•
BEFORE SUNRISE
Heavens, how I could cry now! But at the time I was glad.
Anyway, she came back
in
a month.
At Table
Moscow. I'm sitting at a table in a theater club. The table
is
set for two. Mayakovsky is going to have supper. He ordered
his meal and went off to play billiards. He'll be back
in
a
moment.
I hardly know Mayakovsky. We've met only at the theater
and at parties.
Here he comes towards the table. He's breathing heavily.
His face is grim. He's morose. He wipes his forehead with a
handkerchief.
He won the game, but this hasn't cheered him up. He sits
down heavily at the table.
We scarcely exchange a word. I pour him some wine. He
takes only one sip, then leaves the glass.
I'm also morose. And I don't want to make artificial con–
versation. But Mayakovsky is a
maztre
for me. I am almost a
novice in literature; I have only been working five years. I feel
guilty that I'm silent. I begin to mumble something about bil–
liards and literature.
For some reason it's extraordinarily heavy going for me.
I speak incoherently and uninterestingly and stop after every
word. Suddenly Mayakovsky laughs.
"No, really," he says, "I find it very pleasant. I thought
you would make jokes, be witty and clown, but you ... no, it's
just wonderful! Absolutely wonderful. ..."
"Why should I make jokes?"
"Well, you're a humorist! You're supposed to. You ..."
He gives me a rather pained look. He has surprisingly un-
happy eyes. There's a dim light in them.
"Why are you ... like that?" he asks.
"I don't know. I'm trying to find out."
