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Orpheus Emerged

Page 10

by Jack Kerouac


  know what a spectacle you all make of your-

  selves? You and that Julius…”

  “What on earth are you talking about?”

  Marie inquired.

  “You know damned well what I’m talking

  about, but that’s beside the point I suppose

  in that damned pattern of yours!”

  “Pattern?”

  “Ha ha ha!” shouted Paul again from his

  chair.

  Michael gave him a seething look. Paul

  put in quickly, “I know what you’re thinking!

  Traitor! Traitor! Oh, what a joke that one is!

  By the way, did you know that I stole your

  poetry today?”

  Michael didn’t seem to have heard, or if

  he had, he didn’t seem to care.

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  Paul took out some papers and waved them

  at Michael. “Shall I read you some excerpts,

  hey?”

  “To hell with all of you!” Michael said grim-

  ly. “I’m wasting my time here.” And suddenly

  he had hurried to the door, and they heard it

  open and slam hard.

  “Don’t get lost in your corridor!” Paul yelled

  after him, jumping up from his chair and going

  to the door. A moment later he was back, and

  sat down in his chair and started to laugh.

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  Marie walked towards him and stopped

  to look down at him.

  “You can be very mean,” she said. “Do

  you know that?”

  “I’m talented,” Paul said.

  “Hmm.”

  Arthur was standing indecisively. It had

  begun to rain steadily outside, and the win-

  dow drummed and rattled in the wind.

  “It seems super-

  fluous to have

  to be mean to a

  person who does-

  n’t know how to

  be happy,” Marie

  went on.

  Paul looked up at her, surprised. “You think

  that of Michael, that he can’t be happy?”

  “He doesn’t know how. We were miser-

  able in the Quarter.”

  “And as for myself? Do I know how to be

  happy?”

  “Yes.”

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  “It’s interesting that you should know

  that,” Paul said quickly.

  “Just why?”

  “That is the main point about Michael,”

  Paul rushed on. “He himself thinks other-

  wise, I mean as to the point: he’s always

  preoccupied with his so-called amorality,

  and just because of that simple fact, he’s not

  amoral—but he doesn’t know that, does he?

  No, the point about Michael is rather that he

  doesn’t know how to be happy.”

  “Well,” Arthur ventured, as he moved

  towards the door. “I think I’ll be going now,

  to dinner. Is anyone going to dinner?”

  “Not now,” Marie said.

  “Well, good night,” said Arthur, and went

  out.

  “Arthur’s a nice fellow,” Paul said dreami-

  ly, “but he takes Michael much too seriously.”

  They were silent as the rain and wind

  beleaguered the windowpane.

  “Did you enjoy your escapade?” Paul

  inquired at length as he lit himself a ciga-

  rette.

  “Not too much.”

  “Does Michael’s inferiority complex

  annoy you?”

  “It did.”

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  “Would you do it

  again?”

  “Perhaps—but not

  with him. It was

  somewhat pleasant,

  though.”

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  “You’re a strange girl, Marie; way beyond

  my comprehension, too.”

  Marie laughed scornfully and turned on

  the radio.

  “Good-bye,” said Paul, getting up from

  the chair. “I wish you could meet Helen

  when she comes here some day. You’re the

  nearest thing to Helen I’ve seen in my life.”

  “Is that a compliment?”

  “It’s by way of being a compliment from

  both Michael and myself.”

  “Oh?”

  Paul laughed nervously. “I’ll bet you’re

  thinking of me as a little fool. Well enough,

  I don’t care: it doesn’t bother me. Good-bye,

  Marie.”

  Marie nodded and Paul went out.

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  VI

  MICHAEL, ON

  THE STREET

  outside of Marie’s apartment, huddled

  up in his coat and turned up the collar to

  the rain. He started to walk, hardly car-

  ing in what directions his footsteps took

  him. But a vague idea was forming in

  the back of his mind, and he began to

  hurry towards the Boulevard Bar.

  Three men were coming down the

  sidewalk in Michael’s direction. They

  wore raincoats and were shouting and

  singing in a carefree manner. As they

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  approached Michael, they formed a wedge

  in the center of the sidewalk and were quiet.

  Michael, intent on his destination, and with

  his head lowered against the driving rain,

  walked straight up to them expecting in any

  event that they would make room for him,

  since they occupied the entire sidewalk.

  But they did not separate, and one of them

  suddenly waved his arms and began yelling,

  “Out of my way! Out of my way, everybody!”

