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PARTISAN REVIEW
the sunlight, suddenly walked in front of him. He was overjoyed, because
despite his failing sense of smell, he caught the light scent of her skin. She
got into a blood-red car sleek as a cigarette case, and was immediately
sucked into freeway traffic. He smiled at his own roguish thoughts.
If
he
were younger and stronger, he would go after such a woman. But what
about Masha? How could he live without her? And right away he called
softly, Masha. She patted his hand. I'm here, I'm here.
Her maternal patting always calmed him. The way she touched him
now-slowly, almost indifferently-made him realize she had guessed his
thoughts again and was a little angry, jealous, and reproachful. Yes, look
at you, a little old man, see how you've lost yourself in silly daydreams.
He relaxed in the hotel room, lying on the bedspread, right over the
enormous monogrammed initials of the hotel owner. What colossal van–
ity. They lay side by side, he and Masha. It was always this way,
together, half a century. Dear Masha, faithful Masha. She was breathing
easily with her eyes shut, just dozing. Oh Masha, Masha, a writer's wife.
He had known for a long time how lucky he was.
What meant most to him was when it came to his work she never
tried to just please him. As soon as he'd finish his best draft, he'd hand
it to her. As he paced their apartment, staring with unseeing eyes into all
the forgotten nooks, she'd go to her room, read his manuscript, then
come out and say I'm sorry, Slava, but you're capable of better than
that. This needs more work, and you know it.
He'd grumble a bit, but he always knew in his gut that she was right.
He'd throw his manuscript into the garbage and start anew. He'd
rewrite it over and over until she'd appear at the door of her room
clutching her glasses in her tiny fist (he was often struck by nature's abil–
ity to create something so fragile) and, smiling radiantly, say You did it,
Slava! This time, you did it. Let's send it to press. Where can you get
such a treasure of a woman nowadays? Nowhere. They're extinct. It's
certainly impossible to find one among those modern women so taken
up with a career of their own that they give up a family. No wonder
every other marriage ends in divorce. Only people who need each other,
whatever the reason, stay together. It's that simple. He had seen many
useless women around, among his son's girlfriends, bored and dissatis–
fied with their lives. Oh, he himself is a lucky dog, no question about it.
How many of those so-called writers' wives had he known in his life–
time? It's enough to recall Tina, his first wife, and the grief her demands
for constant attention gave him. She couldn't get it through her head that
an artist worthy of the name has one and only one true love. The object
of his obsession is inside himself-it's the blood and beat of his own
