Authors: William Styron
Shortly after I returned to my table I realized that now in the same room above a spirited argument was in progress. It had come with phenomenal speed, this dark and stormy mood. I couldn’t hear the words, due to some acoustical quirk. As with the marathon venery just completed, I could hear the action in almost baroque detail but the speech stayed muffled and indistinct, so I got the impression of shuffling angry feet, chairs wrenched around impatiently, banged doors, and voices rising in rage uttering words I was only partly able to comprehend. The male’s voice was dominant—a husky and furious baritone that all but drowned out the limpid Beethoven. By contrast the voice of the female seemed plaintive, defensive, growing shrill at moments as if in fright but generally submissive with an undertone of pleading. Suddenly a glass or china object—an ashtray, a tumbler, I knew not what—crashed and shattered against a wall, and I could hear the heavy male feet stamping toward the door, which flew open in the upstairs hallway. Then the door went shut with a tremendous clatter, and I heard the man’s footsteps tramping off into one of the other second-floor rooms. Finally the room was left—after these last twenty minutes of delirious activity—in what might be termed provisional silence, amid the depths of which I could hear only the soft heartsick adagio scratching on the phonograph, and the woman’s broken sobs on the bed above me.
I have always been a discriminating but light eater, and never sit down to breakfast. Being also by habit a late riser, I await the joys of “brunch.” After the noise subsided above, I saw that it was past noon and at the same time realized that both the fornication and the fracas had in some urgent, vicarious way made me incredibly hungry, as if I had actually partaken in whatever had taken place up there. I was so hungry that I had begun to salivate, and felt a touch of vertigo. Except for Nescafé and beer, I had not yet stocked either my cupboard or my minuscule refrigerator, so I decided to go out to lunch. During an earlier stroll through the neighborhood there had been a kosher restaurant, Herzl’s, on Church Avenue which had caught my eye. I wanted to go there because I had never before tried authentic, that is to say
echt,
Jewish cuisine and also because—well, When in Flatbush... I said to myself. I shouldn’t have bothered, for of course, this being the Sabbath, the place was closed, and I settled on another, presumably non-Orthodox restaurant further down the avenue named Sammy’s, where I ordered chicken soup with matzoh balls, gefilte fish and chopped liver—these familiar to me as an offshoot of wide reading in Jewish lore—from a waiter so monumentally insolent that I thought he was putting on an act. (I hadn’t then known that surliness among Jewish waiters was almost a definitive trait.) I was not particularly bothered, however. The place was crowded with people, most of them elderly, spooning their borscht and munching at potato pirogen; and a great noise of Yiddish—a venerable roar—filled the dank and redolent air with unfathomable gutturals, as of many wattled old throats gargling on chicken fat.
I felt curiously happy, very much in my element. Enjoy, enjoy, Stingo, I said to myself. Like numerous Southerners of a certain background, learning and sensibility, I have from the very beginning responded warmly to Jews, my first love having been Miriam Bookbinder, the daughter of a local ship chandler, who even at the age of six wore in her lovely hooded eyes the vaguely disconsolate, largely inscrutable mystery of her race; and then later I experienced a grander empathy with Jewish folk which, I am persuaded, is chiefly available to those Southerners shattered for years and years by rock-hard encounter with the anguish of Abraham and Moses’ stupendous quest and the Psalmist’s troubled hosannas and the abyssal vision of Daniel and all the other revelations, bittersweet confections, tall tales and beguiling horrors of the Protestant/Jewish Bible. In addition, it is a platitude by now that the Jew has found considerable fellowship among white Southerners because Southerners have possessed another, darker sacrificial lamb. In any case, sitting there that lunchtime at Sammy’s I positively glowed in my new environment, as it dawned on me with no surprise at all that an unconscious urge to be among Jews was at least part of the reason for my migration to Brooklyn. Certainly I could not be more deep in the heart of Jewry had I just been set down in Tel Aviv. And leaving the restaurant, I even confessed to myself a liking for Manischewitz, which in fact was lousy as an accompaniment to gefilte fish but bore a syrupy resemblance to the sweet scuppernong wine I had known as a boy in Virginia.
As I wandered back to Yetta’s house I was a bit upset once more by the happening in the room above me. My concern was largely selfish, for I knew that if such a thing went on too often, I would get little sleep or peace. Another part that bothered me, though, was the strange quality of the event—the jolly athletic amour so obviously and exquisitely enjoyed, yet followed by the precipitous slide into rage, weeping and discontent. Then, too, what further got my goat was the matter of who was doing it to whom. I was irked that I should be thrust into this position of lubricious curiosity, that my introduction to any of my fellow tenants should not be anything so ordinary as a “Hi” and a straightforward handshake but an episode of pornographic eavesdropping upon two strangers whose faces I had never even seen. Despite the fantasy life I have described myself as having led so far during the course of my stay in the metropolis, I am not by nature a snoop; but the very proximity of the two lovers—after all, they had nearly come down on my head—made it impossible for me to avoid trying to discover their identity, and at the earliest feasible moment.
