The Trouble With Eden - Lawrence Block [107]
“An Italian place in Lambertville. Not fancy but good home cooking, I think that’s how he described it. He said the name I don’t remember it.”
“That sounds like Gus and Josie’s.”
“I think that might be it.”
“Well, come on, then. You might as well have an Italian dinner bought for you. Clem said not to expect him for dinner, and I was just going to have a sandwich down the block and come back here for a couple of hours. I don’t imagine I’ll miss much business closing early.”
“You don’t have to—”
“Of course I don’t, but I want to. I hope you don’t mind walking. I feel like stretching my legs.”
The restaurant was an unprepossessing place on a side street, tucked between a delicatessen and a laundry and across the street from a funeral parlor. All but four of the twenty tables were empty. There were long fluorescent lights overhead, patterned linoleum underfoot, glass vases of plastic flowers on the tables. The service, provided by one of Gus Pucarelli’s daughters, was eager if unprofessional. The food—they both had linguine with white clam sauce—was excellent.
They shared a bottle of Soave, with Linda drinking the greater portion of it. The conversation flowed easily and comfortably but remained quite impersonal throughout the meal. When the coffee came Linda lit a cigarette and leaned back in her chair.
“Prying time,” she said.
“You seem a little unsure with our Mr. Hemingway.”
“Unsure? I guess I am.”
“Unsure of him or unsure of yourself?”
Linda frowned. “That,” she said, “is a very good question. An excellent question.”
“And?”
“You know, right now is an impossible time to come to any conclusions about anything. He’s completely involved with this book. He says it’s the best thing he’s ever written, the first important thing he’s attempted since One If by Land. That was his first book—”
“I know.”
“And so he’s completely wrapped up in it. I’m not objecting to this. I honestly don’t think I resent it. In fact I’m sad. For him, and also I think it’s a way to get to know him—I would think a creative person would live more vividly while he’s creating. More intensely.”
“That would stand to reason.”
“The only thing is that sometimes we’re together and he’s not really there. I can tell that he’s not really listening. He’s hearing some conversation his characters are going to be having in the next chapter.”
“What’s the book about?”
“He doesn’t like to talk about it. So I don’t ask. I asked him the title and he said Two If by Sea, but he was joking. Of course. I don’t think it’s about the war. I don’t know what it’s about.”
“Maybe it’s about you.”
“What a thought. No, I don’t think so. I think it’s about him.”
“Isn’t every book about its author?”
“I mean that it’s a more personal book than he usually writes. He’s as much as said so. That he’s getting into, things more deeply than he ever has before. I think he means he’s giving more of himself.” She put out her cigarette. “I’ll get to read it as soon as he’s through with the first draft. I’m not sure when that will be. I’m very anxious to read it, and at the same time it scares me.”
“How?”
“I don’t know exactly. I’m afraid I won’t like it, for one thing, and then what do I say?”
“That you like it.”
“Isn’t it better to be honest?”
“No. It’s been my observation that honesty is rarely to be treasured in human relationships. Writers and artists don’t want honesty, anyway. They want praise. There are a few masochists who truly want constructive criticism, whatever that means, but they’re few and far between.”
“Suppose your husband—”
“Paints something dreadful? What do I say to him? Why, I tell him I think it’s very sensitive and forceful and effective, of course. In the first place I don’t trust my own artistic judgment enough to say otherwise, and in the second place dispassionate criticism is supposed to come from dispassionate people. Strangers. The people who love you are supposed to give you support.”
Linda considered this. “I think I’ll probably like the book, anyway, I’ve liked all his earlier work, and he’s too much a professional to like a book as