poet and he knew and cared about horses, writing and painting. He rose and I saw him tall and pale and thin, his white shirt dirty and worn at the collar, his tie carefully knotted, his worn and wrinkled grey suit, his fingers stained darker than his hair, his nails dirty and his loving, deprecatory smile that he held tightly not to show his bad teeth.
'It's good to see you, Hem,' he said.
'How are you, Evan?' I asked.
'A little down,' he said. 'I think I have the "Mazeppa" licked though. Have you been going well?'
'I hope so,' I said. 'I was out playing tennis with Ezra when you came by.'
'Is Ezra well?'
'Very.'
'I'm so glad. Hem, you know I don't think that owner's wife where you live likes me.
She wouldn't let me wait upstairs for you.'
'I'll tell her,' I said.
'Don't bother. I can always wait here. It's very pleasant in the sun now, isn't it?'
'It's fall now,' I said. 'I don't think you dress warmly enough.'
'It's only cool in the evening,' Evan said. 'I'll wear my coat.'
'Do you know where it is?'
'No. But it's somewhere safe.'
'How do you know?'
'Because I left the poem in it.' He laughed heartily, holding his lips tightly over the teeth. 'Have a whisky with me, please, Hem.'
'All right.'
'Jean,' Evan got up and called the waiter. 'Two whiskies, please.'
Jean brought the bottle and the glasses and two ten-franc saucers with the syphon. He used no measuring glass and poured the whisky until the glasses were more than three-quarters full. Jean loved Evan who often went out and worked with him at his garden in Montrouge, out beyond the Porte d'Orleans, on Jean's day off.
'You mustn't exaggerate,' Evan said to the tall old waiter.
'They are two whiskies, aren't they?' the waiter asked.
We added water and Evan said, 'Take the first sip very carefully, Hem. Properly handled, they will hold us for some time.'
'Are you taking any care of yourself?' I asked.
'Yes, truly, Hem. Let's talk about something else, should we?'
There was no one sitting on the terrace and the whisky was warming us both, although I was better dressed for the fall than Evan as I wore a sweatshirt for underwear and then a shirt and a blue wool French sailor's sweater over the shirt.
'I've been wondering about Dostoevsky,' I said. 'How can a man write so badly, so unbelievably badly, and make you feel so deeply?'
'It can't be the translation,' Evan said. 'She makes the Tolstoi come out well written.'
'I know. I remember how many times I tried to read War and Peace until I got the Constance Garnett translation.'
'They say it can be improved on,' Evan'said. 'I'm sure it can although I don't know Russian. But we both know translations. But it comes out as a hell of a novel, the greatest I suppose, and you can read it over and over.'
'I know,' I said. 'But you can't read Dostoevsky over and over. I had Crime and Punishment on a trip when we ran out of books down at Schruns, and I couldn't read it again when we had nothing to read. I read the Austrian papers and studied German until we found some Trollope in Tauchnitz.'
'God bless Tauchnitz,' Evan said. The whisky had lost its burning quality and was now, when water was added, simply much too strong.
'Dostoevsky was a shit, Hem,' Evan went on. 'He was best on shits and saints. He makes wonderful saints. It's a shame we can't re-read him.'
'I'm going to try The Brothers again. It was probably my fault.'
'You can read some of it again. Most of it. But then it will start to make you angry, no matter how great it is.'
'Well, we were lucky to have had it to read the first time and maybe there will be a better translation.'
'But don't let it tempt you, Hem.'
'I won't. I'm trying to do it so it will make it without you knowing it, and so the more you read it, the more there will be.'
Well, I'm backing you in Jean's whisky,' Evan said.
'He'll get in trouble doing that,' I said.
'He's in trouble already,' Evan said.
'How?'
'They're changing the management,' Evan said. 'The new
'It's good to see you, Hem,' he said.
'How are you, Evan?' I asked.
'A little down,' he said. 'I think I have the "Mazeppa" licked though. Have you been going well?'
'I hope so,' I said. 'I was out playing tennis with Ezra when you came by.'
'Is Ezra well?'
'Very.'
'I'm so glad. Hem, you know I don't think that owner's wife where you live likes me.
She wouldn't let me wait upstairs for you.'
'I'll tell her,' I said.
'Don't bother. I can always wait here. It's very pleasant in the sun now, isn't it?'
'It's fall now,' I said. 'I don't think you dress warmly enough.'
'It's only cool in the evening,' Evan said. 'I'll wear my coat.'
'Do you know where it is?'
'No. But it's somewhere safe.'
'How do you know?'
'Because I left the poem in it.' He laughed heartily, holding his lips tightly over the teeth. 'Have a whisky with me, please, Hem.'
'All right.'
'Jean,' Evan got up and called the waiter. 'Two whiskies, please.'
Jean brought the bottle and the glasses and two ten-franc saucers with the syphon. He used no measuring glass and poured the whisky until the glasses were more than three-quarters full. Jean loved Evan who often went out and worked with him at his garden in Montrouge, out beyond the Porte d'Orleans, on Jean's day off.
'You mustn't exaggerate,' Evan said to the tall old waiter.
'They are two whiskies, aren't they?' the waiter asked.
We added water and Evan said, 'Take the first sip very carefully, Hem. Properly handled, they will hold us for some time.'
'Are you taking any care of yourself?' I asked.
'Yes, truly, Hem. Let's talk about something else, should we?'
There was no one sitting on the terrace and the whisky was warming us both, although I was better dressed for the fall than Evan as I wore a sweatshirt for underwear and then a shirt and a blue wool French sailor's sweater over the shirt.
'I've been wondering about Dostoevsky,' I said. 'How can a man write so badly, so unbelievably badly, and make you feel so deeply?'
'It can't be the translation,' Evan said. 'She makes the Tolstoi come out well written.'
'I know. I remember how many times I tried to read War and Peace until I got the Constance Garnett translation.'
'They say it can be improved on,' Evan'said. 'I'm sure it can although I don't know Russian. But we both know translations. But it comes out as a hell of a novel, the greatest I suppose, and you can read it over and over.'
'I know,' I said. 'But you can't read Dostoevsky over and over. I had Crime and Punishment on a trip when we ran out of books down at Schruns, and I couldn't read it again when we had nothing to read. I read the Austrian papers and studied German until we found some Trollope in Tauchnitz.'
'God bless Tauchnitz,' Evan said. The whisky had lost its burning quality and was now, when water was added, simply much too strong.
'Dostoevsky was a shit, Hem,' Evan went on. 'He was best on shits and saints. He makes wonderful saints. It's a shame we can't re-read him.'
'I'm going to try The Brothers again. It was probably my fault.'
'You can read some of it again. Most of it. But then it will start to make you angry, no matter how great it is.'
'Well, we were lucky to have had it to read the first time and maybe there will be a better translation.'
'But don't let it tempt you, Hem.'
'I won't. I'm trying to do it so it will make it without you knowing it, and so the more you read it, the more there will be.'
Well, I'm backing you in Jean's whisky,' Evan said.
'He'll get in trouble doing that,' I said.
'He's in trouble already,' Evan said.
'How?'
'They're changing the management,' Evan said. 'The new
Similar Books
