She tried to pass. I grabbed her arms and flung her like a dancer. She went spinning across the lot, but she did not fall. She screamed, charged me. I caught her in my arms and pinned her elbows down. She kicked and tried to scratch my legs. Sammy watched with disgust. Sure I was disgusting, but that was my affair. She cried and fought, but she was helpless, her legs dangling, her arms held tight. Then she tired a little, and I released her. She straightened her dress, her teeth chattering her hatred.

‘You’re going with me,’ I said.

Sammy got out of the car.

‘This is terrible,’ he said. He took Camilla’s arm and led her towards the street. ‘Let’s get out of here.’

I watched them go. He was right. Bandini, the idiot, the dog, the skunk, the fool. But I couldn’t help it. I looked at the car certificate and found her address. It was a place near 24th and Alameda. I couldn’t help it. I walked to Hill Street and got aboard an Alameda trolley. This interested me. A new side to my character, the bestial, the darkness, the unplumbed depth of a new Bandini. But after a few blocks the mood evaporated. I got off the car near the freight yards. Bunker Hill was two miles away, but I walked back. When I got home I said I was through with Camilla Lopez forever. And you’ll regret it, you little fool, because I’m going to be famous. I sat before my typewriter and worked most of the night.

I worked hard. It was supposed to be autumn, but I couldn’t tell the difference. We had sun every day, blue skies every night. Sometimes there was fog. I was eating fruit again. The Japanese gave me credit and I had the pick of their stalls. Bananas, oranges, pears, plums. Once in a while I ate celery. I had a full can of tobacco and a new pipe. There wasn’t any coffee, but I didn’t mind. Then my new story hit the magazine stands. The Long Lost Hills! It was not as exciting as The Little Dog Laughed. I scarcely looked at the free copy Hackmuth sent me. This pleased me nevertheless. Some day I would have so many stories written I wouldn’t remember where they appeared. ‘Hi there, Bandini! Nice story you had in The Atlantic Monthly this month.’ Bandini puzzled. ‘Did I have one in the Atlantic? Well, well.’

Hellfrick the meat-eater, the man who never paid his just debts. So much I had lent him during that lush period, but now that I was poor again he tried to barter with me. An old raincoat, a pair of slippers, a box of fancy soap — these he offered me for payment. I refused them. ‘My God, Hellfrick. I need money, not secondhand goods.’ His meat craze had got out of hand. All day I heard him frying cheap steaks, the odour creeping under my door. It gave me a mad desire for meat. I would go to Hellfrick. ‘Hellfrick,’ I would say. ‘How about sharing that steak with me?’ The steak would be so large it filled the skillet. But Hellfrick would lie brazenly. ‘I haven’t had a thing for two days.’ I would call him violent names, soon I lost all respect for him. He would shake his red, bloated face, big eyes staring pitifully. But he never offered me so much as the scraps from his plate. Day after day I worked, writhing from the tantalizing odour of fried pork chops, grilled steaks, fried steaks, breaded steaks, liver and onions, and all manner of meats.