him himself, and I’ll never know his face or name. I don’t need to. I’ll know him, whenever I meet him, by all the other stuff I did see—and to hell with the brand of watch. He’s not an important memory; he’s a fact. He’s around, all right.
He’s the man Aurine and Oscar will be bringing me. Innocent dears, maybe they don’t even know they were doing it that day.
He’s the man who the world that bore you tries to bring you, no matter who you are.
What kind of household you start in doesn’t matter; though Aurine and Oscar’s way of life mightn’t go down at St. Bartholomew’s, a man like him is brought in there every other wedding day. He looks different in church, younger maybe. But settled, wherever he is, rich or poor. Our druggist’s daughter married him yesterday—the druggist means his best for her. And she’ll get it of course. Like me. Though I’d have a hard time explaining the similarity. Which way is more sinful let the druggist’s wife and Aurine decide.
For of course the man I’m intended for isn’t expected to last for life. He’ll come by the half-dozen, maybe, all bearing a resemblance. I won’t be asked to marry him. I’ll be expected not to. But in every other respect, he’s the same as in any village. He’s the man the parents bring you, whoever you are. Or your aunt and uncle do, if you’re me. He’s the one who’s enough like them.
So how can I tell them that even in memory, or present dreams, I never go to bed with him?…
Back there, maybe he saw that destiny. For he left, didn’t he, on his own? Smarter than some others have been since. And with a bow to Aurine. “See why you call her Queenie.”
Poor me, I’m still feeling grateful. So I follow him out to the little foyer we have, three marble steps down and a gold wicker basket to put mail in, and stand there, arms crossed over my bodyshirt, which is maybe the way he remembers me. “Thanks for the village,” I said.
Aurine comes out after me; maybe she thinks we’re making an assignation. She wouldn’t mind that—“If it’s time it’s time, and you’re tall ” she’d say, she’d just want to know about it. But I was already alone, with what I’d never been alone with before. And haven’t yet got a question for. Maybe it’s nameless.
“Q’est-ce-que tu a?” she says, almost sadly. So I suppose she knows what I have the matter with me. “And where are you going?”
“Up to my room.”
“I’ll send up your supper?” This is standard. Tekla and her current man are coming to dinner, and like all her men before or since, he’s a rough one for our crowd. They have him out of loyalty to her, and are always preparing to help her get rid of him. They have many kinds of dinners I don’t share. Though I hear in Aurine’s voice an uncertainty. Standards are changing.
But the little staircase to my room is just the same.
Up there, I go to the tiny window, an attic one between lumpy dormers, much repaired, which hold you like clumsy arms. And in the pane’s center is the brown campanile of Carnegie Hall. Yes, my village, and a fine one for any girl to come from, no matter where she’s going to! Sur les toits de Meedtown Neuve York.
All the rest of the crowd, which means Aurine’s women friends and their men, live over on the East Side, upper of course, in a number of typical residences—art deco, art nouveau or art bourgeois, Oscar says—whose probable incomes, passions and stability I could recognize before I could read. And like Aurine, the men don’t really live with them. I always think of them as the real girls; those my age are just a sample lot for the production line.
Sometimes they do keep shops too, often only because the day is long. Which is responsible, my uncle says, for God knows how many misguided boutiques. Aurine wouldn’t bother with that; she’s a great business woman on a different scale, Oscar and I are sure of it, with many little nest eggs she won’t let
He’s the man Aurine and Oscar will be bringing me. Innocent dears, maybe they don’t even know they were doing it that day.
He’s the man who the world that bore you tries to bring you, no matter who you are.
What kind of household you start in doesn’t matter; though Aurine and Oscar’s way of life mightn’t go down at St. Bartholomew’s, a man like him is brought in there every other wedding day. He looks different in church, younger maybe. But settled, wherever he is, rich or poor. Our druggist’s daughter married him yesterday—the druggist means his best for her. And she’ll get it of course. Like me. Though I’d have a hard time explaining the similarity. Which way is more sinful let the druggist’s wife and Aurine decide.
For of course the man I’m intended for isn’t expected to last for life. He’ll come by the half-dozen, maybe, all bearing a resemblance. I won’t be asked to marry him. I’ll be expected not to. But in every other respect, he’s the same as in any village. He’s the man the parents bring you, whoever you are. Or your aunt and uncle do, if you’re me. He’s the one who’s enough like them.
So how can I tell them that even in memory, or present dreams, I never go to bed with him?…
Back there, maybe he saw that destiny. For he left, didn’t he, on his own? Smarter than some others have been since. And with a bow to Aurine. “See why you call her Queenie.”
Poor me, I’m still feeling grateful. So I follow him out to the little foyer we have, three marble steps down and a gold wicker basket to put mail in, and stand there, arms crossed over my bodyshirt, which is maybe the way he remembers me. “Thanks for the village,” I said.
Aurine comes out after me; maybe she thinks we’re making an assignation. She wouldn’t mind that—“If it’s time it’s time, and you’re tall ” she’d say, she’d just want to know about it. But I was already alone, with what I’d never been alone with before. And haven’t yet got a question for. Maybe it’s nameless.
“Q’est-ce-que tu a?” she says, almost sadly. So I suppose she knows what I have the matter with me. “And where are you going?”
“Up to my room.”
“I’ll send up your supper?” This is standard. Tekla and her current man are coming to dinner, and like all her men before or since, he’s a rough one for our crowd. They have him out of loyalty to her, and are always preparing to help her get rid of him. They have many kinds of dinners I don’t share. Though I hear in Aurine’s voice an uncertainty. Standards are changing.
But the little staircase to my room is just the same.
Up there, I go to the tiny window, an attic one between lumpy dormers, much repaired, which hold you like clumsy arms. And in the pane’s center is the brown campanile of Carnegie Hall. Yes, my village, and a fine one for any girl to come from, no matter where she’s going to! Sur les toits de Meedtown Neuve York.
All the rest of the crowd, which means Aurine’s women friends and their men, live over on the East Side, upper of course, in a number of typical residences—art deco, art nouveau or art bourgeois, Oscar says—whose probable incomes, passions and stability I could recognize before I could read. And like Aurine, the men don’t really live with them. I always think of them as the real girls; those my age are just a sample lot for the production line.
Sometimes they do keep shops too, often only because the day is long. Which is responsible, my uncle says, for God knows how many misguided boutiques. Aurine wouldn’t bother with that; she’s a great business woman on a different scale, Oscar and I are sure of it, with many little nest eggs she won’t let