Kruger had tolook after me, had to make broths for me, and so on. It was
a tryingperiod for him, more particularly because he was just on the verge
ofgiving an important exhibition at his studio, a private showing to
somewealthy connoisseurs from whom he was expecting aid. The cot on whichI
lay was in the studio; there was no other room to put me in.
    The morning ofthe day he was to give his exhibition, Kruger awoke
thoroughly disgruntled.If I had been able to stand on my feet I know he
would have given mea clout in the jaw and kicked me out. But I was prostrate,
and weakas a cat. He tried to coax me out of bed, with the idea of locking
meup in the kitchen upon the arrival of his visitors. I realized thatI was
making a mess of it for him. People can't look at pictures andstatues with
enthusiasm when a man is dying before their eyes. Krugerhonestly thought I
was dying. So did I. That's why, despite myfeelings of guilt, I couldn't
muster any enthusiasm when he proposedcalling for the ambulance and having
me shipped to the American Hospital.I wanted to die there, comfortably,
right in the studio; I didn't wantto be urged to get up and find a better
place to die in. I didn't carewhere I died, really, so long as it wasn't
necessary to get up.
    When he heardme talk this way Kruger became alarmed. Worse than having a
sick manin his studio should the visitors arrive, was to have a dead man.
Thatwould completely ruin his prospects, slim as they were. He didn't putit
that way to me. of course, but I could see from his agitation thatthat was
what worried him. And that made me stubborn. I refused to lethim call the
hospital. I refused to let him call a doctor. I refusedeverything.
    He got so angrywith me finally that, despite my protestations, he began
to dress me.I was too weak to resist. All I could do was to murmur weakly _
"youbastard you! " Though it was warm outdoors I was shivering like a
dog.After he had completely dressed me he flung an overcoat over me
andslipped outside to telephone. "I won't go! I won't go! " I kept sayingbut
he simply slammed the door on me. He came back in a few minutesand, without
addressing a word to me. busied himself about the studio.Last minute
preparations. In a little while there was a knock on thedoor. It was Fillmore.
Collins was waiting downstairs, he informed

    The two of them,Fillmore and Kruger, slipped their arms under me and
hoisted me to myfeet. As they dragged me to the elevator Kruger softened up.
"It's foryour own good, " he said. "And besides, it wouldn't be fair to me.
Youknow what a struggle I've had all these years. You ought to think aboutme
too. " He was actually on the point of tears.
    Wretched andmiserable as I felt, his words almost made me smile. He was
considerablyolder than I, and even though he was a rotten painter, a rotten
artistall the way through, he deserved a break _ at least once in a lifetime.
    "I don't holdit against you. " I muttered. "I understand how it is. "
    "You know I alwaysliked you. " he responded. "When you get better you
can come back hereagain . . . you can stay as long as you like. "
    "Sure, I know.... I'm not going to croak yet. " I managed to get out.
    Somehow, whenI saw Collins down below my spirits revived. If ever any
one seemedto be thoroughly alive, healthy, joyous, magnanimous, it was he.
Hepicked me up as if I were a doll and laid me out on the seat of thecab _
gently too, which I appreciated after the way Kruger had manhandledme.
    When we droveup to the hotel _ the hotel that Collins was stopping at _
there wasa bit of a discussion with the proprietor, during which I lay
stretchedout on the sofa in the bureau. I could hear Collins saying tothe
patron that it was nothing . . . just a little breakdown... be all right in
a few days. I saw him put a crisp bill in the man'shands and then, turning
swiftly and lithely, he came back to where Iwas and said; "Come on. buck up!
Don't let him think you're croaking." And with that, he yanked me to my feet
and, bracing me with one arm,escorted me to the elevator.
    Don't lethim think you're croaking! Obviously it was bad taste to die
onpeople's hands. One should die in the bosom of his family, in private,as
it were. His words were encouraging. I began to see it all as a badjoke.
Upstairs, with the door closed, they undressed me and put me betweenthe
sheets. "You can't die now, goddamn it!" said Collins warmly. "You'llput me
in a hole.... Besides. what the hell's the matter with you? Can'tstand good
living? Keep

    your chin up!You'll be eating a porterhouse steak in a day or two. You
think you'reill! Wait, by Jesus until you get a dose of syphilis! That's
somethingto make you worry...." And he began to relate, in a humorous way,
histrip down the Yangtze Kiang, with hair falling out and teeth rottingaway.
