The Rosy Crucifixion 3 - Nexus (7 page)

You understand, I hod to…

Of course!

The ax was lying there, the war was on, the old man always drunk, my sister on the bum … Besides, I always wanted to write … You understand?

Of course!

And then the stars … Autumn stars. And strange, new horizons. A world so new and yet so old. Walking, hiding, foraging. Seeking, searching, praying … shedding one skin after another. Every day a new name, a new calling. Always fleeing from myself. Understand?

Of course!

Above the Equator, under the Equator … no rest, no surcease. Never nothing nowhere. Worlds so bright, so full, so rich, but linked with concrete and barbed wire. Always the next place, and the next. Always the hand stretched forth, begging, imploring, beseeching. Deaf, the world. Stone deaf. Rifles cracking, cannons booming, and men, women and children everywhere lying stiff in their own dark blood. Now and then a flower. A violet, perhaps, and a million rotting corpses to fertilize it. You follow me?

Of course!

I went mad, mad, mad.

Naturally!

So he takes the ax, so sharp, so bright, and he takes to chopping … here a head, there an arm or leg, then fingers and toes. Chop, chop, chop. Like chopping spinach. And of course they’re looking for him. And when they find him they’ll run the juice through him. Justice will be served. For every million slaughtered like pigs one lone wretched monster is executed humanly.

Do I understand? Perfectly.

What is a writer but a fellow criminal, a judge, an executioner? Was I not versed in the art of deception since childhood? Am I not riddled with traumas and complexes? Have. I not been stained with all the guilt and sin of the medieval monk?

What more natural, more understandable, more human and forgivable than these monstrous rampages of the isolated poet?

As inexplicably as they entered my sphere they left, these nomads.

Wandering the streets on an empty belly puts one on the qui vive. One knows instinctively which way to turn, what to look for: one never fails to recognize a fellow traveler.

When all is lost the soul steps forth…

I referred to them as angels in disguise. So they were, but I usually awoke to the fact only after they had departed. Seldom does the angel appear trailing clouds of glory, Now and then, however, the drooling simpleton one stops to gaze at suddenly fits the door like a key. And the door opens.

It was the door called Death which always swung open, and I saw that there was no death, nor were there any judges or executioners save in our imagining. How desperately I strove then to make restitution! And I did make restitution. Full and complete. The rajah stripping himself naked. Only an ego left, but an ego puffed and swollen like a hideous toad. And then the utter insanity of it would overwhelm me. Nothing can be given or taken away; nothing has been added or subtracted; nothing increased or diminished. We stand on the same shore before the same mighty ocean. The ocean of love. There it is—in perpetuum. As much in a broken blossom, the sound of a waterfall, the swoop of a carrion bird as in the thunderous artillery of the prophet. We move with eyes shut and ears stopped; we smash walls where doors are waiting to open to the touch; we grope for ladders, forgetting that we have wings; we pray as if God were dead and blind, as if He were in a space beyond space. No wonder the angels in our midst are unrecognizable.

One day it will be pleasant to remember these things.

4.

And so, moving about in the dark or standing for hours like a hat rack in a corner of the room, I fell deeper and deeper into the pit. Hysteria became the norm. The snow never melted.

While hatching the most diabolical schemes to drive Stasia really mad, and thus do away with her for good, I also dreamed up the most asinine plan of campaign for a second courtship. In every shop window I passed I saw gifts which I wanted to buy her. Women adore gifts, especially costly ones. They also love little nothings, dependent on their moods. Between a pair of antique ear rings, very expensive, and a large black candle, I could spend the whole livelong day debating which to get her. Never would I admit to myself that the expensive object was out of reach. No, were I able to convince myself that the ear rings would please her more, I could also convince myself that I could find the way to purchase them. I could convince myself of this, I say, because in the bottom of my heart I knew I would never decide on either. It was a pastime. True, I might better have passed the time debating higher issues, whether, for example, the soul was corruptible or incorruptible, but to the mind-machine one problem is as good as another. In this same spirit I could work up the urge to walk five or ten miles in order to borrow a dollar, and feel just as triumphant if I succeeded in scrounging a dime or even a nickel. What I might have hoped to do with a dollar was unimportant; it was the effort I was still capable of making which counted. It meant, in my deteriorated view of things, that I still had one foot in the world.

