Plexus (22 page)

“He's gaga,” said O'Mara.

“Sh-h-h-h!”

I laughed quietly.

Now he began to talk in muffled tones, almost inaudibly, his lips scarcely moving. I could only get fragments of it.

“Open your mouth!” said O'Mara.

“Sh-h-h-h!”

More muffled flimflam. Broken by an occasional cooooooo or eeeeeee. All punctuated by stifled shrieks and that infernal peanut whistle. It was getting eerie. We were now approaching the gas tanks and the dismal lumber yards. The empty streets were sinister and lugubrious. Suddenly I felt Sheldon's fingers clawing my arm. A sound like Ughhh escaped from his thin cracked lips. He was tugging at me and nodding his head. He did it like a horse tossing his mane.

I looked sharply about. There on the other side of the street was a drunk zigzagging homeward. A huge hulk of a man, with his jacket wide open, no tie on, no hat. Now and then he stopped to let out a bloody oath.

“Hurry, hurry!” muttered Sheldon, gripping me tighter.

“Shhh! It's all right,” I murmured.

“A Polack!” he whispered. I could feel him quivering all over.

“Let's get back to the Avenue,” I said to O'Mara. “He's in torment.”

“Yes, yes,” whimpered Sheldon. “This way is better,” and with elbow glued to his body he stuck a hand out cautiously and jerkily, like the movement of a semaphore. Once we had turned the corner his pace livened. Half-running, half-walking, he kept swinging his head from side to side, fearful that someone would catch us unaware. When we got to the subway station we took leave of him. Not before giving him my address, however. I had to write it out for him on the inside of a matchbox. His hands were still trembling, his teeth chattering.

“Sheldon will see you soon,” he said, as he waved good-bye. At the foot of the stairs he stopped, turned round, and put his finger to his lips.

“SHHHHHHH!” went O'Mara as loud as he could.

Sheldon grinned solemnly. Then, without uttering a sound, he frantically moved his lips. It seemed to me he
was trying to say POLACKS. He probably thought he was screaming.

“You should never have given him our address,” said O'Mara. “That guy will haunt us. He's a pest. He gives me the creeps.” He shook himself like a dog.

“He's all right,” I said. “I'll handle him, if he ever does show up. Besides, I rather like Sheldon.”

“You would!” said O'Mara.

“Did you notice the rocks on his fingers?”

“Rhinestones probably.”

“Diamonds
, you mean! You don't know Sheldon. Listen, if we ever need help that guy will pawn his shirt for us.”

“I'd rather starve than have to listen to him.”

“All right, have it your way. Something tells me we may have need of Mister Sheldon one day. Jesus, how he trembled when he saw that drunken Polack!”

O'Mara was silent.

“You don't give a shit, do you?” I gibed. “You don't know what a pogrom is like.…”

“Neither do you,” said O'Mara tartly.

“When I look at Sheldon I do. Yes sir, to me that poor bastard is nothing but a walking pogrom. If that Polack had started for us he would have shit in his pants.”

A few nights later Osiecki turned up with his girl. Louella was her name. Her downright homeliness almost made her beautiful. She had on a Nile-green gown and brocaded slippers of banana-yellow and orange. She was quiet, self-contained, and totally humorless. Her manner was that of a nurse rather than a fiancée.

Osiecki wore the fixed grin of a death's-head. His attitude was—“I promised to bring her, here she is.” The implication was that we were to get what we could out of her without his assistance. He had come to “set” and drink what was provided. As for conversation, he listened to all that went on as if we were putting on records for him.

It was a strange conversation because all one could extract from Louella was a
Yes
or a
No
or
I think so
or
Perhaps
. Osiecki's grin widened more and more, as if to say: “I told you so!” The more he drank the more wobbly his teeth became. His mouth was beginning to resemble a contraption of intricate wires and braces. Whatever he chewed he chewed slowly and painfully. In fact, he seemed to masticate rather than chew. Since his last visit his whole face had broken out in an eruption which did little to enhance his forlorn appearance.

Asked if things were going any better, he turned to Louella. “She'll tell you,” he mumbled.

Louella said “No.”

