You see, I had a very tough hymen. Sometimes they have to operate, you know. I didn’t know anything about such things then. I thought it would be a little painful and bloody … a few minutes … and then … Anyway, it didn’t go like that at all. It took almost a week before he was able to break it. I must say he enjoyed it. And he was gentle! Maybe he was just fibbing about it being so tough. Maybe that was just a gag to prolong the affair. Then too he wasn’t so powerfully built. It was short and thick. It seemed to me he got it in all the way, but then I was so jittery that I really couldn’t say. He would stay in me a long tune, hardly moving, but hard as a rock and twitching like a jigger. Sometimes he took it out and played around with it on the outside. That felt marvelous. He could do it an ungodly long time without coming. He said I was built perfectly … that once the skin was perforated I would be wonderful to go to bed with. He didn’t use foul language—like that other brute. He was a sensualist. He watched me, told me how to move, showed me all sorts of tricks … It might have gone on much longer, God knows, if I hadn’t got terribly excited one night. It was driving me crazy, especially when he pulled out and started rubbing it around the lips…

You really enjoyed it then? I said.

Enjoyed it? I was wild. I know I shocked him to death when finally I couldn’t stand it any longer and I grabbed him and pulled him down on me with all my strength. ‘Fuck, damn you!’ I said, and I pressed against him and bit his lips. He lost his control then and he began to go at it with a vengeance. Even after he had pierced it, though it hurt, I kept on pushing. I must have had four or five orgasms. I wanted to feel it penetrate all the way. Anyway, I had no shame or embarrassment. I wanted to be fucked and I didn’t care any more how much it hurt.

I was wondering if she would tell me truthfully how long this affair had lasted—after the technical side of it was over. I had my answer almost immediately. She was amazingly frank about it. It seemed to me that there was an unusual warmth about her reminiscences. Made me realize how grateful women are when they have been handled with understanding.

I was his mistress for quite a while, she continued. I was always expecting him to get tired of me, because he had emphasized so strongly that he could only get passionate about a virgin. Of course I was still a virgin, in a sense. I was terribly young, though people always took me for eighteen or nineteen. He taught me a lot. I went everywhere with him, all over the country. He was very fond of me and he always treated me with the greatest consideration. One day I noticed that he was jealous. I was surprised because I knew he had had many women—I didn’t think he loved me. ‘But I do love you,’ he said, when I teased him about it. Then I became curious. I wanted to know how long he expected it to go on, this affair. I was always anticipating the moment when he would find another girl whom he would want to deflower. I dreaded meeting a young girl in his presence.

‘But I’m not thinking about another girl,’ he told me. ‘I want you … and I’m going to hold on to you.’

‘But you told me …’ I started to say, and then I saw him laugh…. and I realized at once what an idiot I had been. ‘So that was how you got me, eh?’ I said. And then I felt vengeful. It was foolish of me because he hadn’t done anything to hurt me. But I wanted to humiliate him.

You know, I really despise myself for what I did, she went on. He didn’t deserve to be treated that way But I derived a cruel satisfaction in making him suffer. I flirted with every man I met—outrageously. I even went to bed with some of them, and then I told him about it and gloated over it when I saw how much it hurt him. ‘You’re young,’ he used to say. ‘You don’t understand what you’re doing.’ It was true enough, but I only understood one thing—that I had the better of him, and that even if I had sold myself to him he was my slave. I delighted in taunting him about his money. ‘Go and buy yourself another virgin,’ I would say. ‘You can probably get them cheaper than a thousand dollars. I would have said yes if you had offered five hundred. You could have had me for nothing if you had been a little cleverer. If I had your money I’d choose a new one every night.’ I would go on like that until he couldn’t stand it any longer. One night he proposed marriage. He swore he would divorce his wife instantly—if I would only say yes. He said he couldn’t live without me. ‘But I can live without you,’ I answered. He winced. ‘You’re cruel,’ he said. ‘You’re unjust.’ I had no intention of marrying him, no matter how sincere he was. I didn’t care about his money. I don’t know why I abused him so. Afterwards, after I had left him, I felt thoroughly ashamed of myself. I went back to him once and I begged his forgiveness. He was living with another girl—he told me so at once. ‘I would never have been unfaithful to you.’ he said. ‘I loved you. I wanted to do things for you. I didn’t expect you to stay with me forever. But you were too headstrong … you were too proud.’ He talked to me the way my father would have talked. I felt like weeping … Then I did something I never dreamt I could do. I begged him to take me to bed. He was trembling with passion. He was so damned decent, however, that he didn’t have the heart to take advantage of me. ‘You don’t want to go to bed with me,’ he said, ‘you just want to prove to me that you’re repentant.’ I insisted that I wanted to sleep with him, that I liked him as a lover. He could hardly resist any longer. But he was afraid, I suppose, of what would happen to him. He didn’t want to begin craving for me again, that was it. But I was thinking only of paying him back. I didn’t know how else to do it. I knew he loved me, my body and everything. I wanted to make him happy, even if it did upset him … It was all very confusing. Anyway, we got in bed, but he couldn’t get an erection. I never knew that to happen before. I tried everything. I enjoyed humiliating myself. As I was sucking him off I was smiling to myself, thinking how strange it was that I had to sweat like this over a man I despised … Nothing happened. I said I’d come back next day and try again. He looked at me as if he were appalled at the idea. ‘You were patient with me in the beginning, remember?’ I said. ‘Why shouldn’t I be patient now?’ It’s crazy,’ he said. ‘You don’t love me. You’re just giving yourself like a whore.’ ‘That’s what I am now,’ I said … ‘a whore.’ He took me literally. He looked frightened, thoroughly frightened…

I waited to hear the rest of it. Did you go back? I asked.

No, she hadn’t gone back. She never went near him again.

He must have lived on tenterhooks, I said to myself.

The next morning I reminded her of our proposed visit to the doctor. I told her I would phone her later in the day and ask her to meet me at the doctor’s office. I would have to consult Kronski about it. She was perfectly amenable. Anything I wanted.

Well, we visited the doctor Kronski had elected, we had blood tests taken, and we even had dinner with the doctor. He was a young man and not overly sure of himself, I thought. He didn’t know what to make of my cock. Wanted to know if I had ever had a dose—or the syph. I told him I had had the clap twice. Had it ever come back? Not that I knew of. And so on. He thought it best to wait a few days before doing anything. In the meantime he’d have analyzed our blood. He thought we both looked healthy, though looks were often deceptive. In short, he talked around and about, as young doctors often do—and old ones too—leaving us none the wiser.

Between the first and second visits I had to visit Maude. I told her all about it. She of course was convinced that Mona was responsible. She had expected as much. It was laughable, really, what an interest she took in my sick dick. As though it were still her private property. I had to take it out and show it to her, b’Jesus. She handled it gingerly at first, but then, her professional interest aroused and the thing growing heavier in her hand all the while, she became less and less cautious. I had to be careful not to get too excited or I might have thrown caution to the winds. At any rate, before permitting me to shove it back in my fly she begged me to let her bathe it gently in a solution. She was sure that could do no harm. So I went to the bathroom with her, my prick stiff as a rod, and I watched her pet it and pamper it.

When we visited the doctor again we learned that the signs were all negative. However, he explained, even that didn’t constitute a final proof.

You know, he said—evidently he had been thinking it over before our arrival—I’ve been thinking that you’d be much better off if you were circumcised. When the foreskin is removed that stuff will come off too. You’ve got an uncommonly long foreskin—hasn’t it bothered you?

I confessed I had never given it a thought before. One is born with a foreskin and one dies with it. Nobody thinks about his appendix until it’s time to have it cut out.

Yes, he went on, you’d be lots better off without that foreskin. You’d have to go to the hospital, of course … it might take about a week or so.

And what would that cost? I inquired, picking up the scent.

He couldn’t say exactly—perhaps a hundred dollars. I told him I’d think it over. I wasn’t too keen about losing my precious foreskin, even if there were hygienic advantages attached to it. A funny thought then entered my head—that thereafter the head of my cock would be insensitive. I didn’t like that idea at all.

However, before I left his office he had persuaded me to make a date with his surgeon for a week hence. If it should clear up in the meantime you won’t need to go through with the operation—if you don’t like the idea.

But, he added, if I were you I’d have it done whether I liked it or not. It’s much cleaner.

In the interval the nightly confessions proceeded apace. Mona had not been working at the dance hall for several weeks now and we had the evenings together. She wasn’t sure what she would do next—it was always the money question which disturbed her—but she was certain she would never return to the dance hall. She seemed just as relieved as I to know that her blood test had come out all right.

But you didn’t think there was anything wrong with you, did you?

One never knows, she said. That was such a horrible place … the girls were filthy.

The girls?

And the men too … Don’t let’s talk about it. After a short silence she laughed and said: How would you like it if I went on the stage?

It would be fine, I said. Do you think you can act?

I know I can. You wait, Val, I’ll show you…

That evening we came home late and sneaked quietly into bed. Holding on to my cock she began another string of confessions. She had been wanting to tell me something … I wasn’t to get angry … I wasn’t to interrupt her. I had to promise.

I lay there and listened tensely. The money question again. It was always there, like a bad sore. You didn’t want me to go on staying at the dance hall, did you? Of course I didn’t. What next? I wondered.

Well naturally she had to find some way of raising the necessary funds. Go on! I thought to myself. Get it over with! I gave myself an anaesthetic and listened to her without opening my trap. It was all quite painless, strange to relate. She was talking about old men, nice old men whom she had become acquainted with at the dance hall. What they wanted was to have the company of a beautiful young girl—some one they could eat with and take to the theatre. They didn’t really care about dancing—or even going to bed with a girl. They wanted to be seen with young women—it made them feel younger, gayer, more hopeful. They were all successful old bastards—with false teeth and varicose veins and all that sort of thing. They didn’t know what to do with their money. One of them, the one she was talking about, owned a big steam laundry. He was over eighty, brittle, blue-veined, glassy-eyed. He was almost a child. Surely I couldn’t be jealous of him! All he asked of her was permission to spend his money on her. She didn’t say how much he had already forked out, but she inferred it was a tidy sum. And now there was another one—he lived at the Ritz Carlton, A shoes manufacturer. She sometimes ate in his room, because it gave him pleasure. He was a multimillionaire—and a little gaga, to believe her words. At the most he had only courage enough to kiss her hand … Yes, she had been meaning to tell me about these things for weeks, but she had been afraid I might take it badly. You don’t, do you? she said, bending over me. I didn’t answer immediately. I was thinking, wondering, puzzling over it all. Why don’t you say something? she said, nudging me. You said you wouldn’t be angry. You promised.

I’m not angry, I said. And then I grew silent again.

But you are! You’re hurt…. O Val, you’re so foolish. Do you think I would tell you these things if I thought you would be hurt?

I don’t think anything, I said. It’s all right, believe me. Do whatever you think best. I’m only sorry that it has to be this way.