In the feeble state that I was in, the yarn that he spunhad an extraordinary
soothing effect upon me. It took me completelyout of myself. He had guts,
this guy. Perhaps he put it on a bit thick,for my benefit, but I wasn't
listening to him critically at the moment.I was all ears and eyes. I saw the
dirty yellow mouth of the river,the lights going up at Hankow, the sea of
yellow faces, the sampansshooting down through the gorges and the rapids
flaming with the sulfurousbreath of the dragon. What a story! The coolies
swarming around theboat each day. dredging for the garbage that was flung
overboard, TomSlattery rising up on his deathbed to take a last look at the
lightsof Hankow, the beautiful Eurasian who lay in a dark room and filledhis
veins with poison, the monotony of blue jackets and yellow faces,millions
and millions of them hollowed out by famine, ravaged by disease,subsisting
on rats and dogs and roots, chewing the grass off the earth,devouring their
own children. It was hard to imagine that this man'sbody had once been a
mass of sores, that he had been shunned like aleper; his voice was so quiet
and gentle, it was as though his spirithad been cleansed by all the
suffering he had endured. As he reachedfor his drink his face grew more and
more soft and his words actuallyseemed to caress me. And all the while China
hanging over us like Fateitself. A China rotting away, crumbling to dust
like a huge dinosaur,yet preserving to the very end the glamor, the
enchantment, the mystery,the cruelty of her hoary legends.
    I could no longerfollow his story; my mind had slipped back to a Fourth
of July whenI bought my first package of firecrackers and with it the long
piecesof punk which break so easily, the punk that you blow on to get a
goodred glow, the punk whose smell sticks to your fingers for days and
makesyou dream of strange things. The Fourth of July the streets are
litteredwith bright red paper stamped with black and gold figures and
everywherethere are tiny firecrackers which have the most curious intestines;
packages and packages of them, all strung together by their thin.
flat,little gutstrings,

    the color ofhuman brains. All day long there is the smell of powder and
punk andthe gold dust from the bright red wrappers sticks to your fingers.
Onenever thinks of China, but it is there all the time on the tips of
yourfingers and it makes your nose itchy; and long afterward. when you
haveforgotten almost what a firecracker smells like, you wake up one daywith
gold leaf choking you and the broken pieces of punk waft back theirpungent
odor and the bright red wrappers give you a nostalgia for apeople and a soil
you have never known, but which is in your blood,mysteriously there in your
blood, like the sense of time or space, afugitive, constant value to which
you turn more and more as you getold, which you try to seize with your mind,
but ineffectually, becausein everything Chinese there is wisdom and mystery
and you can nevergrasp it with two hands or with your mind but you must let
it rub off.let it stick to your fingers, let it slowly infiltrate your veins.
    A few weeks later,upon receipt of a pressing invitation from Collins who
had returnedto Le Havre, Fillmore and I boarded the train one morning,
preparedto spend the weekend with him. It was the first time I had been
outsideof Paris since my arrival here. We were in fine fettle, drinking
Anjouall the way to the coast. Collins had given us the address of a
barwhere we were to meet; it was a place called Jimmie's Bar, which
everyonein Le Havre was supposed to know.
    We got into anopen barouche at the station and started on a brisk trot
for the rendezvous; there was still a half bottle of Anjou left which we
polished off aswe rode along. Le Havre looked gay. sunny; the air was bracing,
withthat strong salty tang which almost made me homesick for New York.
Therewere masts and hulls cropping up everywhere, bright bits of bunting,big
open squares and high-ceilinged cafes such as one only sees in theprovinces.
A tine impression immediately; the city was welcoming uswith open arms.
    Before we everreached the bar we saw Collins coming down the street on a
trot. headingtor the station, no doubt, and a little late as usual. Fillmore
immediatelysuggested a Pernod; we were all slapping each other on the back,
laughingand spitting, drunk already from the sunshine and the salt sea
air.Collins seemed unde-

    cided about thePernod at first. He had a little dose of clap, he
informed us. Nothingvery serious _ "a strain" most likely. He showed us a
bottle he hadin his pocket _ " Venetienne" it was called, if I remember
rightly.The sailors' remedy for clap.
