The Rosy Crucifixion 3 - Nexus (9 page)

We opened a bottle of Rhine wine, a jar of lachs, and a tin of English biscuits—the finest. Resumed our places around the gut table.

Stasia’s pregnant, said Mona. Like she might have said—Stasia’s got a new dress.

Is that what you were celebrating?

Of course not.

I turned to Stasia. Tell us about it, I said, I’m all ears.

She turned red and looked helplessly at Mona. Let her tell you, she said.

I turned to Mona. Well?

It’s a long story, Val, but I’ll make it short. She was attacked by a bunch of gangsters in the Village. They raped her.

They? How many?

Four, said Mona. Do you remember the night we didn’t come home? That was the night.

Then you don’t know who the father is?

The father is, they echoed. We’re not worrying about the father.

I’d be glad to take care of the brat, said I. All I need to learn is how to produce milk.

We’ve spoken to Kronski, said Mona. He’s promised to take care of things. But first he wants to examine her.

Again?

He’s got to be certain.

Are you certain?

Stasia is. She’s stopped menstruating.

That means nothing, said I. You’ve got to have better evidence than that.

Stasia now spoke up. My breasts are getting heavy. She unbuttoned her blouse and took one out. See! She squeezed it gently. A drop or two of what looked like yellow pus appeared. That’s milk, she said.

How do you know?

I tasted it.

I asked Mona to squeeze her breasts and see what would happen, but she refused. Said it was embarrassing.

Embarrassing? You sit with your legs crossed and show us everything you’ve got, but you won’t take your boobies out. That’s not embarrassing, that’s perverse.

Stasia burst out laughing. It’s true, she said. What’s wrong with showing us your breasts?

You’re the one who’s pregnant, not I, said Mona.

When is Kronski coming?

To-morrow.

I poured myself another glass of wine and raised it on high. To the unborn! I said. Then lowering my voice, I inquired if they had notified the police.

They ignored this. As if to tell me the subject was closed, they announced that they were planning to go to the theatre shortly. They’d be glad to have me come along, if I wished.

To see what? I asked.

The Captive, said Stasia. It’s a French play. Everybody’s talking about it.

During the conversation Stasia had been trying to cut her toe nails. She was so awkward that I begged her to let me do it for her. When I had finished the job I suggested that she let me comb her hair. She was delighted.

As I combed her hair she read aloud from The Drunken Boat. Since I had listened with evident pleasure she jumped up and went to her room to fetch a biography of Rimbaud. It was Carry’s Season in Hell. Had events not conspired to thwart it, I would have become a devotee of Rimbaud then and there.

It wasn’t often, I must say, that we passed an evening together in this manner, or ended it on such a good note.

With Kronski’s arrival next day and the results of the examination negative, things commenced to go awry in earnest. Sometimes I had to vacate the premises while they entertained a very special friend, usually a benefactor who brought a supply of groceries or who left a check on the table. Conversing before me they often indulged in double talk, or exchanged notes which they wrote before my eyes. Or they would lock themselves in Stasia’s room and there keep up a whispered conversation for an ungodly while. Even the poems Stasia wrote were becoming more and more unintelligible. At least, those she deigned to show me. Rimbaud’s influence, she said. Or the toilet-box, which never ceased gurgling.

By way of relief there were occasional visits from Osiecki who had discovered a nice speak-easy, over a funeral parlor, a few blocks away. I’d have a few beers with him—until he got glassy-eyed and started scratching himself. Sometimes I’d take it into my head to go to Hoboken and, while wandering about forlornly, I’d try to convince myself that it was an interesting burg. Weehawken was another God-forsaken place I’d go to occasionally, usually to see a burlesque show. Anything to escape the loony atmosphere of the basement, the continual chanting of love songs—they had taken to singing in Russian, German, even Yiddish!—the mysterious confabs in Stasia’s rooms, the barefaced lies, the dreary talk of drugs, the wrestling matches…

Yes, now and then they would stage a wrestling match for my benefit. Were they wrestling matches? Hard to tell. Sometimes, just to vary the monotony, I would borrow brush and paints and do a caricature of Stasia.