  And saying this, he bumped directly into

  Michael, pushed him aside violently with

  his elbow, and paused to stare at him ques-

  tioningly, with a look of stupefaction on his

  face. The other two men began to laugh.

  Michael registered only mild astonishment,

  since he was so preoccupied with his anger

  against Marie and Paul, and it hardly

  occurred to him that his person was being

  insulted—at least, for the moment.

  The three men laughed as Michael shuf-

  fled on in the rain.

  And just as Michael reached the top of

  the street and was turning into the boule-

  vard, he heard the men shouting, followed

  by the shattering of glass.

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  He turned in

  time to see the

  three men,

  laughing uproar-

  iously, run away

  from the street

  level window of

  an apartment

  house that they

  had just broken

  with a volley of

  rocks.

  Michael stopped, stunned and fright-

  ened. Then he hurried on up the boulevard

  towards the bar and walked in quickly. It

  was warm and cheery in the bar, and the

  place was already filling up despite the din-

  ner hour. Michael sat at a table in the cor-

  ner, flapped off the rain from his coat collar,

  and ordered pernod and water. He l
ooked

  at his hand and it was trembling violently.

  When his drinks came, he drank up quickly

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  and began to shiver and tremble all over.

  The seaman who had bought Anthony

  drinks a week ago was standing at the bar

  talking to two men. He was very drunk

  again, and occasionally he would totter and

  almost fall on his back.

  “Someday,” he was crying thickly—and so

  loudly that the bartenders were looking at each

  other with significance—“someday I’m going to

  walk into a rich man’s house, with my dirty boots

  covered with mud, and with a gun, I’ll shoot

  everything down, the rich man, the paintings on

  the wall, the expensive vases, the draperies…

  Gentlemen,” he went on ponderously, reeling

  back against another man who was just then

  crossing the room, “I shall bring his house down

  upon his head.”

  The man into whom the drunken sea-

  man had reeled now gave a violent push, for

  he too was drunk, and was annoyed that

  someone should reel against him. The sea-

  man went hurtling against the bar, and like

  a rubber ball, with his crossed eyes gleam-

  ing at two divergent points in space, he

  bounded back into the annoyed drunkard

  and knocked him to the floor. The drunkard

  got to his feet immediately and floundered

  wildly towards the seaman. There was a

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  flurry of waving arms, and suddenly the

  seaman went down under the impact of an

  elbow in his face and smashed his head

  against the brass rail running along the

  base of the bar. Blood was spewing from the

  drunkard’s nose as he panted, and he now

  jumped down upon the prostrate seaman

  and began to pummel his head with his

  forearms. The two bartenders had by now

  vaulted over the bar, and in doing so, had

  overturned a bottle of beer which went

  crashing to the floor and precipitated a

  scream from a drunken woman at the cor-

  ner of the bar.

  In a moment, after much violent hauling

  and pushing, the bartenders had directed

  the two combatants to the door of the bar

  and hurled them out into the rain. The

  patrons of the bar now assembled at the

  plate glass window, in one excited group,

  and watched the resumption of the battle

  outside. There was much shouting, and

  cries of amazement on the part of the spec-

  tators.

  “Look at that! Look!”

  “He’s going to kill him!” a woman cried

  anxiously, dropping her glass to the floor.

  “He’s beating his head on the pavement!”

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  Michael lowered his head and quickly

  gulped his pernod. It burned violently in

  his throat, and he took water. The specta-

  tors were still yelling. Michael buried his

  face in his hands, and suddenly, not to his

  very great surprise, began to shake vio-

  lently and even to sob a little. Then he

  began to feel dizzy and sick; he rose

  waveringly from the table and rushed to

  the lavatory. He was there for what

  seemed an eternity.

  When he got back to his table, quiet

  reigned again in the barroom. They were

  saying that some policemen had come

  along and broken up the fight with their

  billy clubs, and carried the combatants

  away in their police cars. The spectators

  were back at their stations along the bar,

  ordering more drinks. One bartender, with

  a gleam in his eye as he shook the mixer,

  was shouting down the bar to the other bar-

  tender, “Well! That’s it for tonight!”

  Michael ordered another pernod and

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  water and drank it as soon as it came. Now

  he no longer felt like weeping; he felt only

  bitterness, and there was a fuzz before his

  eyes. His hands were still trembling and lit-

  tle drops of sweat were running down into

  his collar.

