by Henry Miller
Let’s stop the candy business anyway, I urged. We’ll go to dinner with our patron and we’ll break the news to him gently. I’m sick of selling things … and I don’t want you to be selling things either. It’s disgusting.
She appeared to agree with me. Suddenly, while creaming her face, she said: Why don’t we call Ulric up and go out to dinner together? You haven’t seen him for ages, you know.
I thought it a good idea. It was rather late but I decided to phone and see. It put my things on and dashed out.
An hour or so later the three of us were sitting in a restaurant down near the City Hall. An Italian place. Ulric was delighted to see us again. Had been wondering what we were up to all this time. While waiting for the minestrone we had a couple of drinks. Ulric had been working like a dog on some soap campaign and was glad of the opportunity to relax. He was in a mellow mood.
Mona was giving him an earful about the candy business—just the highlights. Ulric always listened to her tales with a sort of bemused wonder. He waited to hear my side of it before passing any comments. If I seemed in a corroborative mood he would then listen with both ears, quite as if he were hearing it all for the first time.
What a life! he chuckled. I wish I had the guts to venture out a little more. But then those things never happen to me. So you peddled candies in the Cafe Royal? I’ll be damned. He wagged his head and chuckled some more.
And is O’Mara still with you? he asked.
Yes, but he’s leaving soon now. He wants to go South. Has a hunch he can clean up down there.
I suppose you won’t miss him too much, what?
But I will, I said. I like O’Mara, despite his faults.
To this Ulric nodded his head, as if to say that I was over-indulgent but it was a good trait.
And that Osiecki fella … what’s happened to him?
In Canada now. His two friends—you remember them—are looking after his girl.
I see, said Ulric, rubbing his tongue back and forth over his ripe red lips. Chivalrous lads, what? and he chuckled some more.
By the way, he said, turning to Mona, doesn’t it seem to you that the Village is getting rather seedy these days? I made the mistake of taking some of my Virginia friends down there the other night. We got out in a hurry, I can tell you. All I could see were dives and joints. Maybe we didn’t have enough under our belts … There was one spot, a restaurant, I think, over on Sheridan Square. Quite a place, I don’t mind saying.
Mona laughed. You mean Minnie Douchebag’s hang-out?
Minnie Douchebag?
Yes, that crazy fairy who sings and plays the piano … and wears women’s clothes. Wasn’t he there?
Of course! said Ulric. I didn’t know that was his name. I must say it fits him. A real zany, by God. I thought at one point he’d climb the chandeliers. What a vile, stinking tongue he has too! He turned to me. Henry, things have changed some since our time. Try to picture me sitting there with two staid, conservative Virginians. To tell the truth, they hardly understood a word he said.
The dives and joints, as Ulric called them, were of course the places we had been haunting. Though I pretended to make fun of Ulric’s squeamishness, I shared his opinion of these places. The Village had indeed deteriorated. There were nothing but dives and joints, nothing but pederasts, Lesbians, pimps, tarts, fakes and phonies of all description. I didn’t see the point of telling Ulric about it, but the last time we were at Paul and Joe’s the place was entirely dominated by homos in sailors’ uniforms. Some lascivious little bitch had tried to bite off a piece of Mona’s right breast—right in the dining room. Coming away from the place we had stumbled over two sailors writhing on the floor of the balcony, their pants down and grunting and squealing like stuck pigs. Even for Greenwich Village that was going pretty far, it seemed to me. As I say, I saw no point in relaying these incidents to Ulric—they were too incredible for him to swallow. What he liked to hear were Mona’s tales about the clients she shook down, those queer birds, as he called them, from Weehawken, Milwaukee, Washington, Porto Rico, the Sorbonne, and so on. It was plausible but mystifying to him that men of good standing should prove so vulnerable. He could understand shaking them down once, but not again and again.
How does she ever manage to hold them off? he blurted out, then made as if he were biting his tongue.