But it won’t always be this way! It’s just for a little while … That’s why I want to get in the theatre. I hate it just as much as you do.

O.K. I said. Let’s forget about it.

The morning that I was to report to the hospital I woke up early. As I was taking my shower I looked at my prick and by crikey there wasn’t a sign of irritation. I could hardly believe my eyes. I woke Mona and showed it to her. She kissed it. I got in bed again and tore off a quick one—to test it out. Then I went to the telephone and called the doctor.

It’s all better, I said, I’m not going to have my foreskin cut off. I hung up quickly in order to forestall any further persuasions on his part.

As I was leaving the phone booth I suddenly took it into my head to phone Maude.

I can’t believe it, she said.

Well, it’s a fact, I said, and if you don’t believe it I’ll prove it to you when I come over next week.

She seemed to want to hang on to the phone. Kept talking about a lot of irrelevant things I’ve got to go, I said, getting annoyed with her.

Just a moment, she begged. I was going to ask you if you couldn’t come over sooner, say Sunday, and take us out to the country. We might have a little picnic, the three of us. I’d do up a lunch…

Her voice sounded very tender.

All right I said, I’ll come. I’ll come early … about eight o’clock.

You’re sure you’re all right? she said.

I’m absolutely sure. I’ll show it to you—Sunday.

She gave a short, dirty little laugh. I hung up before she had closed her trap.

16

While the divorce proceedings were pending events rolled up as at the end of an epoch. It only needed a war to top it off. First of all the Satanic Majesties of the Cosmodemoniacal Telegraph Company had seen fit to shift my headquarters once again, this time to the top of an old loft building in the twine and paper box district. My desk stood in the center of an enormous deserted floor which was used as a drill room by the messenger brigade after hours. In the adjoining room, equally large and empty, a sort of combination clinic, dispensary and gymnasium was established. All that was needed to complete the picture was the installation of a few pool tables. Some of the half-wits brought their roller skates along to while away the rest periods. It was an infernal racket they made all day long, but I was so utterly disinterested now in all the company’s plans and projects that, far from disturbing me, it afforded me great amusement. I was thoroughly isolated now from the other offices. The snooping and spying had abated; I was in quarantine, so to speak. The hiring and firing went on in dreamy fashion; my staff had been cut down to two—myself and the ex-pugilist who had formerly been the wardrobe attendant. I made no effort to keep the files in order, nor did I investigate references, nor did I conduct any correspondence. Half the time I didn’t bother to answer the telephone; if there were anything very urgent there was always the telegraph.

The atmosphere of the new quarters was distinctly dementia praecox. They had relegated me to hell and I was enjoying it. As soon as I got rid of the day’s applicants I would go into the adjoining room and watch the shenanigans. Now and then I would put on a pair of skates myself and do a twirl with the goofy ones. My assistant looked on askance, unable to comprehend what had happened to me. Sometimes, in spite of his austerity, his code and other detracting psychological elements, he would break out into a laugh which would prolong itself to the verge of hysteria. Once he asked me if I was having trouble at home. He feared that the next step would be drink, I suppose.

As a matter of fact, I did begin to indulge rather freely about this time what with one thing and another. It was a harmless sort of drinking, which began only at the dinner table. By sheer accident I had discovered a French-Italian restaurant in the back of a grocery store. The atmosphere was most convivial. Every one was a character, even the police sergeants and the detectives who gorged themselves disgracefully at the proprietor’s expense.

I had to have some place to while away the evenings, now that Mona had sneaked into the theatre by the back door. Whether Monahan had found her the job or whether, as she said, she had just lied her way in. I was never able to discover. At any rate, she had given herself a new name, one that would suit her new career, and with it a complete new history of her life and antecedents. She had become English all of a sudden, and her people had been connected with the theatre as far back as she could remember, which was often amazingly far. It was in one of the little theatres which then flourished that she made her entrance into that world of make believe which so well suited her. Since they paid her scarcely anything they could afford to act gullible.

Arthur Raymond and his wife were at first inclined to disbelieve the news. Another one of Mona’s inventions, they thought. Rebecca, always poor at dissembling, practically laughed in Mona’s face. But when she came home with the script of a Schnitzler play one evening and seriously began to rehearse her role their incredulity gave way to consternation. They foresaw nothing but disaster ahead. And when Mona, by some inexplicable legerdemain, succeeded in attaching herself to the Theatre Guild, the atmosphere of the household became supersaturated with envy, spite and malevolence. The play was becoming too real—there was a very real danger now that Mona might become the actress she pretended to be.

The rehearsals were endless, it seemed. I never knew what hour Mona would return home. When I did spend an evening with her it was like listening to a drunk. The glamour of the new life had completely intoxicated her. Now and then I would stay in of an evening and try to write, but it was no go. Arthur Raymond was always there, lying in wait like an octopus. What do you want to write for? he would say. God, aren’t there enough writers in the world? And then he would begin to talk about writers, the writers he admired, and I would sit before the machine, as if ready to resume my work the moment he left me. Often I would do nothing more than write a letter—to some famous author, telling him how greatly I admired his work, hinting that, if he had not already heard of me, he would soon. In this way it fell about one day that I received an astonishing letter from that Dostoievski of the North, as he was called: Knut Hamsun. It was written by his secretary, in broken English, and for a man who was shortly to receive the Nobel Prize, it was to say the least a puzzling piece of dictation. After explaining that he had been pleased, even touched, by my homage, he went on to say (through his wooden mouthpiece) that his American publisher was not altogether satisfied with the financial returns from the sale of his books. They feared that they might not be able to publish any more of his books—unless the public were to show a more lively interest. His tone was that of a giant in distress. He wondered vaguely what could be done to retrieve the situation, not so much for himself as for his dear publisher who was truly suffering because of him. And then, as the letter progressed, a happy idea seemed to take hold of him and forthwith he gave expression to it. It was this—once he had received a letter from a Mr. Boyle, who also lived in New York and whom I doubtless knew (!). He thought perhaps Mr. Boyle and myself might get together, rack our brains over the situation, and quite possibly come to some brilliant solution. Perhaps we could tell other people in America that there existed in the wilds and fens of Norway a writer named Knut Hamsun whose books had been conscientiously translated into English and were now languishing on the shelves of his publisher’s stock room. He was sure that if he could only increase the sales of his books by a few hundred copies his publisher would take heart and have faith in him again. He had been to America, he said, and though his English was too poor to permit him to write me in his own hand, he was confident that his secretary could make clear his thoughts and intentions. I was to look up Mr. Boyle whose address he no longer remembered. Do what you can, he urged. Perhaps there were several other people in New York who had heard of his work and with whom we could operate. He closed on a dolorous but majestic note…. I examined the letter carefully to see if perhaps he hadn’t shed a few tears over it. If the envelope hadn’t born the Norwegian postmark, if the letter itself hadn’t been signed in his own scrawl, which I later confirmed, I would have thought it a hoax. Tremendous discussions ensued amid boisterous laughter. It was considered that I had been royally paid out for my foolish hero worship. The idol had been smashed and my critical faculties reduced to zero. No one could possibly see how I could ever read Knut Hamsun again. To tell the honest truth, I felt like weeping. Some terrible miscarriage had occurred, just how I couldn’t fathom, but despite the evidence to the contrary, I simply could not bring myself to believe that the author of

Hunger, Pan, Victoria, Growth of the Soil, had dictated that letter. It was entirely conceivable that he had left the matter to his secretary, that he had signed his name in good faith without bothering to be told the contents. A man as famous as he undoubtedly received dozens of letters a day from admirers all over the world. There was nothing in my youthful panegyric to interest a man of his stature. Besides, he probably despised the whole American race, having had a bitter time of it here during the years of his pilgrimage. Most likely he had told his dolt of a secretary on more than one occasion that his American sales were negligible. Perhaps his publisher had been pestering him—publishers are known to have only one concern in dealing with their authors, namely sales. Perhaps he had remarked disgustedly, in the presence of his secretary, that Americans had money to spend on everything but the things worth while in life. And she, poor imbecile, probably worshipful of the master, had decided to avail herself of the opportunity and offer a few crack-brained suggestions in order to ameliorate the painful situation. She was more than likely no Dagmar, no Edwige. No, not even a simple soul like Martha Gude who tried so desperately not to be taken in by Herr Nagel’s romantic nights and overtures. She was probably one of those educated Norwegian head cheeses who are emancipated in everything but the imagination. She was probably hygienic and scientific-minded, capable of keeping her house in order, doing harm to no one, mindful of her own business, and dreaming one day of becoming the head of a fertilizing establishment or a creche for bastard children.

No, I was thoroughly disillusioned in my god. I purposely re-read some of his books and, naive soul that I was, I wept again over certain passages. I was so deeply impressed that I began to wonder if I had dreamed the letter.

The repercussions from this miscarriage were quite extraordinary. I became savage, bitter, caustic. I became a wanderer who played on muted strings of iron. I impersonated one after another of my idol’s characters. I talked sheer rot and nonsense; I poured hot piss over everything. I became two people—myself and my impersonations, which were legion.

The divorce trial was impending. That made me even more savage and bitter, for some inexplicable reason. I hated the farce which has to be gone through in the name of justice. I loathed and despised the lawyer whom Maude had retained to protect her interests. He looked like a corn-fed Romain Holland, a chauve-souris without a crumb of humor or imagination. He seemed to be charged with moral indignation; he was a prick through and through, a coward, a sneak, a hypocrite. He gave me the creeps.

We had it out about him the day of the outing. Lying in the grass somewhere near Mineola. The child running about gathering flowers. It was warm, very warm, and there was a hot dry wind blowing which made one nervous and rooty. I had taken my prick out and put it in her hand. She examined it shyly, not wishing to be too clinical about it and yet dying to convince herself that there was nothing wrong. After a while she dropped it and rolled over on her back, her knees up, and the warm wind licking her bottom. I jockeyed her into a favorable position, made her pull her panties off. She was in one of her protesting moods again. Didn’t like being mauled like that in an open field. But there’s not a soul around, I insisted. I made her spread her legs farther apart; I ran my hand up her cunt. It was gooey.

I pulled her to me and tried to get it in. She balked. She was worried about the child. I looked around. She’s all right, I said, she’s having a good time. She’s not thinking about us.

But supposing she conies back … and finds us…

She’ll think we’re sleeping. She won’t know what we’re doing….

With this she pushed me away violently. It was outrageous. You’d take me in front of your own child! It’s horrible.

It’s not horrible at all. You’re the one who’s horrible. I tell you, it’s innocent. Even if she should remember it—when she’s grown up—she’ll be a woman then and she’ll understand. There’s nothing dirty about it. It’s your dirty mind, that’s all.

By this time she was slipping her panties on. I hadn’t bothered to shove my prick back in my trousers. It was getting limp now; it fell on the grass, dejected.

Well, let’s have something to eat then, I said. If we can’t fuck we can always eat.

Yes, eat! You can eat any time. That’s all you care about, eating and sleeping.

Fucking, I said, not sleeping.