    We stopped offat a restaurant to have a little snack before repairing to
Jimmie'splace. It was a huge tavern with big, smoky rafters and tables
creakingwith food. We drank copiously of the wines that Collins
recommended'.Then we sat down on a terrasse and had coffee and liqueurs.
Collinswas talking about the Baron de Charlus, a man after his own heart,
hesaid. For almost a year now he had been staying at Le Havre, going
throughthe money that he had accumulated during his bootlegging days. His
tasteswere simple _ food, drink, women and books. And a private bath! Thathe
insisted on.
    We were stilltalking about the Baron de Charlus when we arrived at
Jimmie's Bar.It was late in the afternoon and the place was just beginning
to fillup. Jimmie was there, his face red as a beet. and beside him was
hisspouse, a fine buxom Frenchwoman with glittering eyes. We were givena
marvelous reception all around. There were Pernods in front of usagain, the
gramophone was shrieking, people were jabbering away in Englishand French
and Dutch and Norwegian and Spanish, and Jimmie and his wife,both of them
looking very brisk and dapper, were slapping and kissingeach other heartily
and raising their glasses and clinking them _ altogethersuch a bubble and
blabber of merriment that you felt like pulling offyour clothes and doing a
war dance. The women at the bar had gatheredaround like flies. If we were
friends of Collins that meant we wererich. It didn't matter that we had come
in our old clothes f all Anglaisdressed like that. I hadn't a sou in my
pocket, which didn't matter,of course, since I was the guest of honor.
Nevertheless I felt somewhatembarrassed with two stunning-looking whores
hanging on my arms waitingfor me to order something. I decided to take the
bull by the horns.You couldn't tell any more which drinks were on the house
and whichwere to be paid for. I had to be a gentleman, even if I didn'thave
a sou in my pocket.
    Yvette _ thatwas Jimmie's wife _ was extraordinarily gracious and
friendly with us.She was preparing a little spread in our honor. It would
take a littlewhile yet. We were not to get too

    drunk _ she wantedus to enjoy the meal. The gramophone was going like
wild and Fillmorehad begun to dance with a beautiful mulatto who had on a
tight velvetdress that revealed all her charms. Collins slipped over to my
sideand whispered a few words about the girl at my side. "The madamewill
invite her to dinner, " he said, "if you'd like to have her. "She was an
exwhore who owned a beautiful home on the outskirts of thecity. The mistress
of a sea captain now. He was away and there was nothingto fear. "If she
likes you shell invite you to stay with her. " he added.
    That was enoughfor me. I turned at once to Marcelle and began to flatter
the ass offher. We stood at the corner of the bar. pretending to dance, and
mauledeach other ferociously. Jimmie gave me a big horse-wink and nodded
hishead approvingly. She was a lascivious bitch, this Marcelle, and
pleasantat the same time. She soon got rid of the other girl. I noticed,
andthen we settled down for a long and intimate conversation which
wasinterrupted unfortunately by the announcement that dinner was ready.
    There were abouttwenty of us at the table, and Marcelle and I were
placed at one endopposite Jimmie and his wife. It began with the popping of
champagnecorks and was quickly followed by drunken speeches, during the
courseof which Marcelle and I played with each other under the table. Whenit
came my turn to stand up and deliver a few words I had to hold thenapkin in
front of me. It was painful and exhilarating at the same time.I had to cut
the speech very short because Marcelle was tickling mein the crotch all the
while.
    The dinner lasteduntil almost midnight. I was looking forward to
spending the night withMarcelle in that beautiful home up on the cliff. But
it was not to be.Collins had planned to show us about and I couldn't very
well refuse."Don't worry about her, " he said. "You'll have a bellyful of it
beforeyou leave. Tell her to wait here for you until we get back. "
    She was a bitpeeved at this. Marcelle, but when we informed her that we
had severaldays ahead of us she brightened up. When we got outdoors Fillmore
verysolemnly took us by the arm and said he had a little confession to
make.He looked pale and worried.