Yes, it was truly important to remind myself of such things occasionally and not carry on like the Akond of Swot. It was also good to give them a jolt once in a while, to say when they came home at three A.M. empty-handed: Don’t let it bother you, I’ll go buy myself a sandwich. Sometimes, to be sure, I ate only an imaginary sandwich. But it did me good to let them think that I was not altogether without resources. Once or twice I actually convinced them that I had eaten a steak. I did it to rile them, of course. (What business had I to eat a steak when they had passed hours away sitting in a cafeteria waiting for some one to offer them a bite?)

Occasionally I would greet them thus: So you did manage to get something to eat?

The question always seemed to disconcert them.

I thought you were starving, I would say.

Whereupon they would inform me that they were not interested in starving. There was no reason for me to starve either, they were sure to add. I did it only to torment them.

If they were in a jovial mood they would enlarge on the subject. What new deviltry was I planning? Had I seen Kronski lately? And then the smoke screen talk would begin—about their new-found friends, the dives they had discovered, the side trips to Harlem, the studio Stasia was going to rent, and so on and so forth. Oh yes, and they had forgotten to tell me about Barley, Stasia’s poet friend, whom they had run across the other night. He was going to drop in some afternoon. Wanted to meet me.

One evening Stasia took to reminiscing. Truthful reminiscences, as far as I could gather. About the trees she used to rub herself against in the moonlight, about the perverted millionaire who fell in love with her because of her hairy legs, about the Russian girl who tried to make love to her but whom she repulsed because she was too crude. Besides, she was then having an affair with a married woman and, to throw dust in the husband’s eyes, she used to let him fuck her … not that she enjoyed it but because the wife, whom she loved, thought it was the thing to do.

I don’t know why I’m telling you all these things, she said. Unless…

Suddenly she remembered why. It was because of Barley. Barley was an odd sort. What the attraction was between them she couldn’t understand. He was always pretending he wanted to lay her, but nothing ever happened. Anyhow, he was a very good poet, that she was sure of. Now and then, she said, she would compose a poem in his presence. Then she supplied a curious commentary: I could go on writing while he masturbated me.

Titters.

What do you think of that?

Sounds like a page out of Krafft-Ebing, I volunteered.

A long discussion now ensued regarding the relative merits of Krafft-Ebing, Freud, Forel, Stekel, Weininger et alia, ending with Stasia’s remark that they were all old hat.

You know what I’m going to do for you? she exclaimed. I’m going to let your friend Kronski examine me.

How do you mean—examine you?

Explore my anatomy.

I thought you meant your head.

He can do that too, she said, cool as a cucumber.

And if he finds nothing wrong with you, you’re just polymorph perverse, is that it?

The expression, borrowed from Freud, tickled them no end. Stasia liked it so much, indeed, that she swore she would write a poem by that title.

True to her word, Kronski was summoned to come and make due examination. He arrived in good humor, rubbing his hands and cracking his knuckles.

What’s it this time, Mister Miller? Any vaseline handy? A tight job, if I know my business. Not a bad idea, though. At least we’ll know if she’s a hermaphrodite or not. Maybe we’ll discover a rudimentary tail…

Stasia had already removed her blouse and was displaying her lovely coral-tipped breasts.

Nothing wrong with them, said Kronski, cupping them. Now oft with your pants!

At this she balked. Not here! she cried.

Wherever you like, said Kronski. How about the toilet?

Why don’t you conduct your examination in her room? said Mona. This isn’t an exhibition performance.

Oh no? said Kronski, giving them a dirty leer. I thought that was the idea.

He went to the next room to fetch his black bag.

To make it more official I brought my instruments along.

You’re not going to hurt her? cried Mona.

Not unless she resists, he replied. Did you find the vaseline? If you haven’t any, olive oil will do … or butter.

Stasia made a wry face. Is all that necessary? she demanded.

It’s up to you, said Kronski. Depends on how touchy you are. If you lie still and behave yourself there’ll be no difficulty. If it feels good I may stick something else in.