Always on the walls. She would answer in kind. One day I painted a skull and cross-bones on her door. The next day I found a carving knife hanging over the skull and bones.

One day she produced a pearl-handled revolver. Just in case, she said.

They were accusing me now of sneaking into her room and going through her things.

One evening, wandering by my lonesome through the Polish section of Manhattan, I stumbled into a pool room where, to my great surprise, I found Curley and a friend of his shooting pool. He was a strange youngster, this friend, and only recently released from prison. Highly excitable and full of imagination. They insisted on returning to the house with me and having a gab fest.

In the subway I gave Curley an earful about Stasia. He reacted as if the situation were thoroughly familiar to him.

Something’s got to be done, he remarked laconically.

His friend seemed to be of the same mind.

They jumped when I turned on the lights.

She must be crazy! said Curley.

His friend pretended to be frightened by the paintings. He couldn’t take his eyes off them.

I’ve seen them before, he said, meaning in the booby hatch.

Where does she sleep? said Curley.

I showed them her room. It was in a state of complete disorder—books, towels, panties, pieces of bread scattered over the bed and on the floor.

Nuts! Plain nuts! said Curley’s friend.

Curley meanwhile had begun to poke around. He busied himself opening one drawer after another, pulling the contents out, then shoving them back in.

What is it you’re looking for? I asked.

He looked at me and grinned. You never know, he said.

Presently he fixed his eyes on the big trunk in the corner under the toilet box.

What’s in there?

I shrugged my shoulders.

Let’s find out, he said. He unfastened the hasps, but the lid was locked. Turning to his friend, he said: Where’s that gimmick of yours? Get busy! I’ve got a hunch we’re going to find something interesting.

In a moment his friend had pried open the lock. With a jerk they threw back the lid of the trunk. The first object that greeted our eyes was a little iron casket, a jewelry box, no doubt. It wouldn’t open. The friend again produced his gimmick. It was the work of a moment to unlock the casket.

Amidst a heap of billets-doux—from friends unknown—we discovered the note which had supposedly been flushed down the toilet. It was in Mona’s handwriting, sure enough. It began thus: Desperate, my lover…

Hold on to it, said Curley, you may need it later on. He began stuffing the other letters back into the casket. Then he turned to his friend and advised him to make the Jock look as it should. See that the trunk lock works right too, he added. They mustn’t suspect anything.

Then, like a pair of stage hands, they proceeded to restore the room to its original state of disorder, even down to the distribution of the bread crumbs. They argued a few minutes as to whether a certain book had been lying on the floor open or unopened.

As we were leaving the room the young man insisted that the door had been ajar, not closed.

Fuck it! said Curley. They wouldn’t remember that.

Intrigued by this observation, I said: What makes you so sure?

It’s just a hunch, he replied. You wouldn’t remember, would you, unless you had a reason for leaving the door partly open. What reason could she have had? None. It’s simple.

It’s too simple, I said. One remembers trivial things without reason sometimes.

His answer was that any one who lived in a state of filth and discorder couldn’t possibly have a good memory. Take a thief, he said, he knows what he’s doing, even when he makes a mistake. He keeps track of things. He has to or he’d be shit out of luck. Ask this guy!

He’s right, said his friend. The mistake I made was in being too careful. He wanted to tell me his story, but I urged them to go. Save it for next time, I said.

Sailing into the street, Curley turned to inform me that I could count on his aid any time. We’ll fix her, he said.

5.

It was getting to be like sequences in a coke dream, what with the reading of entrails, the unraveling of lies, the bouts with Osiecki, the solo ramblings along the waterfront at night, the encounters with the masters at the public library, the wall paintings, the dialogues in the dark with my other self, and so on. Nothing could surprise me any more, not even the arrival of an ambulance. Some one, Curley most likely, had thought up that idea to rid me of Stasia. Fortunately I was alone when the ambulance pulled up. There was no crazy person at this address, I informed the driver. He seemed disappointed. Some one had telephoned to come and get her. A mistake, I said.

Now and then the two Dutch sisters who owned the building would drop in to see if all was well. Never stayed but a minute or two. I never saw them except unkempt and bedraggled. The one sister wore blue stockings and the other pink and white striped stockings. The stripes ran spirally, like on a barber’s pole.