Suddenly he switched. You know, Henry, that man McFarland has been asking for you repeatedly. Ned, of course, doesn’t understand how you could turn down a good offer like that. He keeps telling McFarland you will turn up one day. You must have made a tremendous impression on the old boy. I suppose you have other plans, but—if you ever change your mind I think you could get most anything you want of McFarland. He told Ned confidentially that he would sack the whole office in order to keep a man like you. Thought I ought to tell you this. You never know…
Mona quickly diverted the talk to another trend. Soon we had drifted to the subject of burlesque. Ulric had a diabolical memory for names. He could not only recall the names of the comedians, the soubrettes, the hoochee-koochee dancers of the last twenty years, he could also give the names of the theatres where he has seen them, the songs they sang, whether it was winter or spring, and who had accompanied him on each occasion. From burlesque he drifted to musical comedies and thence to the various Quat’z’Arts Balls.
These pow-wows, when the three of us got together, were always rambling, hectic, diffuse. Mona, who was never able to concentrate on anything for long, had a way of listening which would drive any man crazy. Always, just when you had reached the most interesting part of your story, she was suddenly reminded of something, and it had to be communicated at once. It made no difference whether we were talking of Cimabue, Sigmund Freud or the Fratellini brothers: the things she thought so important to tell us were as remote as the asteroids. Only a woman could make such outlandish connections. Nor was she one of those who could have her say and then let you have yours. To get back to the point was like trying to reach the shore directly opposite by fording a swift stream. One always had to allow for drift.
Ulric had grown somewhat accustomed to this form of conversation, much against the grain. It was a pity to subject him to it, though, for when given free play he could rival the Irish harp. That photographic eye of his, those soft palps with which he touched things, particularly the things he loved, his nostalgic memory which was inexhaustible, his mania for detail, certitude, exactitude (time, place, rhythm, ambiance, magnitude, temperature) gave to his talk a quality such as the old masters achieved in pigment. Indeed, often when listening to him I had the impression that I was actually in the company of an old master. Many of my friends referred to him as quaint—charming and quaint. Which meant, old-fashioned. Yet he was neither a scholar, a recluse, nor a crank. He was simply of another time. When he spoke of the men he loved—the painters—he was one with them. Not only had he the gift of surrendering himself, he had also the art of identifying himself with those whom he revered.
He used to say that my—talk could send him home drunk. He pretended that in my presence he could never say things the way he wanted to, the way he meant. He seemed to think it only natural that I should be a better story teller than he, because I was a writer. The truth is, it was just the other way round. Except for rare moments when I was touched off, when I went hay-wire, when I blew my top, I was a stuttering gawk by comparison.
What really roused Ulric’s admiration and devotion was the raw content of my life, its underlying chaos. He could never reconcile himself to the fact that, though we had sprung from the same milieu, had been reared in the same stupid German-American atmosphere, we had developed into such different beings, had gone in such totally opposite directions. He exaggerated this divergence, of course. And I did little to correct it, knowing the pleasure it gave him to magnify my eccentricities. One has to be generous sometimes, even if it makes one blush.
Sometimes, said Ulric, when I talk about you to my friends it sounds fabulous, even to me. In the shor
t time since we’ve known each other again it seems to me you already led a dozen lives. I hardly know anything about that period in between—when you were living with the widow and her son, for example. When you had those rich sessions with Lou Jacobs—wasn’t that his name? That must have been a rewarding period, even if a trying one. No wonder that man McFarland sensed something different in you. I know I’m treading on dangerous ground in opening that subject again—he gave a quick, appealing glance at Mona—but really, Henry, this life of adventure and movement which you crave … excuse me, I don’t mean to put it crudely … I know you’re a man of contemplation too … Here he sort of gave up, chuckled, snorted, rolled his tongue over his lips, swallowed a few drops of cognac, slapped his thighs, looked from one to the other of us, and let out a good long belly laugh. Damn it, you know what I mean! he blurted out. I’m stuttering like a school-boy. I think what I intended to say is just this—you need a larger scope to your life. You need to meet men who are more near your own stature. You should be able to travel, have money in your pocket, explore, investigate. In short—bigger adventures, bigger exploits.