  After drinking down the third pernod, Leo

  was suddenly standing beside his table, car-

  rying a load of books and looking contented.

  “Michael!” he greeted. “It’s good to see

  you again!” He sat down and placed his

  books on the table. “I’m going to drink a

  glass of beer.”

  “How are you?” Michael inquired

  gloomily.

  “Fine. But you don’t look so well. You’re

  pale, and there’s sweat all over your face.

  Did you know that Paul was back also? I

  thought you were all gone for good; I was

  getting lonesome.”

  Michael smiled wanly.

  “I heard a man was just killed,” Leo went

  on, beckoning to the waiter.

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  “What?”

  “Weren’t you around ten minutes ago?

  You missed it. Two men were fighting in

  here and then out on the sidewalk, and some

  policemen came along to break it up, and

  killed one of the men with their billy clubs.”

  “Are you sure?”

  “That’s what they’re all saying. I saw

  them carry the dead man into the police car

  as I came down the boulevard. Tell me,

  where’s Paul?”

  Michael was running his hand over his

  face in great agitation. Looking up quickly,

  he asked, “Paul?”

  “Yes, where is he?”

  “I don’t know, I don’t know.”

  Leo smiled reassuringly. “You’re in a

  nervous mood, I see. Is it because of the

  repercussions of the Marie affair?”

  “How did you find out? And I don’t care,

  anyway.”

  “They’re saying that Maureen has cast

  you out, and that Anthony almost died of

  grief and neglect and alcohol, and all kinds

  of things.”

  “Well, what of it?”

  “And,” Leo went on garrulously, “you’d

  better ask Paul for your poetry. I was with

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  ORPHEUS EMERGED 188

  him today when he stole it, and he threat-

  ened to burn it.”

  “I don’t care,” Michael said. “God,” he

  added, “I don’t care about anything any

  more. This is the end. Pah!”

  Leo laughed loudly. The waiter set the

  glass of beer before him and Leo took a

  quick sip.

  “I’m going to end my life soon,” Michael

  added suddenly.

  Leo laughed more loudly than before.

  “Now, now,” he mocked indulgently. “None

  of that, and besides, people never mean it

  when they come out with it that way! Oh,

  no—remember Ippolit in Dostoyevsky?”

  “Ippolit meant what he said,” Michael

  droned, staring into his empty glass. “It

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  wasn’t his fault that the gun didn’t go off.

  That part was the biggest tragedy of the

  book, not what came later.”

  Leo laughed again; he was in a happy

  mood, and the rain had brightened up his

  usually dour complexion. “I don’t take you

  seriously, at any rate. There’s a lot to live

  for, and you must know that…”

  Michael didn’t answer. He waved to the

  waiter and ordered another pernod. Then

  he turned to Leo: “And you say that one of

  the men was killed?”

  “Yes.”

  Michael sighed heavily, shakily. “Look at

  my hands,” he said at length, holding them

  out for Leo to see. “See them shake violent-

  ly? I’m on the verge of a nervous break-

  down. I think I’m going crazy. I’ve got to

  put an end to it.”

  Leo laughed again and squeezed

  Michael’s arm. “Don’t be ridiculous. You

  dramatize everything. A little misery is

  good for the poet. You yourself wrote this

  line, I remember it: ‘Pain is the law of the

  artist’s life.’ Ha ha! Aren’t I right?”

  Michael shrugged gloomily.

  “Pain is the substance of your life. That’s

  what Goethe said. Remember that. Bear it

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  out with fortitude.”

  “Fortitude!” sneered Michael. “What a

  dull word! — I’m sick of hearing it. I don’t

  want to be courageous, my emotions are

  against it; I want to be happy.”

  “Well—” began Leo.

  “Shut up!” yelled Michael. The bar-

  tenders had begun to look over to their

  table. “Not so much noise,” one of them

  called, waving his finger.

  Michael glowered at the tabletop.

  Another Pernod came and he threw a large

  bill on the table.

  “You’d better not drink much more per-

  nod,” Leo warned. “You’ll be very drunk in

  a matter of minutes.”

  “Well? That’s pre-

  cisely what I want.

  I’m going to oblit-

  erate myself, like

  Anthony did, but

  I’m going to do it

  first with pernod,

  and then—”

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  Michael left off and drank down a whole

  glassful of pernod.

  Leo grimaced good-naturedly. Suddenly

 

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