A strange, nervous vitality possessed me. Suddenly I was wide awake, more wide awake than I could have been had I rested three days in bed. I would wait another half hour and if she didn't phone I would go directly to her home.
As I was pacing back and forth with pantherish strides the stairway door opened and a little shaver with dark skin entered. He closed the door behind him quickly as if he were shutting out a pursuer. There was something jolly and mysterious about him which his Cuban voice exaggerated.
«You will give me a job, won't you, Mr. Miller?» he burst out. «I must have the messenger job to complete my studies. Everybody tells me that you are a kind man—and I can see it myself—you have a good face. I am proficient in many things, as you will discover when you know me better. Juan Rico is my name. I am eighteen years old. I am a poet too.»
«Well, well,» I said, chuckling and stroking him under the chin—he was the size of a midget and looked like one—«so you're a poet? Then I'm surely going to give you a job.»
«I'm an acrobat too,» he said. «My father had a circus once. You will find me very speedy on my legs. I love to go hither and about with zest and alacrity. I am also extremely courteous and when delivering a message I would say, 'Thank you sir', and doff my cap respectfully. I know all the streets by heart, including the Bronx. And if you would put me in the Spanish neighborhood you would find me very effective. Do I please you, sir?» He gave me a bewitching grin which implied that he knew very well how to sell himself.
«Go over there and sit down,» I said. «I'll give you a blank to fill out. To-morrow morning you can start in bright and early—with a smile.»
«Oh I can smile, sir—beautifully,» and he did.
«You're sure you're eighteen?»
«Oh yes, sir, that I can prove. I have all my papers with me.»
I gave him an application blank and went to the adjoining room—the rink—to leave him in peace. Suddenly the telephone rang. I bounded back to the desk and picked up the receiver. It was Mona speaking, in a subdued, restrained, unnatural voice, as though she had been drained hollow.
«He died a little while ago,» she said. «I've been at his side ever since I left you...»
I mumbled some inadequate words of consolation and then I asked her when she was coming back. She wasn't sure just when, she wanted me to do her a little favor... to go to the department store and buy her a mourning dress and some black gloves. Size sixteen. What sort of material? She didn't know anything I chose... A few more words and she hung up—Little Juan Rico was looking up into my eyes like a faithful dog. He had understood everything and was trying in his delicate Cuban way to let me know that he wished to share my sorrow.
«It's all right, Juan,» I said, «everybody has to die some time.»
«Was that your wife who telephoned?» he asked. His eyes were moist and glistening.
«Yes,» I said, «that was my wife.»
«I'm sure she must be beautiful.»
«What makes you say that?»
«The way you talked to her... I could almost see her. I wish I could marry a beautiful woman some day. I think about it very of ten.»
«You're a funny lad,» I said. «Thinking about marriage already. Why, you're just a boy.»
«Here's my application, sir. Will you kindly look it over now so that I may be sure I can come tomorrow?»
I gave it a quick glance and assured him it was satisfactory.
«Then I am at your service, sir. And now, sir, if you will pardon me, may I suggest that you let me stay with you a little while? I don't think it is good for you to be alone at this moment. When the heart is sad one needs a friend.»
I burst out laughing. «A good idea,» I said. «We'll go to dinner together, how's that? And a movie afterwards—does that suit you?»
He got up and began to frisk about like a trained dog. Suddenly he became curious about the empty room in the rear. I followed him in and watched him good-naturedly as he examined the paraphernalia. The roller skates intrigued him. He had picked up a pair and was examining them as if he had never seen such things before.
«Put them on,» I said, «and do a turn. This is the skating rink.»
«Can you skate also?» he asked.
«Sure I can. Do you want to see me skate?»
«Yes,» he said, «and let me skate with you. I haven't done it for years and years. It's a rather comical diversion, is it not?»
We slipped the skates on. I shot forward with hands behind my back. Little Juan Rico followed at my heels. In the center of the room there were slender pillars; I looped in and around the pillars as if I were giving an exhibition.
«I say, but it's very exhilarating, isn't it?» said Juan breathlessly. «You glide like a zephyr.»
«Like a what?»
«Like a zephyr... a mild, pleasant breeze.»
«Oh, zephyr /»
«I wrote a poem once about a zephyr—that was long ago.»
I took his hand and swung him around. Then I placed him in front of me and with my hands on his waist I pushed him along, guiding him lightly and dexterously about the floor. Finally I gave him a good push and sent him skedaddling to the other end of the room.
«Now I'll show you a few fancy turns that I learned in the Tyrol,» I said, folding my arms in front of me and raising one leg in the air. The thought that never in her life would Mona suspect what I was doing this minute gave me a demonic joy. As I passed and repassed little Juan, who was now sitting on the window-sill absorbed in the spectacle, I made faces at him—first sad and mournful, then gay, then insouciant, then hilarious, then meditative, then stern, then menacing, then idiotic. I tickled myself in the arm-pits, like a monkey; I waltzed like a trained bear; I squatted low like a cripple; I sang in a cracked key, then shouted like a maniac. Round and round, ceaselessly, merrily, free as a bird. Juan joined in. We stalked each other like animals, we turned into waltzing mice, we did the deaf and dumb act.
And all the time I was thinking of Mona wandering about in the house of mourning, waiting for her mourning dress, her black gloves, and what not.
Round and round, with never a care. A little kerosene, a match, and we would go up in flames, like, a burning merry-go-round. I looked at Juan's poll—it was like dry tinder. I had an insane desire to set him on fire, set him aflame and send him hurtling down the elevator shaft. Then two or three wild turns, a la Breughel, and out the window!
I calmed down a little. Not Breughel, but Hieronymous Bosch. A season in hell, amidst the traps and pulleys of the medieval mind. First time around they yank off an arm. Second time around a leg. Finally just a torso rolling around. And the music playing with vibrant twangs. The iron harp of Prague. A sunken street near the synagogue. A dolorous peal of the bells. A woman's guttural lament.
Not Bosch any longer, but Chagall. An angel in mufti descending slantwise just above the roof. Snow on the ground and in the gutters little pieces of meat for the rats. Cracow in the violet light of evisceration. Weddings, births, funerals. A man in an overcoat and only one string to his violin. The bride has lost her mind; she dances with broken legs.
Round and round, ringing door-bells, ringing sleigh-bells. The cosmococcic round of grief and slats. At the roots of my hair a touch of frost, in the tips of my toes a fire. The world is a merry-go-round in flames, the horses burn down to the hocks. A cold, stiff father lying on a feather-bed. A mother green as gangrene. And the bridegroom rolling along.
First we'll bury him in the cold ground. Then we'll bury his name, his legend, his kites and race horses. And for the widow a bon-fire, a suttee Viennoise. I will marry the widow's daughter—in her mourning gown and black gloves. I will do atonement and anoint my head with ashes.