    "Well. what isit?" said Collins cheerfully. "Spit it out! "
    Fillmore couldn'tspit it out like that, all at once. He hemmed

    and hawed andfinally he blurted out _ "Well, when I went to the closet
just a minuteago I noticed something . ... "
    "Then you'vegot it! " said Collins triumphantly, and with that he
flourished thebottle of "Venetienne. " "Don't go to a doctor, " he added
venomously."They'll bleed you to death, the greedy bastards. And don't stop
drinkingeither. That's all hooey. Take this twice a day . . . shake it
wellbefore using. And nothing's worse than worry, do you understand? Comeon
now. I'll give you a syringe and some permanganate when we get back."
    And so we startedout into the night, down toward the water-front where
there was thesound of music and shouts and drunken oaths, Collins talking
quietlyall the while about this and that, about a boy he had fallen in
lovewith, and the devil's time he had to get out of the scrape when
theparents got wise to it. From that he switched back to the Baron de
Charlusand then to Kurtz who had gone up the river and got lost. His
favoritetheme. I liked the way Collins moved against this background of
literaturecontinuously; it was like a millionaire who never stepped out of
hisRolls Royce. There was no intermediate realm for him between realityand
ideas. When we entered the whorehouse on the Quai Voltaire, afterhe had
flung himself on the divan and rung for girls and for drinks,he was still
paddling up the river with Kurtz, and only when the girlshad flopped on the
bed beside him and stuffed his mouth with kissesdid he cease his divagations.
Then, as if he had suddenly realized wherehe was, he turned to the old
mother who ran the place and gave her aneloquent spiel about his two friends
who had come down from Paris expresslyto see the joint. There were about
half a dozen girls in the room, allnaked and all beautiful to look at, I
must say. They hopped about likebirds while the three of us tried to
maintain a conversation with thegrandmother. Finally the latter excused
herself and told us to makeourselves at home. I was altogether taken in by
her, so sweet and amiableshe was. so thoroughly gentle and maternal. And
what manners! If shehad been a little younger I would have made overtures to
her. Certainlyyou would not have thought that we were in a "den of vice. "as
it iscalled.
    Anywaywe stayed there an hour or so. and as I was the only onein
condition to enjoy the privileges of the house, Collinsand

    Fillmore remaineddownstairs chattering with the girls. When I returned I
found the twoof them stretched out on the bed; the girls had formed a
semicircleabout the bed and were singing with the most angelic voices the
chorusof Roses in Picardy. We were sentimentally depressed when weleft the
house_Fillmore particularly. Collins swiftly steered us toa rough joint
which was packed with drunken sailors on shore leave andthere we sat awhile
enjoying the homosexual rout that was in full swing.When we sallied out we
had to pass through the red-light district wherethere were more grandmothers
with shawls about their necks sitting onthe doorsteps fanning themselves and
nodding pleasantly to the passers-by.All such good-looking, kindly souls, as
if they were keeping guard overa nursery. Little groups of sailors came
swinging along and pushed theirway noisily inside the gaudy joints. Sex
everywhere: it was sloppingover. a neap tide that swept the props from under
the city. We piddledalong at the edge of the basin where everything was
jumbled and tangled; you had the impression that all these ships. these
trawlers and yachtsand schooners and barges, had been blown ashore by a
violent storm.
    In the spaceof forty-eight hours so many things had happened that it
seemed as ifwe had been in Le Havre a month or more. We were planning to
leave earlyMonday morning, as Fillmore had to be back on the job. We spent
Sundaydrinking and carousing, clap or no clap. That afternoon Collins
confidedto us that he was thinking of returning to his ranch in Idaho; he
hadn'tbeen home for eight years and he wanted to have a look at the
mountainsagain before making another voyage East. We were sitting in a
whorehouseat the time, waiting for a girl to appear; he had promised to slip
hersome cocaine. He was fed up with Le Havre, he told us. Too many
vultureshanging around his neck. Besides, Jimmie's wife had fallen in love
withhim and she was making things hot for him with her jealous fits.
Therewas a scene almost every night. She had been on her good behavior
sincewe arrived, but it wouldn't last. he promised us. She was
particularlyjealous of a Russian girl who came to the bar now and then when
shegot tight. A troublemaker. On top of it all he was desperately in
lovewith this boy whom he had told us about the first day. "A boy can
breakyour heart. " he said. "He's so damned beautiful! And so cruel! " Wehad
to laugh at this. Itsounded preposterous. But Collins was in earnest.