Oh no you don’t! cried Mona.

What’s the matter, are you jealous?

We invited you here as a doctor. This isn’t a bordel.

You’d be better off it were a fancy house, said Kronski sneeringly. She would, at least … Come on, let’s get it over with.

With this he took Stasia by the hand and led her into the little room next to the toilet. Mona wanted to go along, to be certain that no harm came to Stasia. But Kronski wouldn’t hear of it.

This is a professional visit, he said. He rubbed his hands gleefully. As for you, Mister Miller, and he gave me a knowing look, if I were you I’d take a little walk.

No, stay! begged Mona. I don’t trust him.

So we remained, Mona and I, pacing up and down the long room with never a word exchanged.

Fives minutes passed, then ten. Suddenly from the adjoining room there came a piercing scream. Help! Help! He’s raping me!

We burst into the room. Sure enough, there was Kronski with his pants down, his face red as a beet. Trying to mount her. Like a tigress, Mona pounced on him and pulled him off the bed. Then Stasia bounded out of bed and threw herself on him, straddling him. With all her might she clawed and pummeled him. The poor devil was so bewildered by the onslaught that he was scarcely able to defend himself. If I hadn’t intervened they would have scratched his eyes out.

You bastard! screamed Stasia.

Sadist! screamed Mona.

They made such a din I thought the landlady would be down with a cleaver.

Staggering to his feet, his pants still down around his ankles, Kronski finally managed to splutter: What’s all the fuss about? She’s normal, just as I thought. In fact, she’s too normal. That’s what got me excited. What’s wrong with that!

Yeah, what’s wrong with that! I chimed in, looking from one to the other.

Shoo him out of here! they yelled.

Easy now! Take it easy! said Kronski, putting a little soothing syrup into his voice, You asked me to examine her, and you knew as well as I that there’s nothing wrong with her physically. It’s her belfry that needs looking into, not her private parts. I can do that too, but it takes time. And what would you have me prove? Answer that, if you can I Do you want to know something? I could have the three of you locked up. He snapped his fingers in our faces. Like that! he said, snapping his fingers again. For what? Moral turpitude, that’s what. You wouldn’t have a leg to stand on, none of you.

He paused a full moment to let this sink in.

I’m not mean enough, however, to do a thing like that. I’m too good a friend, aren’t I, Mister Miller? But don’t try to throw me out for doing you a good turn.

Stasia was standing there stark naked, her pants slung over her arm. Finally she became self-conscious and started slipping into her trousers. In doing so she slipped and fell. Mona immediately rushed to her aid, only to be vigorously pushed aside.

Leave me alone! cried Stasia. I can help myself. I’m not a child. So saying, she picked herself up. She stood upright a moment, then bending her head forward, she looked at herself, at the very center of her anatomy. With that she burst into a laugh, a demented sort of laugh.

So I’m normal, she said, laughing still harder. What a joke! Normal, because there’s a hole here big enough to stick something into. Here, give me a candle! I’ll show you how normal I am.

With this she began making the most obscene gestures, contorting her pelvis, writhing as if in the throes of an orgasm.

A candle! she screamed. Get a big, fat black one! I’ll show you how normal I am!

Please, Stasia, stop it, I beg you! cried Mona.

Yes, cut it! said Kronski sternly. You don’t need to give us an exhibition.

The word exhibition seemed only to incense her more.

This is my exhibition, she screamed. And it’s gratis this time. Usually I get paid for making an ass of myself, don’t I? She turned on Mona. Don’t I? she hissed. Or haven’t you told them how we raise the rent money?

Please, Stasia, please! begged Mona. She had tears in her eyes.

But nothing could halt Stasia now. Grabbing a candle from the bureau top, she stuck it up her crotch, and as she did so she rolled her pelvis frantically.

Isn’t that worth fifty dollars? she cried. What’s his name would pay even more, but then I would have to let him suck me off, and I don’t like being sucked off. Not by a pervert, any way.

Stop it! Stop it, or I’ll run away! From Mona.

She quieted down. The candle fell to the floor. A new expression now came over her countenance. As she slipped into her blouse she said very quietly, addressing her words to me: