The Rosy Crucifixion 2 - Plexus

by Henry Miller

  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 fiance, 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 any one 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 some one 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 he 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 o 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 Bravely. 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 o 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 Polok. 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 the forefinger over his lips.

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

  Sheldon will speak. Afterwards the Poloks 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 Osiecki—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 world 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.

  His eyes, which were half-closed when he began, were now shut tight. The words escaped his lips, each
one pressed forth as if by a bellows. At the corners of his mouth the saliva had collected, giving him the appearance of an epileptic.

  Stop him, Henry, please, begged Osiecki. Yes, Val, please do something, cried Mona. This has gone far enough.

  Sheldon! I yelled, thinking to startle him. He remained impassive, eyes front! as if he had heard nothing.

  I got up, took him by the arms, and shook him gently. Come, Sheldon, I said quietly, snap out of it! I shook him again, more vigorously.

  Sheldon’s eyes opened slowly, flutteringly; he looked around as if he had just come out of a trance.

  A sickly smile now spread over his face, as though he had succeeded in sticking his finger down his throat and vomiting up a poisonous dose.

  You’re all right now, aren’t you? I asked, giving him a sound thwack on the back.

  Excuse me, he said, blinking and coughing, it’s those Poloks. They always make me sick.

  There are no Poloks here, Sheldon. This man—pointing to Osiecki—is a Kanuck. He wants to shake hands with you.

  Sheldon stuck out his hand as if he had never seen Osiecki before, and making a low bow, he said: Sheldon!

  Glad to know you, said Osiecki, also making a slight bow. Here, have a drink, won’t you? and he reached for a glass.

  Sheldon held the glass to his lips and sipped slowly, cautiously, as if not quite convinced it was harmless.

  Good? beamed Osiecki.

  Ausgezeichnet! Sheldon smacked his lips. He smacked them not from genuine relish but to show his good manners.

  Are you an old friend of Henry’s? asked Osiecki, trying lamely to worm his way into Sheldon’s good graces.

  Mister Miller is everybody’s friend, was the answer.

  He used to work for me, I explained.

  Oh, I see! Now I get it, said Osiecki. He seemed inordinately relieved.

  He’s got a business of his own now, I added.

  Sheldon beamed and began twiddling the jewelled rings on his fingers.

  A legitimate business, said Sheldon, rubbing his hands together like a pawnbroker. Hereupon he slipped one of his rings off and held it under Osiecki’s nose. It held a large ruby. Osiecki examined it appraisingly and passed it over to Louella. Meanwhile Sheldon had slipped another ring off and handed it to Mona to examine. This time it was a huge emerald. Sheldon waited a few moments to observe the effects of this procedure. Then he ceremoniously took two rings off the hand, both diamonds. These he placed in my hand. Then he put his fingers to his lips and went Shhhhh!

  While we were exclaiming how wonderful the stones were Sheldon reached into his vest pocket and brought out a little package wrapped in tissue paper. He undid this over the table, opening it out flat in the palm of his hand. Five or six cut stones gleamed forth, all small ones but of extraordinary brilliance. He laid them carefully on the table and reached into his other vest pocket. This time he brought forth a string of tiny pearls, o exquisite pearls, the like of which I had never seen.

  When we had feasted our eyes on all these treasures, he again assumed one of his mystifying poses, held it for an impressive length of time, then dove into his inside coat pocket and extracted a long wallet of Moroccan make. He unfolded this in mid air, like a prestidigitator, then, one by one, he drew forth bills of all denominations in about a dozen different currencies. If it was real money, as I had good reason to believe it was, it must have represented several thousand dollars.

  Aren’t you afraid to walk around with all this stuff in your pockets? some one inquired.

  Fluttering his fingers in the air, as if touching little bells, he replied sententiously: Sheldon knows how to manage.

  I told you he was nuts, cackled O’Mara.

  Oblivious of the remark, Sheldon continued: In this country no one bothers Sheldon. This is a civilized country. Sheldon always minds his own business … Isn’t that so, Mister Miller? He paused to inflate his chest. Then he added: Sheldon is always polite, even to niggers.

  But Sheldon…

  Wait! he cried. Quiet, please! And then, with a mysterious twinkle in his gimlet eyes, he unbuttoned his shirt, rapidly retreated a few steps until his back touched the window, dangled a piece of black tape which was slung around his neck, and before we could say Boo! gave a terrific blast from a police whistle attached to the tape. The noise pierced our ear drums. It was hallucinating.

  Grab it! I yelled, as Sheldon raised it to his lips again.

  O’Mara clutched the whistle tightly. Quick! hide everything! he yelled. If the cops come we’ll have a hell of a time explaining this loot.

  Osiecki at once gathered the rings, the bills, the wallet and the jewels together, calmly slipped them in his coat pocket, and sat down with arms folded, waiting for the police to arrive.

  Sheldon looked on scornfully and contemptuously. Let them come, he said, his nose in the air, his nostrils quivering. Sheldon is not afraid of the police.

  O’Mara busied himself stuffing the whistle back in Sheldon’s bosom, buttoning his shirt, then his vest and coat. Sheldon permitted him to do all this quite as if he were a mannikin being dressed for the show window. He never once took his eyes off Osiecki however.

  Sure enough, in a few moment the bell rang. Mona rushed to the door. It was the police all right.

  Talk! muttered O’Mara. He raised his voice as though continuing a heated argument. I responded in the same key, not caring what I said. At the same time I signalled Osiecki to join in. All I could get from him was a grin. With arms folded he placidly watched and waited. Between snatches of the mock dispute Mona could be heard protesting that we knew nothing about a police whistle. Hadn’t heard a thing, I could hear her say. O’Mara was chattering away like a magpie, assuming other voices, other intonations now. In deaf-and-dumb code he was frantically urging me to follow suit. Had the police brushed their way in at that moment they would have witnessed a droll piece of business. In the midst of it I broke out laughing, forcing O’Mara to redouble his efforts. Louella, of course, sat like a stone. Osiecki looked upon the performance as if from a stall in the circus. He was completely at ease; in fact he was radiant. As for Sheldon, he never budged from his position. His back was still against the window. He remained there all buttoned up, as if waiting for the window-dresser to arrange his arms and legs. Repeatedly I waved to him to speak, but he remained impervious, aloof, altogether disdainful, in fact.

  Finally we heard the door close and Mona scurrying back.

  The stupid fools! she said.

  They always come when I blow the whistle, said Sheldon in a matter of fact tone.

  I only hope the landlord doesn’t come down, I remarked.

  They’re away for the week-end, said Mona.

  Are you sure those cops are not standing outside? said O’Mara.

  They’ve gone, said Mona, I’m sure of it. God, there’s nothing worse than a thick mick, unless it’s two thick micks. I thought I’d never convince them.

  Why didn’t you invite them in? asked Osiecki. That’s always the best way.

  Yes, said Louella, we always do that.

  It was a good stunt, grinned Osiecki. Do you always play games like that? He’s fun, this Sheldon. He got up leisurely and dumped the loot on the table, he went over to Sheldon and said: Could I have a look at that whistle?

  O’Mara was instantly on his feet, ready to fling both arms around Sheldon. Gripes! Don’t start that again! he begged.

  Sheldon put his two hands out, palms forward, as if to ward us off. Quiet! he whispered, reaching with his right hand for the back pocket of his trousers. With one hand thus extended and the other on his hip, but concealed by his coat, he said quietly and grimly: If I lose the whistle I always have this. So saying, he whipped out a revolver and levelled it at us. He pointed it at each of us in turn, no one daring to make a move or utter a sound for fear his hand would automatically press the trigger. Convinced that we were properly impressed, Sheldon slowly returned the revolver to his hip pocket.

  Mon
a made a bee-line for the bathroom. In a moment she was calling me to join her. I excused myself to see what she wanted. She almost dragged me in, then closed and locked the door. Please, she whispered, get them out of here, all of them, I’m afraid something will happen.

  Is that what you wanted? All right, I said, but half-heartedly.

  No, please she begged, do it right away. They’re crazy, all of them.

  I left her locked in the bathroom and returned to the group. Sheldon was now showing Osiecki a murderous-looking pocket knife which he also carried with him. Osiecki was testing the blade with his thumb.

  I explained that Mona was feeling ill, thought it best we break up.

  Sheldon was for running out and telephoning a doctor. Finally we succeeded in ousting them, Osiecki promising to take good care of Sheldon, and Sheldon protesting that he could take care of himself. I expected to hear the whistle blow in a few minutes. I wondered what the cops would say when they emptied Sheldon’s pockets. But no sound broke the silence.

  As I undressed for bed my eye fell on the little brass ash tray, from India supposedly, which I was especially fond of. It was one of the little objects which I had selected the day I bought the furniture; it was something I hoped to keep forever. As I held it in my hand, examining it anew, I suddenly realized that not a thing in the place belonged to the past, my own past. Everything was brand new. It was then I thought of the little Chinese nut which I had kept since childhood in a little iron bank on the mantelpiece at home. How I had come by this nut I no longer remember; it had probably been given me by some relative returning from the South Seas. At intervals I used to open the little bank, which never had more than a few pennies in it, get out the nut and fondle it. It was as smooth as suede, the color of light siena, and had a black band running lengthwise through the center. I have never seen another nut like it. Sometimes I would take it out and carry it about with me for days or weeks, not for good luck, but because I liked the feel of it. It was a completely mysterious object to me, and I was content to leave it a mystery. That it had an ancient history, that it had passed through many hands, that it had traveled far and wide, I was certain. It was that which endeared it to me. One day, after I had been married to Maude for some time, I had such a longing for this little fetish that I made a special trip to my parents’ home to recover it. To my amazement and disappointment I was informed that my mother had given it to some little boy in the neighborhood who had expressed a liking for it. What boy? I wanted to know. But she could no longer remember. She thought it silly of me to be so concerned about a trifle. We talked of this and that, waiting for my father to arrive and have dinner together.