I wish you’d stop talking to me that way. She began to undo the lunch. You have to spoil everything. I thought we might have a peaceful day, just once. You always said you wanted to take us out on a picnic. You never did. Not once. You thought of nothing but yourself, your friends, your women. I was a fool to think you might change. You don’t care about your child—you’ve hardly noticed her. You can’t even restrain yourself in her presence. You’d take me in front of her and pretend that it was innocent. You’re vile…. I’m glad it’s all over. By this time next week I’ll be free … I’ll be rid of your forever. You’ve poisoned me. You’ve made me bitter and hateful. You make me despise myself. Since I know you I don’t recognize myself any more.

I’ve become what you wanted me to become. You never loved me … never. All you wanted was to satisfy your desires. You’ve treated me like an animal. You take what you want and you go. You go from me to the next woman—any woman—just so long as she’ll open her legs for you. You haven’t an ounce of loyalty or tenderness or consideration in you…. Here, take it! she said, shoving a sandwich in my fist. I hope you choke on it!

As I brought the sandwich to my mouth I smelled the odor of her cunt on my fingers. I sniffed my fingers while looking up at her with a grin.

You’re disgusting! she said.

Not so very, my lady. It smells good to me, even if you are a hateful sour-puss. I like it. It’s the only thing about you I like.

She was furious now. She began to weep.

Weeping because I said I liked your cunt! What a woman! Jesus, I’m the one who ought to do the despising. What sort of woman are you?

Her tears became more copious. Just then the child came running up. What was the matter? Why was mother crying?

It’s nothing, said Maude, drying her tears. I turned my ankle. A few dry sobs belched from her despite her efforts to restrain herself. She bent over the basket and selected a sandwich for the child.

Why don’t you do something, Henry? said the child. She sat there looking from one to the other with a grave, puzzled look.

I got to my knees and rubbed Maude’s ankle.

Don’t touch me! she said harshly.

But he wants to make it better, said the child.

Yes, daddy’ll make it better, I said, rubbing the ankle gently, and then patting the calf of her leg.

Kiss her, said the child. Kiss her and make the tears go away.

I bent forward and kissed Maude on the cheek. To my astonishment she flung her arms around me and kissed me violently on the mouth. The child also put her arms around us and kissed us.

Suddenly Maude had a fresh spasm of weeping. This time it was really pitiful to behold. I felt sorry for her. I put my arms around her tenderly and comforted her.

.God, she sobbed, what a farce!

But it isn’t, I said. I mean it sincerely. I’m sorry, sorry for everything.

Don’t cry any more, begged the child. I want to eat. I want Henry to take me over there, and she pointed with her little hand to a copse of wood at the edge of the field. I want you to come too.

To think this is the only time … and it had to be like this. She was sniffling now.

Don’t say that, Maude. The day isn’t over yet. Let’s forget about all that. Come on, let’s eat.

Reluctantly, wearily, it seemed, she picked up a sandwich and held it to her mouth. I can’t eat, she murmured, dropping the sandwich.

Come on, yes you can! I urged, putting my arm around her again.

You act this way now … and later you’ll do something to spoil it.

No I won’t … I promise you.

Kiss her again, said the child.

I leaned over and kissed her softly and gently on the lips. She seemed really placated now. A soft light came into her eyes.

Why can’t you be like this always? she said, after a brief pause.

I am, I said, when I’m given a chance. I don’t like to fight with you. Why should I? We’re not man and wife any longer.

Then why do you treat me the way you do?

Why do you always make love to me? Why don’t you leave me alone?

I’m not making love to you, I answered. It’s not love, it’s passion. That’s not a crime, is it? For God’s sake, let’s not start that all over again. I’m going to treat you the way you want to be treated—to-day. I won’t touch you again.

I don’t ask that. I don’t say you shouldn’t touch me. But it’s the way you do it … you don’t show any respect for me … for my person. That’s what I dislike. I know you don’t love me any more, but you can behave decently towards me, even if you don’t care any more. I’m not the prude you pretend I am. I have feelings too … maybe deeper, stronger than yours. I can find some one else to replace you, don’t think that I can’t. I just want a little time…

She was munching her sandwich half-heartedly. Suddenly there was a gleam in her eye. She put on a coy, roguish expression.

I could get married to-morrow, if I wanted to, she continued. You never thought that, did you? I’ve had three proposals already, as a matter of fact. The last one was from … and here she mentioned the lawyer’s name.

Him? I said, unable to repress a disdainful smile.

Yes, him, she said. And he’s not what you think he is. I like him very much.

Well, that explains things. Now I know why he’s taken such a passionate interest in the case.

I knew she didn’t care for him, this Rocambolesque, any more than she cared for the doctor who explored her vagina with a rubber finger. She didn’t care for anybody really; all she wanted was peace, surcease from pain. She wanted a lap to sit on in the dark, a prick to enter her mysteriously, a babble of words to drown her unmentionable desires. Lawyer what’s-his-name would do of course. Why not? He would be as faithful as a fountain pen, as discreet as a rat trap, as provident as an insurance policy. He was a walking briefcase with pigeon holes in his belfry; he was a salamander with a heart of pastrami. He was shocked, was he, to learn that I had brought another woman to my own home? Shocked to learn that I had left the used condoms on the edge of the sink? Shocked that I had stayed for breakfast with my paramour? A snail is shocked when a drop of rain hits its shell. A general is shocked when he learns that his garrison has been massacred in his absence. God himself is shocked doubtless when He sees how revoltingly stupid and insensitive the human beast really is. But I doubt if angels are ever shocked—not even by the presence of the insane.

I was trying to give her the dialectics of the moral dynamism. I twisted my tongue in the endeavour to make her understand the marriage of the animal and the divine. She understood about as well as a layman understands when you explain the fourth dimension. She talked about delicacy and respect, as if they were pieces of angel cake. Sex was an animal locked up in a zoo which one visited now and then in order to study evolution.

Towards evening we rode back to the city, the last stretch in the elevated train, the child asleep in my arms. Mamma and Papa returning from the picnic grounds. Below, the city spread out with senseless geometrical rigidity, an evil dream rearing itself architecturally. A dream from which it is impossible to awaken. Mr. and Mrs. Megalopolitan with their offspring. Hobbled and fettered. Suspended in the sky like so much venison. A pair of every kind hanging by the hocks. At one end of the line starvation; at the other end bankruptcy. Between stations the pawnbroker, with three golden balls to signify the triune God of birth, buggery and blight. Happy days. A fog rolling in from Rockaway. Nature folding up like a dead leaf—at Mineola. Every now and then the doors open and shut: fresh batches of meat for the slaughter-house. Little scraps of conversation, like the twittering of titmice. Who would think that the chubby little youngster beside you will in ten of fifteen years be shitting his brains out with fright on a foreign field? All day long you make innocent little gadgets; at night you sit in a dark hall and watch phantoms move across a silver screen. Maybe the realest moments you know are when you sit alone in the toilet and make caca. That doesn’t cost anything or commit you in any way. Not like eating or fucking, or making works of art. You leave the toilet and you step into the big shit-house. Whatever you touch is shitty. Even when it’s wrapped in cellophane the smell is there. Caca! The philosopher’s stone of the industrial age. Death and transfiguration—into shit! The department store life—with filmy silks on one counter and bombs on the other counter. No matter what interpretation you put on it, every thought, every deed, is cash registered. You’re fucked from the moment you draw your first breath. One grand international business machine corporation. Logistics, as they say.

Mamma and Papa are now as peaceful as blut-wurst. Not an ounce of fight left in them. How glorious to spend a day in the open, with the worms and other creatures of God. What a delightful entr’acte! Life glides by like a dream. If you were to cut the bodies open while still warm you would find nothing resembling this idyll. If you were to scrape the bodies out and fill them with stones they would sink to the bottom of the sea, like dead ducks.

It begins to rain. It pours. Hail-stones big as bob-o’-links bounce from the pavement. The city looks like an ant pile smeared with salvarsan. The sewers rise and disgorge their vomit. The sky is as sullen and lurid as the bottom of a test tube.

I feel murderously gay all of a sudden. I hope to Christ it will rain like this for forty days and nights. I’d like to see the city swimming in its own shit; I’d like to see mannikins floating into the river and cash registers ground under the wheels of trucks; I’d like to see the insane pouring out of the asylums with cleavers and hacking right and left. The water cure! Like they gave it to the Filipinos in ‘98! But where is our Aguinaldo? Where is the rat who can breast the flood with a machete between his lips?

I bring them home in a cab, deposit them safely just as a bolt of lightning strikes the steeple of the bloody Catholic church on the corner. The broken bells make a hell of a din as they hit the pavement. Inside the church a plaster Virgin is smashed to smithereens. The priest is so taken by surprise that he hasn’t time to button up his pants. His balls swell up like rocks.

Melanie flutters about like a demented albatross. Dry your things! she wails. A grand undressing, with gasps and shrieks and objurgations. I get into Maude’s dressing sack, the one with the maribou feathers. Look like a fairy about to give an impersonation of Loulou Hurluburlu. All flub and foozle now. I’m getting a hard-on, a personal hard-on, if you know what I mean.

Maude is upstairs putting the child to bed. I walk around in my bare feet, the dressing sack wide open. A lovely feeling. Melanie peeks in, just to see if I’m all right. She’s walking around in her drawers with the parrot perched on her wrist. Afraid of the lightning she is. I’m talking to her with my hands folded over my prick. Could be a scene out of the Wizard of Oz by Memling. Time: dreiviertel takt. Now and then the lightning strikes afresh. It leaves the taste of burning rubber in the mouth.

I’m standing in front of the big mirror admiring my quivering cock when Maude trips in. She’s as frisky as a hare and all decked out in tulle and mousseline. She seems not at all frightened by what she sees in the mirror. She comes over and stands beside me. Open it up! I urge. Are you hungry? she says, undoing herself leisurely. I turn her around and press her to me. She raises a leg to let me get it in. We look at each other in the mirror. She’s fascinated. I pull the wrap up over her ass so that she can have a better look. I lift her up and she twines her legs around me. Yes, do it, she begs. Fuck me! Fuck me! Suddenly she untwines her legs, unhitches. She grabs the big arm chair and turns it around, resting her hands on the back of it. Her ass is stuck out invitingly. She doesn’t wait for me to put it in—she grabs it and places it herself, watching all the time through the mirror. I push it back and forth slowly, holding my skirts up like a bedraggled hussy. She likes to see it coming out—how far will it come before it falls out. She reaches under with one hand and plays with my balls. She’s completely unleashed now, as brazen as a pot. I withdraw as far as I can without letting it slip out and she rolls her ass around, sinking down on it now and then and clutching it with a feathery beak. Finally she’s had enough of that. She wants to lie down on the floor and put her legs around my neck. Get it in all the way, she begs. Don’t be afraid of hurting me … I want it. I want you to do everything. I got it in so deep it felt as though I were buried in a bed of mussels. She was quivering and slithering in every ream. I bent over and sucked her breasts; the nipples were taut as nails. Suddenly she pulled my head down and began to bite me wildly—lips, ears, cheeks, neck. You want it, don’t you? she hissed. You want it, you want it…. Her lips twisted obscenely. You want it … you want it! And she fairly lifted herself off the floor in her abandon. Then a groan, a spasm, a wild, tortured look as if her face were under a mirror pounded by a hammer. Don’t take it out yet, she grunted. She lay there, her legs still slung around my neck, and the little flag inside her began twitching and fluttering. God, she said, I can’t stop it! My prick was still firm. It hung obedient on her wet lips, as though receiving the sacrament from a lascivious angel. She came again, like an accordion collapsing in a bag of milk. I got hornier and hornier. I pulled her legs down and lay them flat alongside my own. Now don’t move, damn you, I said. I’m going to give it to you straight. Slowly and furiously I moved in and out. Ah, ah … Oh! she hissed, sucking her breath in. I kept it up like a Juggernaut. Moloch fucking a piece of bombazine. Organza Friganza. The bolero in straight jabs. Her eyes were going wild; she looked like an elephant walking the ball. All she needed was a trunk to trumpet with. It was a fuck to a standstill. I fell on top of her and chewed her lips to a frazzle.

Then suddenly I thought of the douche. Get up! Get up! I said, nudging her roughly.

I don’t need to, she said weakly, giving me a knowing smile.

You mean…? I looked at her in astonishment.

Yes, there’s no need to worry…. Are you all right? Don’t you want to wash?

In the bathroom she confessed that she had been to the doctor—another doctor. There would be nothing to fear any more.

So that’s it? I whistled.

She powdered my cock for me, stretched it like a glove-fitter, and then bent over and kissed it. Oh God, she said, flinging her arms around me, if only….

If only what?

You know what I mean…

I unglued myself and turning my head away, I said: Yes, I guess I do. Anyway, you don’t hate me any more, do you?

I don’t hate any one, she answered. I’m sorry it’s turned out the way it has. Now I’ll have to share you … with her.

You must be hungry, she added quickly. Let me fix you something before you go. She powdered her face carefully first, rouged her lips, and did her hair up negligently but attractively. Her wraps was open from the waist up. She looked a thousand times better than I had ever seen her look. She was like a bright voracious animal.

I walked around in the kitchen with my prick hanging out and helped her fix a cold snack. To my surprise she unearthed a bottle of home made wine—elderberry wine that a neighbor had given her. We closed the doors and kept the gas burning to keep warm. Jesus, it was quite wonderful. It was like getting to know one another all over again. Now and then I got up and put my arms around her, kissed her passionately while my hand slid into her crack. She wasn’t at all shy or balky. On the contrary. When I pulled away, she held my hand, and then with a quick dive she fastened her mouth over my prick and sucked it in.

You don’t have to go immediately, do you? she asked, as I sat down and resumed eating.

Not if you don’t want me to, I said, in the most amiable state of acquiescence.

Was it my fault, she said, that this never happened before? Was I such a squeamish creature? She looked at me with such frankness and sincerity I hardly recognized the woman I had lived with all these years.

I guess we were both to blame, I said, downing another glass of elderberry wine.

She went to the ice-box to ferret out some delicacy.

You know what I feel like doing? she said, coming back to the table with arms laden. I’d like to bring the gramophone down and dance. I have some very soft needles … Would you like that?

Sure, I said, it sounds fine.

And let’s get a bit drunk … would you mind? I feel so wonderful. I want to celebrate.

What about the wine? I said. Is that all you have?

I can get some more from the girl upstairs, she said. Or maybe some cognac—would you like that?

I’ll drink anything … if it will make you happy.

She started to go at once. I jumped up and caught her by the waist. I raised her wrap and kissed her ass.

Let me go, she murmured. I’ll be back in a minute.

As she came back I heard her whispering to the girl from upstairs. She tapped lightly on the glass panel. Put something on, she cooed, I’ve got Elsie with me.

I went into the bathroom and wrapped a towel around my loins. Elsie went into a fit of laughter when she saw me. We hadn’t met since the day she found me lying in bed with Mona. She seemed in excellent good humor and not at all embarrassed by the turn of events. They had brought down another bottle, of wine and some cognac. And the gramophone and the records.

Elsie was in just the mood to share our little celebration. I had expected Maude to offer her a drink and then get rid of her more or less politely. But no, nothing of the kind. She wasn’t at all disturbed by Elsie’s presence. She did excuse herself for being half-naked, but with a good-natured laugh, as though it were just one of those things. We put a record on and I danced with Maude. The towel slipped off but neither of us made any attempt to pick it up. When we ungrappled I stood there with my prick standing out like a flag-pole and calmly reached for my glass. Elsie gave one startled look and then turned her head away. Maude handed me the towel, or rather slung it over my prick. You don’t mind, do you, Elsie? she said. Elsie was terribly quiet—you could hear her temples hammering. Presently she went over to the machine and turned the record over. Then she reached for her glass without looking at us and gulped it down.

Why don’t you dance with her? said Maude. I won’t stop you. Go ahead, Elsie, dance with him.

I went up to Elsie with the towel hanging from my prick. As she turned her back to Maude she pulled the towel off and grabbed it with a feverish hand. I felt her whole body quiver, as though a chill had come over her.

I’m going to get some candles. Said Maude. It’s too bright in here. She disappeared into the next room. Immediately Elsie stopped dancing, put her lips to mine and thrust her tongue down my throat. I put my hand on her cunt and squeezed it. She was still holding my cock. The record stopped. Neither of us pulled away to shut the machine off. I heard Maude coming back. Still I remained locked in Elsie’s arms.

This is where the trouble starts, I thought to myself. But Maude seemed to pay no attention.

She lit the candles and then turned the electric light off. I was pulling away from Elsie when I felt her standing beside us. It’s all right, she said. I don’t mind. Let me join in. And with that she put her arms around the two of us and we all three began kissing one another.

Whew! it’s hot! said Elsie, breaking away at last.

Take your dress off, if you like,said Maude. I’m taking this off, and suiting action to word she slipped out of the wrap and stood naked before us.

The next moment we were all stark naked.

I sat down with Maude on my lap. Her cunt was wet again. Elsie stood beside us with her arm around Maude’s neck. She was a little taller than Maude and well built. I rubbed my hand over her belly and twined my fingers in the bush that was almost on a level with my mouth. Maude looked on with a pleasant smile of satisfaction. I leaned forward and kissed Elsie’s cunt.

It’s wonderful not to be jealous any more, said Maude very simply.

Elsie’s face was scarlet. She didn’t quite know what her role was, how far she dared go. She studied Maude intently, as though not altogether convinced of her sincerity. Now I was kissing Maude passionately, my fingers in Elsie’s cunt the while. I felt Elsie pressing closer, moving herself. The juice was pouring over my fingers. At the same time Maude raised herself and, shifting her bottom, adroitly managed to sink down again with my prick neatly fitted inside her. She was facing forward now, her face pressed against Elsie’s breasts. She raised her head and took the nipple in her mouth. Elsie gave a shudder and her cunt began to quiver with silken spasms. Now Maude’s hand, which had been resting on Elsie’s waist, slid down and caressed the smooth cheeks. In another moment it had slipped farther down and encountered mine. I drew my hand away instinctively. Elsie shifted a little and then Maude leaned forward and placed her mouth on Elsie’s cunt. At the same time Elsie bent forward, over Maude, and put her lips to mine. The three of us were now quivering as if we had the ague.

As I felt Maude coming I held myself in, determined to save it for Elsie. My prick still taut, I gently raised Maude from my lap and reached for Elsie. She straddled me face forward and with uncontrollable passion she flung her arms around me, glued her lips to mine, and fucked away for dear life. Maude had discreetly gone to the bathroom. When she returned Elsie was sitting in my lap, her arm around my neck, her face on fire. Then Elsie got up and went to the bathroom. I went to the sink and washed myself there.

I’ve never been so happy, said Maude, going to the machine and putting on another record. Give me your glass, she said, and as she filled it she murmured: What will you say when you get home? I said nothing. Then she added under her breath: You could say one of us was taken ill.

It doesn’t matter, I said. I’ll think of something.

You won’t be angry with me?

Angry? What for?

For keeping you so long.

Nonsense, I said.

She put her arms around me and kissed me tenderly. And with arms around each other’s waist we reached for the glasses and gulped drown a silent toast. At this moment Elsie returned. We stood there, naked as hat racks, our arms entwined, and drank to one another.

We began to dance again, with the candles guttering. I knew that in a few moments they would be extinguished and no one would make a move to get fresh ones. We changed off at rapid intervals, to avoid giving one another the embarrassment of standing apart and watching. Sometimes Maude and Elsie danced together, rubbing their cunts together obscenely, then pulling apart laughingly, and one or the other making a grab for me. There was such a feeling of freedom and intimacy that any gesture, any act, became permissible. We began to laugh and joke more and more. When finally the candles guttered out, first one, then the other, and only a pale shaft of moonlight streamed through the windows, all pretense at restraint or decency vanished.

It was Maude who had the idea of clearing the table. Elsie assisted uncomprehendingly, like some one who had been mesmerized. Quickly the things were whisked to the tubs. There was a quick dash to the next room for a soft blanket which was stretched over the table. Even a pillow. Elsie was beginning to get the drift. She looked on goggle-eyed.

Before getting down to actualities, however, Maude had another inspiration—to make eggnogs. We had to switch the light on for that. The two of them worked swiftly, almost frantically. They poured a liberal dose of cognac into the concoction. As I felt it slipping down my gullet I felt it going straight into my pecker, into my balls. As I was drinking, my head thrown back, Elsie cupped her hand around my balls. One of them’s bigger than the other, she said laughingly. Then, after a slight hesitation: Couldn’t we all do something together? She looked at Maude. Maude grinned, as if to say—why not? Let’s put the top light out, said Elsie, we don’t need that any more, do we? She sat down on the chair beside the table. I want to watch you, she said, patting the blanket with her hand. She got hold of Maude and lifted her up and on to the table. This is a new one to me, she said. Wait a minute? She took my hand and drew me to her. Then, looking at Maude…. May I? And without waiting for an answer she bent forward and reaching for my cock, placed it in her mouth. After a few moments she withdrew her mouth. Now … let me watch! She gave me a little push, as if to hurry me on. Maude stretched out like a cat, her ass hanging over the edge of the table, the pillow under her head. She twined her legs around my waist. Then, suddenly, she untwined them and slung them over my shoulders. Elsie was standing beside me, her head down, watching with breathless absorption. Pull it out a little, she said in a hoarse whisper, I want to see it go in again. Then swiftly she ran to the window and raised the shades. Do it! she said. Go on, fuck her! As I plunged it in I felt Elsie slipping down beside me. The next moment I felt her tongue on my balls, lapping them vigorously.

Suddenly, utterly astounded, I heard Maude say: Don’t come yet. Wait…. Give Elsie a chance.