But about The Captive … I went to see the play on my own, without letting them know. A week later they went to see it, returning with violets and full of song. This time it was—(Just a Kiss in the Dark.

Then one evening—how did it ever happen?—the three of us went to eat in a Greek restaurant. There they spilled the beans, about The Captive, what a wonderful play it was and how I ought to see it some time, maybe it would enlarge my ideas. But I have seen it! I said. I saw it a week ago. Whereupon a discussion began as to the merits of the play, capped by a battle royal because I failed to see eye to eye with them, because I interpreted everything in a prosaic, vulgar way. In the midst of the argument I produced the letter filched from the little casket. Far from being crestfallen or humiliated, they sailed into me with such venom, raised such a howl and stink, that soon the whole restaurant was in an uproar and we were asked, none too politely, to leave.

As if to make amends, the following day Mona suggested that I take her out some night, without Stasia. I demurred at first but she kept insisting. I thought probably she had a reason of her own, one which would be disclosed at the proper time, and, so I agreed. We were to do it the night after next.

The evening came but, just as we were about to leave she grew irresolute. True, I had been ragging her about her appearance—the lip rouge, the green eyelids, the white powdered cheeks, the cape that trailed the ground, the skirt that came just to her knees, and above all, the puppet, that leering, degenerate-looking Count Bruga, which she was hugging to her bosom and which she meant to take along.

No, I said, not that, by God!

Why?

Because … God-damn it, no!

She handed the Count to Stasia, removed her cape, and sat down to think it over. Experience told me that that was the end of our evening. To my surprise, however, Stasia now came over, put both arms around us—just like a great big sister—and begged us not to quarrel. Go! she said. Go and enjoy yourselves! I’ll clean house while you’re gone. She fairly pushed us out, and as we marched off she kept shouting—Have a good time! Enjoy yourselves!

It was a lame start but we had decided to go through with it. As we hastened our steps—why? where were we rushing?—I felt as if I would explode. But I couldn’t get a word out, I was tongue-tied. Here we were, rushing along arm in arm to enjoy ourselves, but nothing definite had been planned. Were we just taking the air?

Presently I realized that we were headed for the subway. We entered, waited for a train, got in, sat down. Not a word as yet had passed between us. At Times Square we rose, like robots tuned to the same wave length, and tripped up the stairs. Broadway. Same old Broadway, same old Neon hell’s a-fire. Instinctively we headed north. People stopped in their tracks to stare at us. We pretended not to notice.

Finally we arrived in front of Chin Lee’s. Shall we go up? she asked. I nodded. She walks straight to the booth we had occupied that first night—a thousand years ago.

The moment the food is served her tongue loosens. Everything floods back: the food we ate, the way we faced each other, the airs we listened to, the things we said to one another … Not a detail overlooked.

As one recollection followed another we grew more and more sentimental. Falling in love again … never wanted to … what am I to do…? It was as if nothing had happened in between—no Stasia, no cellar life, no misunderstandings. Just we two, a pair of shoulder birds, with life everlasting.

A full dress rehearsal, that’s what it was. To-morrow we would play our parts—to a packed house.

Were I asked which was the true reality, this dream of love, this lullaby, or the copper-plated drama which inspired it, I would have said—This. This is it!

Dream and reality—are they not interchangeable?

Beyond ourselves, we gave our tongues free rein, looked at one another with new eyes, more hungry, greedy eyes than ever before, believing, promising, as if it were our last hour on earth. We had found one another at last, we understood one another, and we would love one another forever and ever.

Still dewy, still reeling from the fumes of bliss, we left arm in arm and started wandering through the streets. No one stopped to look at us.

In a Brazilian coffee house we sat down again and resumed the duologue. Here the current showed signs of fluctuating. Now came halting admissions tinged with guilt and remorse. All that she had done, and she had done worse things than I imagined, had been done through fear of losing my love. Simpleton that I was, I insisted that she was exaggerating, I begged her to forget the past, declared it was of no importance whether true or false, real or imagined. I swore that there could never be any one but her.