I nodded my head smilingly, urging him to continue.
Of course I realize also that this life which you’re now leading is rich in ways that are beyond me … rich to you as a writer, I mean. I know that a man doesn’t choose the material of life which is to make his art. That’s given, or ordained, by the cast of his temperament. These queer characters who seem attracted to you as if by a magnet, no doubt there are vast worlds to be plumbed there. But at what a cost! It would exhaust me to spend an evening with most of them. I enjoy listening to you telling about them, but I don’t think I could cope with all that myself. What I mean, Henry, is that they don’t seem to give anything in return for the attention you bestow on them. But there I go again. I’m wrong, of course. You must know instinctively what’s good for you and what’s bad.
Here I had to interrupt him. About that you are wrong, I think. I never think of such a thing—what’s good or what’s bad for me. I take what comes my way and I make the best of it. I don’t cultivate these people deliberately. You’re right, they’re attracted to me—but so am I to them. Sometimes I think I have more in common with them than with you or with O’Mara or any of my real friends. By the way, have I got any real friends, do you think? I know one thing, I never can count on you in a pinch, not any of you.
That’s very true, Henry, he said, his lower jaw dropping to a queer angle. I don’t think any of us are capable of being quite the friend you should have. You deserve much better.
Shit, I said, I don’t mean to harp on that. Forgive me, that was just a random thought.
What’s become of that doctor friend of yours … Kronski? I haven’t heard you speak of him lately.
I haven’t the slightest idea, I said, He’s probably hibernating. He’ll show up again, don’t worry.
Val treats him abominably, said Mona. I don’t understand it. If you ask me, he’s a real friend. Val never seems to appreciate his real friends. Except you, Ulric. But sometimes I have to remind him to get in touch with you. He forgets easily.
I don’t think he’ll ever forget you easily, said Ulric. With this he gave his thighs a thumping wallop and broke into a sheepish grin. That wasn’t a very tactful remark, was it? But I’m sure you know what I mean, and he put his hand over Mona’s and squeezed it gently.
I’ll take care that he doesn’t forget me, said Mona lightly. I suppose you never thought we would last this long, did you?
To tell the truth, I didn’t, said Ulric. But now that I know you, know how much you mean to each other, I understand.
Why don’t we get out of here? I said. Why not come over to our place? We could put you up for the night, if you like. O’Mara won’t be home to-night.
All right, said Ulric, I’ll take you up. I can afford to take a day or two off. I’ll ask the patron to give us a bottle or two … What would you like?
When we threw on the lights in the apartment Ulric stood a moment at the threshold taking it in appraisingly. It sure looks beautiful, he said, almost wistfully. I hope you can keep it for a long time. He walked over to my work table and studied the disarray. It’s always interesting to see how a writer arranges his things, he said musingly. You can feel the ideas bubbling from the papers. It all seems so intense. You know—and he put an arm around my shoulder—I often think of you when I’m working. I see you huddled over the machine, your fingers racing like mad. There’s always a marvelous look of concentration on your face. You had that even as a boy—I suppose you don’t remember that. Yeah, yeah! Golly, it’s funny how things turn out. I have a job, sometimes, to make myself believe that this writer I know is also my friend, and a very old friend. There’s something about you, Henry—and that’s what I was trying to get at in the restaurant—something legendary, I might say, if that doesn’t seem too big a word. You understand me, o don’t you? His voice was a pitch lower now, extremely suave and mellow, honeyed, in fact. But sincere. Devastatingly sincere. His eyes were moist with affection; he was drooling at the mouth. I had to shut off the current or we would all be in tears.