I pulled out, pushing my ass in Elsie’s face in doing so, and tumbling her backwards on the floor. She gave a squeal of delight and quickly sprang to her feet. Maude climbed down from the table and Elsie nimbly placed herself in position. Couldn’t you do something too? she said to Maude, sitting bolt upright. I have an idea … and she sprang off the table and threw the blanket on the floor and the pillow after it. It didn’t take her long to figure out an interesting configuration.

Maude was stretched out on her back, Elsie squatting over her on bent knees, her head facing Maude’s feet but the mouth glued to Maude’s crack. I was on my knees, giving it to Elsie from behind. Maude was playing with my balls, “a light, delicate manipulation with the finger-tips. I could feel Maude squirming around as Elsie licked her furiously and avidly. There was a weird pale light playing over the room and the taste of cunt in my mouth. I had one of those final erections which threaten never to break. Now and then I took it out and, pushing Elsie forward, I sank down farther and offered it to Maude’s nimble tongue. Then I would sink it in again and Elsie would squirm like mad and bury her nozzle in Maude’s crotch, shaking her head like a terrier. Finally I pulled out and pushing Elsie aside I fell on Maude and buried it in her with a vengeance. Do it, do it! she begged, as if she were waiting for the axe. Again I felt Elsie’s tongue on my balls. Then Maude came, like a star bursting, with a volley of half-finished words and phrases rippling off her tongue. I pulled away, still stiff as a poker, fearful now that I would never come again, and groped for Elsie. She was terribly gooey, and her mouth was just like a cunt now. Do you want it? I said, shoving it around inside her like a drunken fiend. Go on, fuck, fuck! she cried, slinging her legs up over my shoulders and dragging her bottom closer. Give it to me, give it to me, you bugger! She was almost yelling now. Yes, I’ll fuck you … I’ll fuck you! and she squirmed and writhed and twisted and bit and clawed me.

Oh, oh! Don’t. Please don’t. It hurts! she yelled.

Shut up, you bitch you! I said. It hurts, does it? You wanted it, didn’t you? I held her tightly, raised myself a little higher to get it in to the hilt, and pushed until I thought her womb would give way. Then I came—right into that snail-like mouth which was wide open. She went into a convulsion, delirious with joy and pain. Then her legs slid off my shoulders and fell to the floor with a thud. She lay there like a dead one, completely fucked out.

Jesus, I said, standing astraddle over her, and the sperm still coming out, dropping on her breast, her face, her hair, Jesus Christ, I’m exhausted. I’m fucked out, do you know that? I addressed myself to the room.

Maude was lighting a candle. It’s getting late, she said.

I’m not going home, I said. I’m going to sleep here.

You are? said Maude, an irrepressible thrill creeping into her voice.

Yes, I can’t go back in this condition, can I? Jesus, I’m groggy and boozy and woozy. I flopped on to a chair. Give me a drop of that cognac, will you, I need a bracer.

She poured out a good stiff one and held it to my lips, as if she were giving me medicine. Elsie had risen to her feet, a bit wobbly and lurchy. Give me one too, she begged. What a night! We ought to do this again some time.

Yeah, to-morrow, I said.

It was a wonderful performance, she said, stroking my dome. I never thought you were like that…. You almost killed me, do you know it?

You’d better take a douche,—said Maude.

I guess so, Elsie sighed. I don’t seem to give a damn. If I’m caught I’m caught.

Go on in there, Elsie, I said. Don’t be a damned fool.

I’m too tired, said Elsie.

Wait a minute, said I. I want to have a look at you before you go in there. I made her climb on the table and open her legs wide. With the glass in one hand I pried her cunt open with the thumb and forefinger of my other hand. The sperm was still oozing out.

It’s a beautiful cunt, Elsie.

Maude took a good look at it too. Kiss it, I said, gently pushing her nose into Elsie’s bush.

I sat there, watching Maude nibble away at Elsie’s cunt. It feels good, Elsie was saying. Awfully good. She moved like a belly dancer tied to the floor. Maude’s ass was sticking out temptingly. In spite of the fatigue my prick began to swell again. It stiffened like a blood-pudding. I got behind Maude and slipped it in. She spun her ass around and around, with just the tip of it in. Elsie was now contorting herself with pleasure; she had her finger in her mouth, and was biting the knuckle. We went on like this for several minutes, until Elsie had an orgasm. Then we disengaged ourselves and looked at one another as though we had never seen each other before. We were dazed.

I’m going to bed, I said, determined to make an end of it. I started for the next room, thinking to lie on the couch.

You can stay with me, said Maude, holding me by the arm. Why not? she said, seeing the surprised look in my eyes.

Yes, said Elsie, why not? Maybe I’ll go to bed with you too. Would you let me? she asked Maude point blank. I won’t bother you, she added. I just hate to leave you now.

But what will your folks say? said Maude.

They won’t know that Henry stayed, will they?

No, of course not! said Maude, a little frightened at the thought.

And Melanie? I said.

Oh, she leaves early in the morning. She has a job now.

Suddenly I wondered what the devil I would say to Mona. I was almost panic-stricken.

I think I ought to phone home, I said.

Oh, not now, said Elsie coaxingly. It’s so late…. Wait.

We hid the bottles away, piled the dishes up in the sink, and took the phonograph upstairs with us. It was just as well that Melanie shouldn’t suspect too much. We tip-toed through the hall and up the stairs, our arms loaded.

I lay between the two of them, a hand on either cunt. They lay quietly for a long while, sound asleep I thought. I was too tired to sleep. I lay with eyes wide open, staring up into the darkness. Finally I turned over on my side. Towards Maude. Instantly she turned towards me, putting her arms around me and glueing her lips to mine. Then she removed them and placed them to my ear. I love you, she whispered faintly. I made no answer. Did you hear? she whispered. I love you! I pressed her close and put my hand between her legs. Just then I felt Elsie turning round, cuddling up to me spoon fashion. I felt her hand crawling between my legs, squeezing my balls. She had her lips against my neck and was kissing me softly, warmly, with wet, cool lips.

After a time I turned back to a prone position. Elsie did the same. I closed my eyes, tried to summon sleep. It was impossible. The bed felt deliciously soft, the bodies beside me were soft and clinging, and the odor of hair and sex was in my nostrils. From the garden came the heavy fragrance of rain-soaked earth. It was strange, soothingly strange, to be back in this big bed, the marital bed, with a third person beside us, and the three of us enveloped in frank, sensual lust. It was too good to be true. I expected the door to be flung open any moment and an accusing voice scream: Get out of there, you brazen creatures! But there was only the silence of the night, the blackness, the heavy, sensual odors of earth and sex.

When I shifted again it was towards Elsie. She was waiting for me, eager to press her cunt against me, slip her thick, taut tongue down my throat.

Is she asleep? she whispered. Do it once more, she begged.

I lay motionless, my cock limp, my arm drooping over her waist.

Not now, I whispered. In the morning maybe.

No, now! she begged. My prick was curled up in her hand like a dead snail. Please, please, she whispered, I want it. Just one more fuck, Henry.

Let him sleep, said Maude, snuggling up. Her voice sounded as if she were drugged.

All right said Elsie, patting Maude’s arm. Then, after a few moments of silence, her lips pressed against my ear, she whispered slowly, allowing a pause between each word: When she falls asleep, yes? I nodded. Suddenly I felt that I was dropping off. Thank God, I said to myself.

There was a blank, a long blank, it seemed to me, during which I was completely out. I awakened gradually, dimly conscious that my prick was in Elsie’s mouth. I ran my hand over her head and stroked her back. She put her hand up and placed her fingers over my mouth, as if to warn me not to protest. A useless warning because, curiously enough, I had awakened with a full knowledge of what was coming. My prick was already responding to Elsie’s labial caresses. It was a new prick; it seemed thinner, longer, pointed—a dog-like prick. And it had life in it, as though it had refreshed itself independently, as though it had taken a nap all by itself.

Gently, slowly, stealthily—why had we become furtive now? I wondered—I pulled Elsie up and over me. Her cunt was different than Maude’s longer, narrower, like the finger of a glove slipping over my prick. I made comparisons as I cautiously jogged her up and down. I ran my fingers along the edge and grabbed her bush and tugged it gently. Not a whisper passed our lips. Her teeth were fastened in to the hump of my shoulder. She was arched so that only the tip of it was in her and around that she was slowly, skillfully, torturingly twirling her cunt. Now and then she sank down on it and dug away like an animal.

God, I love it! she finally whispered. I’d like to fuck you every night.

We rolled over on our sides and lay there glued together, making no movement, no sound. With extraordinary muscular contractions her cunt played with my prick as if it had a life and will of its own.

Where do you live? she whispered. Where can I see you … alone? Write me to-morrow … tell me where to meet you. I want a fuck every day … do you hear? Don’t come yet, please. I want it to last forever.

Silence. Just the beating of her pulse between the legs. I never felt such a tight fit, such a long, smooth, silky, clean, fresh tight fit. She couldn’t have been fucked more than a dozen times. And the roots of her hair, so strong and fragrant. And her breasts, firm and smooth, almost like apples. The fingers too, strong, supple, greedy, always wandering, clutching, caressing, tickling. How she loved to grab my balls, to cup them, weigh them, then ring the scrotum with two fingers, as if she were going to milk me. And her tongue always active, her teeth biting, pinching, nipping…

She’s very quiet now, not a muscle stirring. Whispers again.

Am I doing all right? You’ll teach me, won’t you? I’m rooty. I could fuck forever … You’re not tired any more, are you? Just leave it like that … don’t move. If I come don’t take it out…. you won’t, will you? God, this is heaven…

Quiet again. I have the feeling I could lie this . way indefinitely. I want to hear more.

I’ve got a friend, she whispers. We could meet there … she wouldn’t say anything. Jesus, Henry, I never through! it could be like this. Can you fuck like this every night?

I smiled in the dark.

What’s the matter? she whispered.

Not every night, I whispered, almost breaking into a giggle.

Henry, fuck! Quick, fuck me … I’m coming.

We came off simultaneously, a prolonged orgasm which made me wonder where the damned juice came from.

You did it! she whispered. Then: It’s all right … it was marvelous.

Maude turned over heavily in her sleep.

Good-night, I whispered. I’m going to sleep—

I’m dead.

Write me to-morrow, she whispered, kissing my cheek. Or phone me … promises I grunted. She cuddled up to me, her arm around my waist. We fell into a trance.

17

It was Sunday that this outing took place. I didn’t see Mona until near dawn Tuesday. Not that I remained with Maude—no, I went straight to the office on Monday morning. Towards noon I telephoned Mona and was told that she was asleep. It was Rebecca who answered the telephone. She said Mona hadn’t been home all night, that she had been rehearsing. And where were you all night? she demanded, almost with proprietary solicitude. I explained that the child had been taken ill and that I had been obliged to stay with her all night.

You’d better think up something better than that, she laughed, before you talk to Mona. She’s been telephoning all night. She was frantic about you.

That’s why she didn’t come home, I suppose?

You don’t expect any one to believe your stories, do you? said Rebecca, giving another low, throaty laugh. Are you coming home tonight? she added. We missed you … You know, Henry, you ought never to get married…

I cut her short. I’ll be home to-night for dinner, yes. Tell her that when she wakes up, will you? And don’t laugh when you tell her what I said—about the child, I mean.

She began to laugh over the telephone.

Rebecca, listen, I’m trusting you. Don’t make it hard for me. You know I think the world of you. If I ever marry another woman it will be you, you know that…

More laughter. Then: For God’s sake, Henry, stop it! But come home to-night … I want to hear all about it. Arthur won’t be home, I’ll stand by you … though you don’t deserve it.

So I went home, after taking a nap in the roller skating rink. I was rather exhilarated too, on arriving, owing to a last minute interview with an Egyptologist who wanted a job as a night messenger. A statement he had let drop about the probable age of the pyramids had thrown me out of the rut so violently that it was a matter of complete indifference to me how Mona would react to my story. There was reason to believe, he had said, and I am sure I heard him rightly, that the pyramids might be sixty thousand years old—at least. If that were true, the whole god-damned notion of Egyptian civilization could be thrown on the scrap-heap—and a lot of other historical notions too. In the subway I felt immeasurably older than I ever thought it was possible to feel. I was trying to reach back twenty or thirty thousand years, some half-way point between the erection of these enigmatic monoliths and the supposed dawn of that hoary civilization of the Nile. I was suspended in time and space. The word age began to take on a new significance. With it came a fantastic thought: what if I should live to be a hundred and fifty, or a hundred and ninety-five? How would this little incident that I was trying to cover up—the Organza Friganza business—stack up in the light of a hundred and fifty years of experience? What would it matter if Mona left me? What would it matter three generations hence how I had behaved on the night of the 14th of so and so and so? Supposing I was still virile at ninety-five and had survived the death of six wives, or eight or ten? Supposing that in the 21st century we had a return to Mormonism? Or that we began to see, and, not only to see but to practice, the sexual logic of the Eskimos? Supposing the notion of property were abolished and the institution of matrimony wiped out? In seventy or eighty years tremendous revolutions could take place. Seventy or eighty years hence I would only be a hundred or so years old—comparatively young yet. I would probably have forgotten the names of most of my wives, to say nothing of the fly-by-nights … I was almost in a state of exaltation when I walked in.

Rebecca came at once to my room. The house was empty. Mona had telephoned, she said, to say that there was another rehearsal on. She didn’t know when she would be home.

That’s fine, I said. Did you make dinner?

God, Henry, you’re adorable. She put her arms around me affectionately and gave me a comradely hug. I wish Arthur were like that. It would be easier to forgive him sometimes.

Isn’t there a soul around? I asked. It was most unusual for the house to be so deserted.

No, everybody’s gone, said Rebecca, examining the roast in the oven. Now you can tell me about that great love you were talking about over the phone. She laughed again, a low, earthy laugh which sent a thrill through me.

You know I wasn’t serious, I said. Sometimes I say anything at all … though in a way I mean it too. You understand, don’t you?

Perfectly! That’s why I like you. You’re utterly faithless and truthful. It’s an irresistible combination.

You know you’re safe with me, that’s it, eh? I said, sidling up to her and putting an arm around her.

She wriggled away laughingly. I don’t think any such thing—and you know it!? she burst out.

I’m only making up to you out of politeness, I said, with a huge grin. We’re going to have a cosy little meal now … God, it smells good … what is it? chicken?

Pork! she said. Chicken … what do you think? That I made this especially for you? Go on, talk to me. Keep your mind off the food a little longer. Say something nice, if you can. But don’t come near me, or I’ll stick a fork in you … Tell me what happened last night. Tell me the truth, I dare you…

That isn’t hard to do, my wonderful Rebecca.

Especially since we’re alone. It’s a long story—are you sure you’d like to hear it?

She was laughing again.

Jesus, you’ve got a dirty laugh, I said. Well anyway, where was I? Oh yes, the truth … Listen, the truth is that I slept with my wife…

I thought as much, said Rebecca.

But wait, that isn’t all. There was another woman besides…

You mean after you slept with your wife—or before?

At the same time, I said, grinning amiably.

No, no! don’t tell me that! She dropped the carving knife and stood with arms akimbo looking at me searchingly. I don’t know … with you anything’s possible. Wait a minute. Wait till I set the table. I want to hear the whole thing, from beginning to end.

You haven’t got a little schnapps, have you? I said.

I’ve got some red wine … that’ll have to do you.

Good, good! Of course it’ll do. Where is it?

As I was uncorking the bottle she came over to me and grasped me by the arm. Look, tell me the truth, she said. I won’t give you away.

But I’m telling you the truth!

All right, hold it, then. Wait till we sit down-Do you like cauliflower? I haven’t any other vegetable.

I like any kind of food. I like everything. I like you, I like Mona, I like my wife, I like horses, cows, chickens, pinochle, tapioca, Bach, benzine, prickly heat…

You like … ! That’s you all over. It’s wonderful to hear it. You make me hungry too. You like everything, yes … but you don’t love.

I do too. I love food, wine, women. Of course I do. What makes you think I don’t? If you like, you love. Love is only the superlative degree. I love like God loves—without distinction of time, place, race, color, sex and so forth. I love you too—that way. It’s not enough, I suppose?

It’s too much, you mean. You’re out of focus. Listen, calm down a moment. Carve the meat, will you? I’ll fix the gravy.

Gravy…. ooh, ooh. I love gravy.

Like you love your wife and me and Mona, is that it?

More even. Right now it’s all gravy. I could lick it up by the ladleful. Rich, thick, heavy, black gravy … it’s wonderful. By the way, I was just talking to an Egyptologist—he wanted a job as a messenger.

Here’s the gravy. Don’t get off the track. You were going to tell me about your wife.

Sure, sure I will. I’ll tell you that too. I’ll tell you everything. First of all, I want to tell you how beautiful you look—with the gravy in your hand.

If you don’t stop this, she said, I’ll put a knife in you. What’s come over you, anyway? Does your wife have such an effect upon you every time you see her? You must have had a wonderful time. She sat down, not opposite me, but to one side.

Yes, I did have a wonderful time, I said. And then just now there was the Egyptologist…

Oh, drat the Egyptologist! I want to hear about your wife … and that other woman. God, if you’re making this up I’ll kill you!

I busied myself for a while with the pork and the cauliflower. Took a few swigs of wine to wash it down. A succulent repast. I was feeling mellow as could” be. I needed replenishment.

It’s like this. I began, after I had packed away a few forkfuls.

She began to titter.

What’s the matter? What did I say now?

It isn’t what you say, it’s the way you say it. You seem so serene and detached, so innocent like. God, yes, that’s it—innocent. If it had been murder instead of adultery, or fornication, I think you’d begin the same way. You enjoy yourself, don’t you?

Of course … why not? Why shouldn’t I? Is that so terribly strange?

No-o-h, she drawled, I suppose it isn’t … or it shouldn’t be, anyway. But you make everything sound a little crazy sometimes. You’re always a little wide of the mark … too big a swoop. You ought to have been born in Russia!

Yeah, Russia! That’s it. I love Russia!

And you love the pork and the cauliflower—and the gravy and me. Tell me, what don’t you love? Think first! I’d really like to know.

I gobbled down a juicy bit of fatty pork dipped in gravy and looked at her. Well, for one thing, I don’t like work. I paused a minute to think what else I didn’t like. Oh yes, I said, meaning it utterly seriously, and I don’t like flies.

She burst out laughing. Work and flies—so that’s it. I must remember that. God, is that all you don’t like?

For the moment that’s all I can think of.

And what about crime, injustice, tyranny and those things?

Well, what about them? I said. What can you do about such things? You might just as well ask me—what about the weather?

Do you mean that?

Of course I do.

You’re impossible! Or maybe you can’t think when you eat.

That’s a fact, I said. I don’t think very well when I eat, do you? I don’t want to, as a matter of fact. Anyway, I was never much of a thinker. Thinking doesn’t get you anywhere anyhow. It’s a delusion. Thinking makes you morbid … By the way, have you any dessert … any of that Liederkranz? That’s a wonderful cheese, don’t you think?

I suppose it does sound funny, I continued, to hear some one say ‘I love it, it’s wonderful, it’s good, it’s great,’ meaning everything. Of course I don’t feel that way every day—but I’d like to. And I do when I’m normal, when I’m myself. Everybody does, if given a chance. It’s the natural state of the heart. The trouble is, we’re terrorized most of the time. I say ‘we’re terrorized,’ but I mean we terrorize ourselves. Last night, for instance. You can’t imagine how extraordinary it was. Nothing external created it—unless it was the lightning. Suddenly everything was different—and yet it was the same house, the same atmosphere, the same wife, the same bed. It was as though the pressure had suddenly been removed—I mean that psychic pressure, that incomprehensible wet blanket which smothers us from the time we’re born … You said something about tyranny, injustice, and so on. Of course I know what you mean. I used to occupy myself with those problems when I was younger—when I was fifteen or sixteen. I understood everything then, very clearly … that is, as far as the mind permits one to understand things. I was more pure, more disinterested, so to speak. I didn’t have to defend or uphold anything, least of all a system which I never did believe in, not even as a child. I worked out an ideal universe, all on my own. It was very simple: no money, no property, no laws, no police, no government, no soldiers, no executioners, no prisons, no schools. I eliminated every disturbing and restraining element. Perfect freedom. It was a vacuum—and in it I exploded.

What I really wanted, you see, was that every one should behave as I behaved, or thought I would behave. I wanted a world made in my own image, a world that would breathe my spirit. I made myself God, since there was nothing to hinder me..,

I paused for breath. I noticed that she was listening with the utmost seriousness.

Should I go on? You’ve probably heard this sort of thing a thousand times.

Do go on, she said softly, placing a hand on my arm. I’m beginning to see another you. I like you better in this vein.

Didn’t you forget the cheese? By the way, the wine isn’t bad at all. A little sharp, maybe, but not bad.

Listen, Henry, eat, drink, smoke, do anything you want, as much as you want. I’ll give you everything we have in the house. But don’t stop talking now … please.

She was just about to sit down. I sprang up suddenly, my eyes full of tears, and I put my arms around her. Now I can tell you honestly and sincerely, I said, that I do love you. I made no attempt to kiss her—I just embraced her. I released her of my own accord, sat down, picked up the glass of wine and finished it off.

You’re an actor, she said. In the real sense of the word, of course. I don’t wonder that people are frightened of you sometimes.