“Still the same old trouble?”

Again he looked to Louella.

This time she said, “Yes.”

Then, to our surprise, he said: “Ask her how
she
feels.” With this he lowered his head; a few drops of saliva fell into his glass. He pulled out a handkerchief and with obvious effort wiped his mouth.

All eyes focused on Louella. No reaction except to look straight through us, one after the other. Her eyes, which were pale green, became stony and fixed. We were growing highly uncomfortable, but no one knew how to break the spell. Suddenly, of her own accord, she began to speak. She employed a low monotone, as if hypnotized. Her gaze, which never altered throughout, was riveted to the edge of the mantelpiece, which was just above our heads. In that theatrical Nile-green gown, with those glassy-green eyes, she gave the discomfiting impression of impersonating a medium. Her hair, a striking dissonance, was magnificent: a luxuriant, voluptuous auburn which fell like a cataract over her bare shoulders. For a full moment, completely bewitched, I had the odd sensation of gazing upon a corpse, an electrically warmed corpse.

What she was talking about in that dull, hollow monotone I didn't quite catch at first. It was like listening to
distant surf beating against a cliff. She had mentioned no names, no places, no time. Gradually I surmised that the “him” she was talking about was her fiancé, Osiecki. Now and then I glanced at him to observe his reactions, but there were none. He was still grinning like an asbestos grill. One would hardly have suspected that she was talking about
him
.

The gist of her monologue was to the effect that she had known him for over a year now and, despite all his friends might say, she was convinced that he was really no different than he had ever been. She implied very definitely that he was cuckoo. Without the slightest modulation she added that she was certain she was also going cuckoo. No insinuation that it was his fault. No, merely as if it were an unfortunate, or perhaps fortunate, coincidence. It was his misfortune which had attracted her. She supposed she loved him, but she had no way of knowing, since both their reactions were abnormal. His friends, whom she had nothing against, regarded her as a bad influence. Perhaps she was. She had no ulterior motive in attaching herself to him. She earned her own living and, if needs be, could take care of both. She was neither happy nor unhappy. The days passed as in a dream, and the nights were the continuation of some other dream. Sometimes she thought it would be better if they left the city, other times she thought it made no difference one way or the other. She was getting less and less able to make decisions. A sort of twilight had settled over them, which, to believe her, was not at all unbearable. They were going to marry shortly; she hoped his friends wouldn't mind too much. As for the lice, she had felt them herself; it could be imaginary, of course, but she didn't see much difference between imaginary bites and real ones, especially if they left marks on one's skin. His eczema, which we had probably noticed, was only a passing thing—he had been drinking heavily. But she preferred to see him drunk than worried to death. He had his good points and his bad points, like anyone else. She was
sorry she didn't care much for music but she did her best to listen. She had never had any feeling for art, neither music, painting, nor literature. She had no enthusiasm for anything, really, not even as a child. Her life had always been easy and comfortable, as well as dull and monotonous. The monotony of life didn't affect her as it did others, she thought. She felt the same whether she was alone or with people.…

On and on she went, none of us having the heart or the wits to interrupt her. She seemed to have cast a spell over us. If a corpse could talk she was a perfect talking corpse. Except for the fact that her lips moved and emitted sounds, she was inanimate.

It was O'Mara who broke the spell. He thought he heard someone at the door. He sprang to his feet and yanked the door open. There was no one, nothing but the darkness. I noticed Louella's head jerk when he swung the door open. In a few moments her features relaxed, her eyes melted.

“Wouldn't you like another drink?” asked Mona.

“Yes,” she said, “I would.”

O'Mara had hardly seated himself, was just about to pour himself another drink, in fact, when there was a timid knock at the door. He jumped. Mona dropped the glass she was proffering Louella. Only Osiecki remained impassive.

I went to the door and opened it quietly. There stood Sheldon, hat in hand.

“Were you here just a minute ago?” I asked.

“No,” he said, “I just came.”

“Are you sure?” asked O'Mara.

Sheldon disregarded this and walked in.
“Sheldon!”
he said, glancing from one to another, and to each one making a slight bow. The ceremony consisted in closing the eyes and opening them quiveringly each time he returned to an erect posture.

