While Mortals Sleep_ Unpublished Short Fiction - Kurt Vonnegut [71]
“Gino said that? I thought the worse off an artist was financially, the better he was artistically.”
Nicky snorted. “The richer they get, the better they get—especially singers.”
“I was kidding, Nicky.”
“Pardon me if I don’t laugh. People who sell bolts and nuts and locomotives and frozen orange juice make billions, while the people who struggle to bring a little beauty into the world, give life a little meaning, they starve.”
“You’re not starving, are you?”
“No, not physically,” he admitted, patting his belly. “But my spirit is starving for security, a few extras, a little pride.”
“Uh huh.”
“Oooooooh, what do you know about it? You’re set—pension plan, automatic raises, free insurance for everything you can think of.”
“I hesitate to mention this, Nicky,” I said, “but—”
“I know, I know, I know! You’re going to say why don’t I get a job.”
“I was going to be diplomatic about it. Not give up voice, understand, but pick up a little cash and security while you’re studying with Gino, while you’re getting ready for the big push. You can’t sing all the time.”
“I must and do.”
“All right, then, get a job out-of-doors.”
“And get bronchitis. Besides, you can imagine what working for somebody else would do to my spirit—licking boots, saying yes all the time, grovelling.”
“Pretty terrible, all right, working for somebody.”
There was a knock on the door, and Gino walked in. “Oh—you still here? Brought the morning paper, Nicky. I’ve read it.”
“Talking about insecurity, Maestro,” I said.
“Yes,” said Gino thoughtfully, “it’s something to talk about, all right. It’s broken greater spirits than ours, and robbed the world of God knows how much beauty. I’ve seen it happen more times than I like to think about.”
“It’s not going to happen to me!” said Nicky passionately.
“What are you going to do?” said Gino. He shrugged. “Go into business? You’re too much of an artist. If you were going to go ahead and try it anyway, I suppose the place to start would be in the want-ad section. But no—I’m against it. It’s beneath you. You could get in and maybe make your fortune and get out again, and give your full attention to voice—but no, I don’t like it, and I feel responsible for you.”
Nicky sighed. “Give me the paper. The average man doesn’t even suspect the price an artist pays to bring beauty into his life. Now the son of Angelo Marino is going into business.” He turned to me to berate me as a representative of average men everywhere. “You understand what that means?”
“I’ve adopted a wait-and-see policy,” I said.
“Nicky,” said Gino gravely, “you’ve got to promise me one thing: that you won’t let business get the better of you, that you’ll keep the real end in view—your singing.”
Nicky banged his fist on the table. “By God, Gino—here I thought you knew me better than anybody else on earth, next to my mother, and you say a thing like that!”
“Sorry.”
“Now what’s the stupid paper got to say for itself?”
On the day of our move from the apartment, Nicky insisted on my paying attention to matters far more important than my own piddling affairs—his affairs. He had been tramping the streets for two days, investigating likely ads in the Business Opportunities section.
“Where would I get a thousand dollars?” I grunted, as I lifted a chair onto the rented truck.
He made no effort to help, and stood by with an expression of annoyance, as though I had no business dividing my attention. “Five hundred, then.”
“You’re crazy. I’m in hock for my car, the new house, and the baby. If turkey was five cents a pound, I couldn’t buy the beak.”
“How on earth am I going to buy this doughnut shop?” he asked irritably.
“What the hell am I, the Guggenheim Foundation?”
“The bank’ll lend me four, if I’ll put in four,” said Nicky. “You’re passing up a chance of a lifetime. This lousy little shop nets ten thousand a year. The man proved it to me. Ten thousand a year, easy,” he