I know, I get frightened of myself sometimes. Especially if the other person responds. I don’t know where the proper limits are. There are no limits, I suppose. Nothing would be bad or ugly or evil—if we really let ourselves go. But it’s hard to make people understand that. Anyway, that’s the difference between the world of imagination and the world of common sense, which isn’t common sense at all but sheer buggery and insanity. If you stop still and look at things … I say look, not think, not criticize … the world looks absolutely crazy to you. And it is crazy, by God! It’s just as crazy when things are normal and peaceful as in times of war or revolution. The evils are insane evils, and the panaceas are insane panaceas. Because we’re all driven like dogs. We’re running away. From what? We don’t know. From a million nameless things. It’s a rout, a panic. There’s no ultimate place to retreat to—unless, as I say, you stand stock still. If you can do that, and not lose your balance, not be swept away in the rush, you may be able to get a grip on yourself … be able to act, if you know what I mean. You know what I’m driving at … From the time you wake up until the moment you go to bed it’s all a lie, all a sham and a swindle. Everybody knows it, and everybody collaborates in the perpetuation of the hoax. That’s why we look so god-damned disgusting to one another. That’s why it’s so easy to trump up a war, or a pogrom, or a vice crusade, or any damned thing you like. It’s always easier to give in, to bash somebody’s puss in, because what we all pray for is to get done in, but done in proper and no come back. If we could still believe in a God, we’d make him a God of Vengeance. We’d surrender to him with a full heart the task of cleaning things up. It’s too late for us to pretend to clean up the mess. We’re in it up to the eyes. We don’t want a new world … we want an end to the mess we’ve made. At sixteen you can believe in a new world … you can believe anything, in fact … but at twenty you’re doomed, and you know it. At twenty you’re well in harness, and the most you can hope for is to get off with arms and legs intact. It isn’t a question of fading hope … Hope is a baneful sign; it means impotence. Courage is no use either: everybody can muster courage—for the wrong thing.

I don’t know what to say—unless I use a word like vision. And by that I don’t mean a projected picture of the future, of some imagined ideal made real. I mean something more flexible, more constant—a permanent super-sight, as it were … something like a third eye. We had it once. There was a sort of clairvoyance which was natural and common to all men. Then came the mind, and that eye which permitted us to see whole and round and beyond was absorbed by the brain, and we became conscious of the world, and of one another, in a new way. Our pretty little egos came into bloom: we became self-conscious, and with that came conceit, arrogance, blindness, a blindness such as was never known before, not even by the blind.

Where do you get these ideas? said Rebecca suddenly. Or are you making it up on the spur of the moment? Wait a minute … I want you to tell me something. Do you ever put your thoughts down on paper? What do you write about anyway? You’ve never showed me a thing. I haven’t the least idea what you’re doing.

Oh that, I said, it’s just as well you haven’t read anything. I haven’t said anything yet. I can’t seem to get started. I don’t know what the hell to put down first, there’s so much to say.

But do you write the way you talk? That’s what I want to know.

I don’t think so, I said, blushing. I don’t know anything about writing yet. I’m too self-conscious, I guess.

You shouldn’t be, said Rebecca. You’re not self-conscious when you talk, and you don’t act self-consciously either.

Rebecca, I said, proceeding slowly and deliberately, if I really knew what I was capable of I wouldn’t be sitting here talking to you. I feel sometimes as though I’m going to burst. I really don’t give a damn about the misery of the world. I take it for granted. What I want is to open up. I want to know what’s inside me. I want everybody to open up. I’m like an imbecile with a can-opener in his hand, wondering where to begin—to open up the earth. I know that underneath the mess everything is marvelous. I’m sure of it. I know it because I feel so marvelous myself most of the time. And when I feel that way everybody seems marvelous … everybody and everything … even pebbles and pieces of cardboard … a match stick lying in the gutter … anything … a goat’s beard, if you like. That’s what I want to write about—but I don’t know how … I don’t know where to begin. Maybe it’s too personal. Maybe it would sound like sheer rubbish … You see, to me it seems as though the artists, the scientists, the philosophers were grinding lenses. It’s all a grand preparation for something that never conies off. Some day the lens is going to be perfect and then we’re all going to see clearly, see what a staggering, wonderful, beautiful world it is. But in the meantime we go without glasses, so to speak. We blunder about like myopic, blinking idiots. We don’t see what is under our nose because we’re so intent on seeing the stars, or what lies beyond the stars. We’re trying to see with the mind, but the mind sees only what it’s told to see. The mind can’t open wide its eyes and look just for the pleasure of looking. Haven’t you ever noticed that when you stop looking, when you don’t try to see, vow suddenly see? What is it you see? Who is it that sees? Why is it all so different—so marvelously different—in such moments? And which is more real, that kind of vision or the other? You see what I mean…. When you have an inspiration your mind takes a vacation; you turn it over to some one else, some invisible, unknowable power which takes possession of you, as we so aptly say. What the hell does that mean—if it makes sense at all? What happens when the machinery of the mind slows down, or comes to a standstill? Whatever or however you I choose to look upon it, this other modus operandi is I of another order. The machine runs perfectly, but its object and purpose seem purely gratuitous. It makes another kind of sense … grand sense, if you accept it unquestioningly, and nonsense—or not nonsense, but madness—it you try to examine into it with the other machinery … Jesus, I guess I’m getting off the track.

Little by little she steered me back to the story she wanted to hear. She was avidly curious about the details. She laughed a great deal—that low, earthy laugh which was provocative and approving at the same time.

You pick the strangest women, she said. You seem to choose with your eyes shut. Don’t you ever think beforehand what it’s going to mean to live with them?

She went on like this for a space and then suddenly I was aware that she had veered the conversation to Mona. Mona—that puzzled her. What did we have in common, she wanted to know. How could I stand her lies, her pretences—or didn’t I care about such things? Surely there had to be firm ground somewhere … one couldn’t build on quicksands. She had thought about us a great deal, even before she met Mona. She had heard about her, from different sources, had been curious to know her, to understand what the great attraction was…. Mona was beautiful, yes—ravishingly beautiful—and perhaps intelligent too. But God, so theatrical! There was no getting to grips with her; she eluded one like a phantom. What do you really know about her? she asked challengingly. Have you met her parents? Do you know anything about her life before she met you?

I confessed that I knew almost nothing. Perhaps it was better that I didn’t know, I averred. There was something attractive about the mystery which surrounded her.

Oh, nonsense! said Rebecca scathingly. I don’t think there’s any great mystery there. Her father’s probably a rabbi.

What! What makes you say that? How do you know she’s Jewish? I don’t even know it myself.

You don’t want to know it, you mean. Of course I don’t know either, except that she denies it so vehemently—that always makes one suspicious. Besides, does she look like the average American type? Come, come, don’t tell me you haven’t suspected as much—you’re not as dumb as all that.

What surprised me more than anything, as regards these remarks, was the fact that Rebecca had succeeded in discussing the subject with Mona. Not a hint of it had reached my ears. I would have given anything to have been behind a screen during that encounter.

If you really want to know something, I said, I’d rather that she were a Jewess than anything else. I never pump her about that, of course. Evidently it’s a painful subject. She’ll come out with it one day, you’ll see….

You’re so damned romantic, said Rebecca. Really, you’re incurable. Why should a Jewish girl be any different from a Gentile? I live in both worlds … I don’t find anything strange or marvelous about either.

Naturally, I said. You’re always the same person. You don’t change from one milieu to another. You’re honest and open. You could get along anywhere with any group or class or race. But most people aren’t that way. Most people are conscious of race, color, religion, nationality, and so on. To me all peoples are mysterious when I look at them closely. I can detect their differences much easier than their kinship. In fact, I like the distinctions which separate them just as much as I like what unites them. I think it’s foolish to pretend that we’re all pretty much the same. Only the great, the truly distinctive individuals, resemble one another. Brotherhood doesn’t start at the bottom, but at the top. The nearer we get to God the more we resemble one another. At the bottom it’s like a rubbish pile … that’s to say, from a distance it all seems like so much rubbish, but when you get nearer you perceive that this so-called rubbish is composed of a million-billion different particles. And yet, no matter how different one bit of rubbish is from another, the real difference only asserts itself when you look at something which is not rubbish. Even if the elements which compose the universe can be broken down into one vital substance … well, I don’t know what I was going to say exactly … maybe this … that as long as there is life there will be differentiation, values, hierarchies. Life is always making pyramidal structures, in every realm. If you’re at the bottom you stress the sameness of things; if you’re at the top, or near it, you become aware of the difference between things. And if something is obscure—especially a person—you’re attracted beyond all power of will. You may find that it was an empty chase, that there was nothing there, nothing more than a question mark, but just the same….

There was something more I felt like adding. And there’s the opposite to all this, I continued. As with my ex-wife, for instance. Of course I should have suspected that she had another side, hating her as I did for being so damned prudish and proper. It’s all very well to say that an over-modest person is extremely immodest, as the analysts do, but to catch one changing over from the one to the other, that’s something you don’t often have a chance to witness. Or if you do, it’s usually with some one else that the transformation occurs. But yesterday I saw it happen right before my eyes, and not with somebody else, but with me! No matter how much you think you know about a person’s secret thoughts, about their unconscious impulses and all that, nevertheless, when the conversion takes place before your eyes you begin to wonder if you ever did know the person with whom you were living all your life. It’s all right to say to yourself, a propos of a dear friend—’he has all the instincts of a murderer’—but when you see him coming at you with a knife, that’s something else. Somehow you’re never quite prepared for that, no matter how clever you are. At best you might credit him with doing it to some one else—but never to you … oh dear no! The way I feel now is that I should be prepared for anything from those whom you’re apt to suspect least of all. I don’t mean that one should be anxious, no, not that … one shouldn’t be surprised, that’s all. The only surprise should be that you can still be surprised. That’s it. That’s Jesuitical, what! Oh yes, I can spin it out when I get going…. Rabbi, you said a moment ago. Did you ever think that I might make a good rabbi? I mean it. Why not? Why couldn’t I be a rabbi, if I wanted to? Or a pope, or a mandarin, or a Dalai Lama? If you can be a worm you can be a god too. The conversation went on like this for several hours, broken only by Arthur Raymond’s return. I stayed a while longer, to ally any suspicions he might have, and then retired. Towards dawn Mona returned, wide awake, lovelier than ever, her skin glowing like calcium. She hardly listened to my explanations about the night before; she was exalted, infatuated with herself. So many things had happened since then—she didn’t know where to begin. First of all, they had promised her the role of understudy for the leading part in their next production. That is, the director had—no one else knew anything about it as yet. He was in love with her, the director. Had been slipping love notes in her pay envelopes for the last weeks. And the leading actor, he too was in love with her—madly in love. It was he who had been coaching her all along. He had been teaching her how to breathe, how to relax, how to stand, how to walk, how to use her voice. It was marvelous. She was a new person, with unknown powers. She had faith in herself, a boundless faith. Soon she would have the world at her feet. She’d take New York by storm, tour the country, go abroad maybe … Who could predict what lay ahead? Just the same, she was a little frightened of it all, too. She wanted me to help her; I was to listen to her read the script of her new part. There were so many things she didn’t know—and she didn’t want to reveal her ignorance before her infatuated lovers. Maybe she’d look up that old fossil at the Ritz-Carlton, make him buy her a new outfit. She needed hats, shoes, dresses, blouses, gloves, stockings…. so many, many things. It was important now to look the part. She was going to wear her hair differently too. I had to go with her into the hall and observe the new carriage, the new gait she had acquired. Hadn’t I noticed the change in her voice? Well, I would very soon. She would be completely remade—and I would love her even more. She would be a hundred different women to me now. Suddenly she thought of an old beau whom she had forgotten about, a clerk at the Imperial Hotel. He would buy her everything she needed—without a word. Yes, she must telephone him in the morning. I could meet her at dinner, in her new togs. I wasn’t going to be jealous, was I? He was a young man, the clerk, but a perfect fool, a ninny, a sap. The only reason he saved his money was that she might spend it. He had no use for it otherwise—he was too dumb to know what to do with it. If he could only hold her hand furtively he was grateful. Maybe she would give him a kiss sometime—when she needed some unusual favor.