My problem was almost immediately solved when I met my first of Yetta’s tenants, who was standing in the downstairs hallway, going through the mail which the postman had left on a table near the entrance. He was an amorphously fleshed, slope-shouldered, rather ovoid-looking young man of about twenty-eight, with kinky brick-colored hair and that sullen brusqueness of manner of the New York indigene. During my first days in the city I thought it a manner so needlessly hostile that I was driven several times to acts of near-violence, until I came to realize that it was only one aspect of that tough carapace that urban beings draw about themselves, like an armadillo’s hide. I introduced myself politely—“Stingo’s the name”—while my fellow roomer thumbed through the mail, and for my pains, got the sound of steady adenoidal breathing. I felt a hot flash at the back of my neck, went numb around the lips, and wheeled about toward my room.
Then I heard him say, “This yours?” And as I turned he was holding up a letter. I could tell from the handwriting that it was from my father.
“Thanks,” I murmured in rage, grabbing the letter.
“You mind savin’ me the stamp?” he said. “I collect commemoratives.” He essayed something in the nature of a grin, not expansive but recognizably human. I made a humming noise and gave him a vaguely positive look.
“I’m Fink,” he said, “Morris Fink. I more or less take care of this place, especially when Yetta’s away, like she is this weekend. She went to visit her daughter in Canarsie.” He nodded in the direction of my door. “I see you got to live in the crater.”
“The crater?” I said.
“I lived there up until a week ago. When I moved out that’s how you got to move in. I called it the crater because it was like livin’ in a bomb crater with all that humpin’ they were doin’ in that room up above.”
There had been suddenly established a bond between Morris and me, and I relaxed, filled with inquisitive zeal. “How did you put up with it, for God’s sake? And tell me—who the hell
are
they?”
“It’s not so bad if you get them to move the bed. They do that—move it over toward the wall—and you can barely hear them humpin’. Then it’s over the bathroom. I got them to do that. Or
him,
that is. I got him to move it even though it’s her room. I
insisted.
I said Yetta would throw them both out if he didn’t, so he finally agreed. Now I guess he’s moved it back toward the window. He said something about it bein’ cooler there.” He paused to accept one of the cigarettes I had offered him. “What you should do is ask him to move the bed back toward the wall again.”
“I
can’t
do that,” I put in, “I just can’t go up to some guy, some
stranger,
and say—well, you know what I’d have to say to him. It would be terribly embarrassing. I just couldn’t. And which ones are they, anyway?”
“
I’ll
tell him if you’d like,” said Morris, with an air of assurance that I found appealing. “I’ll
make
him do it. Yetta can’t stand it around here if people annoy each other. That Landau is a weird one, all right, and he might give me some trouble, but he’ll move the bed, don’t you worry. He doesn’t want to get thrown out on his ass.”
So it was Nathan Landau, the first name on my list, who I realized was the master of this setup; then who was his partner in all that din, sin and confusion? “And the gal?” I inquired. “Miss Grossman?”
“No. Grossman’s a pig. It’s the Polish broad, Sophie. Sophie Z., I call her. Her last name, it’s impossible to pronounce. But she’s some dish, that Sophie.”
I was aware once more of the silence of the house, the eerie impression I was to get from time to time that summer of a dwelling far removed from the city streets, of a place remote, isolated, almost bucolic. Children called from the park across the way and I heard a single car pass by slowly, its sound unhurried, inoffensive. I simply could not believe I was living in Brooklyn. “Where is everybody?” I asked.
“Well, let me tell you something,” said Morris. “Except maybe for Nathan, nobody in this joint has enough money to really
do
anything. Like go to New York and dance at the Rainbow Room or anything fancy like that. But on Saturday afternoon they all clear out of here. They all go
somewhere.
For instance, the Grossman pig—boy, is she some fuckin’
yenta
—Grossman goes to visit her mother out in Islip. Ditto Astrid. That’s Astrid Weinstein, lives right there across the hall from you. She’s a nurse at Kings County Hospital like Grossman, only she’s no pig. A nice kid, but I would say not exactly a knockout. Plain. A dog, really. But not a pig.”
My heart sank. “And she goes to see her mother, too?” I said with scant interest.
“Yeah, she goes to see her mother, only in New York. I can somehow tell you’re not Jewish, so let me tell you something about Jewish people. They very often have to go see their mothers. It’s a trait.”
“I see,” I said. “And the others? Where have they gone?”
