, like a house falling down, like the smash of glass. I felt on fire and crazy. There were papers and pencils in the drawer. I scooped them up and hurried to the kitchen. It was cold in the kitchen. I lit the oven and opened the oven door. Sitting naked I started to write.
Love Everlasting
or The Woman A Man Loves
or Omnia Vincit Amor
by Arturo Gabriel Bandini
Three titles.
Marvelous! A superb start. Three titles, just like that. Amazing! Incredible! A genius! A genius indeed!
And that name. Ah, it looked magnificent.
Arturo Gabriel Bandini.
A name to consider in the long roll of time immortal: a name for endless ages. Arturo Gabriel Bandini. An even better-sounding name than Dante Gabriel Rossetti. And he was an Italian too. He belonged to my race.
I wrote: "Arthur Banning, the multi-millionaire oil-dealer, tour de force, prima facie, petit maitre, table d'hote, and great lover of ravishing, beautiful, exotic, saccharine, and constellation-like women in all parts of the world, in every corner of the globe, women in Bombay, India, land of the Taj Mahal, of Gandhi and Buddha; women in Naples, land of Italian art and Italian fantasy; women in the Riviera; women at Lake Banff; women at Lake Louise; in the Swiss Alps; at the Ambassador Coconut Grove in Los Angeles, California; women at the famed Pons Asinorum in Europe; this same Arthur Banning, scion of an old Virginia family, land of George Washington and great American traditions; this same Arthur Banning, handsome and tall, six feet four inches in his sox, distingue, with teeth like pearls, and a certain, zippy, nippy, outre quality all women go for in a big way, this Arthur Banning, stood at the rail of his mighty, world-famous, much-loved, American, yacht, the Larchmont VIII, and watched with deleterious eyes, manly, virile, powerful, eyes, the carmine, red, beautiful, rays of Old Sol, better known as the sun, dip into the gloomy, phantasmagorically, black, waters of the Mediterranean Ocean, somewhere South of Europe, in the year of our Lord, nineteen hundred and thirty-five. And there he was, scion of a wealthy, famous, powerful, magniloquent, family, a gallant homo, with the world at his feet and the great, powerful, amazing, Banning, fortune at his disposal; and yet; as he stood there; something troubled Arthur Banning, tall, darkened, handsome, tanned, by the rays of Old Sol: and, what troubled him, was that, though he had traveled many lands and seas, and, rivers, too, and though he made love, and, had love affairs, the whole world knew about, through the medium of the press, the powerful, grinding press, he, Arthur Banning, this scion, was unhappy, and though rich, famous, powerful, he was lonely and, incastellated for, love. And as he stood so incisively there on the deck of his Larchmont VIII, finest, most beautiful, most powerful, yacht, ever built, he wondered would the girl of his dreams, would he meet her soon, would she, the girl, of his dreams, be anything like the girl, of his boyhood dreams, back there when he was a boy, dreaming on the banks of the Potomac River, on his father's fabulous rich, wealthy estate, or would she be poor?