On and on she ran … the kind of gloves she liked, the way to place the voice, how the Indians walked, the value of Yoga exercises, the way to train the memory, the perfume that suited her mood, the superstitiousness of theatrical people, their generosity, their intrigues, their amours, their pride, their conceit. How it felt to rehearse in an empty house, the jokes and pranks that occurred in the wings, the attitude of the stage hands, the peculiar aroma of the dressing rooms. And the jealousy! Every one jealous of every one else. Fever, commotion, distraction, grandeur. A world within a world. One became intoxicated, drugged, hallucinated.

And the discussions! A mere trifle could bring about a raging controversy, ending sometimes in a brawl, a hair-pulling match. Some of them seemed to have the very devil in them, especially the women. There was only one decent one, and she was quite young and inexperienced. The others were veritable maenads, furies, harpies. They swore like troopers. By comparison the girls at the dance hall were angelic.

A long pause.

Then, a propos of nothing, she asked when the divorce trial was taking place.

This week, I said, surprised at the sudden turn of her mind.

We’ll get married right away, she said.

Of course, I responded.

She didn’t like the way I said of course. You don’t have to marry me, if you don’t want, she said.

But I do want to, I said. And then we’ll get out of this place … find a place of our own.

Do you mean that? she exclaimed. I’m so glad. I’ve been waiting to hear you say that. I want to start a new life with you. Let’s get away from all these people! And I want you to quit that awful job. I’ll find a place where you can write. You won’t need to earn any money. I’ll soon be making lots of money. You can have anything you want. I’ll get you all the books you want to read…. Maybe you’ll write a play—and I’ll act in it! That would be wonderful, wouldn’t it?

I wondered what Rebecca would have said of this speech, had she been listening. Would she have heard only the actress, or would she have detected the germ of a new being expressing itself? Perhaps that mysterious quality of Mona’s lay not in obscuration but in germination. True enough, the contours of her personality were not sharply defined, but that was no reason to accuse her of falsity. She was mimetic, chameleonesque, and not outwardly, but inwardly. Outwardly everything about her was pronounced and definite; she stamped her impress upon you immediately. Inwardly she was like a column of smoke; the slightest pressure of her will altered the configuration of her personality instantly. She was sensitive to pressures, not the pressure of others’ wills but of their desires. The histrionic role with her was not something to be put on and off—it was her way of meeting reality. What she thought she believed; what she believed was real; what was real she acted upon. Nothing was unreal to her, except that which she was not thinking about. But the moment her attention was brought to bear, no matter how monstrous, fantastic or incredible, the thing became real. In her the frontiers were never closed. People who credited her with having a strong will were utterly mistaken. She had a will, yes, but it was not the will which swept her headlong into new and startling situations—it was her ever-present readiness, her alertness, to act out her ideas. She could change with devastating swiftness from role to role; she changed before your eyes, with that incredible and elusive prestidigitation of the vaudeville star who impersonates the most diverse types. What she had been doing all her life unconsciously the theatre was now teaching her to do deliberately. They were only making an actress of her in the sense that they were revealing to her the boundaries of art; they were indicating the limitations which surround creation. They could make a failure of her only by giving her free rein.

18

The day of the trial I presented myself at court in a bright and supercilious mood. Everything had been agreed upon beforehand. I had only to raise my hand, swear a silly oath, admit my guilt and take the punishment. The judge looked like a scarecrow fitted with a pair of lunar binoculars; his black wings flapped lugubriously in the hushed silence of the room. He seemed to be slightly annoyed by my serene complacency; it did not bolster the illusion of his importance, which was absolutely nil. I could make no distinction between him and the brass rail, between him and the cuspidor. The brass rail, the Bible, the cuspidor, the American flag, the blotter on his desk, the thugs in uniform who preserved order and decorum, the knowledge that was tucked away in his brain cells, the musty books in his study, the philosophy that underlay the whole structure of the law, the eye-glasses he wore, his B. V. D’s, his person and his personality, the whole ensemble was a senseless collaboration in the name of a blind machine about which I didn’t give a fuck in the dark. All I wanted was to know that I was definitely free to put my head in the noose again.

It was all going like tic-tac-to, one thing cancelling another, and at the end of course the law squashing you down as if you were a fat, juicy bedbug, when suddenly I realized that he was asking me if I were willing to pay such and such an amount of alimony regularly for the rest of my days.

W hat’s that? I demanded. The prospect of at last encountering some opposition caused him to brighten appreciably. He reeled off some gibberish about solemnly agreeing to pay the sum of something or other.

I agree to no such thing, I said emphatically. I intend to pay—and here I mentioned a sum that was double the amount he had named.

It was his turn to say What’s that?

I repeated myself. He looked at me as though I had lost my senses, then, swiftly, as though he were trapping me, he snapped out: Very good! We’ll make it as you wish. It’s you funeral.

It’s my pleasure and privilege, I retorted.

Sir!

I repeated myself. He gave me a withering look, beckoned to the lawyer to approach, leaned over and whispered something in his ear. I had the distinct impression that he was asking the lawyer if I were in my sound senses. Apparently assured that I was, he looked up and, fixing a stony gaze upon me, he said: Young man, do you know what the penalty is for failure to meet your obligations?

No sir, I said, nor do I care to hear it. Are we through now? I’ve got to get back to my job.

It was a beautiful day outdoors. I started walking aimlessly. Soon I was at the Brooklyn Bridge. I started walking over the Bridge, but after a few minutes I lost heart, turned round and dove into the subway. I had no intention of going back to the office; I had been given a day off and I intended to make the most of it.

At Times Square I got off and walked instinctively towards the French-Italian restaurant over near Third Avenue. It was cool and dark in the back of the grocery store where they served the food. At lunch time there never were many customers. Soon there was only myself and a big, sprawling Irish girl who had already made herself quite drunk. We fell into a strange conversation about the Catholic Church during the course of which she repeated like a refrain: The Pope’s all right, but I refuse to kiss his ass.

Finally she pushed her chair back, struggled to her feet, and tried to walk towards the lavatory. (The lavatory was used by men and women alike and was in the hall. I saw that she would never make it alone. I got up and held her by the arm. She was thoroughly potted and lurching like a storm-tossed ship.

As we got to the door of the lavatory she begged me to help her on to the seat. I stood her by the seat so that all she had to do was to sit down. She hitched up her skirt and tried to pull her panties down, but the effort was too much. Pull ‘em down for me, will you, she begged with a sleepy grin. I did as she asked, patted her cunt affectionately, and sat her down on the seat. Then I turned to go.

Don’t go! she whined, clutching my hand, and with that she began emptying her tank. I held on while she finished the job, Nos. I and 2, with stink bombs and everything. Throughout the operation she repeated over and over: No, I won’t kiss the Pope’s ass! She looked so absolutely helpless that I thought perhaps I’d have to wipe her ass for her. However, from long years of training she managed to do this much for herself, though it took and incredibly long lime. I was about ready to throw up when finally she asked me to lift her up. As I was pulling her bloomers up I couldn’t help rubbing my hand over her rose-bush. It was tempting, but the stench was too powerful to dally with that idea.

As I assisted her out of the toilet the patronne espied us and nodded her head sadly. I wondered if she realized what chivalry it took for me to perform this act. Anyway, we went back to the table, ordered some black coffee, and sat talking a little while longer. As she sobered up she became almost disgustingly grateful. She said if I would take her home I could have her—she wanted to make it up to me. I’ll take a bath and change my things, she said. I feel filthy. It was filthy too, God help me.

I told her I would see her home in a taxi, but that I wouldn’t be able to stay with her.

Now you’re getting delicate, she said. What’s the matter, ain’t I good enough for you? It ain’t my fault, is it, if I had to go to the toilet? You go to the toilet too, don’t you? Wait till I take a bath—you’ll see what I look like. Listen, give me your hand! I gave her my hand and she put it under her skirt, right on her bushy cunt. Take a good feel of it, she urged. You like it? Well, it’s all yours. I’ll scrub it and perfume it for you. You can take all you like of it. I’m not a bad lay. And I’m not a tart either, see! I got cock-eyed, that’s all. A guy walked out on me, and I was crazy enough to take it to heart. He’ll come crawling back before long, don’t you worry. But Jesus, I did have my heart set on him. I told him I wouldn’t kiss the Pope’s ass—and that got him sore. I’m a good Catholic, same as he, but I can’t see the Pope as Christ Almighty, can you?

She went on with her monologue, jumping from one thing to another like a goat. I gathered that she was a switch-board operator in a big hotel. She wasn’t such a bad sort, either, down under her Irish skin. I could see that she might be very attractive, once the fumes of the alcohol cleared away. She had very blue eyes and jet black hair, and a smile that was sly and puckish. Maybe I would run up and help her with her bath. I could always run out on her if anything went amiss. The thing that bothered me was that I was to meet Mona for dinner. I was to wait for her in the Rose Room of the Me Alpin Hotel.

We got in a taxi and drove uptown. In the cab she rested her head on my shoulder. You’re awfully good to me, she said in a sleepy voice. I don’t know who you are, but you’re O.K. with me. Jesus, I wish I could take a nap first. Would you wait for me?

Sure, I said. Maybe I’ll take a nap too.

The apartment was cosy and attractive, better than I had expected it to be. She had no sooner opened the door than she kicked off her shoes. I helped her undress.

As she stood before the mirror, nude except for her panties, I had to admit that she possessed a beautiful figure. Her breasts were white and full, round and taut, with bright strawberry-colored nipples.

Why don’t you take those off too? I said pointing to the panties. No, not now, she said, suddenly becoming coy, her cheeks coloring slightly.

I took them off before, I said. What’s the difference now? I put my hand on her waist as if to pull them down. Don’t, please! she begged. Wait till I have my bath. She paused a moment, then added: I’m just getting over my period.

That settled it for me. I saw the ring-worms flowering again. I got panicky.

All right, I said, take your bath! I’ll stretch out in here while you’re at it.

Won’t you scrub my back for me? she said, her lips curling in that puckish smile of hers.