In 1933 we were in Athens. There is no need to tell how we hastened to look at the Acropolis and other ancient things. It's a long story. But one incident we must tell.

Tantalized by reminiscences of schooldays, we decided to go from Athens to Marathon. We were told how to do it. We had to go to the square from which autobuses depart for Marathon, there buy tickets and ride—that was all. We boldly started on our journey, but somewhere quite close to the square we lost our way. The barber from whom we asked the way stopped shaving his client and came out into the street to explain to us how best to go. The client also came out of the establishment and, not at all embarrassed because he was covered with lather, took an active part in working out the itinerary for us. Little by little, J quite a crowd gathered, in the centre of which we stood, rather embarrassed, shy, and sorry that we had caused this commotion. Finally, to make absolutely sure, we were given a five-year-old boy as a guide.

The Greek for boy is mikro. The mikro led us, beckoning with his finger from time to time and parting his thick Algerian lips good-humouredly.

In the square we saw old autobuses, to the backs of which worn suitcases were tied with ropes. These were the Marathon autobuses. The silliness and dullness of our enterprise was at once clear to us. Without saying a word to each other, we decided not to take the trip. The mikro received five drachmas for his trouble, while we went to a coffee-house across the way from the bus stop, to rest and drink some of the fine Greek coffee.

Four handsome and poorly dressed young idlers played cards on a woollen carpet which covered a marble table. Behind the counter was the proprietor, a man obviously down at the heel. He wore a vest but no collar. He was shaved, but his hair was not combed. In a word, here was a man who no longer cared for anything at all and merely continued to drag out his existence. If customers come in, very well. If not, it is also of no consequence. Anyway, he did not expect anything unusual to happen in his life. He accepted our order with indifference, and went behind the stand to make the coffee.

And then we saw on the wall a photographic portrait of the proprietor in his youth: a round, energetic head, a conquering look, moustaches pointing to the very sky, a marble collar, an eternal necktie, the strength and brilliance of youth. Oh, how many years were needed, how many failures in life, to drag down this moustached Athenian to the pathetic creature we had found! It was simply frightful to compare the portrait with its original! There was no need for any explanation. The entire life of this Greek who had failed stood before us.

This is what our lunch-room host had reminded us of—this Bessarabian Jew and Mason of Kansas City.

20 A Marine

IN AN Oklahoma newspaper we saw the photograph of a girl lying in a white hospital bed, and the inscription: "She smiles even on her couch of suffering. "There was no time to try to divine the reason for the girl's smiling on her couch of suffering, and the newspaper was put Bide. Mr. Adams, however, happened to read the notice under the photograph while he was taking his coffee. He wrinkled his face, and stared with displeasure into the gas fireplace in the lunch-room. We were hastily filling up on eggs and bacon before departing from Oklahoma.

In many places of the Middle West there are natural gas openings. This gas is brought in through special piping into the city and costs comparatively little. Mr. Adams looked at the pink and blue streams of flame which played in the nickel-plated fireplace and wheezed angrily.

"Gentlemen," he said, "I am myself a great optimist, yet at times I am in the throes of despair because of American optimism."

And he repeated with disgust:

"She smiles even on her couch of suffering!"

We had to hurry; hence, conversation on this theme, which so dis-turbed Mr. Adams, did not catch on. Along the way he seemed to have forgotten about it, carried away by the amazing view before us. We were driving through a bright aluminium oil forest.

Yesterday, racing toward Oklahoma through a steppe overgrown only with unattractive dusty bouquets, we had seen our first oil derricks. The extensive fields were tightly packed with iron masts and cages. Thick woden shafts rocked up and down, emitting a slight creaking noise. No people were in sight. Here, in the quiet of the steppe, in profound silence, oil was being pumped. We drove a long time. The forest of derricks became thicker. The rocking shafts creaked and only occasionally one saw the figure of a workman in overalls (working clothes made out of bright blue denim). He plodded from one derrick to another.

The forest of derricks was bright, because they were all covered with aluminium paint. It was the colour of Christmas-tree tinsel. It lends to technical America an extraordinarily attractive appearance. Oil tanks, automobile tanks for milk or petrol, railroad bridges, lamp-posts in cities, and even wooden posts along the roads are covered with this aluminium paint.

In Oklahoma, too, we were greeted by derricks and by the measured rocking of their shafts. Oil was discovered in the capital itself. The derricks came closer and closer to Oklahoma City and finally, breaking down weak resistance, invaded its streets. The city was pillaged and plundered. In private yards, on sidewalks, on streets, opposite school buildings, opposite banks and hotels—everywhere oil was being pumped. Everybody who believed in God pumped. Oil tanks stood beside large ten-story buildings. The bacon and eggs reeked of oil. On a vacant lot that somehow managed to survive children were playing with pieces of iron and with rusty wrenches. Houses were demolished, their places taken by derricks and rockshafts. And where yesterday somebody's grandmother sat at a round table knitting a woollen scarf, today a rock-shaft creaked and a new master in a businesslike suede vest was joyfully counting the gallons he had extracted.

Everywhere we saw the screed-in masts and heard the optimistic creaking.

Besides oil derricks Oklahoma City astonished us with its multitude of funeral parlours. While looking for night's lodging, we usually drove in the direction of the residential part on our quest for rooms. Without looking around we drove up to a little house on which was a lighted sign, and to our horror we discovered that it was a funeral parlour. On

three other occasions we blindly drove to attractively lighted buildings and each time jumped back: they were all funeral parlours. We did not find a single tourist sign; no one was renting lodgings to travellers. Here was offered only eternal rest, eternal quietude. Evidently the inhabitants of Oklahoma City had so successfully filled up on oil that they had no

need of such trivial income as may be derived from the rental of rooms.

We were finally obliged to fill our hearts with pride and take rooms in a hotel. The second-rate hotel we selected after much captious choosing bore the resplendent name "Cadillac." But surely it must have been erected before the oil boom, for from the hot-water tap cold water poured, while from the cold-water tap nothing poured. Mr. Adams was genuinely worried. Instead of the talkative landlady of a little house who knew all the city news, he was confronted by a porter about fifty

years old who countered all eager queries with the composed indifference of "Yes, sir" or "No, sir." Moreover, he smoked such a vile cigar that after he left us Mr. Adams coughed and blew his nose intermittently, like a drowning man recently pulled up on shore but still on the verge of collapsing. An hour later Mr. Adams came to the door of our room and