222
JOYCE CAROL OATES
the capital shouldn't get away with hogging
all
the literary glory; I
allowed
him
to suggest that publication of my collected poems, under–
taken with all possible speed (a point I laid great stress on) in the
provinces and by an intelligent, sensitive editor, would
be
in the
general interest - as well as to the glory of the fatherland. I
also
had
an excellent meal during which I enjoined on my new friend the nec–
essity
of keeping dead silent about our plans as otherwise "the cos–
mopolitan lot" would give me no peace and I might have to retract
my decision. We looked into each other's eyes, reciting bits of
poetry
( "mine"), even shedding a few tears
(his).
Before parting I handed
him copies of the poems (all of them) together with the necessary
signatures entitling him to proceed with publication. We shook
hands (trembling,
his)
and I expressed my regrets that, owing to my
travels which, as a true poet's, were never mapped out beforehand,
he would not
be
able to reach me - hence no point of letting
him
have my address. After which -
Joyce Carol Oates
THE LADY WITH THE PET DOG
I.
Strangers parted as if to make way for
him.
There he stood. He was there in the aisle, a few yards away, watch–
ing her.
She leaned forward at once
in
her seat, her hand jerked up to her
face as if to ward off a blow - but then the crowd in the aisle hid
him, he was gone. She pressed both hands against her cheeks. He was
not there, she had imagined him.
"My God," she whispered.
She was alone. Her husband had gone out to the foyer to make a
telephone call; it was intermission at the concert, a Thursday evening.
Now she saw
him
again, clearly. He was standing there. He was
staring at her. Her blood rocked in her body, draining out of her
head. . . . she was going to faint. . . . They stared at each other. They