    Around midnightSunday Fillmore and I retired; we had been given a room
upstairs overthe bar. It was sultry as the devil, not a breath of air
stirring. Throughthe open windows we could hear them shouting downstairs and
the gramophonegoing continually. All of a sudden a storm broke _ a regular
cloudburst.And between the thunderclaps and the squalls that lashed the
windowpanesthere came to our ears the sound of another storm raging
downstairsat the bar. It sounded frightfully close and sinister; the women
wereshrieking at the tops of their lungs, bottles were crashing, tableswere
upset and there was that familiar, nauseating thud that the humanbody makes
when it crashes to the floor.
    About six o'clockCollins stuck his head in the door. His face was all
plastered and onearm was stuck in a sling. He had a big grin on his face.
    "Just as I toldyou, " he said. "She broke loose last night. Suppose you
heard the racket?"
    We got dressedquickly and went downstairs to say good-bye to Jimmie. The
place wascompletely demolished, not a bottle left standing, not a chair
thatwasn't broken. The mirror and the show window were smashed to
bits.Jimmie was making himself an eggnog.
    On the way tothe station we pieced the story together. The Russian girl
had droppedin after we toddled off to bed and Yvette had insulted her
promptly,without even waiting for an excuse. They had commenced to pull
eachother's hair and in the midst of it a big Swede had stepped in and
giventhe Russian girl a sound slap in the jaw _ to bring her to her
senses.That started the fireworks. Collins wanted to know what right this
bigstiff had to interfere in a private quarrel. He got a poke in the jawfor
an answer, a good one that sent him flying to the other end of thebar.
"Serves you right! "screamed Yvette, taking advantage of the occasionto
swing a bottle at the Russian girl's head. And at that moment
thethunderstorm broke loose. For a while there was a regular pandemonium,the
women all hysterical and hungry to seize the opportunity to payoff private
grudges. Nothing like a nice barroom brawl. . . so easyto stick a knife in a
man's back or club him with a bottle when he'slying under a table. The poor
Swede found himself

    in a hornet'snest; everyone in the place hated him. particularly his
shipmates. Theywanted to see him done in. And so they locked the door and
pushing thetables aside they made a little space in front of the bar where
thetwo of them could have it out. And they had it out! They had to carrythe
poor devil to the hospital when it was over. Collins had come offrather
lucky _ nothing more than a sprained wrist and a couple of fingersout of
joint, a bloody nose and a black eye. Just a few scratches, ashe put it. But
if he ever signed up with that Swede he was going tomurder him. It wasn't
finished yet. He promised us that.
    And that wasn'tthe end of the fracas either. After that Yvette had to go
out and getliquored up at another bar. She had been insulted and she was
goingto put an end to things. And so she hires a taxi and orders the
driverto ride out to the edge of the cliff overlooking the water. She
wasgoing to kill herself, that's what she was going to do. But then shewas
so drunk that when she tumbled out of the cab she began to weepand before
any one could stop her she had begun to peel her clothesoff. The driver
brought her home that way, half-naked, and when Jimmiesaw the condition she
was in he was so furious with her that he tookhis razor strop and he belted
the piss out of her, and she liked it,the bitch that she was. "Do it some
more! " she begged, down on herknees as she was and clutching him around the
legs with her two arms.But Jimmie had enough of it. "You're a dirty old sow!
" he said andwith his foot he gave her a shove in the guts that took the
wind outof her _ and a bit of her sexy nonsense too.
    It was high timewe were leaving. The city looked different in the early
morning light.The last thing we talked about, as we stood there waiting for
the trainto pull out, was Idaho. The three of us were Americans. We came
fromdifferent places, each of us, but we had something in common _ a wholelot,
I might say. We were getting sentimental, as Americans do whenit comes time
to part. We were getting quite foolish about the cowsand sheep and the big
open spaces where men are men and all that crap.If a boat had swung along
instead of the train we'd have hopped aboardand said good-bye to it all. But
Collins was never to see America again,as I learned later; and Fillmore . . .
well, Fillmore had to take hispunishment too. in a way that none of us could
have suspected