ALAN LELCHUK
617
Jackson's game, not really to gamble but to show up. I lost a few bucks, but it
was my presence that meant something to the players. Privately, Callie
handed me a phone number, from Gennifer, and I didn't know what to make
of it. And in the fiction department, I was making serious headway in the
backlog of books, including a card catalogue for the unshelved stuff. Mean–
while, I kept up with Philip Carey's descent into disaster with the grim Mil–
dred. Could anyone that smart be that dumb, that driven? Was that Philip's
case
in
particular, or the way it worked out frequently?
Mr. Barrett grimaced when I put that to him, in his mid-April appear–
ance in the basement. "Oh, it happens more often than 'smart men' will ac–
knowledge, I'm afraid."
I found my letter and handed it over to him, saying, "Just in case I
didn't see you." He opened and read it.
"Does the pessimism hurt the book? Well,
if
it interferes with the char–
acters. If it doesn't seem to come from
within
the characters and their story.
Does it, in you opinion?"
Reflecting, I answered. "Well, yes and no, sir. Some of the time, yes,
but, some other times, not. Sometimes ... Mr. Maugham just sort of sticks
in
sentences of gloom from nowhere really, except from himself 1 guess. Yeah."
He nodded. "Right there, it gets weak, I would think. Sometimes an
author can't resist competing with his characters, and it creates a bit of a
problem." He paused, gazed at me quizzically. "What about this journey of
yours?"
Well, there wasn't much to tell yet. I explained how I was waiting for
the passport, about the Scandinavian Seaman's Institute and its "ships," and
the far off destinations awaiting me maybe. "But please," 1 whispered, "all
this is kind of a secret, or private between us. No one here knows anything
just yet."
An approving nod. "Mum's the word, I promise. You have.
courage."
"More like curiosity," 1 answered. "A lot ofcuriosity."
"And determination." He stared at me, from beneath those curtaining
eyebrows.
From somewhere in me a recent line popped out, "Man makes his own
fate, huh? That's what Augie March says."
Taking that in, he patted my shoulder. Then, making space on a shelf,
he scribbled something down on a looseleaf notepad, and tore out the page.
"Here, my home address, and private phone number. Don't lose it, it's un–
listed. When you return, call or write me, and we'll get together. I want to
hear about
your
fate."
Unlisted phone? Why? "I don't really know what Augie means by