“Muskatblit—you’ll see him, he’s big and fat and a rabbinical student—Moishe goes to see his mother
and
his father, somewhere in Jersey. Only he can’t travel on the Sabbath, so he leaves here Friday night. He’s a big movie fiend, so Sunday he spends all day in New York goin’ to four or five movies. Then he gets back here late Sunday night half blind from goin’ to all those movies.”
“And, ah—Sophie and Nathan? Where do they go? And what do they do, by the way, aside from—” I was on the verge of an obvious jest but held my tongue, a point lost in any case, since Morris, so garrulous, so fluently and freely informative, had anticipated what I had been wondering and was rapidly filling me in.
“Nathan’s got an education, he’s a biologist. He works in a laboratory near Borough Hall where they make medicine and drugs and things like that. Sophie Z., I don’t know what she does exactly. I heard she’s some kind of receptionist for a Polish doctor who’s got a whole lot of Polish clients. Naturally, she speaks Polish like a native. Anyway, Nathan and Sophie are beach nuts. When the weather’s good, like now, they go to Coney Island—sometimes Jones Beach. Then they come back here.” He paused and made what seemed to approximate a leer. “They come back here and hump and fight. Boy, do they fight! Then they go out to dinner. They’re very big on good eating. That Nathan, he makes good money, but he’s a weird one, all right. Weird. Real weird. Like, I think he needs psychiatric consultation.”
A phone rang, and Morris let it ring. It was a pay phone attached to the wall, and its ring seemed exceptionally loud, until I realized that it must have been adjusted in such a way as to be heard all over the house. “I don’t answer it when nobody’s here,” Morris said. “I can’t stand that miserable fuckin’ phone, all those messages. ‘Is Lillian there? This is her mother. Tell her she forgot the precious gift her Uncle Bennie brought her.’ Yatata yatata. The pig. Or, ‘This is the father of Moishe Muskatblit. He’s not in? Tell him his cousin Max got run down by a truck in Hackensack.’ Yatata yatata all day long. I can’t stand that telephone.”
I told Morris that I would see him again, and after a few more pleasantries, retired to my room’s nursery-pink and the disquietude that it had begun to cause me. I sat down at my table. The first page of the legal pad, its blankness still intimidating, yawned in front of me like a yellowish glimpse of eternity. How in God’s name would I ever be able to write a novel? I mused, chewing on a Venus Velvet. I opened the letter from my father. I always looked forward to these letters, feeling fortunate to have this Southern Lord Chesterfield as an advisor, who so delighted me with his old-fashioned disquisitions upon pride and avarice and ambition, bigotry, political skulduggery, venereal excess and other mortal sins and dangers. Sententious he might occasionally be, but never pompous, never preacherish in tone, and I relished both the letters’ complexity of thought and feeling and their simple eloquence; whenever I finished one I was usually close to tears, or doubled over with laughter, and they almost always set me immediately to rereading passages in the Bible, from which my father had derived many of his prose cadences and much of his wisdom. Today, though, my attention was first caught by a newspaper clipping which fluttered out from the folds of the letter. The headline of the clipping, which was from the local gazette in Virginia, so stunned and horrified me that I momentarily lost my breath and saw tiny pinpoints of light before my eyes.
It announced the death by suicide, at the age of twenty-two, of a beautiful girl with whom I had been hopelessly in love during several of the rocky years of my early adolescence. Her name was Maria (rhyming in the Southern fashion with “pariah”) Hunt, and at fifteen I had been so feverish in my infatuation for her that it seems in retrospect a small-scale madness. Talk about your lovesick fool, how I exemplified such a wretch! Maria Hunt! For if in the 1940s, long before the dawn of our liberation, the ancient chivalry still prevailed and the plastic June Allysons of a boy’s dreams were demigoddesses with whom one might at most, to use the sociologists’ odious idiom, “pet to climax,” I carried self-abnegation to its mad limit and with my beloved Maria did not even try to cop a feel, as they used to say in those days. Indeed, I did not do so much as place a kiss upon her heartlessly appetizing lips. This is not on the other hand to define our relationship as Platonic, for in my understanding of that word there is an element of the cerebral, and Maria was not at all bright. To which it must be added that in those days of the forty-eight states, when in terms of the quality of public education Harry Byrd’s Virginia was generally listed forty-ninth—after Arkansas, Mississippi and even Puerto Rico—the intellectual tang of the colloquy of two fifteen-year-olds is perhaps best left to the imagination. Never was ordinary conversation cleft by such hiatuses, such prolonged and unembarrassed moments of ruminant non-speech. Nonetheless, I had passionately but chastely adored her, adored her for such a simple-minded reason as that she was beautiful enough to wreck the heart, and now I discovered that she was dead. Maria Hunt was
dead!