The Rosy Crucifixion 2 - Plexus

by Henry Miller

  The day after our visit to the dumps I received a most unexpected call from a police lieutenant in our precinct. He had come in search of Mona who fortunately was not home. After a, few politenesses I asked what the trouble might be. No trouble, he assured me. Merely wanted to ask a few questions. Being the husband, I wondered aloud if I couldn’t answer them for her. He seemed reluctant to comply with this polite suggestion. When do you expect her back? he asked. I told him I couldn’t say. Was she at work, he ventured to ask. You mean does she have a job? said I. He ignored this. And you don’t know where she went? He was boring in, obviously. I replied that I hadn’t the slightest idea. The more questions he asked the more tight-lipped I became. I still had no inkling of what was on his mind.

  Finally, however, I caught a clue. It was when he asked if she were an artist perchance that I began to get the drift. In a way, I said, waiting for the next question. Well, said he, extracting a Mezzotint from his pocket and laying it before me, maybe you can tell me something about this.

  Vastly relieved, I said—Certainly! What would you like to know?

  Well, he began, settling back to enjoy a lengthy palaver, just what is this? What’s the racket, I mean?

  I smiled. There’s no racket. We sell them.

  To whom?

  Anybody. Everybody. Anything wrong with that?

  He paused to scratch his poll.

  Have you read this one yourself? he asked, as if firing pointblank.

  Of course I have. I wrote it.

  What’s that? You wrote it? I thought she was the writer?

  We’re both writers.

  But her name’s signed to it.

  That’s true. We have our own reason for that.

  So that’s it? He twiddled his thumbs, trying to think hard.

  I waited for him to spring the big surprise.

  And you make a living selling these … uh, these pieces of paper?

  We try to…

  At this point who should burst in but Mona. In introduced her to the lieutenant who, by the way, was not in uniform.

  To my amazement she exclaimed: How do I know he’s Lieutenant Morgan? Not a very tactful way to start off.

  The lieutenant, however, was not at all put out; in fact, he behaved as if he thought it smart of her to explain the nature of his call. He did it with tact and civility.

  Now, young lady, he said, ignoring what I had volunteered, would you mind telling me just why you wrote this little article?

  Here we both spoke up at once. I told you I wrote it! I exclaimed. And Mona, paying no heed to my words: I see no reason why I should explain that to the police.

  Did you write this, Miss … or rather Mrs. Miller?

  I did.

  She did not, said I.

  Now which is it? said the lieutenant in a fatherly way. Or did you write it together?

  He had nothing to do with it, said Mona.

  She’s trying to protect me, I protested. Don’t believe a world she tells you.

  Maybe you’re trying to protect her I said the lieutenant.

  Mona couldn’t contain herself. Protect? she cried. What are you getting at? What’s wrong with this … this…? She was stumped what to call the incriminating piece of evidence.

  I didn’t say that you had committed a crime. I’m merely trying to find out what impelled you to write it.

  I looked at Mona and then at Lieutenant Morgan. Let me explain, won’t you? I’m the one who wrote it. I wrote it because I was angry, because I hate to see an injustice done. I want people to know about it. Does that answer the question?

  So, then you didn’t write this? said Lieutenant Morgan, addressing Mona. I’m glad to know that. I couldn’t imagine a fine looking young lady like you saying such things.

  Again Mona was stumped. She had expected quite another response.

  Mr. Miller, he continued, with a slight change of tone, we’ve been having complaints about this diatribe of yours, if I may call it that. People don’t like the tone of it. It’s inflammatory. You sound like a radical. I know you’re not, of course, or you wouldn’t be living in a place like this. I know this apartment very well. I used to play cards here with the Judge and his friends.

  I began to relax. I knew now that it would end with a pleasant little piece of advice about not becoming an agitator.

  Why don’t you offer the Lieutenant a drink? I said to Mona. You don’t mind having a drink with us, do you, lieutenant? I take it you’re off duty.