When I came back from the bathroom he and Mona were talking earnestly. He still had his hat and coat on. In his hands was a long sheet of paper with fantastic words which I kept by my side in case of need. Evidently he had been pumping Mona about my work habits. Writing was an art which intrigued him enormously. He was amazed, apparently, to see how much I had written since we last met. Lovingly he fingered the books which were stacked up on the writing table. You don’t mind? he said, glancing at a few notes lying beside the books. I didn’t mind in the least, of course. I would have opened my skin to let him peer inside, were I able to. It tickled me to see how much he made of each little thing. At the same time I couldn’t help thinking that here was the only friend I had who displayed a genuine interest in what I was doing. It was reverence for writing itself which he evinced—and for the man, whoever it might be, who had the guts to struggle with the medium. We might have stood there the whole night talking about those queer words I had listed, or about that little note I had made anent The Diary of a Futurist, which I was then laboring on.
So this was the man of another epoch whom my friends dubbed old-fashioned! Yes, it had indeed become old-fashioned to show such naive mystification over mere words. The men of the Middle Ages were another breed entirely. They spent hours, days, weeks, months discussing minutiae which have no reality for us. They were capable of absorption, concentration, digestion to a degree which seems to us phenomenal if not pathological. They were artists through and through. Their lives were steeped in art, as well as in blood. It was one life through and through. It was this kind of life which Ulric craved, though he despaired of ever realizing it. What he secretly hoped was that perhaps I would recapture and bequeath to others this unitive life in which everything was woven into a significant whole.
He was walking around now with glass in hand, gesticulating, making guttural sounds, smacking his lips, as if he had suddenly found himself in Paradise. What an idiot he had been to talk that way in the restaurant! Now he could see that other side of me which he had touched on so lightly before. What richness the place exuded! The very annotations in the margins of my books spoke eloquently of an activity which was foreign to him. Here was a mind seething with ideas. Here was a man who knew how to work. And he had been accusing me of wasting my time!
This cognac isn’t too bad, is it? he said, allowing himself time to pause. A little less cognac and a little more reflection—that would be the path of wisdom, for me. He made one of those typical grimaces which only he knew how to combine into a compound of abjection, adulation, flattery, vilification and triumph.
Man, how do you find time to do it all, will you tell me that? he groaned, sinking into an easy chair without spilling a drop of the precious liquid. One thing is evident, he added quickly, and that’s this: you love what you’re doing. I don’t! I ought to take t
he hint and change my ways … That sounds rather fatuous, I guess, doesn’t it? Go ahead, laugh; I know how ridiculous I sound at times…
I explained that I wasn’t laughing at him but with him.
It doesn’t matter one way or the other, he said. I don’t mind if you do laugh at me. You’re the one person I can count on to register real reactions. You’re not cruel, you’re honest. And I find damned little of that commodity among the fellows I associate with. But I’m not going to bore you with that old song-and-dance. Here he leaned forward to ooze forth a warm, genial smile. Perhaps this is inapropos, but I don’t mind telling you, Henry, that the only time I work with vim and vigor, with anything approaching love, is when that darkie, Lucy, poses for me. The hell of it is I can never get my end in. You know Lucy—how she lets me manipulate her and all that. She poses in the nude for me now, you know. Yeah! A wonderful piece of ass. He chortled again. It was almost a whinny. Golly, those poses that critter strikes sometimes! I wish you were there to see it. You’d die laughing. But in the end she leaves me dangling. I have to douse the old boy in cold water. It gets me down. Oh well…
He looked up at Mona, who was standing behind him, to see how she was reacting.
To his utter amazement she came out with this: Why don’t you let me pose for you sometime?
His eyes began to roll wildly. He looked from her to me and back again at her.
By Jove! he said, how is it I never thought of that before? I suppose this bird doesn’t mind?
The night wore on with reminiscence, talks of the future, plans for explorations into the night life, and ended as always with the names of the great painters ringing in our ears. Ulric’s last remark before dropping off to sleep was: I must read Freud’s essay on da Vinci soon … Or would you say it wasn’t so important after all?
The important thing now is to sleep well and wake up refreshed, I replied.
He signified his assent by giving a loud fart—quite unintentionally, of course.