We put him at ease as best we could and proffered him a drink.

“Sheldon never refuses,” he said solemnly, his eyes glittering. Throwing his head back, he polished off the glass of sherry at one gulp. Then he loudly smacked his lips, fluttered his eyelids some more, and inquired if we were all enjoying good health. For answer we all laughed, except Louella, who smiled gravely. Sheldon tried to laugh, too, but the best he could do was to make a weird grimace, something like a wolf about to lick its chops.

Osiecki grinned hard, right in Sheldon's face. He seemed to sense a kindred spirit.

“What did he say his name was?” he asked, looking at O'Mara.

Sheldon repeated his name gravely, dropping his eyes as he did so.

“Haven't you got a first name?” he asked, this time direct.

“Just Sheldon,” said Sheldon.

“But you're Polish, aren't you?” said Osiecki, becoming more and more animated.

“I was
born
in Poland,” said Sheldon. Here he drew his words out so that there could be no possibility of misunderstanding. “But I am proud to say I am
not
Polish.”

“Well, I'm half Polish,” said Osiecki amiably, “but I'm damned if I know whether I'm proud of it or not.”

Sheldon immediately looked away, closing his mouth tightly as if he feared to utter an ill-timed malediction. Catching my eye he gave me a painful smile. It meant—“I am doing my best to behave myself in the company of your friends, even though I smell Polish blood.”

“He won't harm you,” I said reassuringly.

“What's the matter…?” cried Osiecki. “What did I do?”

Sheldon promptly rose to his feet, threw out his chest, frowned, then assumed his most striking histrionic pose.

“Sheldon is not afraid,” he said, sucking in air with each word he hissed. “Sheldon does not
wish
to speak to a Polack.” Here he paused and without moving the rest of his
body, turned his head around as far as it would go, then back again, exactly like a mechanical doll. In doing this he half closed his eyelids, thrust forward his under lip, and, coming to eyes front! slowly raised his hand, the forefinger extended—like Dr. Munyon about to prate of liver pills.

“Shhhhhh!” from O'Mara.

“S-HHHHHHH!” And Sheldon lowered his hand to place a forefinger over his lips.

“What
is
this?” cried Osiecki, thoroughly elated by the performance.

“Sheldon will speak.
Afterwards the Polacks may speak
. This is not the place for hooligans. Am I right, Mr. Miller? Quiet, please!” Again he twisted his head around, like a mechanical doll. “There has happened once a very terrible thing. Excuse me if I must mention such things in the presence of ladies and gentlemen. But this man”—he glowered fiercely at Osieki—“has asked me if I am a Pole. Pfui! (He spat on the floor.) That
I
should be a Pole—pfui! (He spat again.) Excuse me, Madame Mrs. Miller—he made an ironic little bow—but when I hear the word Pole I must spit.
Pfui!”
(And he spat a third time.)

He paused, taking a deep breath in order to inflate his chest to the proper degree. Also to gather up the venom which his glands were secreting. His lower jaw trembled, his eyes darted black rays of hate. As if made of compression rings, his body began to tighten: he had only to uncoil himself to spring to the other side of the street.

“He's going to throw a fit,” said Osiecki in genuine alarm.

O'Mara jumped to his feet to offer Sheldon a glass of sherry. Sheldon knocked it out of his hand, as if brushing away a fly. The sherry spilled over Louella's beautiful Nile-green gown. She took no notice of it whatever. Osiecki was getting more and more agitated. In distress he turned to me imploringly.

“Tell him I didn't mean anything by what I said,” he begged.

“A Pole never apologizes,” said Sheldon, looking straight ahead. “He murders, he tortures, he rapes, he burns women and children—but he never says “I
am sorry.'
He drinks blood, human blood—and he prays on his knees, like an animal. Every word from his mouth is a lie or a curse. He eats like a dog, he makes caca in his pants, he washes with filthy rags, he vomits in your face. Sheldon prays every night that God should punish them. As long as there is one Pole alive there will be tears and misery. Sheldon has no mercy on them. They must all die, like pigs… men, women and children. Sheldon says it…
because he knows them.”