  I wouldn’t mind at all, he responded, now that I know the sort of people you are. We have to look into these things, you know. Routine. This is a sedate old neighborhood.

  I smiled as though to say I understood perfectly. Then, like a flash, I thought of that officer of the law before whom I had been haled when I was a mere shaver. The recollection of this incident gave me an inspiration. Downing a glass of Sherry, I took a good look at Lieutenant Morgan and was off like a mud-lark.

  I’m from the old 14th Ward, I began, beaming at him in mellow fashion. Perhaps you know Captain Short and Lieutenant Oakley? Or Jimmy Dunne? Surely you remember Pat McCarren?

  Bull’s eyes! I come from Greenpoint, he said, putting out his hand.

  Well, well, what do you know! We were in the clear.

  By the way, I said, would you have rather had whiskey? I never thought to ask you. (We had no whiskey but I knew he would refuse.) Mona, where’s that Scotch we had around here?

  No, no! he protested. I wouldn’t think of it. This is just fine.

  So you’re from the old 14th ward … and you’re a writer? Tell me, what do you write besides these … uh … these…? Any books?

  A few, I said. I’ll send you the latest one as soon as it’s off the press.

  That would be kind of you. And send me something of your wife’s too, won’t you? You picked a clever little lady, I must say that. She certainly knows how to defend you.

  We chatted awhile about the old days and then Lieutenant Morgan decided he had better go.

  We’ll just file this under … what did you say you call these things?

  Mezzotints, said Mona.

  Good. Under M, then. Good-bye, and good luck with the writing! If you’re ever in trouble you know where to find me.

  We shook hands on that and gently closed the door after him.

  Whew! I said, flopping into a chair. The next time any one asks for me, said Mona, remember that I write the Mezzotints. It’s lucky I came when I did. You don’t know how to deal with such people.

  I thought I did pretty well, I said. You should never be truthful with the police. she said.

  It all depends, I said. You’ve got to use discrimination.

  They’re not to be trusted, she retorted. You can’t afford to be decent with them … I’m glad O’Mara wasn’t here. He’s a worse fool than you in such matters.

  I’m damned if I can see what you’re complaining about.

  He wasted our time. You shouldn’t have offered him a drink, either.

  Listen, you’re going off on a tangent. The police are human, too, aren’t they? They’re not all brutes.

  If they had any intelligence they wouldn’t be on the police force. They’re none of them any good.

  O.K. Let’s drop it.

  You think it’s ended—because he was nice to you. That’s their way of taking you in. We’re on the books now. The next thing you know we’ll be asked to move.

  Oh, come, come!

  All right, you’ll see … The pig, he almost finished the bottle!

  The next disturbing incident took place a few days later. I had been going to the dentist the last few weeks, to a friend named Doc Zabriskie whom I had met through Arthur Raymond. One could spend years sitting in his waiting room. Zabriskie believed in doing only a little work at a time. The truth was, he loved to talk. You’d sit with mouth open and jaws aching while he chewed your ear off. His brother Boris occupied an adjoining niche where he made bridges and sets of false teeth. They were gr
eat chess players, the two of them, and often I had to sit down and play a bit of chess before I could get any work done on my teeth.

  Among other things Doc Zabriskie was crazy about boxing and wrestling. He attended all the bouts of any importance. Like so many Jews in the professional world, he was also fond of music and literature. But the best thing about him was that he never pressed you to pay. He was especially lenient with artists, for whom he had a weakness.

  One day I brought him a manuscript I had just written. It was a glorification, in the most extravagant prose, of that little Hercules, Jim Londos *. Zabriskie read it through while I sat in the chair, mouth wide open and jaws aching like mad. He went into ecstasies over the script: had to show it immediately to brother Boris, then telephone Arthur Raymond about it. I didn’t know you could write like that, he said. He then intimated that we ought to get better acquainted. Wondered if we couldn’t meet somewhere of an evening and go into things more thoroughly.

  The Greek wrestler.

