In America by Susan Sontag Read Free Book Online Page A

shepherded Maryna through the crowd toward the waiting sleigh. Ryszard, finally pressing his bouquet into her hands, said the Saski was only seven streets away and that he preferred to walk.
    How strange, in her native city to be receiving friends in a hotel, but for the last five years—her talents having led her inexorably to the summit, an engagement for life at the Imperial Theatre in Warsaw—she no longer had an apartment in Kraków.
    â€œStrange,” she said. To Bogdan, to no one, to herself. Bogdan frowned.
    A thunderbolt, like the crack of gunfire, as they arrived at the hotel. A scream, no, only a shout: an angry coachman.
    They walked up the carpeted marble staircase.
    â€œYou’re all right?”
    â€œOf course I’m all right. It’s only another entrance.”
    â€œAnd I have the privilege of opening the door for you.”
    Now it was Maryna’s turn to frown.
    And how could there not be applause and beaming faces, customary welcome at a first-night party—but she really had given a splendid performance—as Bogdan opened the door (in answer to her “Bogdan, are you all right?” he had sighed and taken her hand) and she made her entrance. Piotr ran to her arms. She embraced Bogdan’s sister and gave her Ryszard’s silk flowers; she let herself be embraced by Krystyna, whose eyes had filled with tears. After the guests, gathering closely around her, had each paid tribute to her performance, she looked from face to face, and then sang out gleefully:
    May you a better feast never behold,
    You knot of mouth friends!
    Upon which words everyone laughed, which means, I suppose (I had not arrived yet), that she said Timon’s lines in Polish, not English, but also means that nobody except Maryna had read Timon of Athens, for the feast in the play is not a happy one, above all for its giver. Then the guests spread about the large room and began talking among themselves about her performance and, after that, about the larger question afoot (which is more or less when I arrived, chilled and eager to enter the story), while Maryna had forced herself toward humbler, less sardonic thoughts. No jealous rivals here. These were her friends, those who wished her well. Where was her gratitude? She hated her discontents. If I can have a new life, she was thinking, I shall never complain again.
    *   *   *
    â€œ MARYNA ?”
    No answer.
    â€œMaryna, what’s wrong?”
    â€œWhat could be wrong … doctor?”
    He shook his head. “Oh, I see.”
    â€œHenryk.”
    â€œThat’s better.”
    â€œI’m disturbing you.”
    â€œYes”—he smiled—“you disturb me, Maryna. But only in my dreams, never in my consulting room.” Then, before she could rebuke him for flirting with her: “The splendors of your performance last night,” he explained.
    He saw her still hesitating. “Come in”—he held out his hand—“Sit”—he waved at a tapestry-covered settee—“Talk to me.” Two steps into the room, she leaned against a bookcase. “You’re not going to sit?”
    â€œ You sit. And I’ll continue my walk … here.”
    â€œYou came here on foot in this weather? Was that wise?”
    â€œHenryk, please!”
    He sat on the corner of his desk.
    She began to pace. “I thought I was coming here to besiege you with questions about Stefan, if he really—”
    â€œBut I’ve told you,” Henryk interrupted, “that the lungs already show a remarkable improvement. Against such a mighty enemy, the struggle waged by doctor and patient is bound to be long. But I think we’re winning, your brother and I.”
    â€œYou talk rubbish, Henryk. Has anyone ever told you that?”
    â€œMaryna, what’s the matter?”
    â€œEveryone talks rubbish—”
    â€œMaryna…”
    â€œIncluding