  We fixed a date and agreed to meet at the Cafe Royal after dinner. Arthur Raymond came, and Kronski and O’Mara. We were soon joined by friends of Zabriskie. We were just about to adjourn to the Roumanian Restaurant, down the street, when a bearded old man came up to our table peddling matches and shoe-laces. I don’t know what possessed me, but before I could check myself I was making sport of the poor devil, baiting him with questions which he couldn’t answer, examining the shoe-laces minutely, stuffing a cigar in his mouth, and in general behaving like a cad and an idiot. Every one looked at me in amazement, and finally with stern disapproval. The old man was in tears. I tried to laugh it off, saying that he probably had a fortune hidden away in an old valise. A dead and stony silence ensued. Suddenly O’Mara grabbed me by the arm. Let’s get out of here, he mumbled, you’re making a fool of yourself. He turned to the others and explained that I must be drunk, said he’d walk me round the block. On the way out he stuffed some money in the old man’s hand. The latter raised his fist and cursed me.

  We had hardly reached the corner when we ran full tilt into Sheldon, Crazy Sheldon.

  Mister Miller! he cried, holding out both hands and smiling with a full set of gold teeth. Mister O’Mara! You would think we were his long lost brothers.

  We got on either side of him, locked arms, and started walking towards the river. Sheldon was bubbling over with joy. He had been searching all over town for me, he confided. Was doing well now. Had an office not far from his home.

  And what are you doing. Mister Miller?

  I told him I was writing a book.

  With this he disengaged himself and took up a position in front of us, his arms folded over his chest, his expression ludicrously serious. His eyes were almost shut, his mouth pursed. Any moment now I expected that peanut whistle of his to issue like steam through the tight lips.

  Mister Miller he began slowly and sententiously, as if he were summoning the whole world to listen in. I always wanted you to write a book. Sheldon understands. Yes indeed. He said this raspingly, his lower lip thrust out, his head jerking back and forth in violent approval.

  He’s writing about the Klondike, said O’Mara, always ready to work Sheldon up to a lather.

  No, No! said Sheldon, fixing us with a cunning smile, at the same time waving his index finger back and forth under our noses. Mister Miller is writing a great book. Sheldon knows. Suddenly he grasped us by the forearm, relaxed his grip and put his index finger to his lips. Sh—h—h—! He looked round as if to make sure we were out of earshot. Then he started walking backwards, his finger still raised. He moved it back and forth, like a metronome. Wait, he whispered, I know a place … Sh—h—h!

  We want to walk, said O’Mara brusquely, shoving him aside as he pulled me along. He’s drunk, can’t you see that?

  Sheldon looked positively horrified. Oh no! he cried, No, not Mr. Miller! He bent over to look up into my face. No, he repeated, Mr. Miller would never get drunk. He was forced to trot now, his legs still crooked, his index finger still wagging. O’Mara walked faster and faster. Finally Sheldon stood stock-still, allowing us to get quite a distance ahead of him. He stood there with arms folded over his chest, immobile. Then, all of a sudden, he broke into a run.

  Be careful, he whispered, as he caught up with us. Poloks around here. Shhhhh!

  O’Mara laughed in his face.

  Don’t laugh! begged Sheldon.

  You’re crazy! sneered O’Mara.

  Sheldon marched beside us, briskly and gingerly, as if walking with bare feet on broken glass. He was silent for o few moments. Suddenly he stopped, opened overcoat and sack coat, and quickly, furtively buttoned his inside pockets, then the outer buttons of his sack coat, then his overcoat. He thrust his lower lip forward, narrowed his gimlet-like eyes to two slits, pulled his hat well down over his eyes, and pushed onward. All this rigmarole to the ‘tune of absolute silence. Still silent, he put forth one hand and significantly gave his gleaming rings a half turn. Then he pushed both hands deep down into his overcoat pockets. Quiet! he whispered, treading even more gingerly now.

  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 flim-flam. 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 Polok! 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 some one 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 match box. 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 POLOKS. 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 Polok!

  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, s
aid 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 Polok 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 fiancee.

  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.